Nor, for that matter, did the problems of having a British passport in a country occupied by an enemy power.
During the last few days Julie had tried to imagine what that might mean. At best the two of them might be deported back to England. But Uncle Jean thought that unlikely; the Germans weren’t that considerate, he said. So what
would
happen? Perhaps they would be interned or sent away; perhaps they’d be forced to work in camps; or worst of all, separated. Julie couldn’t bear the idea of Peter being taken away from her and ill-treated or half-starved: it was unthinkable. It was her duty to get him away. That was what she was doing. Her duty.
Uncle Jean came round the front of the truck and, taking Julie’s bag, threw it into the back. He turned to her and put his hands on her shoulders.
‘Now Georges here will drive you to Morlaix. The boat you’re going on is called
Fleur
. Make sure Georges takes you all the way to the boat and gets your bags on board for you. There’s chaos everywhere, they say, so be sure to stick with him, eh?’
Julie nodded and Jean went on, ‘It’s a good boat,
Fleur
, it’s one of the newest and biggest in Morlaix. It’ll get you safely to England.’ Then he embraced her with a ferocious loving hug which left Julie breathless and a little tearful.
Jean took Peter and handed him up into the cab. Julie and Tante Marie embraced and the old woman said, ‘It’s for the best, you know that. We’ll be happy because we’ll know you’re safe.’
Julie nodded and got up into the cab. The engine coughed into life and they were off, bumping down the road, away from the little house. Peter jumped up and down, waving wildly, as if it were a day outing. Julie waved more slowly and, when the house and the two figures standing in front of it had disappeared from sight, she blew her nose and stared doggedly at the road ahead.
Peter craned his head to stare at her face. ‘What’s the matter, Mummy?’
‘Oh, I’m just thinking.’ She smiled briefly.
‘When will we be coming home again?’
‘Well, darling, as soon as the Germans have gone.’
Peter frowned and put his head on one side. ‘When will that be, Mummy?’
Julie sighed, as much from the relentless questioning as the problem of finding an anwer. ‘I honestly don’t know, darling. It depends on lots of things … Perhaps it’ll be a long time, a very long time.’
‘They won’t kill Uncle Jean and Tante Marie, will they?’
‘No! Of course not! Only soldiers get killed.’
‘They’ll be all right, then?’
‘Yes.’ She gave him a reassuring hug, and wondered if the old couple
would
be all right. She knew she’d worry herself sick about them. There were bound to be shortages and severe hardships. Already meat was on sale only three days a week; the
patisseries
were closed two days a week; petrol was rationed. And that was
before
the defeat. Under the Germans … It would be worse, much worse.
Still, Julie remembered, this was an independent, self-sufficient community. They should be able to manage. Tante Marie had told her about terrible droughts and unusually cold winters in the past when people had almost starved. Those hardest hit were helped by the others with donations of food. Then later, when things were better, the debts were repaid in kind and with interest.
This time there was one major difference, though. The shortages might go on for years …
As the lorry bumped gently through the soft greens and bright yellows of the lovely June countryside, Julie tried to imagine the Germans here, with their trucks, their tanks, their hard grey efficiency. They would take over everything; they would be able to bully anyone they chose.
They’d be here in just two days, so it was said. That was the incredible part. Julie didn’t understand how it could happen: how Paris could fall so easily, almost without a murmur; how the Germans could sweep across the country in so short a time. But then she knew nothing about fighting. She just hadn’t understood what was happening.
At the same time it was strange that no-one else had guessed what was happening either. There had been no warnings until the Germans were already inside the country, almost at Paris. Why hadn’t the Government said something? Why had they avoided telling anyone? It seemed extraordinary.
The driver, Georges, said, ‘There might be a delay when we get near the town. Evidently some of the roads are almost impassable in places.’
Julie looked at him questioningly.
‘The people. Thousands of them. All on their way to Brest, to get on ships and get the hell out of here. Can’t blame them either!’
They saw the first of them just before reaching the main Lannion–Morlaix road. There were people sitting in the hedgerows, resting and sleeping, while others foraged in the fields, pulling up vegetables and chewing on them, raw. Some waved to the fish truck and shouted, ‘Any food?’ Julie shook her head unhappily.
