My own interpretation of that line was that all soldiers were in a moral ‘grey area’ where killing and death had become a normal part of life. Now I see it more like the men were in emotional and physical limbo, not knowing whether they would live or die. Either way, as the next line explains, they didn’t bank on having a ‘tomorrow’. As I cast my eyes across the farmland before me it’s the image of peace and colour, and I wish the people who fought for this could know that. I hope they somehow know the grey land has gone. I dab the moist corner of my eye.
Since there isn’t much else to see, I head back towards the town hall and try a different direction, and another but it doesn’t take long to realise that the town is so tiny it doesn’t warrant a taxi rank or bus station. There isn’t even a hotel. What the hell am I going to do? It takes everything I’ve got not to go into full-on panic mode, but I can feel frozen terror popping at the surface, ready to burst out. I’m keeping it at bay with a series of deep breaths and the wispy notion that I can’t possibly be stranded. It just can’t happen. There has to be a way back to Arras. I know I’m in rural France but it’s still 2018.
Then I have a brainwave. Kaitlynn put an app on my phone last year when we were on our Christmas do. She said a taxi will come and find me and take me home from wherever I am and I wouldn’t need cash. Plus, the app will text her and tell her where I am just in case the taxi driver happens to be a machete-brandishing maniac, not that she’d come rushing to France if he was but she would probably call the police. She said it worked all over the world. I’m giddy with hope as I pull out my phone and tap the app to open it. It’s spooling or whatever the equivalent term is today. I smile at a man walking past for no other reason than he’s the first person I’ve seen for a while, and then I look back at my phone.
Request has timed out.
I close the app and reopen it. That usually does the trick, doesn’t it?
Still nothing happens. I look at the signal on my phone and it has that annoying ‘E’ symbol where 4G should be and I have no bars so even if I knew anyone here to call, I couldn’t. My eyes dart left and right with despair, as if I’ll find the answer by physically looking for it. With no other choice, I let the panic erupt but it comes out in short, sharp breaths because I’m so exasperated with myself for not anticipating this that I can’t even cry tears. It feels like a punishment.
I wander aimlessly and not a car passes me by. There’s a church up ahead. Would they take me in for the night? Do they even do that anymore? Did they ever? What would I even say? I don’t know the French term for: ‘I’m a lost and stranded idiot who needs to get back to Arras.’ Maybe in the future getting lost and stranded will be called ‘doing a Cath’. ‘Oh, hi (insert name of loving relative here), I’ve done a Cath – can you come and get me?’ Maybe it will even be funny to look back on in years to come.
My runaway thoughts are helping in no way, shape or form. I need a plan before it goes dark and I have to sleep in a field and no, the sad irony isn’t lost on me that my great-grandfather did just that (except he was literally inside the field in a crevice of mud) and I am here to follow in his footsteps, after all. Maybe I should sleep in a field. No, Cath! My morning hair would guarantee I’d be mistaken for a shaggy dog and get shot at by an over-zealous farmer protecting his flock. God, being shot at, that really would be authentic. I scold myself for the poor taste of the last thought even though it came from panic.
Right, sleeping here is not an option. Walking anywhere seems improbable unless I want to lose my lower leg to a pack of rabid wolves – who knows what lurks in those fields and forests? Rats as big as cats apparently! I’d rather take my chances with the rabid wolves.
As I scour the immaculate pavement for some cast-aside cardboard to make an ‘Arras’ sign with, in case I need to hitchhike, I spot something in the distance and it’s my only hope.
Chapter Fourteen
An elderly lady is cleaning the counter of the boulangerie as I walk in. When I go to speak, my mind draws a blank, as it’s done on so many occasions since I’ve been here, so to avoid looking odd, I pick up a baguette and place it on the counter.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak French but I’m in a bit of a pickle and wonder if you could help me,’ I say. My voice sounds rusty from lack of use. She looks me up and down and frowns. I know how ignorant it is of me to not speak French whilst assuming she can speak English, but this is a bit of an emergency. ‘André,’ she shouts, pointing her face towards a side door without taking her eyes off me.
