I become vaguely prickly, aware of someone watching me, so I glance up from the menu. Sure enough, Olivier is looking at me. So are Martha and the others and then I notice a presence looming to my left: the waiter, who is looking at me expectantly in his smart black and white attire protected by a chequered apron. Suddenly, the thought of messing up my order or ordering something weird (‘oh, Cath, that’s a palate cleanser’) panics me but I’m out of time.
‘Oh, pardon, I’m sorry.’ My voice croaks. I skim the entrees one last time. ‘The porc please.’ I daren’t even try to pronounce the full title ‘Filet de porc sauce Normande’ even though it seems fairly simple. I can’t help but wonder what Normande sauce is. Is it garnished with fibres from the Bayeux tapestry? Seasoned with the ground bones of William the Conqueror perhaps? That would certainly explain the price. The others have gone for the filet mignon but at thirty-three euros a pop, I decide to give that a miss since I could buy two evening meals in a more low-key place for that.
I don’t even feel that hungry since a thousand butterflies have taken up residence in my stomach, filling the cavity entirely.
Taking a deep breath to try and neutralise them, I turn to Olivier, who looks relaxed, sitting back in his chair easily, resting his head on one hand. The underside of his forearm is turned outward and I can see the veins in his wrist like a map of his body leading back to his heart. In an attempt to look relaxed too, I mimic his position but something about having my arm exposed like that makes me feel naked so I turn it inward and eventually place in my lap. I must look noticeably odd, as Olivier asks if I’m okay. I nod but I’m uncomfortable, and I don’t really know why because I was fine earlier. Olivier’s presence has changed the dynamic somehow.
Martha and the others have entered into conversation about something they’re all ‘in on’ from back home, and since I’m sitting on the end, I don’t even attempt to join in because I’m worried that if I say something and they don’t hear me, I’ll look foolish.
Olivier doesn’t seem to suffer the affliction of inner turmoil as he looks around, soaking up the vibrant atmosphere of the square. I once again attempt to follow suit, glancing around, trying to appear nonchalant and comfortable, but I can’t shake the feeling of Olivier’s presence. My senses are heightened and I’m on edge, like I’ve entered an electric field or a flagship Primark store in the mid-afternoon.
‘Cath?’ Martha’s questioning tone brings me around, but I can’t tell whether or not she’s asked a question because sometimes Americans add that questioning infliction to anything they say, don’t they?
‘Sorry, I was miles away.’ I smile. Trying to appear normal exhausts me, and a part of me starts wishing I was back home in Berrybridge where I am normal and so is everything around me.
‘We were talking about our tour tomorrow, dear. The coach is going to Thiepval and Albert and we wondered if you wanted to tag along. If that’s okay with you?’ She looks pointedly at Olivier.
‘Of course,’ he says to Martha before looking me directly in the eyes. ‘There’s space on the coach so I don’t see why not.’ A tingle spreads across my back. Although Thiepval isn’t part of my great-grandfather’s documented journey, it’s in the heart of the Somme Valley and I’d perhaps see some of what he’d seen. I want to go but I haven’t looked into the costs yet. Having to fork out for this expensive dinner and a coach trip wasn’t budgeted for. My money is vanishing quicker than the frozen turkeys do at Christmas.
‘How much is the trip?’ I can’t look anyone in the eyes as I ask as casually as I can but inside my stomach is rolling with waves of embarrassment.
Olivier bats the air with his hands. ‘Nothing. Like Martha said, there are spare seats and we’re going anyway.’
‘Thank you but I’m more than happy to pay the going rate.’ I hope nobody else notices the subtle rise in the pitch of my voice.
‘Please, be our guest,’ he says in a way that feels final and a warmth fills my chest.
‘So how long have you been a tour guide?’ I ask, feeling braver.
‘I’ve done this for almost twenty years now. I wanted to utilise my English and most of the people who use our tours are either British or American. Plus, I love history and travel and since the company is Europe-wide, I get to see more than just northern France.’ He takes a sip of his beer.
‘I’ve always loved history too, and seeing different places has to be a bonus.’
His features lift a little. ‘Definitely.’ He nods. ‘So do you travel much?’
