Читать книгу It Started With A Note: A brand-new uplifting read of love and new adventures for 2018! - Victoria Cooke - Страница 25

I wasn’t able to find out where the training camp was with such little to go off and that saddens me somewhat. Putting the letter away, I notice my phone screen is lit up.

There’s a message from Gary.

Read some of those poems. Bit sombre eh? The leccy metre has run out. Do you have any money on your card?

‘Grrr.’ I grit my teeth. Can’t he put some money on it for a change?

I’d emptied the tin in the kitchen so he can’t raid that, but I do contemplate telling him about my secret emergency stash of pound coins under my bed. I think better of it.

No, sorry. You’ll have to dip into your beer money x

I smirk a little bit as I hit send. There’s a first time for everything.

Another message pops in from Kaitlynn. I must have just picked up a signal or something.

How is it? Are you okay? Is the hotel nice? Did you find your GG’s grave yet? Work is hell – can we move to France? I’d rather eat frogs’ legs than work here xxxxx

Always the drama queen.

Martha and Harry are sitting on a bench outside the front of the museum, eating chocolate éclairs. The heat from the sun burns through my T-shirt, which feels odd because I hadn’t expected it to be quite so warm in France.

‘Those look good,’ I say when I’m close enough.

‘Mmm.’ Martha nods while licking her lips. ‘I can definitely recommend them.’

‘Go and get one – the patisserie is right there,’ Harry says, pointing to a shop with a big blue canopy on the corner.

‘Hmm, well, if you insist,’ I say playfully.

I return a short while later with my own in a paper bag. ‘Here, saved you a seat,’ Harry says, patting the bench beside him as I approach. I sit down, unable to speak because I’ve just taken a delicious bite. ‘Now I’m the envy of the town, what with two beautiful ladies by my side.’ He chuckles while Martha just shakes her head.

‘You old fool,’ she says, and then smiles at him. I can’t help but notice her eyes sparkle a little as they lock on his, and my tummy knots a bit, taking me by surprise. I don’t suppose I’ve ever witnessed real-life love like this before. I’ve been alone a long time, and it doesn’t bother me at all, but since Kieran left and Gary moved in, I suppose I’ve subconsciously wondered if this is all life has in store for me. Working to make ends meet and coming home to start all over again for someone who doesn’t really appreciate me. I suppose, soon, it will be just me and I’m not sure if that will be better or worse.

I notice Martha leaning forward so that she can see me around Harry, and I hope I haven’t zoned out again, missing what she had to say. I relax when I notice her mouth is full of the last piece of her éclair.

‘You and Olivier seemed to hit it off quite well last night,’ she says after she swallows.

‘He seems like a very nice man,’ I reply diplomatically.

‘Oh, he is.’ Her face illuminates. ‘He has been so good to us on this trip. I’m going to miss him.’ She allows her soft features to drop.

‘Hey, do I need to have words with that young man?’ Harry interrupts in a mock-stern tone.

‘Oh, be quiet, you old fool,’ she replies, brushing him off, before turning her attention back to me. ‘I saw you chatting on the coach earlier.’

‘Yes,’ I reply, unsure as to why this is becoming a ‘thing’.

‘He hasn’t really done that with anyone else. Usually, he hangs around by the door to answer questions and when everyone is on board, he gets on and sits at the front.’

‘Oh Martha, come on, she’s the only woman on the coach who doesn’t need a Zimmer frame, incontinence pads and Super Poligrip! Of course they have something in common.’

‘Speak for yourself! I need none of those things.’ Martha hits Harry’s arm playfully, causing him to chuckle.

‘She doesn’t realise she’s an octogenarian,’ he leans over to whisper to me.

‘My hearing is fine too,’ she says.

‘Harry is right,’ I say, before the senior citizen banter escalates to World War Three proportions. ‘Olivier and I are just similar in age and there’s nothing to suggest he’s single anyway.’ I curse myself for getting drawn into the debacle.

‘Well, he must be, the hours he works … I guess I’m just an old romantic. When I see two wonderful people alone I just want them to be happy together.’

‘It’s not really how real life goes,’ I say softly, hoping not to offend her.

‘You’re here a while. There’s still time.’ Her eyes twinkle again, and I start to feel uncomfortable. Not least because she’s way off the mark and Olivier would probably be horrified if he knew.

‘Martha,’ Harry says, placing a gentle hand on her knee, ‘did you come here to matchmake, or did you come here to sightsee and learn about the Great War?’

She frowned. ‘Trick question. You forgot to say: raid the gift shops.’

