Paul was going to refuse payment until he saw that the boy’s desk contained more than a dozen triangular bars. Toblerone in hand, Paul stepped back to his desk and gathered his belongings into a leather satchel: pens and ink, a stack of battered comic books and the two artist’s pads with all of his best drawings in them. Meanwhile Rosie had erupted like a volcano.

‘We’ll all be back some day,’ she bawled theatrically, as she crushed the wind out of her best friend, Grace.

Upon seeing this, two of Rosie’s other friends backed away.

‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ Paul said, as he approached the doorway and saw the bewilderment on his father’s face. ‘It’s just girls; they’re all a bit nuts.’

Paul realised that Mrs Divine was holding out her hand and he shook it. She was a cold fish and he’d never really liked her, but he’d been a pupil for five years and the gnarled fingers seemed sad.

‘Thank you for everything,’ he said. ‘I hope the Germans don’t do anything horrible when they get here.’

‘Paul,’ Mr Clarke snapped, gently cuffing his son around the head. ‘Don’t say things like that.’

By this time Rosie had finished crushing her friends and tears streaked as she shook both Mrs Divine and her typist by the hand. Paul waved to nobody in particular as he followed his father down the school’s main corridor and outside on to a short flight of steps.

The sun shone brightly on the paved courtyard as Paul headed towards the rather impressive Citroën. The sky was cloudless, but the school was on a hill overlooking the city and smoke poured from several buildings in the centre.

‘I didn’t hear any bombs,’ Rosie noted, joining them.

‘The government’s moving south,’ Mr Clarke explained. ‘They’re burning everything they can’t carry. The defence ministry has even set some of its own buildings on fire.’

‘Why are they leaving?’ Paul asked. ‘I thought there was supposed to be a counterattack?’

‘Don’t be naive, you baby,’ Rosie sneered.

‘We might not be in this mess if our side had decent radios,’ Mr Clarke said bitterly. ‘The German forces are communicating instantly. The French use messengers on horseback. I tried to sell a radio system to the French army, but their generals are living in the dark ages.’

Paul was shocked to see a cascade of papers come at him as he opened the back door of his father’s car.

‘Don’t let the wind get them!’ Mr Clarke gasped, as he dived forwards and scooped manila folders off the pavement.

Paul shut the door before anything else escaped, then peered through the glass and saw that the entire back seat was covered in folders and loose papers.

‘Imperial Wireless Company records,’ Mr Clarke explained. ‘I had to leave the office in a hurry.’

‘Why?’ Rosie asked.