Читать книгу It Started With A Note - Victoria Cooke - Страница 23

‘Good morning!’ my new travel buddies call as I walk in to breakfast the next day.

‘Did you sleep well?’ Martha asks. She’s dressed smartly in pink capri pants and a matching blazer with a white T-shirt underneath.

‘Good morning,’ I reply. ‘Yes, very well in fact.’ I think the travelling had worn me out because once I dropped off, I had the deepest sleep I’ve had in ages.

‘Did you sleep in?’ Cynthia asks.

I nod, unable to confess the real reason I was late. Ridiculously, I couldn’t decide what to wear. I’d eventually settled on a thin white T-shirt and denim shorts and left the room before I could change my mind. I head to the buffet and take a tray, piling it up with coffee, orange juice, a croissant, jam, yoghurt and some fruit. ‘I’d never normally eat this much at home.’ I chuckle as I sit down at the next table.

‘You’ll need your strength. Lots of walking today, girl,’ Harry bellows, punctuating each word with his spoon.

‘Oh, Harry, I’m sure Cath can manage a bit of walking, can’t you, Cath?’

‘I—’

‘Olivier has us doing a lot of walking,’ Roland interrupts before I can reply. ‘I think he does it on purpose to tire us out so we nod off on the coach home and don’t bombard him with questions.’

Cynthia pats his arm. ‘Oh, Rolly, you’re such a conspiracy theorist. He’s just making sure we don’t miss anything.’

‘Anyway …’ Martha holds her hands up. ‘Before this gets all domestic, let us summarise and move on. Lots of walking. Hard for us old folks, okay for Cath. No conspiracy. Got it?’ She places her hands down firmly on the table and leans over to me. ‘If we don’t nip these things in the bud early on, those two will be at each other’s throats before we set foot on that coach.’

I stifle a giggle.

‘Good morning, my cheerful travellers,’ an accented voice booms above us. Turning, I see Olivier stood behind me. He’s in a crisp red T-shirt and navy chino shorts, and smells of that familiar, deliciously fresh scent, like a bottle of Original Source shower gel. Crisp, citrussy and minty. His messy hair has been arranged in some semblance of style with a dry product of some kind. Not that awful gunky stuff Kieran uses. I swallow as everyone else choruses ‘Good morning’.

‘We’ll be leaving in ten minutes. Please make sure you have everything you need. Your money, cameras, teeth and so on. I will be at the coach out front.’ I giggle as he turns and goes off to a few of the other tables. I doubt many people could get away with that kind of cheek with Martha, but she giggles too. Everyone excuses themselves to go and gather items, take medication, or pay a visit, and I arrange to meet them at the coach.

After finishing my oversized breakfast, I make my way outside. I’m the first to arrive so lean against the wall at the entrance and rummage in my bag for no other reason than to look busy, but I do benefit from the reassurance that everything I need is in there. ‘You can get on board if you want.’ Olivier walks from around the far side of the coach as a few other people start to trickle out of the hotel.

‘Yes, thank you. I will.’

I follow behind as the small group climb the steps and make their way down the aisle. About halfway down, I take a seat and shuffle up to the window enjoying the quiet for a moment.

‘They’re a nice bunch – your new American friends.’

Surprised, I turn to see Olivier perch himself on the armrest of the chair across the aisle.

‘Oh, yes. Yes, they are. Considering I’ve only just met them, it’s so kind of them to invite me today. And you, thank you for letting me come along – I haven’t got my head around travelling alone and getting from A to B in a strange country yet. Not that France is strange, it’s normal just with the cars on the wrong side of the road and …’ My cheeks prickle.

‘It’s no problem,’ he says easily. His calmness is the perfect cure for my flustered babble and I start to relax. ‘Why are you here? In Arras alone, I mean.’

I give him the shortened version of my story – that I’ve come to see my great-grandfather’s name inscribed on the Menin Gate – and I try not to sound like Sad Sack from the Raggy Dolls when I explain why I’ve had to come alone.

‘Ahh that’s a shame. We’ve already been to Ypres on this tour, in fact we’re almost done with the war trips for now.’ I’m relieved his attention is focused on the trip, and not the alone part.

‘It’s okay. Without wanting to sound ungrateful, I think it’s somewhere I should probably visit by myself.’ He nods knowingly as more people start filing onto the bus.

Our first stop is the museum at Albert. While Cynthia and Martha natter the whole way around about what they might buy from the gift shop, Roland and Harry are as engrossed in the fascinating exhibits as I am as we follow the journey of a real soldier from a card we were handed at the reception. The gas masks, the weaponry, the life and fears of everyday people are all completely unimaginable.

The tour ends with a sound and light display, giving me a taste of what life might have been like during the night-time shelling that decimated the trenches on the front line. With each ear-splitting explosive bang, I flinch. It’s hard to imagine how my great-grandfather and millions of other men lived this way, not knowing if the next one would hit him or a fellow comrade. I close my eyes. I’m sheltering as the bombs drop and the guns fire whilst praying for survival. I become aware of my heart racing.

‘Are you all right Cath?’ Harry puts his hand on my shoulder and I nod.

‘I’ll catch you up,’ I say as they make their way outside.

I rub my thumb across the card I’d been given at reception. I bet being out there was quite lonely really. Despite the camaraderie and brotherhood within the regiments, these men were expecting to die and death itself is the most solitary event in a person’s life because once your eyes close and you start to fade away, it’s just you versus the unknown. Complete loneliness.

I imagine the smell of death, the sight of it, and the fear of it would be lonely too, because the feelings are so visceral, how could they be put into words? Something that deep is more a state of being and that’s a loneliness like no other. It’s not just having nobody to chat over breakfast with. It puts my first day in Le Havre into perspective, that’s for sure.

The exit takes me out into a garden, the equanimity of which contrasts starkly with the underground depiction of hell I’ve just emerged from. In a way, it’s symbolic really because tranquillity and peace were built upon the sacrifices and horror of war shown below. Yin and Yang.

I stop to sit on a wall and admire a statue in the garden. ‘It’s a cliché but life really is short,’ Martha says, sitting down next to me.

‘I know. Deep down, that’s probably one of the reasons I took this trip,’ I say honestly. It hadn’t escaped me that my life had become stuck in a bit of a rut for the last ten years or so and the fact it took Gary of all people to push me to do something different is quite sad really.

‘I don’t have much advice to offer the younger folk these days, but all that seize the day stuff is spot on. Life really does pass you by if you’re not careful. Anyway, I’m a bumbling old fool and I need to go pee.’ She uses my shoulder for support as she eases her way back up to her feet and then she’s off again, leaving just her words and the scent of lavender lingering behind.

We have an hour to explore the town. While the others disappear off to the café, gift shop, or to walk around the town, I just sit for a moment, looking out over the river. I take out the second letter I have from my great-grandfather.