by Nevil Shute
He got into the car; it moved off down the road, and that miserable business was all over.
He sat in the middle of the seat with one child on each side of him for equity in the facilities for looking out. From time to time one saw a goat or a donkey and announced the fact in mixed French and English; then the other one would scramble over the old man to see the wonder. Howard spent most of the drive putting them back into their own seats.
Half an hour later they drew up at the station of Saint-Claude. The concierge helped them out of the car. “They are pretty children,” he said in French to Howard. “Their father and their mother will be very sad, I think.”
The old man answered him in French, “That is true. But in war, children should stay quiet in their own country. I think their mother has decided wisely.”
The man shrugged his shoulders; it was clear that he did not agree. “How could war come to Cidoton?”
He carried their luggage to a first-class compartment and helped Howard to register the portmanteaus. Presently the little train puffed out up the valley, and Saint-Claude was left behind. That was the morning on which Italy declared war on the Allies, and the Germans crossed the Seine to the north of Paris.
3
HALF AN HOUR after leaving Morez the children were already bored. Howard was watching for this, and had made his preparations. In the attaché case that he carried with him he had secreted a number of little amusements for them, given to him by their mother. He pulled out a scribbling pad and a couple of coloured pencils, and set them to drawing ships.
By the time they got to Andelot, three hours later, they had had their lunch; the carriage was littered with sandwich wrappings and with orange peel; an empty bottle that had contained milk stood underneath a seat. Sheila had had a little sleep, curled up by old Howard with her head resting on his lap; Ronnie had stood looking out of the window most of the way, singing a little song in French about numerals —
Un, deux, trois,
Allons dans les bois —
Quatre, cinq, six,
Cueillir des cerises. . . .
Howard felt that he knew his numerals quite well by the time they got to Andelot.
He had to rouse Sheila from a heavy slumber as they drew into the little country station where they had to change. She woke up hot and fretful and began to cry a little for no reason at all. The old man wiped her eyes, got out of the carriage, lifted the children down onto the platform, and then got back into the carriage for the hand luggage. There were no porters on the platform, but it seemed that that was inevitable in France in war time. He had not expected it to be different.
He walked along the platform carrying the hand luggage, with the two children beside him; he modified his pace to suit their rate of walking, which was slow. At the Bureau, he found a stout, black-haired stationmaster.
Howard enquired if the Rapide from Switzerland was likely to be late.
The man said that the Rapide would not arrive. No trains from Switzerland would arrive.
Dumbfounded, Howard expostulated. It was intolerable that one had not been told that at Saint-Claude. How, then, could one proceed to Dijon?
The stationmaster said that Monsieur might rest tranquil. A train would run from the frontier at Vallorbes to Dijon. It was incessantly expected. It had been incessantly expected for two hours.
Howard returned to the children and his luggage, annoyed and worried. The failure of the Rapide meant that he could not travel through to Paris in the train from Andelot, but must make a change at Dijon. By the time he got there it would be evening, and there was no knowing how long he would have to wait there for a train to Paris, or whether he could get a sleeping berth for the children. Travelling by himself it would have been annoying: with two children to look after it became a serious matter.
He set himself to amuse them. Ronnie was interested in the railway trucks and the signals and the shunting engine; apart from his incessant questions about matters that Howard did not understand, he was very little trouble. Sheila was different. She was quite unlike the child that he had known in Cidoton, peevish and fretful, and continually crying without energy. The old man tried a variety of ways to rouse her interest, without a great deal of success.
An hour and forty minutes later, when he was thoroughly worn out, the train for Dijon pulled in to the station. It was very full, but he managed to find one seat in a first-class carriage and took Sheila on his knee, where she fell asleep again before so very long. Ronnie stood by the door looking out of the window, chattering in French to a fat old woman in a corner.
Presently this woman leaned forward to Howard. She said, “Your little one has fever, is it not so?”
Startled, he said in French, “But no. She is a little tired.”
She fixed him with beady black eyes. “She has a fever. It is not right to bring a child with fever in the train. It is not hygienic. I do not like to travel with a child that has a fever.”
“I assure you, Madame,” he said, “you deceive yourself.” But a horrible suspicion was creeping over him.
She appealed to the rest of the carriage. “I,” she ejaculated, “ — it is I who deceive myself, then! Let me tell you, m’sieur, it is not I who deceive myself. But no, certainly. It is you, m’sieur, truly, you who are deceived. I tell you that your little one has fever, and you do very wrong to bring her in a train with others who are healthy. Look at her colour, and her skin! She has scarlet fever, or chicken pox, or some horrible disease that clean people do not get.” She turned vehemently to the others in the carriage. “Imagine, bringing a child in that condition in the train!”
There was a grunt from the other occupants. One said, “It is not correct. It should not be allowed.”
Howard turned to the woman. “Madame,” he said, “you have children of your own, I think?”
She snorted at him. “Five,” she said. “But never have I travelled with a child in that condition. It is not right, that.”
