Читать книгу It Started With A Note: A brand-new uplifting read of love and new adventures for 2018! - Victoria Cooke - Страница 21

After a fitful night’s sleep, I pack my case and head down for the serve-yourself breakfast. Sunlight floods the room from two floor-length windows and in its warmth, I’m put at ease. I should at least see the town today. I help myself to a banana and a yoghurt and sit down to look over the first letter from my great-grandfather once more. Something about being in the place where he wrote it fills me with a sense of warmth and excitement, like I’m connecting with him.

When I read it again, I notice there is no sense of fear despite what he came here for. I’m obviously reading between the lines but I get the impression of a jolly old chap tootling off to war, not a scared young man heading towards life-or-death danger. It puts my own discomfort and fear of unfamiliarity to shame and if he could leave his homeland to fight a war for his king and country, I can bloomin’ well spend a bit of time touring the place he died protecting. Can’t I?

I wander the streets aimlessly. The kind English-speaking lady in the tourist information place gave me some leaflets and I learnt about the rebuilding of the town after the Second World War and how they used concrete because they didn’t have access to stone or any money to transport it here. The results are quite unique even if I’m not quite getting what I’d hoped for. As I browse the patisseries and boutiques, I wonder what my great-grandfather saw. I’m sure the place was bursting with military activity then, not shoppers and couples strolling by the water.

After collecting my wheelie case from the hotel, I make my way to the train station before I have a chance to change my mind about continuing my journey, only this time I walk to take in as much of the city as I can.

On the train, I see some of the stunning views I imagine my great-grandfather saw. The green and yellow colours of the vast rapeseed and corn fields. The gentle roll of the terrain with beautiful rustic farmhouses and churches dotted about like decorations. This is more like it.

Right! I need to make an effort with the language. I can’t stay silent for weeks. If my great-grandfather could do it, I have to at least try.

I fumble in the front pocket of my wheelie case and take out my phrase book.

Please.

Thank you.

What time is it?

Where is the nearest payphone?

The trouble with these phrases is that even if by some godly miracle I managed to pronounce them correctly, I wouldn’t understand the reply. I skip ahead to the ‘Ordering food and drink’ section and practise ordering some simple items aloud, which earns me the odd sideways glance from other passengers, so I end up stuffing the book away and staring out of the window.

When I arrive at Paris, I have an hour to kill before my train to Arras. It’s a town I chose by looking at the map for somewhere quite central to the places I want to visit, and which was large enough to have a train station. The reality is, I don’t know what to expect.

Sitting down in a small café I run over the phrase in my head – Un cappuccino, s’il vous plaît – but when the waiter comes over, he speaks so quickly that I don’t have a clue if he wants to take my order or wants me to move, leave, pay, or is complimenting me on my bargain blazer. Okay, that last one was a stretch. I freeze. Scrambling for the words, I manage to spurt out the sentence I’d been so sure of just seconds before, but it’s barely audible, even to me and doesn’t sound anything close to how it had in my head.

‘One cappuccino coming up,’ he says in perfect English before walking off. It is safe to say I won’t be masquerading as a French person any time soon – I feel such a fool. I’ve planned a few nights in Paris at the end of my trip before I take the Eurostar home and hope that by the time I come back, I’ll be better equipped to at least order a drink.

The train ride to Arras is okay, mostly because I don’t have to speak to anyone other than the ticket inspector and I do understand the word ‘billet’, mostly because the ticket inspector repeats it several times whilst jabbing a finger at the ticket I’ve left out on the table. Thankfully, finding my hotel on arrival is a simple task since it’s right opposite the station.

I stand outside and take a breath. It’s only four weeks; it will fly by.

A horn honks as I step off the kerb and I jump back.

I can do this. I definitely can.