Complete Works of Nevil Shute

by Nevil Shute

  Howard listened, shaken to the core. It was incredible that such a thing could happen. Silence fell upon the room again; it seemed that no one had any more to say. Only the children wriggled on their chairs and discussed their drink. A dog sat in the middle of the floor scratching industriously, snapping now and then at flies.

  The old man left them and went through into the shop. He had hoped to find some oranges, but no oranges were left, and no fresh bread. He explained his need to the woman, and examined the little stock of food she had; he bought from her half a dozen thick, hard biscuits each nine or ten inches in diameter and grey in colour, rather like dog biscuits. He also bought some butter and a long, brown, doubtful-looking sausage. For his own weariness of the flesh, he bought a bottle of cheap brandy. That, with four bottles of the orange drink, completed his purchases. As he was turning away, however, he saw a single box of chocolate bars, and bought a dozen for the children.

  Their rest finished, he led them out upon the road again. To encourage them upon the way he broke one of the chocolate bars accurately into four pieces, and gave it to them. Three of the children took their portion avidly. The fourth shook his head dumbly, and refused.

  “Merci, monsieur,” he whispered.

  The old man said gently in French, “Don’t you like chocolate, Pierre? It’s so good.”

  The child shook his head.

  “Try a little bit.” The other children looked on curiously.

  The little boy whispered, “Merci, monsieur. Maman dit que non. Seulement après déjeuner.”

  For a moment the old man’s mind went back to the torn bodies left behind them by the roadside covered roughly with a rug; he forced his mind away from that. “All right,” he said in French, “we’ll keep it, and you shall have it after déjeuner.” He put the morsel carefully in a corner of the pram seat; the little boy in grey watched with grave interest. “It will be quite safe there.”

  Pierre trotted on beside him, quite content.

  The two younger children tired again before long; in four hours they had walked six miles, and it was now very hot. He put them both into the pram and pushed them down the road, the other two walking by his side. Mysteriously now the lorry traffic was all gone; there was nothing on the road but refugees.

  The road was full of refugees. Farm carts, drawn by great Flemish horses, lumbered down the middle of the road at walking pace, loaded with furniture and bedding and sacks of food and people. Between them and around them seethed the motor traffic; big cars and little cars, occasional ambulances and motor bicycles, all going to the west. There were innumerable cyclists, and long trails of people pushing handcarts and perambulators in the torrid July heat. All were choked with dust, all sweating and distressed, all pressing on to Montargis. From time to time an aeroplane flew near the road; then there was panic and an accident or two. But no bombs were dropped that day, nor was the road to Montargis machine gunned.

  The heat was intense. At about a quarter to twelve they came to a place where a little stream ran beside the road, and here there was another block of many traffic blocks caused by the drivers of the farm waggons who stopped to water their horses. Howard decided to make a halt; he pushed the perambulator a little way over the field away from the road to where a little sandy spit ran out into the stream beneath the trees.

  “We’ll stop here for déjeuner,” he said to the children. “Go and wash your hands and faces in the water.” He took the food and sat down in the shade; he was very tired, but there were still five miles or more to Montargis. Surely, there would be a motor bus there?

  Ronnie said, “May I paddle, Mr. Howard?”

  He roused himself. “Bathe if you want to,” he said. “It’s hot enough.”

  “May I really bathe?”

  Sheila echoed, “May I really bathe, too?”

  He got up from the grass. “I don’t see why not,” he said slowly. “Take your things off and have a bathe before déjeuner if you want to.”

  The English children needed no further encouragement. Ronnie was out of his few clothes and splashing in the water in a few seconds; Sheila got into a tangle with her Liberty bodice and had to be helped. Howard watched them for a minute, amused. Then he turned to Rose. “Would you like to go in, too?” he said in French.

  She shook her head in scandalized amazement. “It is not nice, that, monsieur. Not at all.”

  He glanced at the little naked bodies gleaming in the sun. “No,” he said reflectively, “I suppose it’s not. Still, they may as well go on, now they’ve started.” He turned to Pierre. “Would you like to bathe, Pierre?”

