The restaurateur knew a local farmer who had a supply of diesel and Henderson paid two gold ingots for a twenty-litre drum. It was an exorbitant price, but with fuel so scarce he was pleased to have found any at all and now he had enough to drive all the way to Bordeaux.
The sky was turning dark as they crossed the bridge into Tours. Henderson stopped at the first church he came to, but they had to wait a quarter-hour for the evening mass to finish before they could ask the priest for the location of his retired colleague who’d taken in a pair of orphans.
The priest drew directions on a scrap of notepaper and although they were slightly ambiguous, the truck reached the little farmhouse within half an hour. Henderson drove on past the house and switched off the headlamps and the engine as he rolled up to a metal gate. He took out the silenced pistol and spoke to Marc as he replaced the bullet he’d fired earlier in the day.
‘If the Germans intercepted our message they could be waiting for me. So I’ll approach from the side and cut across the field to the rear of the house.’
‘Shall I cover your back?’ Marc asked.
Henderson shook his head. ‘I’ve been trained to move quietly. Stay here, and if you hear shooting, or if I’m not back within an hour, you’d better clear out.’
Marc didn’t like the sound of this. If something happened to Henderson he’d be back on his own in the middle of nowhere. Although at least he’d have thirteen gold ingots and a gun.
Henderson jumped out of the van and dug his fingers into the earth. He daubed mud on to his cheeks and forehead before disappearing into a potato patch, crouching low as he surveyed the outside of the house. There were no suspicious cars and only one light on inside, so he crept towards the back door.
As Henderson stepped clear of the potatoes, he heard a sob. He turned and saw the outline of a boy. He was slender and he sat with a sketchpad on his lap, although it was too dark to draw.
‘Paul Clarke?’ Henderson whispered.
The boy’s head turned around and his teeth caught the moonlight as his mouth dropped open. ‘Henderson, is that you?’
Another sob sent a chill down Henderson’s back. ‘Are the Germans here or something?’ Henderson asked. ‘Tell me, what’s the matter?’
*
Half an hour later Marc and Henderson were inside the house, sitting around the dining table drinking mugs of hot milk. Yvette had scrubbed the blood from where Hugo died, but Rosie had picked a bundle of wild flowers and laid them against the dresser.
‘We’ll head south to Bordeaux,’ Henderson said. ‘I’ve heard there are still regular sailings for the Cornish coast – although that was a few days back, so we’ll have to see.’
Marc was half listening and half watching Rosie. Girls fascinated him and she looked sad, with her long hair mussed and the soles of her feet dirty where she’d been outside feeding the chickens.
‘What did you do with Herr Potente’s body?’ Henderson asked the adults.
‘We spoke to the police. They made a report and took both bodies away,’ Yvette explained.
‘Dammit,’ Henderson said. Then he seemed to change the subject. ‘Have you lived on this farm for long?’
‘It’s a family farm,’ Father Doran explained. ‘It belonged to our parents and our grandparents before them.’
‘You’ll have to leave before the Germans get here,’ Henderson said. ‘The Gestapo know where Herr Potente was sent and they’ll most likely uncover the police report. They’ll interrogate you about the plans and about my whereabouts.’
‘But we know very little, and by then, hopefully, you’ll be long gone,’ Yvette said.
‘I know that,’ Henderson said. ‘But the Gestapo will want to be sure and they’ll make sure by torturing you.’
Marc bared his teeth. ‘Look what those animals did to my tooth,’ he said. ‘I heard the Oberst’s orders: Potente was to interrogate Paul and Rosie and then kill them.’
‘I’ll not leave my home,’ Father Doran said resolutely, as he noisily set his mug on the table. ‘I’m too old to hide under staircases. The sooner I die in this world, the sooner I’ll join with God.’
Henderson looked frustrated. ‘I’m sure your faith is a comfort, Father, but what about your sister?’
Yvette shook her head. ‘Mr Henderson, why don’t you worry about the plans and getting the children home safely? My brother and I can worry for ourselves.’
