Page 5 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘He took care of me. He gave me a job.’

‘I know.’

‘You are just bitter because he took your money at cards.’

‘One time, Michel! And I knew he was cheating.’

Bertrand turned to the radio once more and nudged up the volume.

The newsreader’s crackly voice permeated the apartment, his abrasive tones – urgent and authoritative – cutting through the rough airways, almost all the other stations having faded to white noise.

‘Today, on the seventh day of June 1940, we can confirm that the German forces are nearing our capital. The government insist— Fight— Those who can, must leave— The German army have defeated our troops to the east—’

Bertrand fiddled with the radio, trying to tune it, but was met with more static.

He stood and ventured to the dark mahogany drinks cabinet only unlocked at Christmas, returning with two glasses filled to the brim with an amber liquid. ‘Brandy,’ Bertrand said. ‘It’s good for the nerves. At least, that was what my mother said.’

Michel drank deeply as Bertrand reached over and turned the dial until the radio fell silent once more.

‘It’s happening?’ Michel asked, almost to himself.

‘It’s over. They are coming.’

Michel drank the rest of his brandy and Bertrand stood, collected the cut-glass decanter, and emptied more of the numbing liquid into Michel’s glass.

Michel held his glass to the light and looked into the brandy; his head already felt muffled. ‘What would Maman say if she were here?’

‘She’d say leave.’ Bertrand sat back into the beige sofa. Its stuffing was escaping through a small hole and he pulled at it as he spoke.

‘Would she? But where would I go?’

Bertrand shrugged. ‘What does it matter? All that matters is that we are not here when they come.’

‘But others will stay – Arnoud, Madame Odette. I should stay too.’

‘And where will you work?’

Michel shrugged.

‘The Boche will not want a Frenchman looking after their horses. And even if they did, I would not permit you to help them.’

‘Do you have a cigarette?’

‘Here. Take one.’

Michel lit the cigarette and drew deeply, watching the smoke rise above him, curling all the way to the ceiling. ‘There are cobwebs up there, Bertrand. You need to dust better.’

Bertrand looked up and laughed. Soon, Michel joined in.

‘You see, we are no good, Michel. Here we sit in a place that any moment will be swarming with German pests, and we laugh about my poor housekeeping. We surely wouldn’t last long here.’

‘So, what do you propose we do?’ Michel allowed Bertrand to refill his brandy once more.

‘We leave.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow.’