‘I will. I love you, Kie.’
‘Yeah. Okay, Mum. See you soon,’ he says awkwardly.
‘Bye, love.’
When I hang up the phone, the ship is docking. I go to the window to catch my first glimpse of France, just as I’m sure my great-grandfather would have done.
Chapter Five
I arrive in Le Havre warm, sticky and tired but, luckily, my budget hotel is only a short taxi ride away. The taxi driver doesn’t speak a word of English and my French is just about on par with that, so I hop in and thrust my printout from Expedia his way and hope for the best. I glance out of the window, eager to catch my first glimpse of Le Havre but the blocky, grey, modern buildings are something of a disappointment. I’d hoped for rustic and charming not modern and unusual but as my mother used to say, ‘The world doesn’t revolve around you, Cath.’ Besides, I’d read up on the place and knew it had been obliterated in the Second World War so I should hardly be surprised.
The lady at the hotel reception speaks to me in French and my cheeks flame as I sheepishly pass her the printout detailing my one-night stay. After dumping my bag, I decide to wander out for some food, and am relieved to spot a McDonald’s restaurant where I order a familiar Big Mac using the touchscreen menus and sit down, placing my receipt on the table so that the order number is clear and nobody should need to ask me a question.
The last person I spoke to was the bartender on the ferry and that was hours ago and now I feel as though my voice has shrivelled up and died. That’s probably an over-reaction but I’m used to talking a lot more because of the job I do and it’s surprising how isolated and alone you feel when you’re unable to communicate. I feel like a mute, which would no doubt please Gary if the condition was permanent.
As I stroke the condensation beads on the side of my cola cup it dawns on me that, actually, I don’t feel like a mute. I feel ignorant and stupid. I should have tried to learn a little bit of French before I came to France but I didn’t exactly make the decision rationally.
I finish my food and go straight back to my room and flop on the bed. Four weeks is a long time to be trapped in this solitary bubble and I don’t think I can do it. My stomach hasn’t stopped churning since I arrived. I don’t know what possessed me to come. Kaitlynn had filled my head with silly ideas and Gary pushed me over the edge. No matter, I’ll put this right and draw a line under it. Tomorrow, I’ll go and get a ferry home.
Chapter Six
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.
Chapter Seven
I walk past a red coach towards the revolving doors of the hotel, nervously running the phrase I need through my head: J’ai une réservation pour Darlington. If I’m going to be in France for four weeks, then I’ll have to at least make an effort with the language even if I’m ruling out practising aloud on trains. Reservashon or reservacion? I run over it again as I step into the narrow cylinder, only remembering my wheelie case trailing behind me when it wedges in the doorway, jamming the entire mechanism. I yank the handle but it’s stuck fast, and within seconds a small handful of people have accumulated, waiting to get in. I yank again. Nothing. ‘Pardon,’ I say to nobody in particular.
I glance at the reception, but the man at the counter has his head down, seemingly unaware of my predicament. I bang the glass with the heel of my hand but he’s oblivious. Becoming frantic, I search for a stop button or an alarm or something but there is nothing. Surely this happens all the time?
A man from outside starts to try and prise the door open. He’s dressed in a red T-shirt that looks like a uniform of some sort, and I wonder if he’s here to fix the doors – surely they shouldn’t trap people like this. There was probably an ‘out of order’ sign somewhere. I tug the handle of my case while he heaves the two sides open wit
h strong arms. Eventually, it springs free, throwing me back against the glass. That’s when my eyes meet his, deep and blue. The moment I catch them, I look away, but not before I notice his striking resemblance to David the weatherman. A fresh, citrussy smell hits me when I stumble out and my cheeks flame.
‘Thank you. Merci,’ I say hurriedly, before adding a half-bow for good measure. An action that I’ll dwell on later when I replay the whole embarrassing ordeal in my head. I scuttle towards reception without awaiting a reply.
‘No problem,’ the man shouts after me in perfect English. His deep voice has just a hint of a French accent.
‘Good afternoon and welcome.’ The cheerful man on reception greets me with a smile, instantly putting me at ease.