André is a young boy of around twelve. A conversation ensues that I’m not privy to and I think she knows it. ‘Yes, madame,’ André says. Ahh, he’s the translator.
I relay the story to him, and when he acknowledges me, my eyes fill with stingy moisture as he, in turn, fills the older lady in.
‘She says not to worry, we can help you.’ Despite the lack of emotion in his tone, the gratitude erupts inside of me and the tears I wanted to shed so desperately before come flooding out. The boy raises his eyebrows at me and if I’m honest, looks a bit disgusted at me for my outburst but I thank him anyway before repeating the word ‘Merci’ over and over to the old woman.
‘She said to come this way.’ He doesn’t wait for me to reply before heading back through the side door and gesturing to a floral sofa. ‘You can sit here.’ I do as instructed, all the while wondering if I’ve made a huge mistake.
A short while later, the old woman hands me a cup of tea and says something I don’t understand before placing a bowl of fruit on the table beside me. I thank her again and sip the hot, sweet tea, instantly put at ease by its familiar taste and the old lady’s kindness. My great-grandfather mentioned he found the French people to be welcoming. Perhaps I’m experiencing some of the same French hospitality he did. I like the idea of that.
‘My uncle has a taxi in a nearby town. He will come and collect you in about thirty minutes.’ André reappears. ‘Do you have any cash to pay?’
I nod eagerly, and he disappears again. I’m left alone in the small living area, which I think is very trusting, but I probably do have an honest face. I did used to get away with the tiniest of fibs when I was younger, much to Gary’s disgust.
‘My uncle is here.’ André is standing in the doorway. As I make my way into the brightly lit shop I stop at the counter to pay for my bread. The lady smiles and waves a hand, dismissing the charge. I want to protest but I physically can’t, so I thank her again and turn to André.
‘Thank you so much for helping me out today. I honestly don’t know how I’d have gotten back to my hotel if you hadn’t called your uncle.’ André shrugs. ‘Your grandmother is a special woman – you should look after her.’ His eyes drop to the floor and he twists his mouth guiltily. ‘Please tell her that, and tell her how grateful I am for the tea, and the sofa and the bread.’ He nods.
By the time I reach the hotel, I’m sticky and I swear that what is left of my make-up is floating atop a millimetre of grease. The taxi ride to the train station and the train ride home both felt twice as long as on the way there, but I’m back now and just need a shower and a good night’s sleep. As I scurry through reception, I catch a glimpse of myself in one of the mirrors and it’s worse than I imagined. My hair looks like it’s been to Blackpool on a windy day without me, and my make-up is tear-stained and punctuated with two grey-black sacks beneath my eyes. Thank God I’m back.
‘Cath?’ No, no no. I could just carry on and pretend I haven’t heard his caramel-smooth voice. I could invent an ailment next time I see him. Glue ear? He’d never know. As I ponder, I feel a warm, heavy hand on my shoulder and have no choice but to turn around.
‘Cath? What’s happened? Are you all right?’ he says, concern etched in his features.
His warmth causes my knees to buckle slightly and I clutch his arm to steady myself.
‘Come and sit down. I’ll get you a drink.’ I sit in one of the bucket chairs, realising I was wide-eyed at the sight of him
a moment ago. He probably thinks I’ve been mugged, not hypnotised.
‘Here.’ He hands me a small glass with brown liquid in. The ice cubes tinkle as I raise it to my lips.
Eugh. I pull a face. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s brandy. You looked like you needed it.’
‘Well, it’s enough to make me forget my own name, never mind my terrible day.’ I’m half-joking but the crevice between his eyebrows suggests he hasn’t picked up on it. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I’m just not used to spirits. Not unless they’re inside those liqueur chocolates you get at Christmas – I can manage those.’ The ‘V’ doesn’t budge so I take another sip, trying hard to keep my face in neutral. ‘Mmm, but now I’m really getting the flavour.’ He wraps his hand gently around mine and guides the glass to the table.