‘Well, that goes without saying.’ Harry shrugs.

‘Do you want to come and look around the shops with us? The others went to get a late lunch and I’m not sure they’ll be finished yet.’

I smile. ‘No, I want to just sit for a while. It’s been a lot to take in but thank you. You go ahead. I’ll catch up with you later.’ They were kind to offer and I know they genuinely don’t mind me tagging along, but to them, this is a once in a lifetime trip, and having me hanging around wasn’t a part of their original itinerary.

Once they’ve gone, I lift my face to the sky, allowing the warmth of the sun to heat my skin, freeing all the happy endorphins. When I lower my head and open my eyes, Olivier is standing in front of me. My heart bangs in my chest.

‘Oh, hi,’ I say, hoping I hadn’t just looked like a complete idiot.

‘Sorry to disturb you. I’m just checking to make sure everyone is okay and seeing if you wanted any advice about the town or anything?’ He shuffles on his feet a little, and for the first time since meeting him, he looks a little vulnerable.

‘Thank you, that’s really kind, but I’m okay. I’ve treated myself to this delicious éclair—’ I gesture to the last partially melted bite that I’m clutching with my pincers ‘—and was just going to get a coffee and look around the shops. I’m easily pleased.’ Easily pleased? Cringe. Does that sound like I’m insinuating something? I’m definitely not.

‘Would you like some company?’ he asks. Perhaps I’m imagining it because of Martha filling my head with nonsense, but I think there’s a look of hopefulness on his face.

‘Yes, if you like,’ I say, trying to hold back my apprehension. It’s one thing chatting on the coach, but to go for an actual coffee seems a bit nerve-racking. I try not to panic thinking about it.

‘Great, I know a wonderful café just across the road.’ He points to a place with outdoor seating beneath a black and cream canopy that’s only about one hundred and fifty metres away.

‘Perfect.’ I stand up and we walk silently towards the place. My stomach starts to feel all twisty and I regret saying yes, wishing instead that I’d come up with an excuse and not mentioned the coffee. Shopping, I could have said shopping – men hate shopping! my brain screams, remembering how Kieran used to go pale and clammy at the very thought of it.

When we arrive at the café, we spot a table outside, and as we approach it, he pulls out a chair but doesn’t sit down. ‘For madame,’ he says, making my chest feel all light and tingly at the unfamiliar gentlemanliness.

I thank him and sit down, instinctively picking up the menu to avoid having to find something to say.

‘They do wonderful scallop and prawn skewers here.’ he says.

‘Oh, I’m not hungry. That was the biggest éclair I’ve ever seen and I ate it all. I’m sure it was meant for two people.’ I let out a small laugh and put the menu back into the holder.

He laughs. ‘No way! They’re standard one-person sized éclairs. The ones I make are twice the size.’

‘You can make éclairs?’

‘I prefer to make savoury dishes like casseroles but yes, I can make éclairs.’

Olivier beckons the waiter over and orders coffees for us both.

Blimey. ‘So, you can cook then?’ I ask, failing to hide the surprise in my tone but in fairness, Gary is my only real male comparison and I think he’d starve to death if he had to so much as open a tin of beans himself.

‘I wash the dishes too.’ He grins playfully. ‘I learned quite young,’ he says, glancing down at the table. When he doesn’t say any more I get the feeling there’s more to the story but I don’t ask. We sit in silence for a few moments.

‘The Basilica is a beautiful building,’ I say, struggling for conversation. At work we’re trained to ask the customers pre-set questions at the checkout to make them feel welcome and to avoid awkward silences but I think asking Olivier if he wants a five-pence carrier bag may strike him as a little odd.

‘It is.’ He perks back up. ‘It was hit by a German shell in 1915. See that golden virgin statue at the top?’ He points but he needn’t have. It’s huge. ‘It bent to a near horizontal position after the shelling. Legend has it, the Germans believed that the side to cause the golden virgin to finally tumble, would be the side to lose the war.’

‘Really? Did it tumble?’ I ask, intrigued by the story.

‘Yes, however, it was bombed purposely by the British in 1918 to stop the Germans using it as a lookout tower after they occupied the town. Needless to say, the Germans’ belief was proven wrong.’

‘That’s an interesting story,’ I say, finding myself wanting to absorb as much knowledge of the time as I can to build a picture of what life was like. ‘It’s hard to imagine it as a pile of rubble now,’ I add as the waiter sets two coffees down in front of us. Once the waiter has gone, I ask Olivier how he knows so much about history.

