Free 300 Days of Sun by Deborah Lawrenson Page A

he seemed to be saying; they were only witnesses.
    But Alva was afraid. It seemed clear enough to her that their foreign status bestowed no immunity from danger. Fear was in the air, electric as a coming storm. Above, small dark enemy fighter planes swooped low over the roads. Mostly for effect, but now and then they would open fire and kill for sport. Alva set her eyes on the horizon and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. She decided to put her trust in Ronald and his calm worldliness. He spoke fluent French and conveyed the impression that he was on home turf wherever he was, and that they could trust him to find a way through. He managed to drive at some speed while proceeding with the utmost care and she had to admit that was reassuring.
    There was time to get one or two things straight, too. It turned out that Ronald had been decorated in the Great War and held government office. He was highly educated and had written several books about politics and travel though he didn’t consider himself primarily a writer. A private income from shares in a family-­owned bank allowed him to roam and observe and write as the whim took him. He had an ex-­wife but no children.
    â€œWe’ll need papers to cross to Spain,” said Ronald. “I’m assuming you haven’t got a fistful of exit permits and visas.”
    They hadn’t.
    â€œNot to worry, neither have I. Luckily, I know a man who does.”
    W ithin spitting distance of the Spanish border, confusion reigned at His Britannic Majesty’s Consulate in Bayonne. The office seemed to be besieged by a mob but the consul was nowhere to be found. No one could leave France without the correct papers. An assortment of naval officers attempted to deal with the crowd, as tempers rose and desperation set in.
    â€œAh, French intransigence and love of bureaucracy, even in the face of mortal adversity,” said Ronald. “Pure obstructionism. I don’t think we should wait around, do you?”
    He had a word with one of the naval officers. Having ascertained that the consular stamps and the stenographer were still there, Ronald took the Bartons into a side room where he coolly dictated several passes of his own devising and then stamped them with every official seal they could find, signing them himself in a fudged hand.
    They stayed the night in a hotel and left the next morning at dawn to drive to the border at Hendaye and on into Spain, trailing a sweet stink of gasoline from the jerry cans Ronald had filled and lashed to the back. The brightness intensified. Ronald put up the car’s black-­fabric hood to protect them from sunstroke. From anything else that came down from above—­planes and gunfire—­they had no defense. The elegant vehicle grew a pelt of dust. The suspension groaned and clunked as it tore into potholed tracks that passed for roads.
    I am a refugee, thought Alva, repeating it to herself, incredulously, as they bowled along. Before long they had stopped. The road was blocked by a river of humanity, some in vehicles, most on foot. Engine noise was stilled, replaced by the dull tramp of feet, creaking of wooden carts and worse, cries of despair. No, she revised the thought, these poor wretches are the real refugees.
    We’re special, Michael used to say to her. He set great store by the ways they were unique. He really seemed to believe it, for all his worldliness. Definitely smarter than he looked, with that long face (slightly wolfish, if you didn’t know him and receive those widemouthed smiles) and the nose that got broken in a baseball game; the habit of running his hand through the hair on the back of his head and leaving it sticking up. Even now, at nearly forty, he looked like a regular guy who liked sports, and played it to his advantage, connecting with other men in a way that was so patently genuine that no one could resist. By the time they cottoned on to his technique they were talking,