‘I guess,’ Paul said. ‘But it probably would have been blasted to bits.’

‘Well maybe there’s a shop then,’ Rosie said. ‘You know, one that sells old prams or something? There’s no way I can lug all this lot to Bordeaux.’

Paul looked uncertainly at his sister. ‘If we go back to the square, do you think Dad might still be there?’

‘How should I know?’ Rosie snapped. ‘If you’ve got better ideas, Paul, I’m all ears.’

A few local trains seemed to be running and a railwayman stood at the bottom of the bridge, ordering the stream of refugees not to cross. Instead, they had to walk more than two kilometres to the road bridge that had been repaired by the army and then another kilometre back to the centre of Tours.

By the time Paul and Rosie reached the town centre their shoulders ached and their clothes were darkened by sweat. Every so often a car would hoot all of the pedestrians out of the road, giving the pair a stark reminder of how their status had plummeted.

Still, they had their health, which was more than could be said for those who’d already spent days on their feet. They were also far from the only unaccompanied children on the road. In some instances mothers had been killed, leaving kids of Rosie’s age in charge of younger siblings and carts laden with an entire family’s possessions.

The bombed square had been sealed off with wooden barriers and the cobbles were awash with huge puddles where the fire service had successfully attacked multiple blazes. Only a few smouldering embers remained and these were under careful watch from firemen who doused them with spray from their hoses.

Paul could not help but glance towards the doorway where their father had died. It was now empty.

But the biggest change since they’d left the square was that the roof of the civic building had caught light and collapsed on to the floors below it. The resulting cascade had left a spectacular mound of rubble and burnt office furniture, with two scorched walls standing erect on either side.

‘Useless,’ Paul groaned, as he stared at the mangled carcasses of market stalls. ‘There’s no trolley here.’

‘Excuse me,’ Rosie said, as she approached an exhausted-looking fireman who stood in front of a red and white barrier, puffing on a cigarette. ‘Do you know the town well?’

‘Lived here all my life,’ he said, nodding.

‘We need a trolley or a pram,’ Rosie explained. ‘Any idea where we might get hold of one?’

The fireman looked unsure, but after a few seconds he made a gesture with his hand. ‘Two streets over that way there’s a road with a couple of second-hand shops. But right now there are certain things that can’t be had for any amount of money and I suspect wheeled carts are one of them.’