It was a little easier to move now, they had even made second gear. The children had been squabbling and were now in a state of strange, dull tranquillity that would, she knew, presage a fresh storm of protests. Then she would have to stop; they were hungry, thirsty, Lucas needed his nappy changed, Noni said repeatedly she wanted faire pipi. She always used that phrase, whether she was speaking in French or English. Adele was beginning to wish she had brought the potty; but it had seemed just one thing she could manage without, an unnecessary demand on space in the overpacked car.
Finally, at half past eight, she pulled off the road on to the grass verge. It was heavily occupied.
‘Come on then, darling, out you get. Good girl. You too, Lucas. I’ll change you. And then we’ll have some supper—’
‘Out here on the grass?’
‘No, in the car.’
‘But Mummy, why, it’s so hot and it’s much nicer out here.’
She hesitated; reluctant to explain that spreading food out on the ground was clearly reckless, an invitation to loot. There were several people near them who looked already desperate, hungry, sharing one tin of beans, one glass of water. They might find her carefully prepared picnic irresistible.
‘Can we just go for a little walk? I’m tired of the car.’
‘Well – yes, all right. Just a tiny way. Come, take my hands.’
They walked slowly along the verge, keeping pace with Lucas’s toddling steps, but still only a little more slowly than the traffic. Normally, the three of them walking along together, the pretty mother and the small, enchanting children, would have attracted attention, smiles, friendliness; not now. They met only with sullen indifference, as families rested exhausted, or struggled back to their feet to continue their journey. There was no sense of camaraderie, of kindness even; it was horrible, a frighteningly unfamiliar experience. For the first time, Adele realised, that if they needed help for any reason, they would find none.
‘Come on. Let’s go back to the car,’ she said after a while, reluctant to leave it unattended, even though it was carefully locked up.
‘Don’t want to,’ said Noni sulkily.
It was unlike her to be difficult; Adele frowned at her.
‘Noni, we have to. We have to get on.’
‘But why? What for? Where are we going, when will Papa be here?’
And suddenly she couldn’t answer any of those questions, she had no idea why or what for, she had left Paris on an impulse, an impulse born of misery and humiliation, had thought it was the right thing to do. Now in this crawling, wretched mass of humanity, travelling to a destination that now seemed as distant and as unfamiliar as the moon, exhausted, with her head throbbing, hot and frightened, she suddenly panicked. They would never make it, never get there, it was impossible, so far to travel, such an unbelievable distance, hundreds of miles, she had been mad, mad to do this, to subject her children to this, this misery and danger, it was hopeless, wrong.
She sat down on the grass, holding Lucas, staring up at Noni, crying helplessly; Noni stared back at her, clearly frightened, and then Lucas picked up on her mood and started crying too.
People looked at them, not pityingly, but with a complete lack of interest; that made her cry more, at her sense of isolation and terror. She felt the panic growing, beginning to engulf her: and then Noni said, very gently, ‘Don’t cry, Mummy, it’ll be all right.’
Her words calmed Adele; not because she was able to believe them, but because of the sweet unselfishness of the child uttering them, and she realised in that moment that her only hope of getting through was to believe: no, not just to believe, but to know. She must not even consider the alternative: she must justify Noni’s faith in her.
She stood up, fished a handkerchief out of her pocket, wiped her eyes. ‘Of course it will, darling. Of course. I’m sorry. Mummy’s just a bit tired. We’ll be fine, we’ll get to this place by the sea, and then we’ll get a boat to England. And you’ll have such a lovely time there, I promise you.’
‘And – will Papa come too?’
‘I – yes, of course he will. When he’s finished his work in Paris. Come on now, back in the car, let’s have our picnic, and I tell you what, we’ll cook some eggs on our little stove’ – suddenly it seemed worth the risk to raise the children’s spirits – ‘and then I’m going to read you that story of Mme André’s. And after that, I’m going to drive a bit further and then we’ll stop for the night and we’ll all go to sleep.’
‘Where?’
‘Well – I had hoped we’d find a room somewhere. But we won’t. So – in the car, I’m afraid.’
‘In the car!’ Noni’s eyes shone. ‘All of us! How exciting.’
And now it was morning; God knew where they were. The last sign had read ‘Chartres 65 k’, but she couldn’t begin to work out how far back that had been. She only felt horror at how long this was taking. She had been so exhausted, she had fallen asleep twice at the wheel. And then, pulled off the road again, put some blankets over the children who were already asleep and slept herself.
God, she felt awful. She ached all over. She was stiff – and her mouth tasted horrible, sour and dry. What she would give for a coffee. Perhaps if she came off this road, tried for an even more minor one, they would do better. Make more progress And she might find a village, where she could buy, or beg, some coffee. And change Lucas again. He certainly needed it.
She pulled the atlas out, began to study it. It must be possible to do better than this . . .
In Paris, Luc woke up alone in the apartment. Alone with his misery and rage; he wasn’t sure which was the greater.
