Page 8 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

Suddenly Michel remembered the night before, the warning from Bertrand, the crackly radio presenter, and the brandy. ‘I can’t go,’ he said, and put a hand to his head as if by doing so it would stop the incessant thud. ‘What time is it?’

‘Two o’clock. I let you sleep whilst I chatted to Mathis from next door. He is going to Bordeaux but couldn’t fit us in his car. He says everyone is trying the trains.’ Bertrand pushed his way into the apartment, grabbed Michel’s knapsack and stuffed clothes into it. ‘Where’s your book?’

‘They’re over there.’ Michel waved Bertrand towards the stack of books that littered the floor and sat back into the comforting embrace of his chair.

‘The book, Michel! The one I gave you as a boy!’

‘Over there.’ Michel waved him again in the general direction of the floor. He could hear Bertrand mumbling and swearing under his breath, then silence. After a while, there was more noise and something else; a smell that lifted Michel slightly.

‘Coffee,’ Bertrand said. ‘Madame Odette was not happy with me, but you need her coffee, no other will do the trick. I had to pay off my debts to get this so you’d better drink it all.’

Michel opened his eyes, not realising that he had closed them again. ‘Was I asleep?’ he asked, taking the coffee from Bertrand and sipping it slowly.

‘Yes, whilst I packed. Here,’ Bertrand threw his bag at his feet, ‘you are ready to go.’

‘Are you sure we should, Bertrand, really sure?’

‘Look out there. Go on, look.’ Bertrand pointed to the window.

Michel peered out onto the street, the daylight brightening even the dullest greys of the buildings so that he had to shield his eyes a little. It was a few seconds before he realised what Bertrand meant, and then he saw. His neighbours were not just walking down the street, going to the shop or exercising their dogs; they were scurrying like small animals, bags on their backs, suitcases under each arm as they packed up their cars or bicycles. Other cars had arrived – family members – who helped tuck children into the back seats and more suitcases on top.

‘You see?’ Bertrand asked.

Michel nodded and drank his coffee in silence.

Michel and Monsieur Bertrand left their tiny apartment block at four o’clock in the afternoon. Bertrand carried his violin in its worn, battered black case, and a compact leather suitcase with brass clasps. Michel carried his small woven knapsack, which still smelled of horses from the stables – inside there were a few changes of clothes, an apple, a photograph of his mother, and the tatty copy of Le Lotus Bleu by Hergé, a children’s book which Bertrand had gifted him years ago. He had checked his cupboards and his drawers, and felt a pang that there was little else worth taking with him.

His coat was too thick for this time of year, a dirty green coarse wool that weighed him down in the early summer heat, but Bertrand had insisted he wear it. It was his only coat, a big clumsy affair, and which he had no recollection of buying or being given.

Bertrand walked ahead, seemingly knowing exactly where they should run away to. Michel looked over his shoulder every few steps, watching as the already small apartment block became even smaller. Then they turned a corner and it had disappeared. I will be home again, I will. The Germans will not come; Bertrand is surely mistaken… Yet Michel noticed that Bertrand did not turn to take a last look at the home he had lived in his whole life.

Scores of people hurried along the pavements carrying suitcases; children were stuffed into pushchairs alongside bags, ornaments, a pet cat or dog; plates, cups and saucers were piled into old carts along with anything else that could fit. One old man carried his wiry grey terrier in his arms and nothing else, as if the dog was the only thing in his life worth saving. Michel watched as small children staggered behind their parents, half dragging sheet-wrapped bundles. Fathers had coats stuffed under their armpits, their hands clasping heavy, bulging cases, their faces red and sweating, whilst their wives shuffled along, wearing as many dresses as they could, their abundant necklaces and jewelled earrings catching the sunlight.

The sun welcomed the growing crowds with its sultry arms, causing them to sweat and grumble. Michel felt as though he were melting inside his coat, and stopped to remove it and tie it around his waist. He wiped his forehead and face, disturbing the dust that covered it, which was being churned up by the cars in their getaway.

He and Bertrand fell in behind the slow-moving traffic, side by side, their arms touching. Michel could hear the late afternoon chorus of sparrows as they swirled around the berried bushes of a nearby park, whilst pigeons, fat and sullen, pecked on the ground at rubbish and rotten fruit bursting from its skin.

Suddenly the procession stopped, and everyone looked to the sky as the distant hum of artillery fire peppered the air. ‘It’s getting louder,’ Michel said.

‘It’s getting closer,’ Bertrand remarked, and lit a cigarette.

Michel looked past the Eiffel Tower, as if he would be able to see the soldiers fighting there.

‘It’s all right,’ Monsieur Bertrand said. ‘There’s time. We’ve time.’

They turned a corner and the boulevard was choked with cars, buses and trucks. Michel watched as an old woman was helped onto a milk truck, her bag thrown in behind her, whilst wealthier families packed their cars so full that their belongings obscured every window.

‘How much further?’ Michel asked.

‘Not far. Not far.’

At the next corner, Bertrand needed to stop. He opened his suitcase and took from it a silver flask, engraved with his initials. He drank deeply and offered it to Michel, who sniffed the thick burnt aroma of whisky and drank too whilst the clogged procession of vehicles moved past them. He handed the flask back to Bertrand and sat on a low stone wall, holding his small bag to his chest.

‘Have you seen what I packed for you?’ Bertrand asked.

‘I did.’

‘I made sure it was in there.’