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 were in short supply. Prices had skyrocketed and she was barely covering her costs.

As Mr Clarke settled at the table with his cup, he heard a vague thumping sound and his coffee cup rattled

against its saucer.

‘Did you hear that?’ Paul asked.

His question was answered by the whine of an air-raid siren. Everyone in the café sat up a little straighter as the proprietress stepped out from behind the counter and hurried to lock the café door.

‘We get swarms of refugees in here otherwise,’ she explained, to nobody in particular. ‘If it gets bad, some of us can shelter under the stairs.’

As she stepped back towards the counter three young boys raced down the alleyway outside, followed by an enormously fat woman, straining the life out of a moped. Rosie found this sight hilarious and gave Paul a jab to make him turn and look.

‘You wouldn’t want her to sit on you,’ he said, before laughing so hard that he blew the foam off his steamed milk.

Mr Clarke thought it was funny himself, but everyone in the tiny café could overhear so he reprimanded the kids for being rude. Before they could reply another explosion threw him forwards and coffee spilled over into his lap.

‘Getting closer,’ Rosie said, as she grabbed a napkin and threw it across the table at her dad.

Paul cocked his ear towards the window. The gloomy alleyway muffled the sounds from above but aeroplane engines were now clearly audible. ‘Sounds like there’s a few of them,’ he noted warily.