  The little boy in grey stared round-eyed at the English children. “Non, merci, monsieur,” he said.

  Howard said, “Wouldn’t you like to take your shoes off and have a paddle, then? In the water?” The child looked doubtfully at him, and then at Rose. “It’s nice in the water.” He turned to Rose, “Take him and let him put his feet in the water, Rose.”

  She took the little boy’s shoes and socks off and they went down and paddled at the very edge of the water. Howard went back to the shade of the trees and sat down again where he could see the children. Presently Sheila splashed a little water at the paddlers; he heard la petite Rose scolding. He saw the little boy in grey, standing in an inch of water, stoop and put his hand in, and splash a little back. And then, among the children’s chatter, he heard a shrill little sound that was quite new to him.

  It was Pierre laughing.

  Behind his back he heard a man say,

  “God love a duck. Look at them bleeding kids — just like Brighton.”

  Another said, “Never mind about the muckin’ kids. Look at the mud they’ve stirred up. We can’t put that stuff in the radiator. Better go on upstream a bit. And get a move on or we’ll be here all the muckin’ night.”

  Howard swung round and there, before him in the field, were two men, dirty and unshaven, in British Royal Air Force uniform. One was a corporal and one a driver.

  He started up. “I’m English,” he burst out. “Have you got a car?”

  The corporal stared at him, amazed. “And who the muckin’ hell might you be?”

  “I’m English. These children are English, two of them. We’re trying to get through to Chartres.”

  “Chartres?” The corporal was puzzled.

  “Charters, ’e means,” the driver said. “I see that on the map.”

  Howard said, “You’ve got a car?”

  “Workshop lorry,” said the corporal. He swung round on the driver. “Get the muckin’ water and start filling up, Bert.” The driver went off upstream, swinging his can.

  The old man said, “Can you give us a lift?”

  “What, you and all them kids? I dunno about that, mate. How far do you want to go?”

  “I’m trying to get back to England.”

  “You ain’t the only one.”

  “I only want a lift to Chartres. They say that trains are running from there to St. Malo.”

  “You don’t want to believe all these Froggies say. Tried to tell us it was all right goin’ through a place called Susan yesterday, and when we got there it was full of muckin’ Jerries! All loosing off their hipes at Bert and me like we was Aunt Sally! Ever drive a ten-ton Leyland, mate?”

  The old man shook his head.

  “Well, she don’t handle like an Austin Seven. Bert stuck ’is foot down and I got the old Bren going over the windshield and we went round the roundabout like it was the banking at Brooklands, and out the way we come, and all we got was two bullets in the motor generator what makes the juice for lighting and that, and a little chip out of the aft leg of the Herbert, what won’t make any odds if the officer don’t notice it. But fancy saying we could go through there! Susan the name was, or something of that.”

  The old man blinked at him. “Where are you making for?”

  The corporal said, “Place called Brest. Not the kind of name I’d like to call a town, myself, but that’s the way th
ese Froggies are. Officer said to go there if we got cut off, and we’d get the lorry shipped back home from there.”

  Howard said, “Take us with you.”

  The other looked uncertainly at the children. “I dunno what to say. I dunno if there’d be room. Them kids ain’t English.”

  “Two of them are. They’re speaking French now, but that’s because they’ve been brought up in France.”

  The driver passed them with his dripping can, going towards the road.

  “What are the other two?”

  “They’re French.”

  “I ain’t taking no Froggie kids along,” the corporal said. “I ain’t got no room, for one thing, and they’re just as well left in their own place, to my way of thinking. I don’t mind obliging you and the two English ones.”

  Howard said, “You don’t understand. The two French ones are in my care.” He explained the situation to the man.

  “It’s no good, mate,” he said. “I ain’t got room for all of you.”