‘I was a bit of a history nerd at school.’ He grins. ‘A geek, I think they say?’ He’s still grinning as he speaks so it can’t bother him that much. ‘I didn’t care, though. There’s a rich history in the region where I’m from and it’s interesting to me. How about you? You’re here – were you the same?’

‘What, a geek?’ I say with a dramatic hand on my chest.

He studies me and the hair follicles on the back of my neck tingle. ‘Somehow, I can’t see it.’

I glance away self-consciously and think back to my comprehensive education in a failing school on the outskirts of London. Somehow, I can’t make it fit with the perfect image I have of him, reading history books studiously on an evening whereas I was probably chatting on the phone with my friend about which boys we fancied, whilst my mum yelled at me to revise.

‘History is something I’ve become more interested in recently,’ I say instead, before filling him in on the letters that I’d found. He nods animatedly as I explain all about them.

‘That’s fantastic. To have a piece of history that you get to keep for yourself. I’d love to read them … if they’re not too personal, of course.’ His interest is welcome and warm in contrast to Gary’s indifference.

‘No, they’re not personal, not anymore at least. I’d love you to look at them. It seems my great-grandfather was trying to learn French when he was stationed here and three of the letters are written in French.’ I bite my bottom lip, unsure as to whether I should continue. In the end, I dare myself to go on. ‘It would be great if you could translate them for me.’

‘I’d love to. I’d be honoured if you’d allow me to.’

Once we’ve finished our coffee, we part ways. Olivier has some paperwork to take care of for the tour company and I’ve been desperate to browse the little shops. I have half an hour left to do it.

***

On the coach, I take in more of the scenery. Olivier is sat in the adjacent seat. ‘You can’t drive very far without coming across a cemetery or memorial, can you?’ I ask as we pass another small garden filled with white headstones.

‘No. It wasn’t always possible to remove the bodies from the front line. Search and rescue teams were sometimes killed trying to retrieve the dead. In many cases, the solution was to bury men close to where they fell. What it shows us now, though, is how death was all around. It was everywhere. No living man on the battlefield escaped witnessing the horrors of the Great War.’

I swallow hard and fall back into my seat, gazing out of the window and trying to understand how and why it even happened. Soon after, I catch a glimpse of a giant archway.

‘What’s that?’ I ask.

‘That’s the Thiepval Memorial to the Missing. That’s where Harry will find his uncle’s name.’

‘Wow. I wasn’t expecting it to be so big.’ I don’t really know what I was expecting.

‘It has to be big. There are over seventy-two thousand names of missing men inscribed on it. It’s the biggest Commonwealth memorial to the missing in the world.’

‘You’re like a walking, talking encyclopaedia,’ I quip and he grins.

‘I know, who needs Google, hey?’ I like how he matches my tone.

‘How can that many men have been lost in these fields?’ I say aloud, casting my eye back to the window and across the concealing beauty of the farmland beyond.

‘It was complex. Not just a case of a man killed, carried to a grave and buried. Some men were blown to pieces and others buried by bomb blasts. Some men who’d been buried by their comrades in the field were later excavated by further bomb blasts. Soldiers’ remains are being found to this day, usually when building works take place. But, as you can see, it’s a slow process as there is little building work going on here.’ The reality of what he’s describing is so far from what we see here today it’s hard to imagine.

The coach churns up crunchy gravel before finding a place to stop before two grassy mounds with a path through the middle.

Olivier stands up and taps the microphone twice. ‘We’ve arrived at Thiepval. That modern building over there houses the museum and visitors’ centre. There is a gift shop too and a couple of vending machines for refreshments. If you follow the path to the left it takes you up to the memorial. I’ll be wandering around if you need me.’ With that, he heads down the steps and begins helping the more infirm passengers off the coach, greeting everyone personally even if not by name.

‘Did you send that postcard?’

‘Have you found your glasses case?’

‘Is that a new handbag, Beryl? Someone went crazy in Albert!’

I can’t help but notice how genuine he seems, and I find myself smiling.

The sky is the brightest blue, the weather warm, and the grass a luscious green. It’s a beautiful day in the Somme Valley, and the forecast shows no sign of it changing. It’s as though the views and weather here are acting as some kind of consolation for what happened in the early twentieth century. It’s like nature’s own memorial to the sacrifices made. I fill my lungs with fresh country air and follow the path until I see the red-brick and white-stone structure. The path ends and the last part of the walk is across a well-manicured grassy area.

