Sheila plucked his sleeve. 'I want my supper,' she said. 'May I have my supper now? Please, Mr Howard, may I have my supper now?'
'In a minute,' he said absently. 'We'll all go and have our supper in a minute.' But that was an idea. If Sheila was hungry, Ronnie would be hungry too - unless the Germans had given him sweets. He must risk that. There was that soup kitchen that the German at the entrance to the town had spoken of; Howard could see the field-cookers a hundred yards down the Place.
He showed them to Rose. 'I am taking the little children down there, where the smoke is, for our supper,' he said casually. 'Go and fetch Ronnie, and bring him to us there. Are you hungry?'
'Oui, m'sieur.' She said that she was very hungry indeed.
'We shall have a fine hot supper, with hot soup and bread,' the old man said, drawing on his imagination. 'Go and tell Ronnie and bring him along with you. I will walk on with the little ones.'
He sent her off, and watched her running through the crowd, her bare legs twinkling. He steered the other children rather away from the tank; it would not do for Ronnie to be able to hail him. He saw the little girl come to the tank and speak urgently to the Germans; then she was lost to sight.
The old man sent up an urgent, personal prayer for the success of her unwitting errand, as he helped Pierre push the pram towards the field-cookers. There was nothing now that he could do. Their future lay in the small hands of two children, and in the hands of God.
There was a trestle table, with benches. He parked the pram and sat Pierre and Sheila and the nameless little Dutch boy at the table. Soup was dispensed in thick bowls, with a hunk of bread; he went and drew four bowls for the lot of them and brought them to the table.
He turned and Rose was at his elbow with Ronnie. The little boy was flushed and ecstatic. They took me right inside!' he said in English.
The old man said gently in French: 'If you tell us in French, then Pierre can understand too.' He did not think that anyone had noticed. But the town was terribly dangerous for them; at any moment the children might break into English and betray them.
Ronnie said in French: 'There was a great big gun, and two little guns, m'sieur, and you steer with two handles and it goes seventy kilos an hour!'
Howard said: 'Come on and eat your supper.' He gave him a bowl of soup and a piece of bread.
Sheila said enviously. 'Did you go for a ride, Ronnie?'
The adventurer hesitated. 'Not exactly,' he said. 'But they said I might go with them for a ride tomorrow or one day. They did speak funnily. I could hardly understand what they wanted to say. May I go for a ride with them tomorrow, m'sieur? They say I might.'
The old man said: 'We'll have to see about that. We may not be here tomorrow.'
Sheila said: 'Why did they talk funny, Ronnie?'
Rose said suddenly: 'They are dirty Germans, who come here to murder people.'
The old man coughed loudly. 'Go on and eat your supper,' he said, 'all of you. That's enough talking for the present.' More than enough, he thought; if the German dishing out the soup had overheard they would all have been in trouble.
Angerville was no place for them; at all costs he must get the children out. It was only a matter of an hour or two before exposure came. He meditated for a moment; there were still some hours of daylight. The children were tired, he knew, yet it would be better to move on, out of the town.
Chartres was the next town on his list; Chartres, where he was to have taken train for St Malo. He could not get to Chartres that night; it was the best part of thirty miles farther to the west. There was little hope now that he would escape the territory occupied by Germans, yet for want of an alternative he would carry on to Chartres. Indeed, it never really occurred to him to do otherwise.
The children were very slow eaters. It was nearly an hour before Pierre and Sheila, the two smallest, had finished their meal. The old man waited, with the patience of old age. It would do no good to hurry them. When they had finished he wiped their mouths, thanked the German cook politely, collected the pram, and led them out on to the road to Chartres.
The children walked very slowly, languidly. It was after eight o'clock, long past their ordinary bed-time; moreover, they had eaten a full meal. The sun was still warm, though it was dropping towards the horizon; manifestly, they could not go very far. Yet he kept them at it, anxious to get as far as possible from the town.
The problem of the little Dutch boy engaged his attention. He had not left him with the Sisters, as he had been minded to; it had not seemed practical when he was in the town to search out a convent. Nor had he yet got rid of Pierre, as he had promised himself that he would do. Pierre was no trouble, but this new little boy was quite a serious responsibility. He could not speak one word of any language that they spoke. Howard did not even know his name. Perhaps it would be marked on his clothes.
Then, with a shock of dismay, the old man realised that the clothes were gone for ever. They had been taken by the Germans when the little chap had been de-loused; by this time they were probably burnt. It might well be that his identity was lost now till the war was over, and enquiries could be made. It might be lost for ever.
The thought distressed old Howard very much. It was one thing to hand over to the Sisters a child who could be traced; it seemed to him to be a different matter altogether when the little boy was practically untraceable. As he walked along the old man revolved this new trouble in his mind. The only link now with his past lay in the -fact that he had been found abandoned in Pithiviers on a certain day in June - lay in the evidence which Howard alone could give. With that evidence, it might one day be possible to find his parents or his relatives. If now he were abandoned to a convent, that evidence might well be lost.
They walked on down the dusty road.
Sheila said fretfully: 'My feet hurt.'
She was obviously tired out. He picked her up and put her in the pram, and put Pierre in with her. To Pierre he gave the chocolate that had been promised to him earlier in the day, and then all the other children had to have a piece of chocolate too. That refreshed them and made them cheerful for a while, and the old man pushed the pram wearily ahead. It was essential that they should stop soon for the night.
He stopped at the next farm, left the pram with the children in the road, and went into the court-yard to see if it was possible for them to find a bed. There was a strange stillness in the place. No dog sprang out to bark at him. He called out, and stood expectant in the evening light, but no one answered him. He tried the door to the farmhouse, and it was locked. He went into the cowhouse, but no animals were there. Two hens scratched on the midden; otherwise there was no sign of life.
The place was deserted.
As on the previous night, they slept in the hay loft. There were no blankets to be had this time, but Howard, searching round for some sort of coverlet, discovered a large, sail-like cover, used possibly to thatch a rick. He dragged this into the loft and arranged it double on the hay, laying the children down between its folds. He had expected trouble with them, excitement and fretfulness, but they were too tired for that. All five of them were glad to lie down and rest; in a short time they were all asleep.