The corner of his mouth lifts. ‘You’re more interesting than you give yourself credit for.’
‘That’s very nice of you to say but I’m okay with leading a simple life. It’s what I know, it’s … safe.’ My eyes meet his for a second too long and for a moment, I don’t feel safe at all. I feel unfamiliar in every sense: in this place, in his company, in my own body.
‘You came to France on a journey, by yourself. That’s pretty brave.’
My skin prickles at the compliment. The decision to come was impulsive, manipulated to some extent, but it wasn’t brave. I check my watch.
‘The car should be ready.’
‘It can wait.’ His words are firm and take me by surprise. ‘We’re not leaving here until you admit that coming to France was brave and exciting.’
His arms are folded, and his stance suggests we could be here all day if I don’t comply. I glance around at the pretty town with spurs of winding lanes packed with shops and café bars and feel sparks of excitement. It is such a wonderful place steeped in such rich history, not just here, but Albert and Arras too. A smile cracks on my face. ‘You’re right, this place is so beautiful, so exciting, the buildings, the patisseries and the fact there are random flower pots everywhere … I just want to absorb it all. The act of getting myself on a ferry was quite something but I’m so glad I did.’ I realise I’m talking to myself as much as I am to Olivier and when I look at him he’s frowning, and I hope he doesn’t think I was being sarcastic.
‘So why do you want to rush and get the car then?’ He breaks into a smile. ‘Let’s look at the flowers and get pains au chocolat from the bakery.’
This fits with my newly Brasso-ed dullness so I throw caution to the wind and grin. ‘After you.’
We head to the patisserie nearby and soon after, we’re nibbling delicious fresh pastry and looking out over the river.
‘Oh, my goodness, this is practically melting in my mouth,’ I say, biting through the buttery pastry and dark chocolate filling.
‘They’re delicious, aren’t they?’
My mouth is full, so I nod before turning back to the pretty view across the river as a boat passes through the arch of an old stone bridge.
‘I never do anything like this,’ I say. ‘Back home there’s always something better to do. Actually, better is the wrong word – there’s always something more important to do. Life never just stops still to give me a chance to catch up and just … be.’
‘I suppose the way of living is different here. We allow ourselves time to relish what we’re doing, enjoy our surroundings, our food, our company.’ He glances at me and I look away, unable to take the full force of his gaze. ‘Of course, if anyone asks, we work hard too.’
‘You really love your work, don’t you?’ I say, thinking back to how personable he can be with the tourists and how passionate about his subject he is.
‘If you find the right job, it shouldn’t feel like work. It should feel like the place you want to be each morning.’ He dusts his hands and screws his empty paper bag into a tight ball before tossing it into a nearby bin. I mull his words over.
‘I haven’t found that. Don’t get me wrong, my job is fine, but I couldn’t honestly say that I skip there happily each morning. I can’t complain because I get by and the people there are nice. You’ve been lucky to find your passion.’
His eyebrows knit and his lips part like he’s about to speak but he rubs his chin instead.
‘Maybe I will do something different one day,’ I say, knowing I probably won’t.
‘You’ll never regret trying to achieve your dream, even if it all fails, but you’d spend your years regretting not having a go.’
‘Wise words … The trouble is, I don’t really have any dreams, other than winning the EuroMillions that is.’
‘And do you always play?’
‘Religiously.’
‘So, you try, and fail, without regret? Now imagine that one week you don’t play, and your numbers come up.’
I laugh. ‘It would be just my luck.’
‘Ahh, but that is what you’re doing every day that passes where you’re not striving to achieve your dreams. You just need a dream with better odds.’ He winks and starts to walk beside the river. I jog after him.
‘So, you’re telling me that becoming a tour guide was your dream?’
‘Not at all. I fell into this and found I love it. Dreams don’t need to be work-based, they could be to travel, learn a craft, eat your body weight in cheese, I don’t know.’