At first it had been rage: rage and outrage. That she should dare to do this, leave him, take his car, take his children, without even saying goodbye. He had seen her pulling away, seen the car move down the street, with the pram strapped to the top – making her intentions clear as nothing else could. He had run after it, all the way to the Boulevard St-Germain, shouting her name, baffled, furious, raging; but it was hopeless of course, he would never find her, never catch her.
He had gone to the police, asked if they could help, if he gave the number of his car and a detailed description of Adele and the children; but they literally laughed at him.
‘There are over a million people on those roads, Monsieur. We would never find her. And besides, we have more important things to do.’
He had walked back slowly to the apartment; Mme André was nowhere to be seen. He climbed the stairs wearily, went in – and saw the letter on the table. It seemed to need reading over and over again, in spite of its brevity: he found it difficult to absorb properly what it said. Not just that she was leaving, going to England, taking the children: but the reason for it, that she had discovered he had gone back to Suzette, that she found it impossible to stay with him on that basis. There was no reproach, no anger even; it was just cold, simple, a statement of a few facts. That made it far worse. He could have done with a bit of flagellation.
He debated getting a car to try to follow her; but he knew she would be impossible to find. Reports were coming through now of the massive crowds on all the roads south, of the impossibility of moving at all, let alone overtaking people, of finding anyone. And he had no idea which way she would go, what road she would be on. How had she found out? How? He had been so careful: no one had known, he was quite sure. Would Suzette herself? No, surely not. It was a hideous thought; that she could have committed an act of such betrayal. Added to his rage now was fear: conditions on the road were frightful, it was said; people were fighting over bottles of milk and water. How would Adele fare on her own with two tiny children? His children: how dared she, how could she expose them to such risk? It was outrageous: outrageous and terribly, dreadfully wrong. When he finally saw her again, he would make sure she realised that, the enormity of the wrong she had done. Then he thought that it was quite possible he would never see her again, and he started to weep.
He got up, made himself so
me coffee and switched on the radio. It was full of warnings that people must prepare for a siege, for street fighting. It was frightening.
He went down to the tabac to buy cigarettes and found it closed; a lot of small shops were shuttered this morning. But the boulangerie was open, and full of people, talking, shouting, arguing. It was all rumour; there was still no real information. The Germans were at the gates of the city; they had already entered it, raping and looting; a rebel army had already been formed; de Gaulle was still at the Ministry of Defence; General Hering’s army was holding the city; nobody had any real idea what was going on. Paris was still, waiting, frozen in impotence. Some shops were being looted, a few hotels had been taken over and were being held by a bunch of poilus, the veterans of the First World War, hospitals were turning people away, even women in labour, if they did not have identity cards. But there was nothing organised, no plan by those in charge to care for the city and its citizens.
Luc decided to go for a walk; no point staying at home. Half the telephone lines were dead, Adele could not phone even if she wanted to. And work would help, would help to distract him from his fear. Not only now for Adele and his children, but also for himself.
He walked slowly back to the apartment; as he pushed open the big door from the street, he saw a young man hailing him. Very handsome, very well dressed, probably a homosexual, Luc thought; well, he was out of luck.
‘Monsieur Lieberman?’
‘Yes,’ said Luc.
‘Philippe Lelong. I met your very beautiful wife a little while ago. I promised to give her these – here.’
He handed Luc a large envelope; Luc opened it slowly. And found himself staring into the face of his daughter; several faces, several photographs of her laughing, jumping, and in one, just staring at him solemnly against a background of the St-Sulpice fountains. His eyes filled with tears; he stood looking stupidly at Philippe Lelong.
‘Monseiur? Are you all right? Is Madame all right?’
‘Oh – yes. She has gone to England.’
‘Gone? But I thought – oh well. She changed her mind.’
‘Yes,’ said Luc shortly.
‘I think she may have been wise. I wish I had left Paris myself, but – where would I go? Foolishly, perhaps, I am hoping for the best. As you are, Monsieur?’
‘Yes.’
‘What else can we do? I am sending some photographs and an article of mine to England today. In great haste, before it is too late. To Style magazine, through our courier service.’
‘Really?’ said Luc. Did this tiresome young man really think he was interested in such details?
‘Yes. It may be the last I am able to send for some time. I should have given them to your wife, their arrival would have been better guaranteed.’
‘I doubt that,’ said Luc.
Philippe Lelong looked at him. ‘You have not arranged a safe passage for her?’
‘I don’t think that is anything to do with you.’
‘Forgive me, Monsieur. Goodbye. May I give you my card, in case you would like more copies of the photographs?’
Luc took the card without thinking, stuffed it in his pocket. It was the easiest thing to do: although it seemed to him extremely unlikely that he would want to communicate with some arrogant homosexual.
‘You must excuse me now,’ he said shortly. ‘I have work to do.’
He sat staring at the pictures of Noni all the way to l’Opera on the metro, wondering how he was going to endure life without her. Her and her mother. And how he was going to be able to live with himself without them.
Adele decided to move on, while the children were still asleep and it was still cool. They would have to get out later, have a break. But for now—
She took the next turning right, a very small road; there was still a line of refugees, but fewer cars, it was possible to actually make some progress. The countryside looked beautiful; amazed that she was even able to notice it, she stared at the golden cornfields, the brave scarlet poppies, the swoops of land, studded with trees and felt comforted.