  Howard said slowly, “I see. . . .” He stared for a moment absently at the traffic on the road. “If it’s a matter of room,” he said, “will you take the four children through to Brest with you? They won’t take up much room. I’ll give you a letter for the R.T.O. at Brest, and a letter to my solicitor in England. And I can give you money for anything they’ll want.”

  The other wrinkled his brows. “Leaving you here?”

  “I’ll be all right. In fact, I’ll get along quicker without them.”

  “You mean take them two Froggie kids along ‘stead of you? Is that what you’re getting at?”

  “I’ll be all right. I know France very well.”

  “Don’t talk so bloody soft. What ‘ld I do with four muckin’ kids and only Bert along o’ me?” He swung round on his heel. “Come on, then. Get them kids dressed toot and sweet — I ain’t going to wait all night. And if I finds them messing with the Herbert I’ll tan their little bottoms for them, straight I will.”

  He swung off back towards his lorry. Howard hurried down to the sand spit and called the children to him. “Come on and get your clothes on, quickly,” he said. “We’re going in a motor lorry.”

  Ronnie faced him, stark naked. “Really? What sort is it? May I sit by the driver, Mr. Howard?”

  Sheila, similarly nude, echoed, “May I sit by the driver, too?”

  “Come on and get your clothes on,” he repeated. He turned to Rose and said in French, “Put your stockings on, Rose, and help Pierre. We’ve got to be very quick.”

  He hurried the children all he could, but they were wet and the clothes stuck to them; he had no towel. Before he was finished the two Air Force men were back with him, worrying with their urgency to start. At last he had the children ready. “Will you be able to take my perambulator?” he asked, a little timidly.

  The corporal said, “We can’t take that muckin’ thing, mate. It’s not worth a dollar.”

  The old man said, “I know it’s not. But if we have to walk again it’s all I’ve got to put the little ones in.”

  The driver chipped in, “Let ’im take it on the roof. It’ll ride there all right, corp. We’ll all be walking if we don’t get hold of juice.”

  “My muckin’ Christ,” the corporal said. “Call this a workshop lorry! Perishing Christmas tree, I call it. All right, stick it on the roof.”

  He hustled them towards the road. The lorry stood gigantic by the roadside, the traffic eddying round it. Inside it was stuffed full of machinery. An enormous Herbert lathe stood in the middle. A grinding wheel and valve-facing machine stood at one end, a little filing and sawing machine at the other. Beneath the lathe a motor generator set was housed; above it was a long electric switchboard. The men’s kitbags occupied what little room there was.

  Howard hastily removed their lunch from the pram, and watched it heaved up onto the roof of the van. Then he helped the children up among the machinery. The corporal refused point-blank to let them ride beside the driver. “I got the Bren there, see?” he said, “I don’t want no perishing kids around if we runs into Jerries.”

  Howard said, “I see that.” He consoled Ronnie, and climbed in himself into the lorry. The corporal saw them settled, then went round and got up by the driver; with a low purr and a lurch the lorry moved out into the traffic stream.

  It was half an hour later that the old man realized that they had left Sheila’s pants beside the stream in their hurry.

  They settled down to the journey. The interior of the van was awkward and uncomfortable for Howard, with no place to sit down and rest; he had to stoop, half kneeling, on a kitbag. The children, being smaller, were more comfortable. The old man got out their déjeuner and gave them food in moderation, with a little of the orange drink; on his advice Rose ate very little, and remained well. He had rescued Pierre’s chocolate from the perambulator and gave it to him, as a matter of course, when they had finished eating. The little boy received it solemnly and put it into his mouth. The old man watched him with grave amusement.

  Rose said, “It is good, that, Pierre?” She bent down and smiled at him.

  He nodded gravely. “Very good,” he whispered.

  Very soon they came to Montargis. Through a little trap door in the partition between the workshop and the driver’s seat the corporal said to Howard, “Ever been here before, mate?”

  The old man said, “I’ve only passed it in the train, a great many years ago.”

  “You don’t know where the muckin’ petrol dump would be? We got to get some juice from somewhere.”

  Howard shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t. I’ll ask some one for you, if you like?”

