Henderson's Boys: The Escape (3 page)

Paul was going to refuse payment until he saw that the boy’s desk contained more than a dozen triangular bars. Toblerone in hand, Paul stepped back to his desk and gathered his belongings into a leather satchel: pens and ink, a stack of battered comic books and the two artist’s pads with all of his best drawings in them. Meanwhile Rosie had erupted like a volcano.

‘We’ll all be back some day,’ she bawled theatrically, as she crushed the wind out of her best friend, Grace.

Upon seeing this, two of Rosie’s other friends backed away.

‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ Paul said, as he approached the doorway and saw the bewilderment on his father’s face. ‘It’s just girls; they’re all a bit nuts.’

Paul realised that Mrs Divine was holding out her hand and he shook it. She was a cold fish and he’d never really liked her, but he’d been a pupil for five years and the gnarled fingers seemed sad.

‘Thank you for everything,’ he said. ‘I hope the Germans don’t do anything horrible when they get here.’

‘Paul,’ Mr Clarke snapped, gently cuffing his son around the head. ‘Don’t say things like
that
.’

By this time Rosie had finished crushing her friends and tears streaked as she shook both Mrs Divine and her typist by the hand. Paul waved to nobody in particular as he followed his father down the school’s main corridor and outside on to a short flight of steps.

The sun shone brightly on the paved courtyard as Paul headed towards the rather impressive Citroën. The sky was cloudless, but the school was on a hill overlooking the city and smoke poured from several buildings in the centre.

‘I didn’t hear any bombs,’ Rosie noted, joining them.

‘The government’s moving south,’ Mr Clarke explained. ‘They’re burning everything they can’t carry. The defence ministry has even set some of its own buildings on fire.’

‘Why are they leaving?’ Paul asked. ‘I thought there was supposed to be a counterattack?’

‘Don’t be naive, you baby,’ Rosie sneered.

‘We might not be in this mess if our side had decent radios,’ Mr Clarke said bitterly. ‘The German forces are communicating instantly. The French use messengers on horseback. I tried to sell a radio system to the French army, but their generals are living in the dark ages.’

Paul was shocked to see a cascade of papers come at him as he opened the back door of his father’s car.

‘Don’t let the wind get them!’ Mr Clarke gasped, as he dived forwards and scooped manila folders off the pavement.

Paul shut the door before anything else escaped, then peered through the glass and saw that the entire back seat was covered in folders and loose papers.

‘Imperial Wireless Company records,’ Mr Clarke explained. ‘I had to leave the office in a hurry.’

‘Why?’ Rosie asked.

But her father ignored the question and opened the front passenger door. ‘Paul, I think it’s best if you clamber in between the front seats. I want you to stack those papers as we drive. Rosie, you get in the front.’

Paul thought his father sounded tense. ‘Is everything OK, Dad?’

‘Of course.’ Mr Clarke nodded, giving Paul his best salesman’s smile as the boy squeezed between the front seats. ‘I’ve just had a hell of a morning. I tried four garages to get petrol and ended up having to beg at the British Embassy.’

‘The Embassy?’ Rosie said curiously, as she slammed the passenger door.

‘They’ve got a reserve supply for getting staff out in an emergency,’ Mr Clarke explained. ‘Luckily I know a few faces there, but it cost me a bob or two.’

Mr Clarke wasn’t rich, but his six-cylinder Citroën was a grand affair that belonged to the Imperial Wireless Company. Paul always enjoyed being in the luxurious rear compartment, with its crushed velvet seats, mahogany trim and tasselled blinds over the windows.

‘Do these papers go in any order?’ he asked, clearing a space for his bum as his father drove out of the courtyard.

‘Just stack them up,’ Mr Clarke said, as Rosie looked back and waved at her friend Grace, who was standing on the courtyard steps. ‘I’ll get a suitcase from the apartment.’

