It Started With a Note
Page 19
My heart flips. Bright, colourful thoughts are racing through my head at one hundred miles per hour and I can’t pluck one out to focus on, and instead, my head is like the murky brown you’d get in primary school when you mixed the entire tray of paints together for ‘experimental’ purposes. It renders me speechless.
‘You don’t have to say anything. I know this is one-sided and you’ve made your position very clear; I just wanted you to know the truth.’ This is the strangest, most ridiculously crazy thing that’s ever happened to me and I’m afraid if I speak, it will be an outlandish stream of gushy thanks. I lean over and kiss him on the cheek. It’s a knee-jerk reaction because I can’t find the words, and as soon as I pull away, I feel the heat rush to my cheeks . As I go to sit back down, he takes my face into his hands. My eyes are just inches away from his piercing blue ones. I can feel the warmth of his champagne-tinged breath on my face. He doesn’t speak or look away, but somehow his eyes have conjured up fireflies that are darting about inside me. Then he leans forward.
His hot lips press against mine gently. Slowly, he pulls away an inch, pressing his forehead to mine. I run my fingers through his soft hair and he lifts my chin so our mouths meet again. This time we fall into a rhythm. A slow tempo that gradually increases. His hands are entwined in my hair and I run mine down the back of his shirt. He pulls me in closer like he can’t get enough. Below the bellybutton, things stir that haven’t stirred in a long time.
Eventually, the tempo slows even more and he pulls away, resting his head against mine. ‘Oh, Cath,’ he says breathlessly. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I just couldn’t h—’
‘Shh,’ I say, pressing my finger to his lips. ‘Don’t say anything. It was … perfect.’
He lies back on the blanket and tugs my arm so I fall down beside him. Side-by-side, we look into to depths of the blue sky embellished with the odd fluffy white cloud that almost looks too perfect to be true. I feel his fingers find mine and entwine themselves, and we lie like that until Michael comes back to collect us.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I wake with a start. The emptiness in my stomach is probably the cause. I’d fallen asleep last night practically floating above the bed after goodness knows how long spent in an Olivier-infused daydream. We hadn’t kissed again yesterday, but I can still taste Olivier’s sweet champagne lips. Now, in the stark light of day, I’m horrified. How could I have let that happen? Saying goodbye to Olivier isn’t something I’ve been looking forward to, but now we’ve kissed it feels impossible.
I replay that one kiss over and over in my head, searching for a sign that it was a mistake. Something to clutch on to and say ‘ah well’ about, but all I remember is the deliciousness, and the way in which we were so synchronised, as if we fit together, and the way Olivier kept glancing at me afterwards. When Michael introduced us to his wife and showed us the oak barrels he ferments his vintage champagne in, Olivier never took his eyes off me. My skin still tingles now as if he’s left a part of himself on me.
Once I’m showered and dressed, I can focus more on the day. I almost cancel, because seeing Olivier is probably not a good idea, but I promised to help him out today, and I owe him that after all he’s done for me. I make my way across to the hotel where I’m meeting him. He has a group of year seven schoolchildren from the UK – thirty of them – to transport from a hostel on the outskirts of Arras to the ‘P’tit Train de la Haute Somme’ and has asked me to join him.
Because it is a coachload of children, Elena is coming too, which I’m apprehensive about because having his sister there adds a whole new dimension to things with Olivier. I’m glad the two of them are already sitting together when I board the coach – it means I can sink into a corner. I say hello to Elena and smile self-consciously at Olivier who jumps up and insists on sitting with me.
The children are lined up nicely outside the hostel when we pull up. Olivier, Elena and I get off the coach to help them all on board while the driver stays seated, reading the newspaper. The children are all aged between eleven and twelve and should hopefully be quite manageable. There are three schoolteachers accompanying them: two men and a woman, so between us, we should have some semblance of control.
Olivier gets on board while Elena stands by the door, high-fiving children before cautioning them to be careful when climbing the high step. The children file on board in a flurry of excitement, interspaced by the odd frazzled-looking teacher, and I begin to doubt my earlier belief about them being well behaved. I follow the last teacher on board and see the female staff member has taken the seat at the front, next to Olivier, who gives me an apologetic look, but I’m quite glad to put off any awkward conversations that may crop up. I sit behind the driver, who is still reading his paper, and Elena sits next to me just before the door closes.
‘So, you and Olivier, hey?’ She dives right in just as the engine starts to rumble.
My cheeks tingle. ‘He told you?’ So much for avoiding awkward conversations.
‘He didn’t need to. I know where he took you yesterday and I saw his beaming smile after. He really likes you,’ she says.
I glance around, hoping her voice is quiet enough and the engine noise loud enough that the conversation is just between the two of us. ‘We had a really nice day. The vineyard is beautiful,’ I say, politely.
‘It really is. I’m glad Olivier took you there.’ She glances around, obviously also hoping that nobody can hear us. ‘Many years ago he used to go all the time with his girlfriend.’ I feel a pang of something.
‘He told me about her. Didn’t she go travelling?’ I say, letting Elena know he’s already told me about his ex.
‘She did. He was a mess when she left and since then, he hasn’t been up to the vineyard,’ she whispers.
There’s a heaviness in my chest. He hadn’t really let on how much it affected him when his girlfriend left, but it’s not really any of my business anyway. It’s just strange that she left so long ago and he still hasn’t been able to face going back to the vineyard.
Elena leans in close. ‘It was all my fault too.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He didn’t tell you?’ Her eyebrows are gathered in and I shake my head, confused.