‘I just thought you needed a strong drink. Please, don’t drink it if you don’t like it. You’ll make yourself ill.’
Note to self: My neutral face is not so neutral.
‘Thank you.’ My insides soften.
‘Want to tell me about it?’
I nod and fill him in, and actually, when I strip it all back, taking out the bits that didn’t happen, like the farmers, the wolves and the confusion at church, it wasn’t even so bad. I couldn’t find a taxi and a kindly shop assistant found me one. The End.
‘Cath, I could have picked you up,’ he says. I don’t bother going into the whole phone signal debacle.
He’s reaching in his pocket and pulls out a card. ‘This is my number. I want you to call me if you’re ever stuck again.’
‘It won’t happen again but thank you. I just hadn’t anticipated how small the town was, especially because there was such a big battle there. I’d planned the trip based on a website and it said to catch a train and taxi. So, I’d naïvely assumed it would be a simple process.’
‘Was the trip what you expected otherwise?’
I think back to reading my great-grandfather’s letter in the open countryside and experiencing the same French hospitality that I think he did and, oh my God: ‘Yes, it was!’ Then I’m reaching into my bag and showing Olivier the letter and telling him all about how moving the Indian memorial was.
‘So where is next on your journey?’
‘He went straight to the Somme Valley after Neuve-Chapelle. Mametz Wood.’
‘I could take you there if you like? And before you refuse, it would allow me to make up for not taking you to Neuve-Chapelle today, or even warning you how difficult it is to get to. I have another day off tomorrow in lieu of working today and I’d be honoured to, if you don’t mind me tagging along. I know your journey is a personal one.’
I think for a moment. A wood sounds even more remote than the village I went to today. My only other option is to hire a car but I don’t have a car in England and I haven’t driven for years. The thought terrifies me and if I’m completely honest with myself, there’s something inside of me leaping around at the thought of Olivier’s company.
‘Only if it isn’t an inconvenience?’
‘Not at all, and if you want time alone, I can call to see my friends at Thiepval.’
‘Then it’s a date.’ I wince. ‘I didn’t mean …’ He places a hand on mine, sending frissons through my own.
‘I know what you meant.’
Perhaps it was a Freudian slip.
Chapter Fifteen
I wait anxiously at the main entrance to the hotel. There is every chance that Olivier could have forgotten about his offer to drive me to Mametz Wood and I’ll be left waiting like a fool. He has a busy schedule, after all, and chats with so many tourists each day that it would be perfectly understandable if he did forget. After a busy day at work, I once forgot it was my own birthday until I got home and found a card from Kieran.
Olivier pulls up at two minutes to and I exhale with relief.
‘Good morning, madame,’ he says cheerfully through the open window of his tiny red Citroën C2.
I walk around to the passenger side and climb in. ‘Morning, Olivier. Thank you so much for offering to take me today.’ I’ve already decided to offer petrol money to alleviate some of the guilt I feel.
‘It’s no problem. It’s a nice drive out, and I haven’t been there for a while.’
He puts the car into gear and we are on our way.
‘So, you’re a week into your trip. Are you getting homesick?’ he asks as we weave through the town.
‘I don’t really know. A lot has happened in such a short space of time that I haven’t given home much thought. Maybe next week I will.’ I let out a small laugh.
‘I’m sure the hotel staff are looking after you.’
‘Oh, definitely,’ I say. ‘Though I’m starting to get cravings for Galaxy chocolate and I can’t find it in the local shops. I doubt the hotel staff will want to help with that. I’ve never gone without it for this long before so who knows what could happen.’ He picks up on my humour and smiles, but I’m only half-joking. The symptoms of withdrawal are already starting to present themselves. Hallucinations, cravings and the unsatisfactory consumption of alternative-brand chocolate.
We don’t talk much more once we’ve left the town; instead, he concentrates on the roads and I take in the views of endless farmland.