*
Henderson shared the double bed with Paul, while Marc made the best of Hugo’s cushions and Rosie bunked in with Yvette. Marc came downstairs at what seemed an early hour, only to find that Yvette had been up for long enough to pluck and roast a chicken for their journey south and prepare a decent spread for breakfast.
Father Doran had already been out to milk his two cows; Henderson was studying a road map; whilst Paul and Rosie sat at the table, picking at food and looking sad.
‘Hello, Marc.’ Rosie smiled at him. ‘How did you sleep?’
‘Not so bad,’ he answered. ‘But Henderson snores like hell.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Paul moaned. ‘I was in the same bed as him and my pillow was vibrating.’
Henderson looked up and smiled slightly, but went back to his map without speaking.
‘Do you need any help, Yvette?’ Rosie asked, as the old lady packed sliced bread and a pot of homemade jam into a wicker basket.
‘I’m almost done,’ Yvette said. ‘There’s plenty of food for the journey. I’ve left the chicken on top because it’s still warm and underneath there’s bread, cheese, yogurt, some of my paté and bottles of fresh milk.’
‘There’s enough there to feed an army,’ Henderson said, smiling. ‘You’re really too kind.’
‘The way these two eat it won’t last long, and I’d bet young Marc is just the same.’
‘Eats like a horse,’ Henderson agreed. Then he glanced at his watch. ‘I reckon we’ll be leaving in a few minutes. So now’s the time to say your goodbyes, go to the loo and make sure you’ve packed everything.’
The Clarkes both went and got their cases from upstairs. Rosie went straight out to throw hers in the back of the truck, but Paul approached Yvette and handed her a drawing. It showed himself, Rosie and Hugo standing in front of the cottage. Yvette stood at the window inside and Father Doran was depicted running after an escaped chicken.
‘Oh,’ Yvette gasped, ‘it’s beautiful.’
Marc caught a quick glance of it before immediately standing up to see the drawing properly. ‘That’s awesome,’ he said. ‘You’re like a proper artist or something.’
Paul was modest and tried not to smile too much. ‘I did it yesterday, after Hugo …’
Yvette put her hand on the back of Paul’s neck and kissed him on the forehead. ‘I just know you’ll be a great artist some day,’ she said proudly. ‘I’m going to miss you
– your sister too.’
Yvette started to sob just as Rosie came in and within a couple of minutes they were all at it. Even Father Doran put down his newspaper and gave Paul and Rosie a tearful hug before wishing Henderson good luck.
‘Father, you think about what I said,’ Henderson warned, as he stood in the doorway holding the case containing Mannstein’s documents. ‘You’re respected in these parts and I’m sure many people will help you to hide.’
‘Perhaps,’ Father Doran said calmly. ‘Who knows where this war will leave any of us?’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Henderson rode up front with all three kids in the back, sitting on the luggage with old blankets and cushions donated by Yvette for comfort. He’d grown to like Marc and missed having him in the passenger seat alongside him, but he could overhear fragments of the three youngsters’ conversation and was pleased to hear Marc acting like an ordinary boy as Paul tried to show him how to draw a tank.
It was three hundred and thirty kilometres to Bordeaux. A decent car would have made it in six and a half hours, but the van took ten. The kids left the canvas
tarp at the back open so that they could see, but they hardly bothered to look out. They’d all spent days on the road and there were only so many times you could be shocked by a soldier on crutches or a grandma lying dead in a ditch. For Marc – who hadn’t ventured beyond the orphanage and its surrounding farms until ten days earlier – carnage almost seemed like the natural state of things.
*
They reached Bordeaux as it was starting to turn dark. Henderson’s fingers were numb from being wrapped around the steering wheel all day and his calves ached from working the foot pedals, but his heart was warmed by the sight of a small passenger ship in the harbour, flying the British ensign.
Marc felt a touch lost as he stepped out of the truck and saw palm trees growing in front of a hotel. It was warmer here than in northern France and the low buildings with balconies were very different to the offices and apartment blocks of Paris.
