Free Henderson's Boys: Eagle Day by Robert Muchamore Page B

You’re not seriously gonna try robbing a German barracks are you?’
    Marc stopped by the truck, thinking they’d be climbing back inside, but Henderson kept going towards the docks.
    ‘Come on,’ Henderson said. ‘I’ll bet you ten francs that we don’t head home empty-handed. All we need do is find a boat with a German name written on the bow.’
    *
    While Maxine, Rosie, Henderson and Marc travelled into Bordeaux in the truck, PT and Paul stayed back at the pink house.
    Paul hated the noise and chaos of the toddler-packed consulate and Henderson had made it clear that he only wanted Marc for company during his quest for radio spares. The pair had formed a strong bond travelling south from Paris together and Henderson made no effort to hide the fact that Marc was his favourite.
    Maxine had put bread and jam out in the kitchen before she left and Paul scoffed three thickly buttered slices. Bread and jam was his favourite breakfast and he planned on having the same for lunch if Henderson wasn’t back by then.
    After eating he headed upstairs to get an artist’s pad and a small pack of coloured pencils Maxine had found for him. He’d owned a more elaborate selection of inks and pastels, but they’d gone down along with all his other possessions on the Cardiff Bay .
    The three boys shared the second largest bedroom in the house, and PT had taken advantage of Marc’s early departure to spread himself over the double bed. PT was usually moody until lunchtime, so Paul crept around making sure he didn’t wake up.
    When Paul and Rosie’s parents were alive they’d worried about Paul being so shy. His mother made Paul go to birthday parties when he didn’t want to, while his father had enrolled him in manly activities such as the Boy Scouts and a boxing club.
    Despite Rosie taunting him for being a wimp and a couple of thrashings from his father, Paul resisted with violent tantrums until both schemes were dropped and his parents came to accept him as a quiet boy who enjoyed his own company.
    Having his right arm in a sling made it awkward to carry his pad, pencil tin, a slice of bread and jam wrapped in greaseproof paper and a hip flask filled with water. It was impossible for Paul to feel truly happy – with his father having recently died and his future uncertain – but as he sat by a stream just beyond the grounds of the pink house with the sun on his back he felt warm and relaxed.
    A friend of Paul’s late father was a Professor of Art at a Paris university. The professor had recognised Paul’s talent and on several occasions allowed him to sit in on studio sessions with his students. Paul had been intimidated by the much older students, but loved being in a place where art was the centre of everything and having the chance to try out pastels and charcoal for the first time.
    Paul used one of the techniques he’d learned from the professor and timed himself making three-minute sketches. A duck on the lake, a vista of the pink house and surrounding hills and a frustrating attempt to capture the sheen of a ladybird’s shell. Conscious that he only had twelve precious sheets left on his pad, he kept all the drawings on a single side.
    After ninety minutes drawing, Paul took a break and lay back on the grass. He ate the slice of bread and drank water that had baked in the metal hip flask. He’d planned to stay out all morning, but his bowels had other ideas and he strode briskly back to the house and locked himself in the toilet.
    It was still only half-past eleven, so he decided to head back out. But as he passed down the hallway he noticed Marc’s pigskin bag leaning against the wall in the hallway.
    ‘Marc, you back already?’ he shouted.
    But Paul knew Marc hadn’t taken the bag with him: he’d seen it in the wardrobe upstairs when he fetched his pencils. Paul loosened the draw-string and saw that it contained one of Marc’s shirts and several days’ worth of food.
    Paul checked the rooms downstairs,