With his mouth full of bread and cheese Lloyd said: ‘I’ll remember that.’

There was a small shelf of books including French translations of Marx and Lenin. Maurice noticed Lloyd looking at them and said: ‘I was a Communist – until the Hitler-Stalin pact. Now – it’s finished.’ He made a swift cutting-off gesture with his hand. ‘All the same, we have to defeat Fascism.’

‘I was in Spain,’ said Lloyd. ‘Before that, I believed in a united front of all left parties. Not any more.’

Simone cried. Marcelle lifted a large breast out of her loose dress and began to feed the baby. French women were more relaxed about this than the prudish British, Lloyd remembered.

When he had eaten, Maurice took him upstairs. From a wardrobe that had very little in it he took a pair of dark-blue overalls, a light-blue shirt, underwear and socks, all worn but clean. The kindness of this evidently poor man overwhelmed Lloyd, and he had no idea how to say thank you.

‘Just leave your army clothes on the floor,’ Maurice said. ‘I’ll burn them.’

Lloyd would have liked a wash, but there was no bathroom. He guessed it was in the back yard.

He put on the fresh clothes and studied his reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall. French blue suited him better than army khaki, but he still looked British.

He went back downstairs.

Marcelle was burping the baby. ‘Hat,’ she said.

Maurice produced a typical French beret, dark blue, and Lloyd put it on.

Then Maurice looked anxiously at Lloyd’s stout black leather British army boots, dusty but unmistakably good quality. ‘They give you away,’ he said.

Lloyd did not want to give up his boots. He had a long way to walk. ‘Perhaps we can make them look older?’ he said.

Maurice looked doubtful. ‘How?’

‘Do you have a sharp knife?’

Maurice took a clasp knife from his pocket.

Lloyd took his boots off. He cut holes in the toecaps, then slashed the ankles. He removed the laces and re-threaded them untidily. Now they looked like something a down-and-out would wear, but they still fit well and had thick soles that would last many miles.

Maurice said: ‘Where will you go?’

‘I have two options,’ Lloyd said. ‘I can head north, to the coast, and hope to persuade a fisherman to take me across the English Channel. Or I can go south-west, across the border into Spain.’ Spain was neutral, and still had British consuls in major cities. ‘I know the Spanish route – I’ve travelled it twice.’

‘The Channel is a lot nearer than Spain,’ Maurice said. ‘But I think the Germans will close all the ports and harbours.’

‘Where’s the front line?’

‘The Germans have taken Paris.’

Lloyd suffered a moment of shock. Paris had fallen already!

‘The French government has moved to Bordeaux.’ Maurice shrugged. ‘But we are beaten. Nothing can save France now.’

‘All Europe will be Fascist,’ Lloyd said.

‘Except for Britain. So you must go home.’