He said, “Madame, I ask for your help. These children are not my own, but I am taking them to England for a friend, because in these times it is better that children should be in their own country. I did not know the little one was feverish. Tell me, what would you do, as her mother?”
She shrugged her shoulders, still angry. “I? I have nothing to do with it at all, m’sieur, I assure you of that. I would say, let children of that age stay with their mother. That is the place for such children. It is getting hot and travelling in trains that gives children fever.”
With a sinking heart Howard realized that there was some truth in what she said. From the other end of the carriage somebody said, “English children are very often ill. The mothers do not look after their children properly. They expose them to currents of air and then the children get fever.”
There was general agreement in the carriage. Howard turned again to the woman. “Madame,” he said, “do you think this fever is infectious? If it is so, I will get out at the next station. But as for me, I think she is only tired.”
The little beady eyes of the old peasant woman fixed him. “Has she got spots?”
“I — I don’t think so. I don’t know.”
She snorted. “Give her to me.” She reached out and took Sheila from him, settled her on a capacious lap, and deftly removed her coat. With quick fingers she undid the child’s clothes and had a good look at her back and front. “She has no spots,” she said, replacing the garments. “But fever — poor little one, she is hot as fire. It is not right to expose a child in this condition, m’sieur. She should be in bed.”
Howard reached out for Sheila and took her back; the Frenchwoman was certainly right. He thanked her for her help. “It is clear to me that she must go to bed when we arrive at Dijon,” he said. “Should she see a doctor?”
The old woman shrugged her shoulders. “It is not necessary. A tisane from the chemist, and she will be well. But you must not give her wine while she has fever. Wine is very heating to the blood.
”
Howard said, “I understand, Madame. She shall not have wine.”
“Not even mixed with water, or with coffee.”
“No. She should have milk?”
“Milk will not hurt her. Many people say that children should drink as much milk as wine.” This provoked a discussion upon infant welfare that lasted till they got to Dijon.
The station at Dijon was a seething mass of soldiers. With the utmost difficulty Howard got the children and his bags out of the train. He had an attaché case and a suitcase and the tin tube that held his rods with him in the carriage; the rest of his luggage with the little portmanteau that held the children’s clothes was registered through to Paris. Carrying Sheila in his arms and leading Ronnie by the hand, he could not carry any of his luggage; he was forced to leave everything in a corner of the station platform and thrust his way with the two children through the crowd towards the exit.
The square before the station was a mass of lorries and troops. He threaded his way through and across the road to the hotel that he had stayed at before, startled and bewildered by the evident confusion of the town. He forced his way through to the hotel with the children; at the desk the girl recognized him, but told him that all the rooms were taken by the military.
“But, mademoiselle,” he said, “I have a sick child to look after.” He explained.
The girl said, “It is difficult for you, m’sieur. But what can I do?”
He smiled slowly. “You can go and fetch Madame, and perhaps it will be possible for us to arrange something.”
Twenty minutes later he was in possession of a room with one large double bed, and apologizing to an indignant French subaltern whose capitaine had ordered him to double up with another officer.
The bonne, a stout untidy woman bulging out of her clothes, bustled about and made the room tidy. “The poor little one,” she said. “She is ill — yes? Be tranquil, monsieur. Without doubt, she has a little chill, or she has eaten something bad. All will be well, two days, three days, perhaps. Then she will be quite well again.” She smoothed the bed and crossed to Howard, sitting on a chair still holding Sheila in his arms. “There, monsieur. All is now ready.”
The old man looked up at her. “I thank you,” he said courteously. “One thing more. If I put her to bed now, would you come back and stay with her while I go to get a doctor?”
The woman said, “But certainly, monsieur. The poor little one!” She watched him as he began to undress Sheila on his lap; at the disturbance she began to cry again. The Frenchwoman smiled broadly, and began a stream of motherly French chatter to the child, who gradually stopped crying. In a minute or so Howard had surrendered Sheila to her, and was watching. The bonne looked up at him. “Go and look for your doctor, monsieur, if you wish. I will stay with them for a little.”
He left them, and went down to the desk in the hall, and asked where he could find a doctor. In the thronging crowd the girl paused for a moment. “I do not know, m’sieur . . . yes. One of the officers dining in the restaurant — he is a médecin major.”
The old man pressed into the crowded restaurant. Practically every table was taken by officers, for the most part glum and silent. They seemed to the Englishman to be a fat, untidy-looking lot; about half of them were unshaven. After some enquiry he found the médecin major just finishing his meal, and explained the position to him. The man took up his red velvet cap and followed him upstairs.
Ten minutes later he said, “Be easy, monsieur. She must stay warm in bed to-morrow, and perhaps longer. But to-morrow I think that there will be no fever any more.”
Howard asked, “What has she got?”
The man shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “She is not infectious. Perhaps she has been hot, and playing in a current of air. Children, you understand, get fever easily. The temperature goes up quite high and very quickly. Then in a few hours, down again. . . .”
He turned away. “Keep her in bed, monsieur. And light food only; I will tell Madame below. No wine.”
“No,” said Howard. He took out his notecase. “Without doubt,” he said, “there is a fee.”