I draw a breath to reboot my system. ‘Good afternoon. You speak English?’ I smile, relieved. My rehearsed French has vacated my brain; likely it ran away with embarrassment. ‘I have a room booked under “Darlington”.’
He clicks away at the keyboard. ‘I have it right here. It’s ten nights with breakfast?’ I hadn’t booked more than that because of the expense, and I wasn’t sure if I’d want to stay somewhere else and see a new place once I’d completed my great-grandfather’s journey, though I’d no idea where. My plan is to use the Airbnb app that Kaitlynn told me about to find something cheap, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
I nod, and he hands me a key before he passes on some information about breakfast times and how to find my room. I’m about to head to the lift when I hear some American accents coming from the small bar area. There are two older couples drinking beer and, strangely comforted by their familiar language, I drag my case to the bar where they’re sitting, just to listen for a while.
‘Une petite bière—’ deep breath ‘—s’il vous plaît,’ I say slowly but confidently as I perch on a stool at the bar.
The barman, whose name is Kevin according to his badge, looks up at me and smiles. ‘A small beer coming up.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply, once again deflated by the fact my French was so painful he couldn’t bear to humour me. Still, I’m only half a day into learning French. I can only get better, right?
‘You’re English, huh?’ One of the older American ladies turns to me with a broad beaming smile. She’s tall and slim with a sleek silver bob and is wearing a green matching pants suit.
‘Yes, English,’ I give a half-wave, ‘Just over on holiday to visit the war memorials and museums.’
‘Us too. We’re fascinated by the history of it all. My husband, Harry, over there, was a vet.’ She points to a crinkly, affable-looking man in a navy baseball cap. ‘Not in the First World War, though, obviously. I mean, I know he’s old but …’ She winks, and I warm to her recognisable Southern-belle charm straight away. ‘He had a British uncle killed in the First World War and he’s wanted to take this trip for so long.’
‘Me too. My great-grandfather was killed in the war. In Belgium actually, but he was posted in France too. He was close to Arras when he fought in the Battle of the Somme. I’m here retracing his footsteps. Sort of.’
She gives a sympathetic smile. ‘So, are you here with your family?’
‘Oh no, it’s just me. My son is away at university and my brother wasn’t really interested in coming with me,’ I say, not entirely untruthfully.
‘No husband?’ she asks, with unmasked surprise.
‘I don’t have a partner.’ Kevin places my beer in front of me and I take a big glug of it.
‘Oh, well that’s too bad, a pretty girl like you. Harry and I are fifty years in, and he drives me mad some days, but he’s my Harry and I wouldn’t have him any other way.’ Her eyes twinkle with affection as she gazes over at him and I mumble a ‘congratulations’ that I’m not sure she hears.
‘I’m Martha, by the way.’ She holds out a papery-skinned hand to shake and her pale blue eyes rest on mine.
‘Cath,’ I reply, taking her hand.
Martha proceeds to introduce me to the other couple, Roland and Cynthia, who say a cheerful ‘Hi, Cath’. Cynthia’s voice is hoarse like a smoker’s and sounds almost as though someone is stood behind her cranking it out. I give a shy wave. Roland is in a sports jacket and chinos and he has a maroon baseball cap on. Cynthia is a little shorter than Martha with a fuller frame. Her hair is chin-length, snow-white and wavy.
‘If you’re alone, you should come and get dinner with us – we’d love for you to join us. We’ve found a pub in the square that sells decent hamburgers so we’re heading there soon.’
Eating alone was something that had always daunted me a little and some company would be nice. They seem like a friendly bunch and the familiarity of burgers is welcome, so I say ‘yes’. We agree to meet in the lobby half an hour later, which gives me time to dump my bags and freshen up with a quick shower.
When I return to the bar, the four of them are already waiting for me. A man is stood talking to them. As I near the group, my chest thumps with recognition. The man who freed me from the revolving doors is stood drinking a glass of water and he has them all engrossed in whatever he’s saying. As he catches sight of me he grins and takes a bow with an elaborate hand-twirling gesture in reference to my earlier faux pas. Heat immediately floods my cheeks.
