Orphans of the Storm by Celia Imrie

Author:Celia Imrie [Imrie, Celia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Published: 2021-07-07T16:00:00+00:00

Michael took the boys up on to the top deck to watch their arrival at Cherbourg. He hadn’t realised that the ship didn’t actually dock there. He thought he could watch the quayside for any gangs of flics boarding, but the passengers were all being brought onboard by two little boats almost the size of the Channel ferry, and being loaded through gangways in the side of the big ship.

There was no way for Michael to tell whether he was safe yet.

Even though it was drizzling, he considered it best to sit out here till the ship pulled away.

‘Good evening, Mr Hoffman!’

It was his room steward passing by, on some errand.

Mr Hoffman!

Then it dawned on Michael. If the police in Cherbourg were after him, they’d be looking for Monsieur Navratil.

Why would they be looking for Hoffman? Even Hoffman didn’t know Michael was now called Hoffman!

Only Stefan knew, and he had very good reason not to tell.

Monsieur Hoffman. He’d had all his papers and tickets checked, and the only man aboard of his description with two kids was Monsieur Hoffman.

Monsieur Navratil didn’t exist and wouldn’t exist for days. Not until he’d arrived safely in Chicago.

‘Come on, boys,’ Michael shouted to the children, who were huddled together, sheltering under the lee of the funnel, shivering. ‘Let’s go inside.’

‘Aren’t we getting off now?’ asked Lolo. ‘I thought we were out here cos we were getting off. I’d like to get off now.’

‘Get inside!’ Michael grabbed the child by the shoulders and thrust him through the door.

They took the lift down to the cabin and took their coats off, Michael drying their hair with a fluffy new towel. He dabbed at his own, afraid that he would now look extremely scruffy.

‘Shall we see if anyone is taking dinner yet?’

‘I want to play,’ Lolo wheedled. ‘Aren’t there any toys in this hotel, Papa?’

‘It’s a ship, Lolo.’

As they climbed the steps back up to the dining room, Michael noticed a sign with a hand pointing towards the barber shop. Good. After three days on the run, his hair and moustache were a mess.

He wondered whether the Kirchmanns would meet the ship? He’d have to send a telegram to them, asking them to come.

‘Is Mama inside there?’ Lolo was tugging at Michael’s hand, trying to get into the lounge saloon.

And when Michael tore himself out of his thoughts, he realised why Lolo had asked.

A small band was playing. And of all the tunes in the world they had picked hers – ‘La Tonkinoise’.

‘He calls me his bourgeois p’tite

His Tonki-ki, his Tonki-ki, his Tonkinoise

They all make sweet eyes at him

But it’s me he likes best.’

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