lawn.
‘You OK, mate?’
Paul smiled mischievously before pointing his thumb at an upstairs window. ‘I was heading upstairs when I saw something. Henderson’s got Maxine up there. They’re kissing and they’ve not closed the door properly.’
‘Gotta see this,’ Marc hooted.
PT’s eyebrows shot up and he gave Marc an almighty shove before leading the way inside and racing up the marble staircase. Paul, Marc and Rosie followed a few steps behind, stifling giggles as they hurried down the hallway and slowly poked heads around a half-open door.
The master bedroom was more than ten metres deep, with a parquet floor and four-poster bed. Maxine lay across a chaise-longue set in the bay window, wearing nothing but black stockings. Henderson sat at the end, massaging the stockinged feet in his lap.
‘I bet he’s gonna fertilise her,’ Marc whispered with a snigger.
PT stuck his hand in front of Paul’s eyes. ‘You can’t watch this, you’re too young,’ he hissed.
‘Get off,’ Paul said, gritting his teeth and batting the hand away. ‘You wouldn’t even know if I hadn’t come down and told you.’
Oblivious of the fascinated audience, Henderson leaned over Maxine and kissed her on the mouth before standing up and starting to unbutton his shirt.
‘What’s fertilising, anyway?’ Paul asked as quietly as he could.
PT stifled a laugh as Marc explained in a whisper. ‘We did it on the farm where I used to work. The cow gets put in a little pen, then Henri the bull comes in. His penis blows up until it’s about a foot long and he shoves it right inside her.’
‘A bull’s thing is a foot long?’ Paul gasped. ‘But why would Henderson do something like that?’
PT found Paul’s innocence hysterical. He couldn’t control his laughter and had to back off down the corridor.
‘This is private,’ Rosie said. ‘We shouldn’t be watching. Especially you, Paul.’
She gave Paul a tug but he was determined not to look weak in front of the older boys and as he pulled away from her his shoe squealed on the hallway floor. Henderson’s head turned sharply towards the noise.
‘Goddammit,’ he shouted, steaming towards the door with one hand holding up his trousers. ‘What the hell are you playing at out there?’
PT was out of sight and took to the stairs, but the three younger kids didn’t have time to scarper and looked worried as Henderson closed in. He shook his fist as they shrivelled into the hallway.
‘Shoo!’ he yelled furiously. ‘If I catch any of you spying on me again I’ll take a switch and thrash your arses raw.’
The quartet was in fits of giggles as they poured back into the garden.
‘The dirty old sod,’ Rosie said indignantly. ‘He’s got a wife back in England too.’
*
Paul slept for most of the afternoon and was woken by Maxine stroking his face.
‘You OK?’ she asked gently.
Paul’s eyes were gluey and dancing shadows on the wall told him that the sun had dropped behind the tall trees out front. Maxine was beautiful in a rather severe way, while her height and taste for dark clothes gave her the air of a movie star who only got to play baddies.
‘Better for a sleep,’ Paul yawned, before remembering what he’d seen immediately prior to his nap and drawing an anxious breath. ‘I’m sorry we spied on you. I know it was rude.’
Maxine stroked his hair. ‘It’s natural for children to be curious. Charles has made some dinner, so go wash your face and hands.’
PT and Marc sat at a mahogany dining table while Rosie helped Henderson carry plates dished up with an English-style roast: a chicken wrapped in bacon, with roast potatoes and local vegetables. Although food was short in cities and towns this was mainly down to transport problems. Food remained in plentiful supply to a well-connected local like Maxine.
‘Warm up the radio,’ Henderson said, glancing at his watch. ‘We’ll catch the seven o’clock news.’
Paul reached out and switched on an elderly radiogram in a huge wooden cabinet. The valves that amplified the sound took a minute to warm up. Maxine allowed the kids a single glass of wine and there was light conversation and light music until the Radio Paris bugle blasted seven o’clock. The station had fallen under Nazi control and its broadcasts now had an unsubtle pro-German bias.
‘,’ the newsreader said urgently. ‘Good evening, France This is Radio Paris. News has reached us this evening of the greatest naval defeat since Trafalgar. Despite a personal guarantee from Adolf Hitler that the French fleet could continue to operate