  “Christ. Do you speak French that good?”

  The driver said, “They all speak it, corp. Even the bloody kids.”

  The corporal turned back to Howard. “Just keep them kids down close along the floor, mate, case we find the Jerries like in that place Susan.”

  The old man was startled. “I don’t think there are any Germans so far west as this,” he said. But he made the children lie down on the floor, which they took as a fine joke. So, with the little squeals of laughter from the body of the lorry, they rolled into Montargis, and pulled up at the cross roads in the middle of the town.

  At the corporal’s request the old man got down and asked the way to the military petrol dump. A baker directed him to the north of the town; he got up into the driver’s compartment and directed them through the town. They found the French transport park without great difficulty, and Howard went with the corporal to speak to the officer in charge, a lieutenant. They got a brusque refusal. The town was being evacuated, they were told. If they had no petrol they must leave their lorry, and go south.

  The corporal swore luridly, so luridly that Howard was quite glad that the English children who might possibly have understood were in the lorry.

  “I got to get this muckin’ lot to Brest,” he said. “I can’t leave it here, and hop it, like he said.” He turned to Howard, suddenly earnest. “Look, mate,” he said. “Maybe you better beat it, with the kids. You don’t want to get mixed up with the bloody Jerries.”

  The old man said, “If there’s no petrol, you may as well come with us.”

  The Air Force man said, “You don’t savvy, mate. I got to get this lot to Brest. That big Herbert. You don’t know lathes, maybe, but that’s a treat. Straight it is. Machine tools is wanted back home. I got to get that Herbert home — I got to. Let the Jerries have it for the taking, I suppose! Not bloody likely.”

  He ran his eye around the park. It was filled with decrepit, dirty French lorries; rapidly the few remaining soldiers were leaving. The lieutenant that had refused them drove out in a little Citroën car. “I bet there’s juice somewhere about,” the corporal muttered.

  He swung round and hailed the driver. “Hey, Bert,” he said. “Come on along.”

  The men went ferreting about among the cars. They found no dump or store of petrol, but presently Ho
ward saw them working at the deserted lorries, emptying the tanks into a bidon. Gleaning a gallon here and a gallon there, they collected in all about eight gallons and transferred it to the enormous tank of the Leyland. That was all that they could find. “It ain’t much,” said the corporal. “Forty miles, maybe. Still, that’s better ‘n a sock in the jaw. Let’s see the bloody map, Bert.”

  The bloody map showed them Pithiviers, twenty-five miles further on. “Let’s get goin’.” They moved out on the westward road again.

  It was terribly hot. The van body of the lorry had sides made of wood, which folded outwards to enlarge the floor space when the lathe was in use. Little light entered round these wooden sides; it was dim and stuffy and very smelly in amongst the machinery. The children did not seem to suffer much, but it was a trying journey for the old man. In a short time he had a splitting headache, and was aching in every limb from the cramped positions he was constrained to take up.

  The road was ominously clear to Pithiviers, and they made good speed. From time to time an aeroplane flew low above the road and once there was a sharp burst of machine gunfire very near at hand. Howard leaned over to the little window at the driver’s elbow. “Jerry bomber,” said the corporal. “One o’ them Stukas, as they call them.”

  “Was he firing at us?”

  “Aye. Miles off, he was.” The corporal did not seem especially perturbed.

  In an hour they were near Pithiviers, five and twenty miles from Montargis. They drew up by the roadside half a mile from the town and held a consultation. The road stretched straight before them to the houses with no soul in sight. There was no movement in the town. It seemed to be deserted in the blazing sunlight of the afternoon.

  They stared at it, irresolute. “I dunno as I fancy it,” the corporal said. “It don’t look right to me.”

  The driver said, “Bloody funny nobody’s about. You don’t think it’s full of Jerries, corp? Hiding, like?”

  “I dunno. . . .”

  Howard, leaning forward with his face to the trap in the partition, said over their shoulders, “I don’t mind walking in ahead to have a look, if you wait here.”