I think for a moment. ‘This trip is already opening my eyes to new experiences. Maybe things will become clearer when I go home but it won’t be to eat my body weight in cheese, maybe just half my body weight. I have to leave room for chocolate.’
‘Ahh, yes, good thinking.’
We walk in silence before heading back towards the town centre. ‘Cynthia and Roland must be wondering where we are,’ I say.
Once we have the car, we drive back to the hotel and head inside to find them sat in the small lobby with their coats and bags, all ready to go.
When she spots us together, Cynthia raises an inquisitive eyebrow. ‘The car is as good as new,’ I say firmly, hoping there will be no need for any other questions. Back at the hotel in Arras, Olivier asks if anyone would like a coffee, but Cynthia and Roland want to head straight for their room to make some calls back to the US to let family know what’s happened and that they’ll be back a day later than planned.
Once they’ve left, Olivier and I hover around the lift.
‘I should go too,’ I say. We’d driven to see the Armistice memorial before setting off back and it’s now late afternoon, but I know his offer wasn’t intended for me, really; he probably just wants to go home and rest.
‘Oh. Okay.’ I can’t be sure if I’m imagining it, but the muscles in his face slacken a little. It’s subtle but I sense a bit of disappointment. Perhaps he feels as wound up as I do after the drama of the day. I think we all need a good night’s sleep.
***
We wait anxiously for Martha’s return. Olivier had popped in as we were finishing breakfast to let us know she’d been discharged, and then he set off to collect her and Harry. Cynthia and Roland didn’t want to leave the hotel, so I stayed in the bar with them after a brief stroll out for some fresh air. Olivier had managed to get the four of them on a flight home for tomorrow and so it looks as though everything is going to work out.
‘Ta-dah!’ Martha bursts out of the revolving door. I’d expected her to be in a wheelchair but she’s hobbling on crutches, and Roland’s words from yesterday ring true in my ears. She’s a tough old bird.
‘Oh, Martha, it’s so good to have you back.’ Cynthia makes her way over to hug her.
The two embrace for a moment before Martha pulls away and looks to the rest of us. ‘So, I’m thirsty, who’s buying?’
We sit around in some comfy chairs while Harry goes to the bar. He wants to buy a round of drinks to thank everyone for pulling together, though I’m not really sure what part I played in helping. After the drinks arrive, the group start chatting away. Olivier throws himself into the midst of the conversation while I retreat into myself a little, allowing the chatter to circulate around me for a while. When I come around, Martha is explaining to the others about how her cast is split so she’s allowed to fly but how she’ll have to get it ‘fixed up properly’ when she’s home.
Olivier excuses himself shortly afterwards and makes a joke about how he now has another airport trip to make tomorrow. The time has flown, and once he has left we decide to order some bar food. While we’re waiting for it to arrive, Martha looks at me for a moment too long, and I think I know what’s coming.
‘It was so nice of you to come to the hospital,’ she says, confirming my suspicions.
‘I wanted to make sure you were okay,’ I say, sounding casual.
‘So, did you just happen to be with Olivier when he got the news?’ Mischief danc
es in her eyes, and I can feel the corners of my mouth defying me by curling upwards. ‘You were!’ she says before I have time to answer.
‘You already knew we were meeting to go over my great-grandfather’s letters,’ I say, not playing into her hands.
‘Ahh,’ interrupts Cynthia. ‘We’ve had some progression.’
‘We?’ I glance at her before shaking my head. ‘We haven’t had anything.’
Cynthia proceeds to tell a much more exciting story of the night before, until I butt in and downplay it all.
‘We went for a walk and chatted a bit. He’s a lovely person, but mostly we were worried about you.’ I flip the conversation around.
Martha sighs. ‘Okay, it just would have been nice if something good came out of this whole tomfoolery.’
‘It has. We’ve all learned a valuable lesson,’ I say pointedly, attracting the attention of the men too. ‘That we should never ask Harry to take a selfie of us.’
Chapter Thirteen
‘It’s been a wonderful few days. Thank you so much for taking me under your wing and arranging for me to gate-crash your tour,’ I say, bringing Martha in for a hug.
