she said, her voice pitched high with alarm as she grabbed Claire again. ‘Can we get you on to the saddle? You can keep an arm around my shoulders and I’ll wheel the bike along – we’ll be able to move faster that way.’
Somewhat precariously, she managed to manoeuvre both Claire and the bicycle into the main road. The wheels crunched over a scattering of broken glass where the café windows had been blown out by the shock wave. She prayed that there were no very sharp shards which would puncture the tyres. Hurrying as fast as she could along the deserted road, Mireille heard the roar of the aeroplane engines as they came in low, and the next flares illuminated the night. Keeping her head down, she gasped for breath and the sinews of her back burned with the effort of pushing the bicycle, weaving round chunks of shattered concrete and splintered shards of wood. The motion made the bike wobble dangerously as dizziness made Claire’s body sway, threatening to unbalance them both.
She turned a corner, just as the next wave of bombs began to drop. Thankfully, the buildings here sheltered the girls from the shock of the explosions that rocked the ground beneath Mireille’s feet. At the end of the street, she risked a backwards glance and saw that the apartment blocks that had been built for the factory workers had disappeared in an inferno of flame and smoke.
Claire muttered something, and Mireille had to lean close to her to make out what she said.
‘Christiane . . . We need to go back for Christiane.’
Swallowing the surge of nausea that rose up, burning her throat, Mireille pushed onwards.
Claire tapped her on the shoulder, stronger and more insistent this time. ‘Turn back, Mireille . . . Get Christiane!’ she croaked.
‘No!’ Mireille screamed, her voice a shriek above the storm of noise. ‘It’s too late for Christiane, Claire.’ And hot tears mingled with the dust that coated her face as she trudged onwards, away from the burning buildings that had nestled within the loop of the River Seine.
Waves of nausea made Claire dream she was out on the sea in her father’s fishing boat as she drifted in and out of consciousness while the two girls made the long trek back to Saint-Germain. The wail of sirens racing past jerked her back to an awareness of her surroundings. Her head throbbed and the occasional jolting of the bike against a kerbstone made a stabbing pain pierce the backs of her eyes as she leant heavily on Mireille. Her friend was tiring, she realised, and she struggled to balance herself to try to lessen the strain as Mireille trudged doggedly onwards.
Nobody stopped them. When the drone of the bombers’ engines and the accompanying distant thuds of bombs finding their targets again and again finally faded away, the trucks that screeched past them were far too intent on getting to the scene of the devastation to bother with the two tattered, ghostly figures that limped by in the opposite direction with a battered-looking bicycle.
In the early hours of the morning, they reached the Rue Cardinale and Claire leant wearily against the wall while Mireille fumbled in her pocket for her key. She watched as Mireille dusted off the bicycle as best she could – it was definitely sporting a few new battle scars after its eventful outing, but at least it was still intact – and left it propped in the stairwell. Then, with Mireille’s help, Claire climbed the stairs to the top floor.
At the sound of the apartment door opening, Vivi came running to help them. ‘Oh, thank God!’ she cried. ‘You’re safe. I thought you’d both been lost . . .’ She hurried to fetch a bowl of warm water and a towel so that she could tend to the wound on the back of Claire’s head. The blood had dried, encrusting her hair, and Vivienne very gently began swabbing it away, turning the water in the bowl as dark as wine as she repeatedly wrung out the cloth.
Her gentleness and kindness made Claire weep, as her senses – which had been frozen with shock – began to thaw.
‘Let’s get you out of this coat,’ Vivi murmured, removing the vomit-drenched garment which was beyond saving. She bundled it away, into a corner. Then she turned to Mireille. ‘You too, Mireille. Go and get yourself cleaned up. Don’t worry, I’ll look after Claire.’