Yvette put her hand on the back of Paul’s neck and kissed him on the forehead. ‘I just know you’ll be a great artist some day,’ she said proudly. ‘I’m going to miss you

– your sister too.’

Yvette started to sob just as Rosie came in and within a couple of minutes they were all at it. Even Father Doran put down his newspaper and gave Paul and Rosie a tearful hug before wishing Henderson good luck.

‘Father, you think about what I said,’ Henderson warned, as he stood in the doorway holding the case containing Mannstein’s documents. ‘You’re respected in these parts and I’m sure many people will help you to hide.’

‘Perhaps,’ Father Doran said calmly. ‘Who knows where this war will leave any of us?’

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Henderson rode up front with all three kids in the back, sitting on the luggage with old blankets and cushions donated by Yvette for comfort. He’d grown to like Marc and missed having him in the passenger seat alongside him, but he could overhear fragments of the three youngsters’ conversation and was pleased to hear Marc acting like an ordinary boy as Paul tried to show him how to draw a tank.

It was three hundred and thirty kilometres to Bordeaux. A decent car would have made it in six and a half hours, but the van took ten. The kids left the canvas tarp at the back open so that they could see, but they hardly bothered to look out. They’d all spent days on the road and there were only so many times you could be shocked by a soldier on crutches or a grandma lying dead in a ditch. For Marc – who hadn’t ventured beyond the orphanage and its surrounding farms until ten days earlier – carnage almost seemed like the natural state of things.

*

They reached Bordeaux as it was starting to turn dark. Henderson’s fingers were numb from being wrapped around the steering wheel all day and his calves ached from working the foot pedals, but his heart was warmed by the sight of a small passenger ship in the harbour, flying the British ensign.

Marc felt a touch lost as he stepped out of the truck and saw palm trees growing in front of a hotel. It was warmer here than in northern France and the low buildings with balconies were very different to the offices and apartment blocks of Paris.

‘Grab all your kit,’ Henderson said hurriedly, pointing at the small stack of bags and cases inside the truck. ‘The funnels are smoking, so I’d say that ship is stoking up to leave.’

‘How long?’ Marc asked, as he passed the bags out of the truck to Rosie.

‘An hour if we’re lucky. We still have to clear customs and buy tickets – what’s more, it could easily be fully booked and Marc doesn’t have a passport.’