Page 133 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘You wait.’

‘Where?’

‘Here. You wait here. They won’t be long.’

‘Who is they?’

‘You’ll know when you see them.’

I was angry at this man, this stupid silent man, even though he had helped us.

Frieda and I got our bags from the trunk and huddled together like refugees. I told her what I thought we looked like.

‘I guess we are now,’ she said, and shivered into me.

The silent man was right. Within ten minutes two men appeared from a craggy path below the lip of the cliff.

‘Bonnet?’ one said.

‘Yes.’

‘Better get a move on.’

We followed him down the steep path, the other man at the rear, both of them turning their heads every so often, reminding me of birds checking to see where their prey was. I supposed, though, that we were the prey.

Just as it was getting light, past the blue grey of dawn, we reached a pebbled beach and a rowing boat.

‘Get in,’ the man at the rear said.

‘We are rowing to England?’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

I got in and held Frieda tight.

‘I don’t feel well,’ she said.

‘Just put your head on my shoulder and close your eyes,’ I told her.

The men were impressive in their rowing and we moved quickly through the waves, leaving a silent wake. Their arms were powerful, and they moved in such synchronicity that I realised they had done this many times before.

We rowed around the edge of a longer outcrop; then, just as I thought we were heading out into open sea, I saw a large boat anchored in a tiny space between the rocks, hidden from view. They pulled the rowing boat up alongside it and we climbed up a ladder onto the deck.

No one spoke to us. No one asked to see anything but the flimsy tickets allowing our passage.

The engine started with a splutter and those of us on deck, maybe twenty or so, looked up at the cliff edge, expecting any moment to see an army of Germans firing down at us.

No one came.

The sea was as cold and hard as iron. It did not want to let the boat pass through, chaffing and tugging at the bow like a child trying to cling to its mother. But the boat did not stop, ploughing on steadily, focused on the next channel, and then perhaps the next. We sat on deck with most of the last passengers to arrive – we could not go below to the hold which was dryer and perhaps safer. Instead, we sat under a balcony above; held on to each other and allowed other passengers to sit close to us, our bodies protecting one another.

I held Frieda as the boat rocked from side to side, feeling her heart beat with mine; warming her with anything that I had. Our clothes were damp, our feet frozen and wet inside our shoes. Frieda fell asleep at some stage – a sleep that made her talk of wild things, and moan and cry out. I held my palm to her forehead to check for fever, but the icy drizzle, the slap of waves on the boat and the cries of the seamen to veer left then right, made me a useless doctor and I could not tell how she was.

A man with a long, wet beard came forward and told me that there was a little space in the second hold; enough perhaps for her, but not for me. At least she would be dry there.

I helped the man carry Frieda, who murmured deliriously of the triplets; that they were too young and liable to fall.

‘Nieces and nephews,’ I told the bearded man.