‘So where are we going?’ Paul asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ Mr Clarke said. ‘South, obviously. The last I heard there were still passenger ferries heading to Britain from Bordeaux. If not, we should be able to cross into Spain and get a boat from Bilbao.’

‘And if we can’t cross into Spain?’ Rosie asked nervously, as Paul straightened an armful of papers by tapping them against the leather armrest.

‘Well …’ Mr Clarke said uncertainly. ‘We won’t know for sure until we get down south, but don’t worry. Britain has the biggest merchant fleet and the most powerful navy in the world. There’ll be a boat heading somewhere.’

By this time the Citroën was cruising briskly downhill, past rows of apartment blocks with the occasional shop or café at ground level. Around half of the businesses were closed or boarded up, while others continued to trade despite frequent signs indicating shortages, such as
no butter
on food stores, or
tobacco only available with a meal
on the outside of cafés.

‘Shouldn’t we stop at the florist?’ Rosie asked.

Mr Clarke glanced solemnly at his daughter. ‘I know I promised, sweetheart, but the cemetery’s fifteen kilometres in the wrong direction. We need to pack quickly and get as far out of Paris as we can.’

‘But,’ Rosie said sadly, ‘what if we can’t come back? We might never see Mum’s grave again.’

This thought made Paul freeze as he stacked the last of the papers. The cemetery always made Paul cry. Then his dad would cry and stand around the grave for ages, even when it was freezing cold. It was always horrible and he rather liked the idea of never going back.

‘Rosie, we’re not leaving your mother behind,’ Mr Clarke said. ‘She’ll be up there watching over us the whole way.’

Marc sat in the orphanage kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of grubby shorts. Director Tomas had ordered him to keep absolutely still, with his head down and his palms flat against the long wooden table. His stomach rumbled as two young nuns baked bread in the wood-fired ovens, whilst a huge bowl of vegetable soup bubbled on the stove.

Marc knew he wouldn’t be allowed supper and smiled edgily when Sister Madeline placed a small plate with cheese, sausage and chopped vegetables in front of him.

‘Eat quickly,’ the nun whispered, aiming a glance towards the door. ‘The director will reprimand me if he catches us.’

Marc was grateful for the food and scoffed it down without chewing, then shoved the plate across the table.

While the young nun was willing to help, Marc’s fellow orphans had less sympathy. Boys halted in the kitchen doorway and poked out tongues, wagged fingers and whispered nastily about the beating he was going to get and how he wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week. Outside, in plain view of the kitchen window, younger boys enacted a pantomime of mock beatings, a hanging and even a firing squad until the older nun rapped on the glass and told them to leave Marc alone.

Marc didn’t really mind. Orphanage life was all he’d known and bullying seemed as natural as breathing. Teasing a kid who faced a beating and trying to make him cry was just one of many rituals the orphans had devised to torture each other. As one of the stronger lads, Marc had inflicted his share of suffering on the weaker kids, and had learned never to give an inch when older boys or the staff started on him.

But he
was
scared of the director. Jae Morel ending up in a slurry pit was a serious matter and the fact that it wasn’t entirely his fault counted for nothing. Director Tomas was going to give him the beating of his life; the kind he usually reserved for boys who stole from the village shop or ran away.

While fear pricked Marc’s every thought it was falling out with Jae that hurt deep down. Their relationship had amounted to little, but her friendship had made Marc feel like something more than a shit-shovelling orphan for the first time in his life.

Unfortunately, Jae had called him much worse than that when she’d emerged from the pit, encrusted in manure. Farmer Morel had sacked him on the spot and threatened to remove certain sensitive elements of his anatomy with a blunt knife if he ever came near his daughter or his farm again.

The door of the office across the hallway opened and the heavily built director emerged, clutching the neck of a sobbing seven year old called Jean. A shove sent the youngster sprawling across the tiled kitchen floor, and the squat man looked pleased with himself as he ran a hand across his glistening bald scalp.