I slow down, breaking away from Martha and the others. Harry had gone all quiet when we stepped off the coach and I sense this is a more emotional part of the trip for him. He needs to be with his wife and friends and won’t want some stranger tagging along. I wander into the vast space of headstones beyond the memorial, and I’m taken aback by the abundance of pristine, white crosses, each representing a fallen soldier. I glance at the inscription on one:

A SOLDIER OF THE GREAT WAR

KNOWN UNTO GOD

They don’t even know his name. My stomach lurches. The headstones, each decorated with flowers, are aligned in four quadrants, symmetrical and all facing a larger, white-stone cross at the front. It seems like a beautiful testament to the heroics of these men.

I sit on the steps of the archway, taking out a leaflet I’d picked up at the museum in Albert. It’s written in French. I’d paid no attention to the language when I picked it up, just the pictures, which are grainy, black and white images capturing the men in the trenches.

Sometimes I feel like my life is hard. The thankless task of looking after Kieran and Gary, working a dreary job just to make ends meet and having no real friends to confide in, other than my teenybopper colleague at work. Most of my old friends drifted away when I had Kieran. There are only so many times you can say you can’t get a babysitter and go to the nightclub before people stop asking you. But I didn’t blame them then and nor did I care. And I don’t now.

If this trip has taught me anything so far, it’s that I’m lucky. I live in a safer world, I’m with my loved ones and I have everything that I need. These men had it hard and how they got up and fought is beyond me, but they did.

I glance across the archway, and in the corner, I can see Harry’s distinctive cornflower blue rain jacket. Martha has her arm around him as Roland and Cynthia hover behind them. It’s an emotional scene and whilst I feel almost voyeuristic, I can’t help but look on. Harry has these three people who’ve travelled thousands of miles to be by his side for this moment and it’s one of the most special things I’ve ever witnessed. As I dab the corner of my eye, I sense a presence behind me.

‘It is very moving being here, isn’t it?’ Olivier comes to stand by my side.

‘Yes. So many men lost. It’s hard to comprehend that each one of those names inscribed on the memorial and each of those crosses was a living person.’

‘And as you saw before, there are countless cemeteries just like this one. That’s what is the most staggering. Not just the number of graves in the cemetery, but the number of cemeteries.’ He sits on the step beside me.

‘What I find especially sad are the graves of the unknown soldiers. Their families won’t have had the opportunity to visit their graves to pay their last respects,’ I say, wishing I could do something about it.

‘Not many family members had the financial means to come and visit back then.’

‘I suppose, and we do have memorials back home. Every town and village has one.’

‘Yes, I know, we do tours to the UK too.’ This interests me more than it should.

‘So, you go to England sometimes?’ I ask.

‘Yes, about once a month. I love it over there. Especially when we visit London.’ The thought of Olivier being so close to where I live sends little sparks of excitement through my chest.

‘What do you do in London?’

‘You mean after I have lunch with the Queen, see my buddies in parliament and meet up with the Beckhams?’

‘Hmm?’ I twist the corner of my mouth in bemusement.

‘Okay, we have a picnic outside Buckingham Palace, walk past Big Ben and go to Kensington Gardens. It just sounds more exciting my way.’

‘So you do the touristy stuff?’

‘I suppose – we cover some of the points of interest surrounding the world wars too of course.’

‘So, you must know a lot about the Great War.’

‘I do. It’s interesting, but I also like to think me spreading the word about how horrific it was helps to make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

‘Only it did happen again,’ I say sombrely.

‘Ahh, yes, but I wasn’t born then, and my predecessor must have lacked my charismatic charm.’ He smiles, and we fall into a surprisingly companionable silence, watching the Americans laying a poppy wreath before a stone fascia.

‘Hello,’ the lady in the gift shop says cheerfully as we enter. She has a southern English accent, broader than mine, but is wearing the same T-shirt as the other staff members. Olivier introduces her as Jenny.

‘Olivier has been filling me in. It seems you’re on quite a sentimental trip?’

I nod. ‘Yes. My great-grandfather fought in the area. He was out here for almost two years before he was killed in Ypres.’

She gives me a knowing look. ‘There’s lots of information in the museum if you want to know more about the battles in the region?’ she says. ‘There is the free exhibition too, just to your left.’

‘That would be great.’ I look at Olivier, unsure if he’d prefer to leave me to it.

‘I’ll join you.’ He smiles warmly. We walk in silence, reading the accounts and studying the pictures, some graphic, depicting the haunting faces of the fallen; others depicting more triumphant moments.

