But her father ignored the question and opened the front passenger door. ‘Paul, I think it’s best if you clamber in between the front seats. I want you to stack those papers as we drive. Rosie, you get in the front.’

Paul thought his father sounded tense. ‘Is everything OK, Dad?’

‘Of course.’ Mr Clarke nodded, giving Paul his best salesman’s smile as the boy squeezed between the front seats. ‘I’ve just had a hell of a morning. I tried four garages to get petrol and ended up having to beg at the British Embassy.’

‘The Embassy?’ Rosie said curiously, as she slammed the passenger door.

‘They’ve got a reserve supply for getting staff out in an emergency,’ Mr Clarke explained. ‘Luckily I know a few faces there, but it cost me a bob or two.’

Mr Clarke wasn’t rich, but his six-cylinder Citroën was a grand affair that belonged to the Imperial Wireless Company. Paul always enjoyed being in the luxurious rear compartment, with its crushed velvet seats, mahogany trim and tasselled blinds over the windows.

‘Do these papers go in any order?’ he asked, clearing a space for his bum as his father drove out of the courtyard.

‘Just stack them up,’ Mr Clarke said, as Rosie looked back and waved at her friend Grace, who was standing on the courtyard steps. ‘I’ll get a suitcase from the apartment.’

‘So where are we going?’ Paul asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ Mr Clarke said. ‘South, obviously. The last I heard there were still passenger ferries heading to Britain from Bordeaux. If not, we should be able to cross into Spain and get a boat from Bilbao.’

‘And if we can’t cross into Spain?’ Rosie asked nervously, as Paul straightened an armful of papers by tapping them against the leather armrest.

‘Well …’ Mr Clarke said uncertainly. ‘We won’t know for sure until we get down south, but don’t worry. Britain has the biggest merchant fleet and the most powerful navy in the world. There’ll be a boat heading somewhere.’

By this time the Citroën was cruising briskly downhill, past rows of apartment blocks with the occasional shop or café at ground level. Around half of the businesses were closed or boarded up, while others continued to trade despite frequent signs indicating shortages, such as no butter on food stores, or tobacco only available with a meal on the outside of cafés.

‘Shouldn’t we stop at the florist?’ Rosie asked.

Mr Clarke glanced solemnly at his daughter. ‘I know I promised, sweetheart, but the cemetery’s fifteen kilometres in the wrong direction. We need to pack quickly and get as far out of Paris as we can.’

‘But,’ Rosie said sadly, ‘what if we can’t come back? We might never see Mum’s grave again.’