Sister Madeline looked horrified at the red welts on the boy’s skinny back.

‘Put some iodine on his cuts, sister,’ the director ordered, as Jean grabbed the table to pull himself up. ‘And if you wet the bed again, you’ll be sleeping out in the barn with the chickens.’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,’ the boy sniffed, rubbing his tiny hands together.

Director Tomas raised one eyebrow and clapped as he turned towards Marc. ‘And after the warm-up, we have the main event,’ he said, gleefully pointing an arm towards the office.

Marc was a regular on the director’s beating schedule and he always imagined heroics at this stage: pulling a dagger out of his pocket, or grabbing the saucepan and throwing boiling soup in the director’s face. But as always, he didn’t have the guts, so he stepped solemnly towards the office, with its leather-topped desk and the smell of cigarettes mixed with BO.

Tomas was a powerful man who’d boxed middleweight during his army days. Middle age had fattened him up, but though a few fifteen and sixteen year olds had swung at him over the years, none had ever come off better for it.

‘Stand straight. Feet apart, hands out front,’ the director barked, as he slammed his office door.

Across the hall, Jean cried noisily as the nun used iodine to disinfect his cuts. Another pleasure Marc had to look forward to.

‘Hasn’t been long since you were last here, Kilgour,’ Director Tomas said. ‘But now you’ve
really
excelled yourself.’

The director swiped his long cane from an umbrella stand and ran a piece of rag along its length to wipe away Jean’s blood. The cane had a metal tip to cause extra pain and the director whooshed it through the air before jamming the end into Marc’s nose, stretching his nostril and forcing him to snap his chin up towards the gloomy ceiling.

‘Morel is one of our most respected neighbours,’ Tomas growled. ‘What was going on between you and his daughter?’

‘Nothing,’ Marc said, as the metal tip burrowed deeper into his nose.

‘And how does
nothing
lead to the poor girl emerging from a pit encrusted in manure?’

‘We just spoke a few times. We had a little bit of an argument and she fell into the pit by accident. I tried to save her.’

The director pulled the cane out of Marc’s nose and lashed it across his face. The blow was a shock and Marc stumbled back to the door, clutching his cheek. He’d known it was going to be bad, but he’d never heard of the director striking a boy across the face before.

‘Stand up straight,’ the director ordered. ‘Get that hand off your cheek before I knock it off.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How many times do I have to hit you, Kilgour?’ the director snarled, as a second blow slammed into Marc’s naked side, just below his ribcage. ‘I’ve seen boys like you. Nasty, scheming boys, whose lives always end at a shot in the head or a penal colony.’
²

After a third stroke, the director bundled Marc against the desk and pressed his chest to the cracked leather top.

‘Haven’t you got anything to say for yourself, boy?’

Marc was scared of the pain, but the director had beaten him regularly since he was five years old. He’d never shown weakness and had no intention of giving the director any satisfaction now.

‘I guess it’s a shame I lost the job,’ Marc said. ‘You’ve had a new bicycle and two new suits since the four of us started working for Morel.’

He expected the remark to trigger a savage caning, but it was going to happen anyway and he wanted it over with. However, instead of using the cane, the director brought his knee up between Marc’s legs with such force that his feet lifted off the floor.

Marc groaned as he rolled over the side of the desk and crashed to the floor. He’d snagged a cord and a telephone crashed down on top of him, followed by the director’s heel, pressing on his stomach.

‘See where a smart mouth gets you?’ the director gloated, bending his cane as he loomed over the boy. ‘You’re nothing, understand? A dog would offer companionship, a pig is good for meat and a chicken lays eggs, but an orphan boy is worth nothing.’

The pain in Marc’s balls was so bad that he fought for breath. The director took his shoe off and began lashing out with the cane.

‘This doesn’t hurt me one bit,’ the director beamed, as the beating continued.

By this time Marc had rolled himself in a ball. His naked torso was covered in red lines and pain came from twenty different places.