Unfortunately, Martha spots me before I have the chance to dart back into the lift or hide behind a pillar or do some kind of tribal dance in the hope the ground might open up and swallow me whole. ‘Cath, this is Olivier. He’s our tour guide and we’ve badgered him to join us for dinner.’
‘Pleased to meet you. Again,’ he says, his gravelly voice beautifully iced with that rich French accent.
I glance at him, looking away at the exact same moment our eyes connect. My cheeks are still on fire. Realising I’m being rude, I mumble a quick hello and thank him again for freeing me earlier before turning back to Martha to make polite conversation about hamburgers.
‘Ahh, about those. I was just telling Olivier how I’m a bit of a connoisseur of French cuisine. Ever since Julia Child released Mastering the Art of French Cooking back in the Sixties I’ve dabbled in French cuisine and I’ve gotten pretty good even if I do say so myself. Olivier said there is a place near here I’d love. You don’t mind, do you Cath?’
‘Not at all.’ My mouth is dry and the words feel thick and chewy. A burger had sounded safe, both to the palate and to the purse, whereas fine French dining doesn’t sound safe or affordable at all. It sounds terrifying. Excuses not to go whirl through my brain and whilst I surprise myself with my creativity at such short notice (I’m someone’s ‘phone a friend’ on the Who Wants to be a Millionaire? reboot; I’ve discovered I’m highly allergic to the French air and must stay inside indefinitely; I’m OCD and have to eat a burger on a Sunday; eating French food in France seems so cliché) I don’t actually get any words out in time.
‘So, it seems you two have already met?’ she says, looking from me to Olivier.
Olivier nods. ‘I bumped into Cath as she was checking in,’ he says, with his eyes fixed on mine. He’s being polite by not telling the story, and I appreciate that but decide to come clean anyway because laughing at myself has gotten me through some of life’s toughest challenges.
‘Actually, I got my bag stuck in the revolving door and Olivier here kindly freed me.’
‘Ahh, so you were her knight in shining armour,’ Cynthia says, and I wince a little with discomfort.
‘It happens all the time,’ Olivier says, playing it down and I’m thankful.
‘Well, I do like a girl who can make an entrance,’ Martha says with a glint in her eye.
We’re all chatting about food as we come to a stop before the road outside the hotel, and, instinctively, I glance right and put a foot forward. Something firm comes out of nowhere and pelts me in the stomach. I look down, surprised to see Olivier’s tanned arm stretched out in front of me. The contact causes me an unfamiliar flutter in my lower abdomen.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It’
s a force of habit. I’m so used to getting British people on my tours who forget to look left.’ The tips of my ears burn and I’m not sure if it’s in response to the fact I can’t manage to cross the road or the fact I had unusual feelings for a stranger’s arm.
We walk for about ten minutes before entering the huge square, the Place des Héros, which is much bigger than I’d expected it would be and much more impressive with its Flemish-Spanish baroque-style buildings. The restaurant is a similar bistro style to the others in the square and given the fair weather, we decide to sit outside.
‘You sit there, honey.’ Martha directs me to the seat next to her, which is opposite Olivier. Obviously, I don’t know her very well, or at all actually, but I suspect she’s done it on purpose even if it is just because Olivier and I are similar in age. I take the menu from the waiter and study it to look busy. There’s a drought in my mouth once more as I scan the unfathomable offerings. There are a few recognisable words such as ‘fromage’ and ‘poulet’ to the more obvious ‘crabe’ and ‘porc’ but I’ve no idea what they come with. Whilst I’m not a fussy eater as such, something awful like tarragon sneaking into one of the sauces could come as a nasty surprise.
My hands are clammy on the menu and I glance up for some respite only to rest my eyes on Olivier who isn’t looking and I get that strangely pleasurable flicker in my lower stomach again. He has messy light brown hair that is sort of styled in a floppy ‘Hugh Grant’ style circa 2003 (after the curtains but before the grey). It’s in great condition too, and the light from underneath the parasol glints off it like it does off the hair in those shampoo adverts.
I try to refocus on the menu. It’s definitely unusual, but what is also unusual is the depth of blue to Olivier’s eyes. They’re hypnotic. I don’t think even David the weatherman could lose the entire British navy fleet in his oceanic eyes.
It Started With a Note Page 4