‘Grab all your kit,’ Henderson said hurriedly, pointing at the small stack of bags and cases inside the truck. ‘The funnels are smoking, so I’d say that ship is stoking up to leave.’
‘How long?’ Marc asked, as he passed the bags out of the truck to Rosie.
‘An hour if we’re lucky. We still have to clear customs and buy tickets – what’s more, it could easily be fully booked and Marc doesn’t have a passport.’
With two bags each, the foursome crossed a busy road and caught the smell of the sea as they made their way towards the passenger terminal. The building was long and low, with floor to ceiling windows, counters for buying tickets and a roped-off area that led to a customs post where French officials inspected documents and stamped passports. From there, passengers passed on to the dockside and up the gangplanks to board the ship.
As Henderson led the three children inside the building, he looked out and saw a net filled with baggage being hoisted up by a deck crane and one of the two gangplanks being drawn aboard the ship.
‘Tickets and passports at the ready, sir,’ a steward said in English. His hat bore the name SS Cardiff Bay and his Mancunian accent made Henderson feel a little closer to home, but his stomach churned, because the ship was about to leave.
‘We’ve just got here,’ Henderson gasped, as he retrieved his passport and wallet from a briefcase. ‘I need four tickets.’
At the same time, Rosie had found Paul’s passport and her own.
‘John,’ the steward shouted, ‘what’s the passenger count?’
‘There’s a few cabins and plenty of seats.’
Henderson smiled. ‘I was worried that you might be full.’
The steward shook his head. ‘If you’d been here a week back you’d have seen a right scrum. But the Government laid on some extra boats and we’re just picking up stragglers now. I tell you what, since we’re about to leave, I’ll let you pay the steward on board. Be sure that you do, mind.’
Henderson nodded. ‘Of course. Thank you, sir.’
The steward waved them on to the next counter, where a more senior crewmember stood waiting to inspect the passports.
‘I only see three,’ he said, raising an eyebrow and glancing at Marc.
‘His father was killed in an air raid, the documents were all destroyed.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but we have strict regulations to prevent German agents from entering Britain. Every passenger must have proper documentation.’
‘But he’s just a child,’ Henderson spluttered.
‘I know what you’re saying sir, but rules are rules. Especially in wartime. You’ll have to apply for a passport from the consular office in town. It opens at nine tomorrow.’
Marc didn’t understand English and had to ask Rosie to explain what was going on.
‘When will the next boat be here?’ Henderson asked.
‘We’re the only boat running this route now,’ the officer said. ‘If things go to schedule, we’ll be back here Tuesday morning and set to sail Tuesday afternoon.’
Henderson tried to think fast. He knew there was no point trying to throw his weight around, because as a spy he carried no documentation that proved his rank. He felt a tug on his sleeve and saw Marc look up at him.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ Marc said. ‘I’ll survive on my own.’
Henderson shook his head resolutely. ‘Don’t be bloody daft, boy,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t dream of leaving you.’
A great klaxon blasted out on the dockside and a shout of All aboard went up. Henderson was in a full-on panic.
‘Paul, Rosie,’ he said, ‘this is your chance. Take your things and the documents and get on board. When you arrive in Britain, ask to speak to Miss Eileen McAfferty at the Home Office, sixty-four Kensington High Street. Tell her what’s happened and I promise she’ll look after you.’
There was a mix-up over whose stuff was in each bag as Henderson made sure that Rosie had enough French francs to buy her tickets and two pound notes for when she arrived in Britain. She quickly kissed Henderson on the forehead and raced towards the French officials, who stood up and waved the two children through.
‘Run, run,’ they urged.
The crew was ready to pull in the last gangplank as the Clarkes chased across the dockside. They made the ramp with a heavy bag in each arm and the last of the ship’s crew behind them.
Back in the terminal Henderson turned to Marc and smiled. ‘Hopefully we can find a room for the night, then we’ll go and see the consul in the morning.’
‘OK.’ Marc said, nodding. ‘I owe you.’