A village. Good. She might be able to get some coffee here, perhaps even a petit déjeuner. Thank goodness she had some money.
As she pulled into the village, she realised there was little hope of coffee. Or of anything. A vast queue of people stood patiently at the village pump, holding cups, jugs, anything that would take water; a man stood there operating it, charging ten sous a glass, two francs for a bottle. Bastard, thought Adele: she wasn’t going to give him any of her precious money. How dared he take advantage of all these poor people at the pump, where water should be free? He deserved the arrival of the Germans, that was for sure. She wondered how near they were and shuddered. And drove on.
Two kilometres further down the road, she saw a farmhouse. A perfectly normal farmhouse, not very big, just below the road, down one of the tracks around which French rural life revolves. Was it worth it? Should she try? It would be marvellous. They might even let her use the lavatory, wash her hands. You never knew . . .
An old man came to the door: with a gun. He looked frightened. He had thought she might be the Germans, Adele realised, and hurriedly explained: that she was from Paris, trying to get south with her two children. She didn’t say she was English; that might upset him too, arouse nationalistic notions.
‘I wondered if, Monsieur, you could – sell me a cup of coffee? Just a small one. And—’
She was shocked to see him start to cry, tears rolling down his wizened brown face. So shocked that she stepped forward, put her arm round his shoulders. ‘Monsieur, don’t cry. It will be all right, I promise you.’
He wiped his eyes, began to explain in a French so gutteral that she could hardly understand it, that he was alone, that his son had left to join the army, and his wife had died, only a week earlier.
‘It was the shock, Madame, the shock of all this—’ He stopped.
‘Oh dear. Well—’ It seemed awful to continue to press for coffee; perhaps she shouldn’t. But then –
‘What do you want?’ It was a woman’s voice: hostile, harsh. Adele turned round; she was quite young, white-faced, holding an old rifle.
‘Get out, go on—’
‘Nothing, I don’t want anything, well only coffee, or even some water, and I would pay for it—’
‘Get out, I said. We don’t want your money. What use is money to us? When the Germans are nearly here?’ She waved the gun at Adele. ‘Get out of here.’
Adele left.
A little further on, they found a stream by the side of the road; miraculously there was no one else there. The children were awake now and fractious; she got them out, washed them as well as she could, changed Lucas, let them play while she made breakfast. She spread the last of the bread with apricot jam, gave them some juice, heated some water for coffee on the little stove, which she had set rather precariously on the running board of the car. It tasted like nectar.
Her spirits rose: they would get there. Of course they would.
But she decided just the same to rejoin the other road. At least that way she didn’t have to worry about the route.
Halfway through that morning, Philippe Lelong was just packing up his pictures and captions to take to Style magazine to catch the courier when his phone rang. It was the unpleasant man, married to Cedric’s friend, the one who had been so ungracious to him that morning. He was tempted to cut him off; but something in his voice was different, less hostile, there was a note of pleading in it. Slightly against his will, he found himself agreeing to meet Luc Lieberman at the Style offices: ‘But don’t be more than thirty minutes, Monsieur. Then it will be too late.’
He had a nerve: asking such a favour of him after he had been so rude. But this was a very special circumstance. They all had a common enemy: a dreadful one. They had to remain united; or the enemy would become twice as strong.
‘Beware the Hun in the sun.’ It was a well-known saying among pilots. They literally seemed to come out of
the sun at you, you were dazzled; what was more you were confused, not sure if it was actually an enemy or a friendly plane. Above them, looking down, you could tell from the wing shape, but blinded by the sun, it was almost impossible, it could be a Messerschmitt or a Stuka. Or it could easily be another Spitfire or Hurricane.
The Germans had been playing a cat-and-mouse game that early June; 32 Squadron was sent out to patrol the French coast, to ‘show they were still in being’, as the order was phrased. It seemed to them all after a bit to be a bad idea: the Germans would watch them flying past and then wait for them to come back before pouncing. It meant people were being lost unnecessarily. Those patrols were being stopped now and the raids were beginning in earnest . . .
Kit was supremely confident now; reaping the benefit of his long, careful training. Such training was becoming a luxury; months had become weeks, and, it was rumoured, would soon be days. But it was the new boys who were far more likely to be shot down; it was said if you could survive three weeks, you could survive. Not quite true, of course, but still. It was a thought to hang on to. There was another saying, slightly at odds with it; that there were old pilots and bold pilots, but no old bold pilots. Kit knew he was a bold pilot; confidence gave him courage, enabled him to take risks. He just tried not to think about being allowed to grow old, or even its likelihood.
The great fear was of being burned; they all felt it. Death, hopefully, was quick; but the living hell of fire haunted them all.
The worst thing was the waiting; waiting for the phone to ring, the order to scramble. It remained for Kit an absolute purgatory; he never got used to it. He had just about learned not to throw up, but he shook quietly, biting his nails to keep his hands still, smoking hard. They all smoked.
Something Dangerous Page 59
