Almost unconsciously, Marc picked up his heavy boots and pushed the bike towards Beauvais. Once he was past the crater he remounted and was soon cycling cautiously through dark streets with buildings close on either side. Most had their shutters closed for the night. All the lights were blacked out to prevent the city being picked out by German pilots, but several fires lingered from an earlier raid and explosions had shattered windows everywhere. Most of the glass had been swept into gutters, but it was still across the road in places and Marc feared a puncture.

Things became livelier as he freewheeled the bottom of a hill and turned on to one of the town’s main boulevards. Like everywhere else in northern France, the population of Beauvais had split between those who’d fled south and those who’d abandoned themselves to whatever fate the Germans had in store.

The stay-behinds seemed determined to enjoy their last breath of freedom. The air was warm and the cafés whose owners had stayed in town were crammed with people. Although the street lanterns had been switched off and each café had black curtains or shutters drawn across the windows to keep out the light, Marc saw pinpricks of candlelight on the outdoor tables and the orange glow of cigarettes dancing expressively in the hands of people who’d had too much to drink.

The mass of chatter was nothing out of the ordinary for a street of bars and cafés, but Marc had never seen so many adults in one place before and their apparent ease in near black surroundings made him feel even more out of place.

He pulled up when he came to a horse trough with a drinking fountain mounted on the brick plinth behind it. After dropping the bike he leaned into the spout and gasped with relief as he gulped cool water.

‘Change?’ a man asked noisily, making Marc jump.

Water dribbled down Marc’s chin as he backed away from the fountain and eyed the old man. He wore only shorts and boots, but was so filthy that it took Marc a few seconds to realise that he wasn’t in some kind of fancy-dress gorilla suit.

‘Anything you can spare,’ the man smiled, as he held out his hand. ‘Just a few coins.’

As he said this, Marc caught a noseful of booze, sweat and puke. He scrambled backwards, stumbling over his bike before standing it up and riding on in a panic.

At the next junction Marc found a signpost pointing towards the train station. He knew it was approximately sixty kilometres to Paris and according to the railway map pinned up at his school there were trains to everywhere in France once you got there.