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tired-looking waitress. He probed gently. How many Germans come in here? Where do they work? Do they have plenty to spend? I bet you hear a few things you shouldn’t when they’re drunk.
    ‘You eating that?’ Marc asked, as he eyed Henderson’s untouched tart.
    Henderson broke it in half with his fork, scooped one piece on to Marc’s empty dessert plate and smiled at the waitress. ‘Growing boy, always hungry.’
    ‘After seeing all the food queues in town I thought we’d be getting black bread and mouldy cheese,’ Marc said, with a great chunk of tart pushing out his cheek.
    ‘Madame Mercier told us to look after you,’ the waitress smiled. ‘The Germans make the farmers sell everything to them at a low fixed price. So they hide as much as they dare. If you’ve got money, you can get all you need on the black market.’
    Someone pounded the frosted glass in the basement door. As the waitress went to answer, Marc smiled at Henderson.
    ‘We hit the jackpot,’ Marc whispered. ‘Madame Mercier is laying everything on for us.’
    Henderson didn’t agree. ‘Klaus knew something was up when he brought us into town, the woman at the OT office was expecting us, that waitress didn’t just know we were coming for lunch she’d been told who we were and what we were doing here. Now someone at the fishing port is trying to fix us a boat. They mean well, but they’re not even taking the most basic of security precautions.’
    The waitress came back to the table along with a kid who held three pairs of boots by their laces. There was scruffy black hair, filthy clothes and a whiff of horse manure, but no way to tell if it was a boy or girl.
    ‘This is Edith,’ the waitress explained.
    ‘I guessed the size,’ Edith said, as she dropped the boots. ‘I can go back and get different ones, but it’ll take about ten minutes.’
    Marc took his feet out of the water and grabbed a threadbare towel off the seat behind him. As he dried between his toes, Henderson picked up one of the boots and saw that it was new.
    ‘These look like British army boots.’
    Edith nodded. ‘They left millions of ’em, didn’t they? Whole boatload of British boots and uniform standing on the dockside when the Germans arrived. We helped ourselves. Half the town’s wearing them. Jackets and trousers too.’
    To make her point, Edith raised her leg and showed her own grubby, oversized boots and cut-down khaki trousers.
    Marc slid on a boot that looked about his size. ‘Not bad,’ he said, before looking over at Henderson. ‘Got any of my socks in the bag?’
    Edith keenly eyed the other half of Henderson’s apple tart.
    ‘Go on,’ Henderson sighed, as he slid the plate across.
    ‘So I can show you round the docks,’ Edith said, as she pointed her thumb at Marc. ‘But there’s a lot less heat if I just take him.’
    ‘Why’s that?’ Marc asked.
    ‘Guards are a soft touch with kids,’ Edith said, as she jabbed out her tongue and licked crumbs from the plate.
    ‘I’ll show you the route to Kerneval,’ the waitress told Henderson. ‘The fishermen who helped our Polish friends need to meet up and find you a boat.’
    Henderson winced, hearing their departure plans voiced out loud in front of Edith. He was starting to wonder if there was anyone in town who didn’t know what they were up to.
    *
    The tiny spy camera was packaged inside a French matchbox, though its weight meant the disguise wouldn’t withstand serious inspection. Marc kept it in his pocket as he strolled down a cobbled alleyway two steps behind Edith.
    He’d seen most of the major ports along the channel coast to the north of Lorient. Some like Dunkirk had virtually been levelled, all the others severely damaged during the invasion. But Lorient was on the Atlantic coast. It had seen little fighting the previous summer and the RAF hadn’t bombed it since.
    The main docks were just a few hundred metres from Le Chat Botté, but U-boats were based a kilometre west