A note passed. The Frenchman folded it and put it in the breast pocket of his tunic. He paused for a moment. “You go to England?” he enquired.
Howard nodded. “I shall take them to Paris as soon as she can travel, and then to England by St. Malo.”
There was a momentary silence. The fat, unshaven officer stood for a moment staring at the child in the bed. At last he said, “It may be necessary that you should go to Brest. Always, there will be boats for England at Brest.”
The old man stared at him. “But there is a service from St. Malo.”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “It is very near the Front. Perhaps there will be only military traffic there.” He hesitated, and then said, “It seems that the sales Boches have crossed the Seine, near Rheims. Only a few, you understand. They will be easily thrown back.” He spoke without assurance.
Howard said quietly, “That is bad news.”
The man said bitterly, “Everything to do with this war is bad news. It was a bad day for France when she allowed herself to be dragged into it.”
He turned, and went downstairs. Howard followed him, and got from the restaurant a jug of cold milk and a few little plain cakes for the children and, as an afterthought, a couple of feet of bread for his own supper. He carried these things through the crowded hall and up the stairs to his own room, afraid to leave the children very long.
Ronnie was standing at the window, staring out into the street. “There’s lots and lots of camions and motors at the station,” he said excitedly. “And guns, too. Real guns, with motors pulling them! May we go down and see?”
“Not much,” said the old man. “It’s time you were in bed.”
He gave the children their supper of cakes, and milk out of a tooth glass; Sheila seemed cooler, and drank her milk with very little coaxing. Then it was time to put Ronnie to bed in the big bed beside his sister. The little boy asked, “Where are my pyjamas?”
Howard said, “At the station. We’ll put you into bed in your shirt for a start, just for fun. Then I’ll go and get your pyjamas.”
He made a game of it with them, and tucked them up carefully one at each side of the big bed, with a bolster down the middle. “Now you be good,” he said. “I’m just going to get the luggage. I’ll leave the light on. You won’t be afraid?”
Sheila did not answer; she was already nearly asleep, curled up, flushed and tousled on the pillow. Ronnie said sleepily, “May we see the guns and the camions to-morrow?”
“If you’re good.”
He left them, and went down to the hall. The restaurant and the café were more crowded than ever; in the throng there was no hope at all of getting any one to help him with the luggage. He pushed his way to the door and went out into the street, bewildered at the atmosphere of the town, and more than a little worried.
He found the station yard thronged with lorries and guns, with a few light tanks. Most of the guns were horse-drawn; the teams stood in their harness by the limbers as if ready to move on at any moment. Around them lorries rumbled in the darkness, with much melodious shouting in the broad tones of the southern French.
The station, again, was thronged with troops. They covered all the platforms, smoking and spitting wearily, squatting upon the dirty asphalt in the half light, resting their backs against anything that offered. Howard crossed to the arrival platform and searched painstakingly for his luggage among the recumbent forms. He found the tin case with his rods and he found the small attaché case; the suitcase had vanished, nor could he discover any trace of the registered luggage.
He had not expected any more, but the loss of the suitcase was a serious matter. He knew that when he got to Paris he would find the registered luggage waiting for him in the consigne, were it six months later. But the suitcase had apparently been stolen; either that, or it had been placed in safe keeping by some
zealous railway official. In the circumstances that did not seem probable. He would look for it in the morning; in the meantime they must all get on without pyjamas for the night. He made his way back to the hotel, and up to the bedroom again.
Both children were sleeping; Sheila was hot and restless and had thrown off most of her coverings. He spread them over her more lightly, and went down to the restaurant to see if he could get a meal for himself. A tired waiter refused point-blank to serve him; there was no food left in the hotel. Howard bought a small bottle of brandy in the café, and went up to the bedroom again, to dine off brandy and water, and his length of bread.
Presently he stretched himself to sleep uneasily in the armchair, desperately worried over what the next day would bring. One fact consoled him; he had his rods, quite safe.
Dawn came at five and found him still dozing uneasily in the chair, half covered by the dust-cover from the bed. The children woke soon after that and began chattering and playing in the bed; the old man stirred and sat up stiffly in his chair. He rubbed a hand over his face; he was feeling very ill. Then the children claimed his attention and he got up to put them right.
There was no chance of any further sleep; already there was much tramping to and fro in the hotel. In the station yard outside his window, lorries, tanks, and guns were on the move; the grinding of the caterpillar tracks, the roar of exhausts, the chink of harness and the stamping of the teams made up a melody of war. He turned back to the children; Sheila was better, but still obviously unwell. He brought the basin to the bed and washed her face and arms; then he combed her hair with the small pocket comb that he had found in the attaché case, one of the few small toilet articles he had. He took her temperature, under the arm for fear that she might chew on the thermometer.
It came out a degree above normal; he tried vainly to recall how much he should add on for the arm. In any case it didn’t matter much; she’d have to stay in bed. He got Ronnie up, washed him, and set him to dress himself; then he sponged over his own face and rang the bell for the femme de chambre. He was unshaven, but that could wait.