‘We’re almost there,’ he announces as we turn onto a lonely dirt track, but I don’t see anything. He glances my way and must read my blank expression.
‘We’re close. There’s just this one last road.’
There’s nothing else around. It’s quite remote.
‘You’re not going to murder me, are you?’ I laugh nervously, and Olivier looks taken aback.
‘It was a joke,’ I say but glancing at the lane and trees ahead, I’m not quite sure if it was now.
‘This is the only way to reach it.’ He holds his hands up. ‘And I promise, I won’t murder you.’
I frown at him. ‘Good.’ I suppose if he wanted to, he could have done it already.
He shakes his head and continues down the path until he pulls the car up and turns off the engine.
‘Just a few steps to climb.’ He points to a metal staircase climbing a hill.
‘That’s more than a few.’ Roland wasn’t joking when he’d said Olivier made them walk a lot.
‘Come on. It’s good for you,’ he says, climbing out of the car.
We make it to the top and it’s a few moments before I can catch my breath. I take the time to read the inscription on the statue.
‘Mametz Wood, 1916’.
I glance at the clearing and woods surrounding the hill we’d climbed. ‘The fighting here was quite nasty. Apparently, there was a lot of hand-to-hand combat during this battle and the men actually looked their enemies in the eyes as they fought. Can you imagine that?’ I say.
Olivier raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re full of surprises.’
‘I studied war poetry many moons ago. I don’t know as much as you but a few of the poets I studied fought here. My great-grandfather mentioned in one of his letters that some of his fellow comrades had started to write poetry and who knows, some of those men could even be the well-known poets that I studied. I haven’t read any war poetry since my A levels but being here is bringing odd lines back to me. It’s surprising what sticks in your memory.’
I look back at the monument. The red dragon tribute to Wales on top is clutching a fistful of barbed wire. Its relevance here is painful.
‘I’m going to sit and read the next letter,’ I say and Olivier nods knowingly.
‘I’ll go and have a walk across the clearing.’ He heads for the staircase and I sit on the grass overlooking what would have been the battlefield.
15th July 1916
My dearest Elizabeth,
We’ve had our first big piece of action. No doubt word has reached home about the big offensive so I wanted to write to let you know I’m all right. We’ve had the task of clearing the bodies. Grown men weep unashamedly as they carry their
dead brothers from the churned-up, pitted land. I long to come home and see you and Rose, if just for a second, for I’m not sure if it would be my last. After what I’ve seen, I hold life and love dear.
I love you always.
Will
I choke back a sob as I carefully place the letter back in its wallet and make my way down the steps to where Olivier is wandering the grassed area before the woods.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks.
I nod and force a weak smile.
He gives me a knowing look before changing the subject. ‘Look what I found.’ He hands me a piece of twisted metal.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a piece of shrapnel. If you look carefully enough, they can be found all around here.’
‘That’s crazy,’ I say, studying the century-old piece of death-inducing metal.
‘And if you look over there, you can see where the land bears the scars of the trenches.’
‘They’re so close together.’ I can almost picture being there at the time. Looking at the enemy. It was such a personal war in many ways.
‘I don’t know about you, but I could do with a beer. What do you say?’ He changes the subject at just the right time, before things get too maudlin.
‘I’d really like that.’ More than Olivier probably knew. I’m glad he hadn’t suggested food because I don’t think I could eat a morsel, but a drink is something I can definitely manage.
We pull up outside a stone-built pub and Olivier greets the barman with a simple ‘Bonjour.’
I sit down, and he joins me shortly after with two small beers, pulled from the tap.
‘Olivier, I feel like we’ve spoken a lot but I don’t know much about you. Do you have any hobbies?’
‘Being a tour guide is a bit like being a superhero, Cath: I’m always ready to help out a tourist in need.’ His eyes are on me, heating my face.
‘I think you’re over-egging your career a little,’ I tease. ‘If that’s the case I’m a senior trades executive providing goods for cash. I even run a packaging scheme.’
It Started With a Note Page 11