I shake my head. ‘Hardly ever. I wasn’t brought up in a family of ambitious travelling types and we never really had much money. My mother was a single parent and just a regular hard-working, working-class person who enjoyed relaxing at home on her days off. She took me and my brother on minibreaks to Wales and for days out and was great in the sense that she could create adventures for us without even leaving the house.’
I smile. ‘One time, she turned the lounge into Loch Ness. She covered the floor with blue flannel sheets from my brother’s bed, and our big brown sofa was a sailing boat. She used a snake puppet as the Loch Ness Monster.’ I stop talking, remembering how my mother used to make us close our eyes and imagine the gentle swaying of the boat. I can still feel it now if I really concentrate and it wasn’t too dissimilar to the ferry crossing to Le Havre considering there wasn’t any water or a boat in sight. ‘Sorry, you probably have no idea about what I’m blabbering on about.’
He looks bemused by my expression but smiles warmly. ‘Everyone knows of the Loch Ness monster. Not too many have seen him though, hey?’ His eyes glint mischievously before a more sympathetic smile forms on his lips. ‘Your mother sounds like a wonderful woman.’
‘She was.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ He holds his eyes on mine for a moment too long, and I fight the urge to move my hair off my face. I’d read in some ‘women’s’ magazine in the staffroom at work, that doing that can be seen as a sign you’re attracted to someone, and I certainly don’t want to give off those types of signals, thank you very much.
‘Were you just talking about Loch Ness?’ Cynthia’s gravelly voice cuts through the tension that I’m ninety-five per cent sure I’m imagining.
‘We were. Have you ever been?’ I rest my chin on my hand and look at her, glad to have someone else to focus on.
‘Yes, Roland and I went about twenty years ago. It’s such a beautiful place, isn’t it?’
‘I wouldn’t know, I’ve not actually been. My brother and I used to pretend our living room floor was Loch Ness.’ I don’t feel like sharing the story again; it seems strangely intimate all of a sudden.
‘Well, you must go. It’s one of the most beautiful parts of the world, and you live so near.’
‘I’m sure I will,’ I say politely, though our opinions of what constitutes ‘near’ seem to differ somewhat.
The food arrives and the conversation mostly centres around travel. Since I’ve very little to contribute, I listen with genuine interest and make a mental note to travel more whilst I push the food around my plate. Now Kieran is grown up, I should travel more. It makes sense to see the world. My annual bonuses will cover the cost of a trip once a year and even though I’ve only just arrived in Arras, I feel like I’m doing okay if you discount the door fiasco and the fancy menu. Travelling alone doesn’t seem so bad.
‘Are you going to eat that?’ Olivier asks. The sauce is a pale green colour and it smells sort of fruity with a tinge of alcohol but there’s no indication of delicate embroidery fragments or the DNA of an ancient monarch so I take a forkful and raise it to my lips with trepidation.
‘Yes.’
He leans across the table and whispers, ‘It’s an apple and brandy sauce.’
I give a small smile in response but feel ridiculous inside even though there was nothing mocking in the way he said it and I don’t think he was trying to embarrass me.
I take a bite and it’s a delicious explosion of flavour
with the apple complementing the pork and the brandy flavour cutting through perfectly. Mum had always thought fruit and meat to be an odd combination, so much so she’d laugh at the cranberry sauce display at Christmas and shake her head with utterings of ‘bonkers, fruit is for pudding!’ As a result, I’d never thought to combine fruit and meat but this works so well. I stuff the next forkful in and it seals the deal. Cranberry sauce next Christmas it is!
Back at the hotel, I bid the others goodnight and head up to my room where I fall asleep, wrapped in the warmth of the evening, the aromas and flavours of France, and, strangely, thoughts of Olivier. There’s something about him that’s quite unlike anything I’ve seen in anyone before.
Chapter Eight
‘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 agai
n, 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.
17th December 1915
My dearest Elizabeth,
We’ve reached the camp safely. It’s enormous! We could see it as soon as we stepped off the train as it covers the whole hillside. We’ve been shown kit and read the regulations. On the walk over to the training ground yesterday I saw the sand and sea, though it’s freezing. I’m developing a taste for bully beef stew.
All my love to you and Rose.
Will
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.
It Started With a Note Page 5