When they got to the junction itself there were many, many more people: women pushing prams piled high with bags and children; men striding along with heavy bundles on their backs; one family with a cage full of rabbits on the back of a bicycle. Again, there were cries of, ‘Food? Some food? Anything to spare, friend?’ Julie stared dismally out of the window. Every family, every child that she saw wrung her heart.
She murmured, ‘I wish I could give them something.’
The driver shook his head. ‘No. It’s each man for himself. You have some food with you?’
She nodded.
‘Well, my advice is, keep it! And guard it well. I think we’ll all have to look after our possessions from now on!’
The truck slowed to a crawl as they came up behind a knot of people who stayed obstinately on the centre of the road. Julie guessed they were just too tired to step aside. Where had they come from? Paris? Even further? It must have taken them days to get this far. And where had they slept? Had they eaten?
It took half an hour to do the last three kilometres. The road leading to the quay was thronged with people. Most were standing in lines outside food shops, waiting silently, a look of resignation on their faces. At one corner there was an angry scene with groups of men pushing and shouting at each other. Two of them were trying to tear down a poster. Julie recognised the poster; it was one which had been pasted up all over the town. It read: we will win because we’re the strongest. As the fish truck passed, two men started to fight, their arms flailing in the air. Julie shuddered. ‘Why are they fighting?’
Georges shrugged. ‘Disgust at the Government, I should think. After all, we’re not the strongest and we’ve lost, haven’t we!’
At last the truck turned on to the quay and Georges said, ‘This is it. The boat’s just down there.’ Julie gasped. The port was a mass of fishing boats. She had never seen so many in harbour, not even when a storm was blowing. Groups of refugees were standing on the quay, looking hopefully at one or two of the boats, but most were walking dispiritedly away.
Georges nodded at the boats. ‘They can’t take all this lot, so they’re only taking servicemen and special cases.’ He opened the door and added with contempt, ‘That is, those boats which are going at all.’
Julie asked, ‘Are you going?’
‘Oh yes! I’ll go and fight with the British, or anyone else for that matter. Well, I’m not going to stay here and say good day to the Germans, am I?’
Julie handed Peter down to Georges and said, ‘No, I don’t suppose you are.’
Georges shouted at a man on a nearby boat who nodded back, then Georges led the way on to the deck of the boat nearest to the quay. They had to cross the decks and climb the bulwarks of four boats before Georges finally said, ‘Here we are.’
Julie passed Peter over the last bulwark then climbed aboard herself. Carefully she checked that the two cases were all right and that she hadn’t forgotten the small basket of food that Tante Marie had given her. The luggage and the food made her feel secure, as if nothing could happen to her and Peter while she had them.
Georges was leaving and Julie thanked him. Then someone – Julie supposed it was one of the crew – took her cases and told her to sit on deck. She sat on a hatch-cover with Peter on her knee and waited, watching the people on the quay, some queuing for bread outside a
boulangerie
, others staring at the boats. They’re wishing they were here in my place, she thought. It made her feel guilty, mainly because she was so glad it
was
her and not them.
She wondered how long it would be before the boat left. She knew that the fishermen always left on the tide. Morlaix was quite a distance from the sea, up a winding river. At low tide the upper reaches of the river were too shallow, but at Morlaix there was a lock which kept a good depth of water in the basin. The lock opened only for a few hours around high water.
Fleur
was a large boat, about eighty feet long; she would need the full height of the tide to get down the river, Julie guessed. Jean had arranged for Julie to come on this boat because she was larger and safer for a Channel crossing, and because he knew the men who had built her.
A truck drew up on the quay. Some soldiers, apparently wounded, were helped out. A group of fishermen were mustered and the wounded were carried or helped across the boats. Julie suddenly realised they were coming towards
Fleur
.
