‘No. Not a chance am I going travelling to a foreign country alone! It’s a ridiculous idea. That money will come in handy for something much more necessary. A new sofa perhaps.’
She lets out a ‘hmph’ sound. ‘What, so Gary can leave an indent of his bottom on it? Stylish!’
‘You’re missing the point. I’m not frittering away the money.’
‘Why not? You never go away, and you have all your holidays left to take from about 1995, so it wouldn’t be a problem I’m sure. You never spend anything on yourself so it will just sit in an account until Gary wears you down and you end up loaning it to him. You won’t see a penny.’
‘Don’t be silly, I can’t just up—’ I’m interrupted by the electronic gong of the tannoy.
‘Attention. This is a staff announcement. Can Jamie come to checkout four, please? Jamie to checkout four.’ I glance at Kaitlynn in horror but she just winks as she lets go of the button, and a rather fed-up-looking Jamie approaches us.
‘Yes, Kaitlynn?’ he asks impatiently.
‘Jamie.’ She smiles sweetly. ‘As store manager and all-round supermarket don, can you please give Cath some time off for a holiday? She is the employee of the year you know. She deserves a break.’ He looks from Kaitlynn to me and back to Kaitlynn again and shrugs.
‘I don’t see why not. She’s entitled to them.’ He turns to me. ‘You accrue enough of them. Off anywhere nice?’
Heat rushes to my cheeks when I don’t have an answer. ‘Oh, no. I …’ I feel like a numpty and glare at Kaitlynn. ‘Possibly France.’ There’s no way I’m going to France alone, but perhaps some time off wouldn’t hurt. I could finally get the fridge fixed but I can hardly say that to Jamie.
‘How long will you need?’
‘I, er …’ I have no idea because up until forty seconds ago, time off wasn’t even on my agenda, but I’d feel too foolish to say it’s a mistake. ‘A few days,’ I say, feeling that would be reasonable for a fake trip to France. Now that I can afford one of those twenty-four-hour appliance repairmen it would still leave me a day or so of R&R.
‘Weeks,’ Kaitlynn interrupts, placing a forceful hand on my shoulder. ‘She means weeks, a few weeks.’
‘Okay. Pop in the office tomorrow and we’ll look at dates.’
By the time I get home, I’ve managed to convince myself it would be fun to try and learn French. Being able to read my great-grandfather’s letters would not only be a real feat, it would feel quite special too. While Kaitlynn had a point about fulfilling my grandmother’s legacy, she still has the frivolous air of youth that leaves most people at some point during their thirties. I, on the other hand, am beyond that. By a pinch.
When I get home, the electricity is off. Luckily, I’d topped my card up because I knew it would have been way out of Gary’s remit to go out and do it. He’s asleep on the sofa in the eerie twilight when I enter the lounge. The mail is still sitting on the mat, pots are piled up on the side in the kitchen, and when I check upstairs, I see the bathroom mirror he promised to fix back to the wall is still propped up on the floor. Bubbles of rage start to rise and pop in my chest as I storm back downstairs. I can’t facilitate this festering blob any longer.
‘Gary. Wake up. Gary!’ I prod him, and when he doesn’t move straight away, I wonder if he’s actually started to decompose on the sofa through sitting still for so long. That would be much worse than an indentation of his bottom.
‘What is it, Cath?’ He comes around slowly.
‘The electricity is off.’ I fold my arms and glare at him.
‘I knew you’d be back with a card so it seemed daft to go and top the spare up.’
‘I bet you were more than happy to use up all the emergency credit watching daytime telly, though. Hmm?’
‘Cath, I—’
‘And did you fix the mirror?’
‘I needed string. I wanted to ring you to pick some up from work but I didn’t have any credit on my phone.’
‘And what’s your excuse for not washing your own pots? Or picking the mail up off the mat?’ I’m practically yelling at him now.
‘Calm down, Cath, I was going to do all that; I just nodded off. I was down the Jobcentre today and they don’t half wear you down with all their questions.’
‘Do they? Do they wear you down? You poor, poor thing!’
