The Escape - Robert Muchamore Page 0,4

day,’ she bawled theatrically, as she crushed the wind out of her best friend, Grace.

Upon seeing this, two of Rosie’s other friends backed away.

‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ Paul said, as he approached the doorway and saw the bewilderment on his father’s face. ‘It’s just girls; they’re all a bit nuts.’

Paul realised that Mrs Divine was holding out her hand and he shook it. She was a cold fish and he’d never really liked her, but he’d been a pupil for five years and the gnarled fingers seemed sad.

‘Thank you for everything,’ he said. ‘I hope the Germans don’t do anything horrible when they get here.’

‘Paul,’ Mr Clarke snapped, gently cuffing his son around the head. ‘Don’t say things like that.’

By this time Rosie had finished crushing her friends and tears streaked as she shook both Mrs Divine and her typist by the hand. Paul waved to nobody in particular as he followed his father down the school’s main corridor and outside on to a short flight of steps.

The sun shone brightly on the paved courtyard as Paul headed towards the rather impressive Citroën. The sky was cloudless, but the school was on a hill overlooking the city and smoke poured from several buildings in the centre.

‘I didn’t hear any bombs,’ Rosie noted, joining them.

‘The government’s moving south,’ Mr Clarke explained. ‘They’re burning everything they can’t carry. The defence ministry has even set some of its own buildings on fire.’

‘Why are they leaving?’ Paul asked. ‘I thought there was supposed to be a counterattack?’

‘Don’t be naive, you baby,’ Rosie sneered.

‘We might not be in this mess if our side had decent radios,’ Mr Clarke said bitterly. ‘The German forces are communicating instantly. The French use messengers on horseback. I tried to sell a radio system to the French army, but their generals are living in the dark ages.’

Paul was shocked to see a cascade of papers come at him as he opened the back door of his father’s car.

‘Don’t let the wind get them!’ Mr Clarke gasped, as he dived forwards and scooped manila folders off the pavement.

Paul shut the door before anything else escaped, then peered through the glass and saw that the entire back seat was covered in folders and loose papers.

‘Imperial Wireless Company records,’ Mr Clarke explained. ‘I had to leave the office in a hurry.’

‘Why?’ Rosie asked.

But her father ignored the question and opened the front passenger door. ‘Paul, I think it’s best if you clamber in between the front seats. I want you to stack those papers as we drive. Rosie, you get in the front.’

Paul thought his father sounded tense. ‘Is everything OK, Dad?’

‘Of course.’ Mr Clarke nodded, giving Paul his best salesman’s smile as the boy squeezed between the front seats. ‘I’ve just had a hell of a morning. I tried four garages to get petrol and ended up having to beg at the British Embassy.’

‘The Embassy?’ Rosie said curiously, as she slammed the passenger door.

‘They’ve got a reserve supply for getting staff out in an emergency,’ Mr Clarke explained. ‘Luckily I know a few faces there, but it cost me a bob or two.’

Mr Clarke wasn’t rich, but his six-cylinder Citroën was a grand affair that belonged to the Imperial Wireless Company. Paul always enjoyed being in the luxurious rear compartment, with its crushed velvet seats, mahogany trim and tasselled blinds over the windows.

‘Do these papers go in any order?’ he asked, clearing a space for his bum as his father drove out of the courtyard.

‘Just stack them up,’ Mr Clarke said, as Rosie looked back and waved at her friend Grace, who was standing on the courtyard steps. ‘I’ll get a suitcase from the apartment.’

‘So where are we going?’ Paul asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ Mr Clarke said. ‘South, obviously. The last I heard there were still passenger ferries heading to Britain from Bordeaux. If not, we should be able to cross into Spain and get a boat from Bilbao.’

‘And if we can’t cross into Spain?’ Rosie asked nervously, as Paul straightened an armful of papers by tapping them against the leather armrest.

‘Well …’ Mr Clarke said uncertainly. ‘We won’t know for sure until we get down south, but don’t worry. Britain has the biggest merchant fleet and the most powerful navy in the world. There’ll be a boat heading somewhere.’

By this time the Citroën was cruising briskly downhill, past rows of apartment blocks with the occasional shop or café at ground level. Around half of the businesses were closed or boarded up, while others