The Escape - Robert Muchamore Page 0,25
explained. ‘The Germans have bombed two of the bridges into town and the other one took a blast. There’s a military convoy waiting to cross over, so the engineers are trying to shore it up.’
‘Doesn’t sound too good,’ Mr Clarke said gravely. ‘Is it possible to get over on foot?’
The man nodded, and rustled a paper bag containing two loaves of bread. ‘People are walking across the railway bridge,’ he explained. ‘The centre of town isn’t far. There are a few cafés open. I was dead lucky. I got to the bakery just as it opened; less than a dozen people in the queue.’
Mr Clarke thanked the man again and looked around at the kids in the back. ‘Looks like we’re going to be stuck here for a good while. How about we wander into town? We might be able to get some decent food and if the post office is open I might even have another stab at calling Henderson.’
‘I thought he’d left the Embassy for good,’ Paul said.
‘I expect he has,’ Mr Clarke said, nodding. ‘But I’ve got his home number. There’s a chance I’ll catch him there.’
‘What about the car?’ Rosie asked. ‘Is it safe to leave our things here? What if the Germans catch up with us?’
‘We’re still in French territory,’ Mr Clarke said, as he got out and slammed his door. ‘Our things should be safe for half an hour if we lock all the doors. The Germans didn’t follow us out of Paris and their chances of finding us with so many people on the road are slim to nil.’
It was a glorious morning and although Tours had been bombed, the damage was light compared with the cities further north. What’s more, it had been some time since the last air raid and there was a noticeable absence of smoke or the smell of burning.
For a few hundred metres Paul could almost imagine that the trip was part of a holiday outing. The illusion was shattered when they left the road and began clambering up a gravel embankment leading towards the railway tracks.
An old lady with horrible leg ulcers had made it up with two heavy bags, but the strain had done her in and she’d keeled over when she reached the top. She lay on her back, convulsing, while her tearful husband held her hand and dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief.
Like everyone else, Clarke and his children avoided eye contact as they walked by. Small acts of kindness were possible – helping to repair a broken cart, or carrying a crying child for a few kilometres – but nobody had the resources to deal with major crises and the only way to cope with the suffering was by shutting it out.
Once the Clarkes were across the bridge, a short scramble down a railway embankment and a gap in a wire fence took them into the commercial district on the south side of town.
‘Used to be a big electrical store along there,’ Mr Clarke said, aiming his pointing finger down a side street. ‘The old girl who ran it would only deal with French or American companies. I could never sell the old buzzard a damned thing.’
Paul and Rosie both smiled as they brushed past displaced people. The locals and refugees who’d travelled by car were hard to tell apart, but the ones who’d come on foot were stooped, dusty figures that lingered in every courtyard and doorway like a plague.
Mr Clarke was familiar with the street, but not exactly sure where it fitted into the overall layout of Tours. ‘If I recall correctly there’s a large square with a post office in that direction,’ he said. But then he stepped into the empty road and shook his head. ‘No, actually it’s this way. Definitely.’
‘You said that two streets ago,’ Paul said.
As they walked down a pedestrian alleyway they passed by a tiny café, with just four tables and a line of stools in front of the counter. Mr Clarke caught the smell of coffee as Paul’s eyes were drawn towards fresh baked croissants, piled on the countertop. They’d already passed a couple of cafés, but because of its obscure location this was the first that wasn’t either closed or swamped with customers.
Paul and Rosie grabbed the only free table while their father walked to the counter to place their order. It came to three times what he’d expected to pay, but the proprietress shrugged and told him that coffee, flour and sugar