Gary is sitting up now, looking at me with his eyes unusually wide. I’ve never spoken to him this way before. ‘I’m going for a shower,’ I say before something I’ll regret pops out of my mouth.
When I come back down, I hear rustling in the kitchen and a pang of guilt hits me when I realise he must finally be fixing the fridge. Maybe that’s what he needed all along: some tough love. I tiptoe towards the door. I don’t want an awkward conversation about it, nor do I want to disturb him and give him reason to stop so I make a mental decision to just thank him when it’s done by treating him with my windfall money. He used to like golf. Perhaps I could buy him some time at the driving range.
I hover in the doorway, watching his shoulders as he’s hunched over something. I wonder if it’s the broken part. I can’t profess to know anything about fridges or their accoutrements, but something about the way he’s holding himself seems odd – protective, like he’s shielding what he’s got in his hands. That’s when I notice he isn’t mending a fridge part at all; he’s got a knife wedged beneath the lid of my money tin, and he’s trying his hardest to unjam it.
The sound of it popping off makes me jump, and I gasp. Gary turns around and already in his hand is a twenty-pound note.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ I ask, shock and anger adding a punch to my tone.
‘Cath, I … er …’ He holds both palms up towards me. ‘It’s just a loan. I was going to put it back, and I saw that three-grand cheque you got from work … you can afford it.’
I don’t know what to say. The fact we came from the same DNA suddenly seems quite unbelievable. It’s as though every ounce of my goodness is mirrored by dishonesty in him. It hurts. ‘You—’ I jab a finger in his direction ‘—need to move out.’
His face pales and I notice his forehead is clammy. ‘Move out? You’re not serious. Cath, I’m sorry, I was going to put it back next week. You can’t kick me out. Where would I go?’ Desperation is etched in his features and his voice drops to a whisper. ‘You wouldn’t see your brother out on the streets, Cath, would you?’ A tremor ruffles the last three words.
I walk into the lounge, sit on the sofa and sigh. No, I wouldn’t, and he knows me too well. ‘Gary, you were trying to steal from me.’
He slumps into the armchair. ‘I was desperate. I wouldn’t have done it if you weren’t so flush, and I did ask last night if I could borrow some cash. It was just a loan, I swear.’
‘It’s the final straw, Gary.’
His eyes drop to the floor.
‘I just can’t trust you now. Not until you sort yourself out.’
‘If you kick me out now, I’ll end up on the streets.’ He throws his head into his hands.
‘You’ve been here six months now and haven’t made any progress on the job front, and I’ve allowed you to coast along. I’m as much to blame as you are.’ I gesture to his slobby, track-suited self. ‘It’s time for you to get out of this funk and then we can both have our lives back. But right now, I can’t stand to be around you.’ I want to say the words again: Get out. But I can’t do it. I can’t see him on the streets. ‘What you did is going to take me a while to come to terms with, and at this moment in time I just can’t be near you, never mind share a house with you. You’ve betrayed me in the worst possible way.’ He nods sombrely, committed to his fate, and despite my better judgement, I feel sorry for him.
‘I’m going away, and I want you gone when I get back.’ The words leave my mouth before I can think about them, and I’m not exactly sure where I’m going, but the idea of a break of some kind suddenly seems so appealing.
‘Pah. You’re goin
g away? By yourself?’ He sneers as he speaks.
I fold my arms defiantly. ‘Yes.’
‘Where to? An exotic cruise? An Amazon trek? A camel ride across the Gobi Desert? Or is it just a soggy weekend in Brighton?’ His tone is mocking, each word fuelling a new burst of anger inside me.
I pause, and without anything better to say or any other ideas I blurt, ‘F … France.’
‘France?’ He laughs. ‘Seems a bit cultural for you. You can’t even speak French and you dropped it for GCSE. What the hell are you going to do in France?’
I’m in no mood to explain myself, and I can’t bear the thought of listening to him mock me, so instead of answering him, I bore into him with my eyes.
‘It’s none of your business. I want you gone when I get back.’
He glares back until his nerve falters and he starts to back down. He knows I mean it.
‘How long have I got?’ he asks.
