The Escape - Robert Muchamore Page 0,2
stepping back in horror. ‘I don’t know how you work in there! Just the smell makes me gag, and if that went in my mouth I’d die.’
‘Get used to anything, I guess. And your dad’s all right in some ways. He knows it’s a filthy job, so I only have to work half as long as the boys in the fields and he gave me boots and some of your brothers’ old clothes. They’re too big, but at least I don’t have to go around stinking of slurry.’
After the initial shock Jae saw the funny side and she re-enacted the scene, flicking her arm up like the cow’s tail and making a noise. ‘VOOM – SPLAT!’
Marc was irked. ‘It’s not funny. I’ve still got the taste in my mouth.’
But this only made Jae laugh harder and Marc got annoyed.
‘Little rich girl,’ he sniped. ‘You wouldn’t like it. You’d be crying your eyes out.’
‘VOOM – SPLAT!’ Jae repeated. She’d made herself laugh so hard that her legs were buckling.
‘I’ll show you what it’s like,’ Marc said, lunging forwards and wrapping his arms around her back.
‘No,’ Jae protested, kicking out as he hitched her off the ground. She was impressed by his strength, but she pounded bony fists against his back as he marched towards the open slurry pit at the end of the barn.
‘I’ll tell my dad!’ she squealed. ‘You’ll be in so much trouble.’
‘VOOM – SPLAT!’ Marc replied, as he swung Jae forwards so that her long hair dangled precariously over the foul-smelling pit. The stench had the physical presence of a slap. ‘Do you fancy a swim?’
‘Put me down,’ Jae demanded, her stomach churning as she looked at the flies on the bubbling crust of manure. ‘You oaf. If I get one speck of that on me you’ll be so dead.’
Jae was starting to wriggle and Marc realised he didn’t have the strength to hold her for much longer, so he swung her around and planted her back on the ground.
‘Idiot,’ she hissed, holding her stomach and retching.
‘But it seemed so funny when it happened to me,’ Marc said.
‘Pig head,’ Jae growled, as she swept her hair back into place.
‘Maybe the princess should go back to her big house and practise her Mozart,’ Marc teased, before making a screeching noise like a badly played violin.
Jae was spitting mad, not so much because of what Marc had just done, but because she’d let herself get so fond of him.
‘Mother always told me to stay away from your type,’ Jae said, squinting fiercely into the sunlight at him. ‘Orphans! Look at you, you’ve just washed but even your clean clothes are filthy rags.’
‘Temper, temper,’ Marc grinned.
‘Marc Kilgour, no wonder you work with manure. You are manure.’
Marc was anxious that Jae calm down. She was making a tonne of noise, and Farmer Morel prized his only daughter.
‘Take it easy,’ Marc begged. ‘Us lads muck around, you know? I’m sorry. I’m not used to girls.’
Jae charged forwards and tried to slap Marc across the face, but he dodged out of the way. She swung around to catch him across the back of the head, but her canvas plimsoll skidded on the dry earth and she found herself doing the splits.
Marc reached around to save Jae as her front foot slid forwards, but her smock slipped through his fingers and he could only watch as she toppled into the pit.
* * *
1Boche – offensive term for German people.
CHAPTER TWO
The first bombs fell on Paris on the night of 3 June. It was the first sign of the German advance and the explosions were the starting pistol for an evacuation of the city.
The Nazi regime had terrorised Warsaw following the invasion of Poland the year before and Parisians were expecting the same treatment: Jews and government officials shot in the streets, girls raped, homes looted and all men of fighting age taken to labour camps. While many Parisians fled – by train, car or even on foot – others carried on with their lives and were widely regarded as fools by those who were leaving.
Paul Clarke was a slightly-built eleven year old and one of the dwindling number of pupils who still attended Paris’ largest English-language school. The school served British children whose parents worked in the city but weren’t rich enough to send their offspring to a boarding school back home. They were the children of embassy clerks, low-ranking military attachés, drivers and others of similar status in private companies.
Since the beginning of May