Henderson realised his companion was a touch blurry-eyed and he put an arm around the boy’s back.
‘Did you really think I’d abandon you after everything we’ve been through?’
EPILOGUE
Paul hated the sea. He’d crossed the English Channel many times, always with a green face poised over a sick bag and his father telling him that it was better out than in. The prospect of a far longer voyage from Bordeaux to Plymouth filled him with dread.
The ship was dilapidated and the corridors were blacked out to avoid detection by Germans at night. This meant the cabin stewards had to show passengers to their cabins by torchlight. As they walked, the prop shaft ran at full speed, making noise and vibration that was close to unbearable.
‘You’ve got a blackout curtain over your porthole,’ the steward said. ‘Once it gets dark, don’t open it – don’t even touch it. The tiniest chink of light is all the Boche need to spot us in the night. There’s U-boats 6 on the prowl, so we’ll be going flat out whenever the sea lets us, but that makes for a choppy ride. I recommend you stay in your cabin as much as you can. There’s a canteen up on the next deck, but there’s no food till morning. I’ll be down with tea and hot water in about an hour.’
The metal door of the tiny cabin squealed and Paul was knocked back by the smell of cigarettes. The beds were filthy, the bin overflowing and the sliding door leading to a toilet and washbasin hung off its runners.
‘Sorry about the state of the cabin, but we’ve been running back and forth for two weeks without time for the cleaners to come aboard.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Rosie said, smiling bravely as the steward flicked a switch to turn on a tiny light bulb. ‘It’s a ride home and that’s all that matters.’
Paul sat on the lower bunk as the door clanged shut and thought about England. While Rosie called it home, he could only remember living in Paris. The swaying was already making him feel sick and he knew it would get worse once they reached open sea.
‘I might go up on deck and get some air,’ he said.
Rosie shook her head. ‘You heard the steward. You can’t go walking up on deck when there’s no light.’
‘Twenty-three hours, turning my guts out,’ Paul moaned. Then he looked thoughtful. ‘That Marc kid seemed pretty nice. I hope Henderson gets him a passport.’
‘I’m sure he will,’ Rosie said. ‘He’s well connected.’
‘And the way you two were chattering in the back of the truck,’ Paul teased. ‘You
’re such a flirt.’
‘Give over,’ Rosie tutted. ‘I was just being nice to him.’
‘If I hadn’t been there you’d have been kissing or something.’
Rosie wagged her finger in her brother’s face. ‘Don’t think you can wind me up just because you’re queasy,’ she said. ‘I’ll still smack you one.’
Suddenly there was a booming sound and the ship rose up as if it had been picked out of the water. Then, just as sharply, the invisible hand let go.
‘What was that?’ Paul gulped, as all the lights flickered.
A second bang tilted the boat forwards and this time there was an ear-splitting explosion, magnified by the metal walls and decks all around. The lights went out for good and a siren sounded in the corridor as a crackly announcement broke over the tannoy:
‘All passengers collect your life jackets and move on to the deck. I repeat, all passengers collect your life jackets and move on to the deck.’
‘Where are they?’ Rosie shouted anxiously.
Paul remembered the Titanic and how there hadn’t been enough safety equipment, but Rosie found the life jackets under the bed and quickly pulled the stiff yellow bib over her head. Outside, the steward was banging on the cabin doors shouting, ‘All out, all out. Everyone on deck!’
Rosie grabbed the case containing the documents and stepped into the hallway, which was suddenly crammed with passengers queuing to climb the narrow staircase up to the main deck.
‘What’s happened?’ Rosie asked desperately.
‘Air raid,’ someone shouted. ‘Didn’t you hear the planes?’
But they’d heard nothing over the grinding of the prop shaft.
‘Leave your bags,’ the steward ordered as he grabbed the case containing the documents from Rosie’s hand and threw them back inside the cabin.
‘They’re important,’ Rosie said, as the queue moved forwards towards the steps.
‘Don’t be stupid, girl,’ the steward said unsympathetically, as he barged on through the passengers. ‘People are important.’
The Escape Page 18