I think back to Kaitlynn’s interjection. Am I brave enough to go to France alone? ‘Two weeks.’
‘Two weeks?’ He looks aghast.
‘Better start job-hunting now then.’ I smile tightly.
Chapter Four
On board the ferry from Portsmouth, I take a solitary seat at the bar under strict instructions from Kaitlynn to have a glass of fizz to kick-start my holiday. I think ‘calm my nerves’ is more appropriate. I still can’t believe I’m doing this, going to France on my own. Well, bonjour madame indeed. I order a glass of champagne, my newly highlighted chunky lob bouncing around my shoulders as I speak. Some music starts to play and children gather around a small stage as some interestingly dressed entertainer comes out waving his arms around much to their glee.
Despite eventually showing Gary the letters, I’d not managed to change Gary’s opinions about me going to France. I’d explained why I was making the trip and how it was the Darlington family destiny, hoping to generate a spark of emotion, but he just didn’t get it. Under different circumstances, it could have been a family pilgrimage of sorts: me, Kieran and Gary tracing the rich history of our ancestor. Instead, he’d just quizzed me about what I was hoping to see or achieve since everyone involved is dead and would be unlikely to care. That stung because our mum would have cared. I don’t know why she never showed me the letters but I do know she would have cared.
I wipe the moist corner of my eye with the sleeve of my ill-fitting blazer that I’d got for eight pounds in the sale at H&M because I thought it looked smart.
In the end, I booked four weeks off work, because my manager asked me if I wouldn’t mind taking all my annual holiday in one go. It was very unusual to be granted so much leave all at once, but he said it was a quiet time of year and it was better from a staff planning point of view if I did. I think he was worried about union action if word got out that the ‘employee of the year’ didn’t take holidays. It probably sets a bad example. Plus, as Jamie said, I’d never get around to taking the remaining two weeks if I didn’t do it now. He was right, of course, and it gave Gary a decent length of time to pull his finger out.
And now here I am, sitting drinking champagne at breakfast time. I giggle and immediately look around self-consciously, but nobody seems to have noticed.
I’d briefly studied WWI poetry for my A levels, and I’d left a library copy of Wilfred Owen’s The War Poems for Gary to read, along with instructions for returning the book. He may not have any sympathy for our grandmother and the loss of her father, but he could blooming well educate himself on the horrors of the Great War and learn a little about our great-grandfather’s sacrifice.
Suddenly overwhelmed at the thought of losing my treasured letters, I check my tote bag in a panic. It’s there, exactly where I’d left it. I pull it out, handling it like a lottery ticket with all the right numbers on.
A sleek leather wallet filled with my fragile pieces of history.
I’d sorted the letters chronologically and placed each one in a plastic wallet for safekeeping. I’m not sure what I’ll do with them after the trip but I know I want them with me as I retrace my great-grandfather’s Great War journey.
Another Kaitlynn idea – to treat myself. It seemed fitting to have something special to transport them in, and I’d got a pretty good deal, otherwise I wouldn’t have splashed out, but all that excitement is now wavering because the financial implications of four weeks abroad isn’t to be sniffed at. I’d be needing my entire prize money, my annual bonus, and there is a good chance I’ll need to dip into my modest savings too.
As if on cue, the waiter slips the bill in front of me, and when I spy the charge I baulk. Surely he’s charged me wrong? I pick up the wine list and double-check the price – something I should have done before I’d ordered ‘a nice glass of champers’, but I got caught in the moment. Sure enough, it is fifteen euros a glass. I leave the cash on the plate, mentally calculating how many tins of corned beef I could’ve bought with that, before I decide to head up to the sundeck.
Fighting the wind, I make my way to the railing and take out the first plastic wallet, clutching it tightly.
The letters don’t cover his whole story and he never discloses his location so I had to use the internet to research the journey of his regiment and match up the dates. He’d been an early enlistee, one of the so-called ‘Kitchener’s Mob’ and he’d sailed from Southampton to Le Havre in December 1915 after almost thirteen months of training, prolonged partly by a lack of training equipment and uniforms. Most soldiers arriving after him had nowhere near that length of training.
