Free 300 Days of Sun by Deborah Lawrenson

leaned out, speaking to someone on the road below. “What’s up ahead?”
    â€œTroop concentrations.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œThat’s what we’ve been told. No one allowed to proceed further.”
    After an hour going nowhere, Michael extricated himself from his seat and went up to talk to the driver.
    â€œThe city was bombed last night, and the damage was pretty bad,” he relayed to Alva. “The authorities don’t want the news to spread to the wider population and among the refugees. Too demoralizing.”
    The driver stood at the head of the bus and said he would be taking a detour to Poitiers.
    At Poitiers, there was more chaos and crowds, queues to every public door and space, restaurants and cafés full to bursting. ­People sat on pavement waiting for food from the relief organizations; others prepared to sleep in the parks and squares. The bus went on through without stopping. On the other side of town the driver pulled into a truck stop to take stock of the situation in discussion with the drivers of other vehicles. Rumors abounded. The Germans were at Bordeaux. Roadblocks had already been set up. The files of refugees were being attacked by machine guns from planes.
    The passengers were unanimous. Hungry and tired though they were, they would press on, avoiding Bordeaux. Night was falling, but the good driver was willing. It was the right decision. As the bus rattled on through the forests of the Landes, it passed fewer and fewer ­people and vehicles on the road. They had outrun the mass flight south; it seemed as if peace had miraculously returned.
    They made it to Bayonne and then got stuck. Half the world seemed to have had the same idea. The foreign consulates there were under siege from ­people—­like them—­who needed papers to go any further. The Bartons were walking wearily toward
the Place Gambetta when a car drew up. It was a preposterously large sports car, and at the wheel was Ronald Bagshaw.
    Bagshaw was an acquaintance from Paris who often seemed to be present when there was a gathering of ­journalists or ­ types. Not the smart gatherings in ballrooms and ­ambassadors’ ­residences, but the ones that started in someone’s apartment and went on to nightclubs and supper shows. He was pleasant enough, though Alva had never been quite sure what it was he did. He was ­British and told her at a party once that he had been a young ­officer in the army during the Great War and then had something to do with smoothing out the aftermath. He had the reputation of being a fixer, anyway, someone with the ­connections everyone was looking for. In the circumstances, he was just the man.
    His car was open, long and gray, and loaded up with possessions. A steamer trunk sat on a shelf above the rear fender.
    â€œCan I offer you a lift?” he asked, grinning.
    â€œWhere are you going?” countered Michael, as if that ­mattered.
    â€œLisbon, I thought.”
    So they accepted.
    â€œSling your stuff in. We can re-­jig it later.”
    The rear seat was crammed with suitcases and boxes. They climbed into the bench seat up front with him. The leather of the seat—­racy red leather—­stuck to the back of Alva’s bare legs.
    â€œPackard Roadster,” said Michael admiringly.
    â€œBest car in the world,” said Ronald. “Have to hand it to you chaps. You know how to make a smooth powerful car.”
    It was, too. With a car like this, they had strength on their side.
    A lva realized later that at no time during their flight into the unknown did Michael ask her if she was frightened. Either he expected that she was and saw no point in alluding to it, or he assumed that their accustomed immersion in foreign news stories had insulated them both from taking anything too personally. He was making notes as they went along, with a view to filing copy. It was not their crisis,