‘Deeper,’ Mr Clarke croaked, as he looked desperately at the wound in his chest. ‘Must be …’

‘It’s right where his heart is, or his lung … or something,’ Rosie said, glancing around desperately. As legs swept by she realised that theirs was just one crisis amidst a hundred.

‘Henderson,’ he croaked, as the blood-soaked handkerchief fell away from his face. ‘Find him. Give him the papers.’

‘You’re not going to die, Dad,’ Paul said, more out of hope than conviction.

Mr Clarke used the last of his energy to look at his son and mouth the word Sorry with his bloody lips.

‘Dad!’ Rosie screamed, shaking him as she glanced all around. ‘Just hang on, there must be someone …’

But suddenly there was no resistance and Mr Clarke’s head flopped backwards. Unmoving eyes stared at her, glazed and still, like a pair of marbles.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It’s hard to grasp when something so big happens. Paul and Rosie felt like some giant magnet held them in place. They kept looking at each other, then back at their father, to confirm that he was really dead.

Several minutes passed. The dust from the explosions settled and the aeroplanes retreated into the surrounding countryside, but neither Paul nor Rosie spoke. Their first sentence had to capture the enormity of what had happened and they couldn’t find the words.

Normally there would be a safety net – police, ambulance, telephones – but they’d seen enough of the evacuation to know that normal rules didn’t apply. They’d stepped over death and looked away from pain and now it was their turn to be the ones sitting at the roadside while the world passed by.

‘I’ve lost my mummy,’ a small boy said.

It was the lad Paul had seen hiding under the market stall. He was stocky, no more than six, and so dusty that he could have been a statue of himself. Part of Rosie wanted to tell him to scram because she had enough problems, but he was a cute little thing and it was a relief to have something else to focus on.

‘Where did you last see her?’ Rosie asked gently. ‘Maybe she ran to the other side of the square.’

‘I don’t know,’ the boy said, after which their faces took up the conversation. The boy’s eyes asked if it was OK to sit down beside them on the kerb and Rosie’s nod indicated that it was.

‘I’m Hugo,’ the boy said.

‘Are you from Tours?’

‘Hugo Charmain. Seventh arrondissement3, Paris,’ the boy said grandly. As he spoke he pulled a piece of string out from inside his shirt. A label with his name and address was attached to the end.

‘Were you just with your mummy?’ Paul asked.

Hugo nodded sadly, before looking at Mr Clarke. ‘My daddy is fighting for France. Is that yours?’

‘Yes,’ Rosie said.