‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and twenty kilometres.’
‘That’s good. We’re over halfway to Paris.’ Claire looked out of the side window. They had left the country lanes behind and the road they were now travelling on was straight and wide. She supposed it was a new road that had been built since she and Alain were last there. Her stomach churned at the thought of her husband with another woman. She tried to concentrate on the landscape but at this time of year there was nothing much to see. She closed her eyes and was soon asleep.
Claire woke to Bernard shaking her by the shoulder. ‘If you would like to change your clothes now, the toilet is round the back of the café. I shall fill up with petrol for the return journey while you are getting changed, yes?’
‘Yes, thank you, Bernard.’ Claire opened the door and jumped down from the cab of the truck. Walking in the direction of the toilet, she noticed a road sign. It was old and some of the letters were worn, but she could make out the words: Paris Centre: 20 kilometres.
She wondered if the vehicle taking her to Paris was already in the parking area. She screwed up her eyes and searched the windscreens of several parked cars. None had a driver at the wheel. They probably hadn’t arrived yet. She entered the lavatory, which was used by both men and women. Trying to ignore the stench coming from the holes in the wall, she went into a narrow cubicle and closed the thin wooden door. There was hardly room to turn round, let alone change from one set of clothes to another, but at least there was a window ledge to put her bag on.
She turned to lock the door, but there was no lock. Avoiding the hole in the floor, Claire held her breath and quickly took off the thick clothes she had worn as a disguise and put on a smart grey costume. Kicking off the brown brogues and thick socks one at a time, she slipped her feet into a pair of classic black court shoes. Changing from socks over stockings to only stockings took Claire’s breath away. The difference in warmth was unbelievable. After checking her hair in the broken mirror, she wrapped the shoes and socks in the clothes she had taken off and took them outside.
There was no one on the road but she and Bernard had passed a dozen, probably more, men and women trudging through mounds of snow that had built up on the verge along the side of the main road leading into Paris. They looked half frozen as they trailed along one behind the other. December had been recorded as one of the coldest in France for a decade. It felt to Claire as if January would soon be taking the record.
She left the clothes on the top of a stack of crates in full view of the road. Hopefully, one of the women she’d seen earlier on the road would pass by, see them, and change from their wet clothes to dry ones. She looked up. Snow clouds hung heavily in what was otherwise a bright blue sky. She hoped the clothes were found before the next snowfall.
‘It is bitter out there, Bernard,’ Claire said, climbing into the cab of the truck and slamming the door. ‘What time did you say the person taking me to Paris would be here?’
‘Anytime now,’ he said, consulting his watch.
‘And how will we know him, or her?’
‘We won’t, he or she will know us.’
The situation reminded Claire of her time with the Resistance in the war. Except it wasn’t nearly as dangerous. A black Citroën pulled up on the driver’s side of the truck and Bernard said ‘A man,’ as he wound down his window.
Claire slid down in the seat. ‘Is it him?’
‘I don’t know. If it is he will know my name.’
The driver of the Citroën, muffled up with the brim of his trilby pulled down against the biting wind, got out of the car. He stretched his legs, then took a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. ‘Do you have a light, Monsieur?’ he asked, looking up at Bernard’s open window.
‘I do, Monsieur. I was just about to have a cigarette, myself.’ Bernard closed the window and opened the truck’s door. Jumping down he shook the man’s hand before flicking the lid on his American lighter. He cupped his hands against the wind, lit the stranger’s cigarette and then his own.
‘Thank you, Bernard,’ the man said.
‘You are welcome,’ Bernard replied. Exhaling a long stream of smoke into the freezing air, he banged on the driver’s door. A signal to Claire that her ride into Paris was here. ‘Madame wishes to go to the 8th Arrondissement,’ he said, turning back to the driver of the Citroën. ‘From there she will take the Metro.’ The man gave one sharp nod.
Claire arrived at Bernard’s side from the back of the truck. She put out her hand. ‘Hello, Monsieur, I am--’
‘Madame Belland! How do you do?’ A lopsided smile crept across the man’s face, as he took Claire’s suitcase and put it in the boot of his car.
‘Thank you for bringing me all this way, Bernard.’ Claire put her arms around the burly lorry driver and kissed him goodbye. ‘I am grateful to you for all you have done.’
‘You just find Alain. And when you do, bring him to Gisoir and we will celebrate.’
The driver of the Citroën opened the car’s passenger door and Claire got in. She couldn’t see Bernard from the passenger side of the car, but she would put money on him standing beside his truck waving her off. And he was. When the car pulled away,