The first letter my great-grandfather sent was just after he’d landed in France during the winter of 1915.
12th December 1915
My dearest Elizabeth,
It was a choppy trip across the old ‘salt water’ and the paddle steamer was bursting at the seams. I’ve not seen so many sick men before. We’ve travelled a bit by train and foot since. The combination of new boots and woollen socks hasn’t been fantastic but otherwise, I’m getting on all right. There are some pretty villages around and the locals I’ve met have been very hospitable, but we’ve not really been allowed to explore.
Give my love to Rose.
Forever yours,
Will
I glance out, over the railing, taking in the formidable grey rolls beyond. The same ‘old salt water’ my great-grandfather crossed on his first trip to France, no doubt feeling a sense of apprehension incomparable to my own. Though you wouldn’t know it from the letter. It’s hard to decipher his tone from so few words but I’m sure I’ve conveyed more terror in the three text messages I’ve sent to Kaitlynn already this morning:
This is a bad idea. I should cancel. C x
I honestly think I’ll get lost and I can’t speak French! What am I doing?
Kaitlynn????
I certainly didn’t have the calm demeanour to use words like ‘choppy’ and ‘salt water’ colloquially.
I tuck the letter back into the wallet and look across the waves, allowing my eyes to close whilst I feel the roll of the boat. My mind wonders to the men. Boys? For most of them it would have been their first time on a boat and their first time leaving their parents, never mind their country. If they could go off to France then I should stop being silly and put my big girl pants on.
After some time on deck and a leisurely lunch, I can see land from the lounge and cannot fathom how five hours have passed already.
My phone shrills to life. We must be close enough to land to catch a signal.
Mum, I’m coming home this weekend. K
I’d specifically phoned to tell him I was going to France and was met with the usual grunted response. I tap out a quick reply.
I won’t be there, but your uncle Gary will be. Mum xxx
His reply is instant.
What do you mean you won’t be there?
I almost chuckle, amused by his shock. It was typical he hadn’t listened when I’d told him about my trip.
If you’d paid attention last t
ime I phoned you, you’d know all about it. For the second time, I’m off to France on holiday. For 4 weeks xxx
My phone shrills loudly and instead of a message, Kieran is ringing me. My face flames as the other people in the lounge look over at me, clearly displeased with the commotion, but if I don’t have my volume right up I can’t hear it in my bag, so what am I supposed to do? And anyway, who doesn’t love a bit of Beyoncé? I mouth ‘sorry’ and answer the call in a whisper.
‘What do you mean you’re going on holiday?’ Kieran demands before I have the chance to say hello.
‘I mean I’m going to France. I’m going to see where my great-grandfather is buried.’
‘Is this some kind of midlife crisis?’ he asks. ‘Can’t you just buy a sports car like a normal person?’ I understand his shock, but perhaps he’ll listen to me better in future. Whenever I’d had money to spare in the past, I’d spent it on him instead. New trainers, a PlayStation, you name it. Year on year, I spent every spare penny, ensuring Kieran had the best I could provide so he didn’t stand out at school or feel like he was missing out. It’s understandable that he’s feeling like his nose has been put out of joint.
‘No, Kieran – look, love. I just felt it was time I did something for me. It’s just four weeks, and you’re away at uni anyway. I didn’t expect you’d be home in the first term. Isn’t it all fresher’s balls and one-pound vodka shots?’
‘I know … I … I just assumed you’d be around to do a bit of washing for me. It’s no big deal.’ It’s silly to say, but I can sense this is his way of showing affection. He misses me, and the fact he does make my chest swell.
‘I didn’t know you were planning on coming home, love.’ My stomach twists with guilt and I wonder if I should head home and postpone my trip for a few days. ‘What are you coming home for anyway?’ I hear some loud jeering in the background.
‘Just a friend’s birthday. Mum, I need to go but … be careful and have a good time, yeah?’ I smile at his words. It’s the closest he’s come to showing any emotion since he stopped wearing Spider-Man pyjamas.
It Started With a Note Page 3
