shaded lights throwing narrow triangles on the road in the pitch-black midnight. Her stomach tightened in a ball and her mouth tasted of metal, of fear.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Belgium.’
‘Belgium?’
‘Belgium’s neutral.’ She was right. They thought he was a German. She wanted to say how sorry she was. She couldn’t see him in the dark, but she knew his lips were closed and tight and he was not going to talk to her about it. He was a brave man.
‘Where did you get the car?’
‘I borrowed it.’
Then she remembered. ‘My samples,’ she said. ‘I left my samples. We have to go back.’
‘Forget it.’
‘Please, Stanislaus.’
He laughed, a cruel, mocking ‘Ha, ha’. She had never known him like this.
There was no traffic on the road and they sped through Paris, the unlit streets and suburbs unfolding behind them. Maybe they could go back later, when this crisis had blown over. Madame Breton would keep them for her. That’s what concierges did.
‘Do you know the way?’ Ada said.
‘I’d better.’
‘How long will it take?’
‘Five hours, six. Who knows?’
Six hours was a long time. He was driving fast.
‘Will they catch us?’
‘Who?’
‘Whoever is after you.’
He said nothing. They sat in silence. She closed her eyes. She was tired. The burr of the engine and the rocking motion of the car were soothing, even though her stomach churned and her head spun with questions. Something had happened, something serious. What if they were caught? She’d be in for it too.
She must have fallen asleep because it was dawn, a soft, grey light that mottled through tall trees and drew faint stripes across the road.
‘Glad you slept,’ he said in a bitter tone.
Ada stretched her legs and arms, clenched and unclenched her hands. The road ahead was straight, the countryside flat. ‘Where are we?’
‘Picardy,’ he said. ‘Somewhere.’
Her father used to sing, Roses are shining in Picardy. It was one of his favourite songs. That and Tipperary. She wanted to hear it now, a longing so acute it lunged like a knife. She could hear him singing, his voice sweet and tender, and she began to sing with him in her head, a soft, mournful duo, in the hush of the silver dew. Roses are flowering in Picardy, but there’s never a rose like you.
Stanislaus turned and faced her. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘It was a wartime song,’ she said. ‘The soldiers sang it in the trenches. I expect you Germans sang the same kind of songs.’
His knuckles tightened on the wheel and the muscles in his jaw flexed. ‘I am not a German.’
‘I know.’ She was cross, tired. A silly mistake. But still, he didn’t have to speak so sharp. She wasn’t the enemy.
‘Do you think they’ll fight again here?’
‘Shut up.’
She slunk back in her seat, stared out of the window, tears pricking her eyes. She had no idea where they were and there didn’t seem to be any road signs. They passed a platoon of troops, dressed in khaki, helmets and rifles at the ready.
‘They’re British,’ Ada said. ‘Stop, I want to talk to them.’ Ask where they were going, what they were doing. Perhaps they’d look after her. Take her home.
‘Please stop,’ she said again.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said, adding, ‘you’re a fucking liability, you know that, don’t you?’
He’d never sworn before. She turned in her seat and watched them disappear through the rear window.
The car began to slow down.
‘No.’ His foot pumped the pedal on the floor and he shifted the gears on the dashboard, making angry grinding sounds. The car spluttered and stopped.
‘No.’ He was screaming.
He got out and slammed the door. Ada watched him open the boot, felt the car shudder as he banged it shut again. He walked round to her side, and flung open her door.
‘Out,’ he said.
‘What’s happened?’
‘We have no petrol.’
‘What will we do?’
‘Walk,’ he said.
Ada stepped onto the running board and jumped to the ground. She looked down the road behind her, but the soldiers were out of sight. She could run, catch them up.
He grabbed her hand and began to pull.
‘My case,’ she said. ‘I need my case.’
‘No time for that. It’ll slow us down.’
‘But my shoes,’ Ada said. ‘I can’t walk in these shoes.’ She only had the shoes that she had travelled in to France, all that time ago, simple courts with high, stacked heels. She had worn them constantly and there was a hole in one of the soles. They were comfortable enough, but not for walking.
‘Then take them off,’ he said. He would not let go of her hand and his pace was fast.
‘How far is it?’
‘Ten kilometres. Fifteen.’
‘What’s that in miles?’
‘Seven,’ he said. ‘Roughly. Ten.’
Ten miles. Ada had never walked so far in her life, and here she was, trotting to keep up with him.
They stopped once when Stanislaus needed to relieve himself. Ada was glad for the pause. She had a stitch, and sat down on the side of the road, slipping off her shoes. They were old and worn, but at least they weren’t rubbing. She wiggled her toes. She had no idea what time it was, but the sun was already high in the sky. They had passed several platoons of soldiers. She wanted to call out to them, Good luck, boys! To ask them for help, to take her home, but Stanislaus told her to keep quiet, threatened to silence her, once and for all, if she made a sound. There were other people on the road, walking like themselves, or on bicycles, men with their girlfriends or wives sitting on the crossbar. One couple had a baby, and another a young child strapped into a chair over the rear wheel. From time to time a car passed, piled with luggage. Well-to-do people,