‘Some of these men are my son’s age.’ The thought is incredibly hard to bear.

Olivier nods and I notice his face is sombre.

There is a film to view too, and once we’ve seen everything, Olivier suggests paying to go into the museum, which I happily agree to.

As we walk the halls, I watch Olivier reading the information intently. He must have read it dozens of times, yet he is still engrossed, reading it like it’s new. A few of the people off the coach tour are dotted about and Olivier makes polite conversation as we pass.

We approach a replica German fighter plane and he turns to me. ‘Do you know the exact journey your great-grandfather made?’

‘Almost. All I’m missing is where he trained. He wrote a letter from the training camp he went to after landing in France but I’ve been unable to find out where it actually was.’

‘Perhaps Jenny can help. She’s worked here years and is as interested in the war as I am. Almost.’ He winks.

When we head back out to the shop, Olivier explains what we’re after and Jenny asks me for all the information I have.

I give her his regiment and battalion information and find myself nattering away. ‘He was just twenty-four.’

She tuts and shakes her head. ‘So young.’

‘It’s staggering how many were,’ Olivier adds.

‘He enlisted himself. Given the dates he served, he was one of the first out there and he was married too.’

‘The propaganda was very compelling back then. Many men signed up out of pride for their country. I don’t think the reality always hit them until it was too late. Not the Kitchener’s Mob anyway.

‘Right, so it was the training camp you were after?’ Jenny asks, squinting at the screen.

‘That’s right.’

‘This page here should have everything you need.’ She stands up and gestures for me to sit down. I read the in-depth log of where the regiment were from day one until the end. Most of the information ties up to what I’d found.

‘Étaples.’ I say. ‘That’s where he trained.’

‘I thought that was probably the case, but I wanted to be sure,’ Olivier says.

‘Is it possible to get there from Arras?’ I ask.

‘Yes, it’s about an hour and a half away by car, give or take.’

I feel like a weight has been lifted now the missing piece of the puzzle has been filled.

‘I’m really glad I did this today. Olivier, thank you so much for bringing me, and Jenny, thank you for all your help.’

‘Don’t be silly, we enjoy it,’ Jenny says.

The coach journey back to Arras is quiet. Many people on board had a relative killed in the war, and seeing so many names on the memorial was such a moving sight. Others are perhaps worn out after such a long day. I sense that the thick silence is that of appreciation for the efforts to maintain such a fitting tribute. I glance around and most people are sitting gazing out of the window; a few have even nodded off in the eerie, dusky light you sometimes get on a summer’s evening.

It isn’t long before my mind wanders to Olivier. Not because he’s good-looking – I can admit to myself that he is now – but because I saw a soft side to him that I didn’t expect. He seemed so confident in himself last night, which I suppose, being a tour guide, he has to be; but I didn’t get the impression he was quite so sensitive. But seeing him obviously touched by emotion earlier just made me want to hug him. I scold myself for being so silly. He could be a married man for all I know, and if he isn’t he would never be interested in me: a doughy checkout girl held together by Aldi’s own ‘I can’t believe they’re not Spanx’.

What am I even thinking? I scold myself. I don’t even want a man; I’m happy with the way things are and a man would complicate things. Besides that, I’m sure millions of soldiers didn’t give their lives so that I could lust after attractive Frenchmen. I think my existence should be more meaningful than that. Then I think about what my existence actually is and can’t imagine millions of men would have given their lives for that either. A routine of work, bargain-hunting, romcoms and David the weatherman. But I have brought up a son, who has got into university, a small voice in my head says.

‘You know, during the Second World War, soldiers passed the Thiepval memorial and paid their respect to their fallen fathers.’ Olivier has slipped into the empty seat beside me.

‘Gosh, it’s unimaginable. What they were going through, and to see that on top. I don’t know …’ I reply, no longer surprised by Olivier’s sharing of random contemplations.

‘I’m sorry, I know I keep bothering you with my war trivia but I don’t always get much interaction from the tourists. Some, not all, seem to want to say they’ve seen the sights rather than actually absorbing the history. They want an Ypres fridge magnet or the Thiepval shopping tote but not always the knowledge, you know? That is sad to me.’

I nod in silent agreement. His passion for war history intrigues me. I’ve not met many men with such rich interests. Since being in school, most of the men I’d met were into the same things: football, computer games, and pictures of topless women, with regular trips of enrichment to the pub thrown in of course. Cardboard cut-out-and-keep activities for a limited range of stereotypically masculine interests.

Different was drawing me in.