She wobbles a little on her crutches as I embrace her. ‘Not a problem, honey. Now, you’ll write me on the Facebook, won’t you?’
I smile. ‘Of course.’
She reaches up to straighten my twisted vest strap but lets her hand linger on my shoulder after. ‘And you look after yourself, or at least let that nice young man look after you while you’re here.’ She raises an expectant eyebrow and I nod to appease her. ‘Good.’
The truth is, I’ve been wondering whether I’ll see much of Olivier once the Americans have gone. There will be no real reason to. He’s already on the coach as he had to take a phone call, so other than a quick hello at breakfast when he popped in to confirm the Americans’ travel plans, I haven’t spoken to him today.
‘Martha, I know I’ve spent the best part of sixty years waiting around for you, but American Airlines won’t extend the same courtesy!’ Harry places an arm around her waist and leans in slightly towards me, holding out a hand to shake. ‘It’s been lovely to meet you, Cath, and I wish you all the best with your trip.’
‘Thanks, Harry. Martha, he’s right, you should get going.’
She sighs and rolls her eyes like an adolescent. ‘Like being stuck in France would be so terrible!’
‘Martha!’ Harry barks.
‘All right! Goodbye, honey.’ She hugs me again and whispers, ‘I see the sympathy has already worn off.’
‘Bye, you two,’ I say as they make their way on board the coach. I say my goodbyes to Cynthia and Roland and it’s decided that a Facebook ‘chitchat’ group would be set up for ‘us women’. I smile to myself, with no idea if it will actually happen and if it did, what we’d chitchat about, but I like the idea of keeping in touch.
I wave the coach off and as soon as it’s gone, the dense feeling of being alone starts to shroud me. The hotel foyer is still and quiet when I walk back inside. The bar is empty and unmanned and just the receptionist sits at the desk, tapping away on his keyboard. He gives a polite smile and nod as I slump into one of the chairs. The next place I know my great-grandfather went was Neuve-Chapelle. I log into the hotel Wi-Fi to try and figure out how to get there. As far as I can tell, I’ll need a train and a taxi, and the first train would be leaving Arras in twelve minutes. If I hurry, I can make it.
Checking myself over, I realise I have my jacket and bag and don’t need anything else. I get a rush of excitement as I change direction and walk back past the reception towards the main doors of the hotel. The receptionist gives me another polite nod, only this time his brow forms a slight ‘V’ shape.
Once on the train, I relax into my seat, relieved I’d managed to figure out the departures okay. The beautiful French countryside whizzes past in a tumble of greens and yellows. My mind wanders back to my great-grandfather’s letters, where he’d referred to its beauty and hoped my grandmother would visit one day. I don’t believe in life after death and I’m not particularly religious, but if he is somehow aware of my trip, I hope it’s enough to make up for my grandmother not making the journey. I hope somehow it would make his death mean something more.
I’d left most of the letters in my hotel room for safekeeping, but I do have the one he’d written in Neuve-Chapelle and the English translations Olivier had written in my notebook. I’ve kept them with me since he gave them to me and keeping them close feels like I’m keeping a piece of my great-grandfather close too.
I take the notebook out of my bag and scan over Olivier’s neat, cursive handwriting that slants slightly to the right. The letters don’t really say much about the war or what it was like to be there at the time. I suppose sometimes the things people keep from us tell us the most about their character. The fact he sheltered the women in his life suggests he wasn’t just brave, but considerate too. My chest swells as I close the book back up.
The train soon pulls in to the station at Béthune and I swallow hard before climbing into a taxi and uttering ‘Neuve-Chapelle s’il vous plaît’ nervously in the absence of a thrust-worthy piece of paper. I’m not even sure that’s the proper way to direct a taxi driver but he sets off so all I can do is hope for the best.
The taxi pulls up outside a memorial. I can only assume he knows why I’m here.