The soldiers were taken below to where Julie guessed there must be a small cabin. Now there were more people arriving. Like her, they were civilians. Most were carrying heavy luggage and wearing thick coats and jackets. Julie began to feel a little nervous. There were more than twenty passengers on the deck now but, she guessed, nowhere for them to shelter. The soldiers had the cabin, and the small wheelhouse was clearly the crew’s domain. Those on deck would have to stay on deck. If the weather turned bad, they would freeze …
She looked anxiously at Peter’s coat. It was warm, but not waterproof. If it rained he would get soaked to the skin. And her own coat … She grimaced: such vanity! She had worn her best coat – a lightweight linen one – with a raincoat over it. She felt cold already.
One of the crew was passing. Julie touched his arm. ‘Do I have time to get something from my luggage? Some warmer clothes?’
‘Ah!’ he shrugged. ‘The bags are piled up in the hold. It’ll be a job to get yours out now. Look, we’re just leaving. If you’re cold I’ll find you something later. All right?’
Julie hesitated: she felt she should press the matter, but then it was too late, he was gone. The boat’s engine throbbed into life and they were moving, first into the lock, and then down the long, narrow river through fields and tree-covered slopes towards the sea. A young man shouted, ‘
Vive la France Libre!
’ And everyone laughed and cheered.
A man sitting next to Julie grinned. ‘We live to fight another day. Eh?’
Julie smiled back. Suddenly she felt happy; the laughter and cheerfulness were infectious. And he was right; by going to England they could at least
do
something to fight back.
After a while the river widened into the flat expanse of the estuary. The sky was overcast but the sun was making a brave attempt to shine through a patch of thinner cloud. Suddenly it succeeded and the land turned from a dark sombre grey to a paler shade of green. Over to the right, beyond the low hills, was Tregasnou. Already it seemed distant and remote.
But I’ll be back, Julie thought. She hugged Peter and said, ‘Everything’s going to be all right, darling. Wait and see!’
As the boat emerged into the open sea a stiff wind began to blow across the deck and Julie pulled her coat more tightly about her. She looked around for somewhere sheltered to sit. The deck was long and exposed. The only place that might offer some protection was the side, next to the deep bulwarks. Julie was just about to move Peter across when the boat rolled and water splashed up through some sort of drain holes. Soon the part of the deck where she had planned to sit was drenched with water.
It would have to be somewhere else. The bow was high and flared, with a tiny triangle of decking. It might just offer a bit of protection. Anyway it was better than nothing. Holding tightly to Peter’s hand, Julie made her way unsteadily forward. The boat rolled again and she made a grab for the rail. Her hand missed and she staggered sideways, falling over someone’s leg and almost sitting on a man’s lap. A voice said, ‘Hey! Watch where you’re going!’
Peter cried, ‘Mummy, Mummy! I’ve bumped my knee.’ Julie gasped, ‘Sorry’, and got to her feet. Holding Peter firmly in one hand, she held tightly to the rail with the other, and started forward again. Holding on made the trip much easier and they got to the bow without further trouble.
In the bow there was a large winch which, Julie guessed, was for pulling up the anchor. Around it there were several coils of wide oily rope. Julie sat on the largest and pulled Peter down beside her.
Almost immediately he said, ‘I’m cold, Mummy.’ ‘Well, come on to my lap then.’ She undid her coat and raincoat and stretched them round Peter’s body, hugging him to her.
It was definitely less windy up here, Julie decided. On the other hand the motion of the boat seemed worse – or maybe it was her imagination. The roll was the same, but now the deck was going up and down as well. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about it. Then the boat lurched and seemed to plunge into thin air. Julie felt her stomach take off and she reached down as if to hold it.
Peter said, ‘Mummy, I feel funny.’
Oh God, Julie thought. She said calmly, ‘Well, lie down darling, then you’ll feel better.’ She stretched him out across the coil of rope and laid his head on her lap. His face was sheet white and he burped slightly. He’ll be sick in a second, Julie thought. She looked around for the nearest place to take him. The sides of the boat were too high here; she would have to take him several yards down the deck before they were low enough to hold his head over the water. Perhaps it wasn’t so clever to have come up here after all.
She looked down at Peter again. His eyes were shut and his mouth slightly open: he was sound asleep. She relaxed and leant back against the rope. Thank goodness for that. It would be nice if she could sleep too …