‘Artillery?’ the man asked. ‘Sorry to be a pest, but the news on Radio France isn’t worth a damn.’

Marc couldn’t help smiling at the swear-word, and his tension eased as he realised the man just wanted to know when he could expect Germans on his doorstep. ‘I didn’t see any shelling myself, but I heard that there was some.’

The man nodded solemnly. ‘Artillery would put the Boche within twenty kilometres. Did you see troops retreating?’

‘A few,’ Marc said.

‘I’d say they’ll reach Paris within five days, a week at most.’

‘Will you leave?’

‘At the drop of a hat,’ the man said, smiling, but then he pointed a thumb at the miserable waitress. ‘But my wife says no.’

The waitress looked up from her magazine and yelled across the café. ‘I’d rather be shelled by the Boche than live with your relatives.’

‘Word of advice, my boy,’ the man whispered, as he theatrically shielded his mouth with his hand. ‘Don’t ever get married.’

Marc smiled. He felt a lot more comfortable than when he’d entered and decided to ask a question. ‘Is there anywhere around here I could stay?’

The man raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought you’d be heading south.’

‘Probably.’ Marc shrugged.

‘But you’re all alone. Aren’t you meeting up with someone?’

‘Yes,’ Marc lied hurriedly. ‘I’ve got an uncle down south. But it’s safer to walk by night. Easier to take cover.’

‘Ahh.’ The man nodded. ‘Sensible. You might find a bed at the Dormitory Raquel. It’s a rough old place though: labourers, kitchen staff. Mostly Russians and Poles. But it’s cheap and I doubt they’d mind taking a boy if you pay up front.’

Marc didn’t seem sure. ‘So you’d recommend it?’

The man broke into a booming laugh. ‘I’d recommend the Ritz. But judging by the state of your clothing your budget won’t stretch to five thousand francs a night.’

‘You’re right there,’ Marc smiled, as he mopped up the last of his soup with the bread.

After Marc had handed over payment, the man tore a sheet off the notepad inside his apron and sketched out the route to the Dormitory Raquel.

‘Thanks very much,’ Marc said, as he quickly checked the map to ensure it made sense. ‘So I turn left out of here?’

The man nodded. Marc didn’t catch exactly what his wife said as he walked out, but the tone was definitely caustic.

As Marc followed the pencil markings on the map – second left by the big church – he felt a little more settled but also bloated, because he’d eaten two meals and it wasn’t yet noon. After the church he began walking up a steep hill along a street of detached houses.