‘Do you want me to wait?’ he asks, and I’m relieved he can speak English because I’d been panicking about sorting out the payment.
‘No, thank you.’ He looks at me like I’m odd but points to the charge on the meter anyway. I pay him and get out. The memorial is to commemorate almost five thousand Indian soldiers lost in battle. I head inside the circular enclosure and take a seat on a stone bench and remove the next letter from my great-grandfather.
12th January 1916
My dearest Elizabeth,
Just a few lines to let you know I’m in good health. We’re in the dugouts and the weather is awful. It has poured for days and we’re knee-deep in water. The conditions are terrible and I’ve seen rats bigger than cats. Do thank the church for the parcel they put together for me – the socks have been a particular blessing. It’s good to hear that Rose is settled in at school now. I send you both all my love and please don’t worry. We can do nothing but see this thing through.
All my love,
Will
Sitting here in the cemetery reading this makes me wonder about the other men. Each one had a family, a story, and nevertheless faced the indiscriminate threat of the shells and bullets as they rained down without mercy. The sadness I feel for them is profound, and if I let it, it could consume me.
I decide to go for a walk and head towards the houses to see the town that they fought for.
I wander the streets, and for the most part, I’m happy on my own, but part of me already misses the humour and life that the Americans brought to the tours and the random but interesting knowledge Olivier shares. Still, I must get used to my own company; it’s only a matter of time before I’ll be back home and living by myself.
I have to be able to be alone. I have to accept it as a permanent state.
The sight of an old lady on a bench catches my eye. She looks older than Martha and co, judging by her weathered skin and pale cloudy eyes, and to be honest, something about the picture she paints makes me feel sorry for her. A shopping bag sits by her feet and she grinds her whiskered jaw as she watches passers-by. I don’t need to rest but I sit next to her. I’m unsure why. Because I didn’t like to see her alone, I think. She casts me a hollow, indifferent look before slowly turning her head back to the quiet road ahead.
Why is it I pity this lady while sitting here convincing myself I’ll be okay with living alone? It can’t just be because she’s old, because I will be too one day. Perhaps I should let Kaitlynn set me up on one of those dating websites when I get back home. What harm could it do?
My phone frightens the life out of me as Beyoncé
’s notes scream from the ringer and the old lady huffs and slowly rises to her feet before hobbling off. ‘Hello?’ I answer quietly to compensate for disturbing the peace. I hadn’t even checked the screen to see who it is.
‘It’s me.’ Gary sounds despondent.
‘Hi, Gary, how are things? Any news on the job front?’ I keep my tone upbeat.
He sucks his teeth, resulting in an irritating smacking sound. ‘Nothing yet. I’ve told you before, it’s hopeless. Don’t worry, though, I’m going down to the housing office and I’m going to tell them I’m homeless.’
I exhale, allowing the air to leave my lungs completely. ‘You are not homeless. Don’t be so dramatic, and don’t you dare take accommodation from someone who is genuinely in need.’
‘But you said—’
‘Don’t you twist my words,’ I scold. ‘I said you’ve to get a job and start standing on your own two feet again.’
‘You told me to find a place.’
‘Gary, I won’t see you on the streets, you know that, but you do need to revert back to being a grown-up! Find a job and then get a flat. You have three and a half weeks to get your backside into gear.’ I press the end-call button without even a goodbye. If ever I needed a timely reminder that being alone was in fact a good idea, this was it.
Spurred into action, I rise from the bench and decide to find the town centre. I get all the way to the town hall before I realise I’m actually heading back out of the town rather than into it. I continue towards the farmland and look out across the fields, wondering where those wet and muddy trenches were and where the obliterated front line ended and the beautiful countryside began.
Now, there is no sign of them, not from my vantage point at least but just being here helps me feel closer to a man I’ve never met. I stay a while just imagining. I remember the words from a poem I studied back at sixth form: ‘Dreamers’, by Sassoon.
Soldiers are citizens of death’s grey land.
It Started With a Note Page 10
