westwards by dirty, unshaven men in horizon blue. That day there did not seem to be so many refugees on the road. The cyclists and the walkers and the families in decrepit, overloaded pony-carts were just as numerous, but there were few private cars in evidence on the road. For the first hour Howard walked continually looking backwards for a bus, but no bus came.
The children were very merry. They ran about and chattered to each other and to Howard, playing little games that now and then threatened their lives under the wheels of dusty lorries driven by tired men, and which had then to be checked. As the day grew warmer he let them take off their coats and jerseys and put them in the pram. Rose went barefoot as a matter of course; as a concession to the English children presently Howard let them take off stockings, though he made them keep their shoes on. He took off Pierre's stockings too.
The little boy seemed a trifle more natural, though he was still white and dumb. He had the whistle clutched tight in his hand and it still worked; now and again Sheila tried to get it away from him, but Howard had his eye on her and put a stop to that.
'If you don't stop bothering him for it,' he said, 'you'll have to put your stockings on again.' He frowned at her; she eyed him covertly, and decided that he meant it.
From time to time Rose bent towards the little boy in grey. 'Siffle, Pierre,' she would say. 'Siffle pour Rose.' At that he would put the whistle to his lips and blow a little thin note. 'Ah, c'est chic, ca.' She jollied him along all morning, smiling shyly up at Howard every now and then.
They went very slowly, making not more than a mile and a half in each hour. It was no good hurrying the children, Howard thought. They would reach Montargis by evening, but only if the children took their own pace.
At about ten in the morning firing broke out to the north of them. It was very heavy firing, as of guns and howitzers; it puzzled the old man. It was distant, possibly ten miles away or more, but definitely to the north, between them and Paris. He was worried and perplexed. Surely it could not be that the Germans were surrounding Paris to the south? Was that the reason that the train had stopped at Joigny?
They reached a tiny hamlet at about ten o'clock, a place that seemed to be called La Croix. There was one small estaminet which sold a few poor groceries in a side room that was a little shop. The children had been walking for three hours and were beginning to tire; it was high time they had a rest. He led them in and bought them two long orange drinks between the four of them.
There were other refugees there, sitting glum and silent. One old man said presently, to no one in particular: 'On dit que les Boches ont pris Paris.'
The wizened old woman of the house said that it was true. It had said so on the radio. A soldier had told her.
Howard listened, shaken to the core. It was incredible that such a thing could happen. Silence fell on the room again; it seemed that no one had any more to say. Only the children wriggled on their chairs and discussed their drink. A dog sat in the middle of the floor scratching industriously; snapping now and then at flies.
The old man left them and went through into the shop. He had hoped to find some oranges, but no oranges were left, and no fresh bread. He explained his need to the woman, and examined the little stock of food she had; he bought from her hah0 a dozen thick, hard biscuits each nine or ten inches in diameter and grey in colour, rather like dog-biscuits. He also bought some butter and a long, brown doubtful-looking sausage. For his own weariness of the flesh, he bought a bottle of cheap brandy. That, with four bottles of the orange drink, completed his purchases. As he was turning away, however, he saw a single box of chocolate bars, and bought a dozen for the children.
Their rest finished, he led them out on the road again. To encourage them on the way he broke one of the chocolate bars accurately into four pieces and gave it to them. Three of the children took their portion avidly. The fourth shook his head dumbly and refused.
'Merci, monsieur,' he whispered.
The old man said gently in French: 'Don't you like chocolate, Pierre? It's so good.'
The child shook his head.
'Try a little bit.' The other children looked on curiously.
The little boy whispered: 'Merci, monsieur. Maman dit que non. Settlement apres dejeuner.'
For a moment the old man's mind went back to the torn bodies left behind them by the roadside covered roughly with a rug; he forced his mind away from that. 'All right,' he said in French, 'we'll keep it, and you shall have it after dejeuner.' He put the morsel carefully in a corner of the pram seat, the little boy in grey watched with grave interest. 'It will be quite safe there.'
Pierre trotted on beside him, quite content.
The two younger children tired again before long; in four hours they had walked six miles, and it was now very hot. He put them both into the pram and pushed them down the road, the other two walking by his side. Mysteriously now the lorry traffic was all gone; there was nothing on the road but refugees.
The road was full of refugees. Farm carts, drawn by great Flemish horses, lumbered down the middle of the road at walking pace, loaded with furniture and bedding and sacks of food and people. Between them and around them seethed the motor traffic; big cars and little cars, occasional ambulances and motor-bicycles, all going to the west. There were innumerable cyclists and long trails of people pushing hand-carts and perambulators in the torrid July heat. All were choked with dust, all sweating and distressed, all pressing on to Montargis. From time to time an aeroplane flew near the road; then there was panic and an accident or two. But no bombs were dropped that day, nor was the road to Montargis machine-gunned.
The heat was intense. At about a quarter to twelve they came to a place where a little stream ran beside the road, and here there was another block of many traffic blocks caused by the drivers of the farm wagons who stopped to water their horses. Howard decided to make a halt; he pushed the perambulator a little way over the field away from the road to where a little sandy spit ran out into the stream beneath the trees.
'We'll stop here for dejeuner,' he said to the children. 'Go and wash your hands and faces in the water.' He took the food and sat down in the shade; he was very tired, but there was still five miles or more to Montargis. Surely there would be a motor-bus there?
Ronnie said: 'May I paddle, Mr Howard?'
He roused himself. 'Bathe if you want to,' he said. 'It's hot enough.'
'May I really bathe?'
Sheila echoed: 'May I really bathe, too?'
He got up from the grass. 'I don't see why not,' he said slowly. 'Take your things off and have a bathe before dejeuner, if you want to.'
The English children needed no further encouragement. Ronnie was out of his few clothes and splashing in the water in a few seconds; Sheila got into a tangle with her Liberty bodice and had to be helped. Howard watched them for a minute, amused. Then he turned to Rose. 'Would you like to go in, too?' he said in French.
She shook her head in scandalised amazement. 'It is not nice, that, monsieur. Not at all.'
He glanced at the little naked bodies gleaming in the sun. 'No,' he said reflectively, 'I suppose it's not. Still, they may as well go on now they've started.' He turned to Pierre. 'Would you like to bathe, Pierre?'
The little boy in grey stared round-eyed at the English children. Won, merci, monsieur,' he said.
Howard said: 'Wouldn't you like to take your shoes off and have a paddle, then? In the water?' The child looked doubtfully at him, and then at Rose. 'It's nice in the water.' He turned to Rose. 'Take him and let him put his feet in the water, Rose.'
She took the little boy's shoes and socks off and they went down and paddled at the very edge of the water. Howard went back to the shade of the trees and sat down again where he could see the children. Presently Sheila splashed a little water at the paddlers; he heard la petite Rose scolding. He saw the little boy in grey, standing in an inch of water, stoop and put his hand in and splash a little back. And then, among the chatter, he heard a shrill little sound that was quite new to him.
It was Pierre laughing.
Behind his back he heard a man say: 'God love a duck! Look at them bleeding kids - just like Brighton.'
Another said: 'Never mind about the muckin' kids. Look at the mud they've stirred up. We can't put that stuff in the radiator. Better go on up-stream a bit. And get a move on or we'll be here all the muckin' night.'
Howard swung round and there, before him in the field, were two men, dirty and unshaven, in British Royal Air Force uniform. One was a corporal and one a driver.