‘Olivier and I lost our parents the year he turned twenty. I was just sixteen and he became my guardian. He and his girlfriend always planned to travel the world together, but after that, he refused to go. I could have stayed with my grandparents, but he refused to leave me. His girlfriend still wanted to go because she felt it was a now-or-never decision, something she needed to do before she settled down.’ She falls into a thoughtful silence whilst I sit back in shock. I had no idea how much Olivier and I had in common. Perhaps the fact he too had so much responsibility at a young age is why I’m so drawn to him.
‘I’m sorry about your parents,’ I say after a moment.
‘It’s okay, it was so long ago now, and time is a great healer. They were wonderful people, though, and that’s how I remember them. The tour company was theirs originally, so naturally, Olivier and I took over after their death – well, mostly Olivier at first as I was still at school. Julien joined the business about five years ago as it grew and that’s how I met him.’
‘Olivier never mentioned that he owned the business.’ So the free excursions really were due to his own generosity.
‘Olivier is quite modest, and besides, “come and see my coach” doesn’t have the same pulling power as “come and see my Lamborghini” does.’ She throws her head back and laughs.
‘So how come Olivier hadn’t been back to the vineyard, if so much time has passed?’ I have to know.
Elena twists her mouth. I knew there was more to it. ‘The last time he went there was to propose to his girlfriend. He thought if he showed her how serious he was about building a life together, she’d change her mind and stay.’
‘But she didn’t.’ My words come out in a whisper, and Elena shakes her head morosely.
I want to dispute it and say that he’s probably just moved on and it’s all a big coincidence, but I remember the kiss, and the way his eyes were all over me and I wonder if perhaps I have broken his spell. It’s a bittersweet thought.
Laughter erupts, breaking my thoughts. It’s the female teacher. I can’t see her properly, but I can see that she’s sitting side on, facing Olivier. She laughs again, tossing her hair back, and I imagine Olivier telling one of his terrible jokes and I smile because he’ll be thrilled that someone appreciates them.
We turn into a car park outside the museum and the female teacher stands up and yells at the children to be quiet and listen (in French). Then, once the children are calm, one of the male teachers instructs them to file off calmly. Elena jumps off and runs into the museum, presumably to sort out the tickets, but I remain seated until everyone is off. One of the male teachers is shouting at the children to line up as I walk over to the museum. He only looks like he’s in his mid-twenties. Once the children are lined up, he turns to me. ‘Hi, I’m Mr Buchannan. Mike. I’m a history teacher.’ He holds out a hand, which I shake. ‘That’s Mr Mitchell, another history teacher, and Ms Clarke is the French teacher.’ He gestures to the other two staff members.
‘I’m Cath,’ I say, ‘I’m just helping out.’
My eyes wander over to Ms Clarke, who hasn’t left Olivier’s side since they got off the coach. I can hear her chatting to him in French and convince myself she’s just brushing up on her skills, but there’s a lump of ice in my stomach that makes me feel quite unusual. I turn away and find myself facing the schoolchildren, who are all chattering in little groups, looking more like a chubby caterpillar than the neat line they were asked to form.
‘Check Ms Clarke out with that guy,’ I hear one boy say. ‘She’s all over him.’
I try to ignore the comments, but as we enter the museum, they start to gnaw away at me and I don’t know why. Olivier is just being his typical friendly self but Ms Clarke is being, well, keen.
We each take a group of six children to explore the museum before we go on a train ride. I end up with six mini versions of Kieran, so at least I know what I’m doing. Surprisingly, they’re quite interested in all the different engines that were used in the Great War, taking a particularly keen interest in a small, rusty engine that had been used to transport artillery to the front line. There were even a few ‘oh my Gods’ when they saw how some trains were powered by bicycle.
Every now and then, I glance over at Olivier, who is often stooping down to the height of the children and pointing something out or explaining something animatedly. They are all engrossed and I wonder how he is so good with children, not having any of his own. He’s a natural, I guess.
Ms Clarke is barking orders to ‘get down’ at one member of her group who has boarded one of the trains. As I turn to walk down the aisle between two train tracks, I tense as I see Olivier walking towards me. ‘Hello, you,’ I say quietly, with a sizeable dollop of fake confidence in my tone. The children are distracted by a small medical train, used to transport injured soldiers from the front line, and are oblivious to our lingering eye contact. We haven’t spoken about our kiss yesterday, and I can feel something – tension? – hanging in the air.
A girl comes over and hovers nearby. ‘This is a great place, isn’t it?’ Olivier says, noticing our company. I smile in response, but I’m desperate to talk to him. I want to make sure he knows that yesterday was wonderful, but that I don’t expect anything from him. I can’t. Not with me going home soon. It’s a holiday romance or fling. Actually, it’s neither of those things. It’s a holiday friendship sealed with a kiss. God, I’m driving myself crazy. It’s like Kaitlynn has crawled into my head. I’d give anything to go back to worrying about whoops deals and electricity cards.
‘It’s time to head to the platform,’ Olivier says and I round up my group, glad of the distraction. The railway is a narrow-gauge kind, and so the trains are much smaller than regular ones. There is a choice of open or closed carriages and we opt for the latter for safety purposes. The last thing any of us wants is to have to scrape a splattered pre-teen off the inside of a tunnel. The carriages are big enough that three whole groups of seven can fit into one, which are broken into open sections of three.
I bundle my children in and take a seat on the wooden bench. Ms Clarke hovers close to Olivier, and I think she was hoping to share a carriage with him. I catch a glimpse of disappointment when he climbs in with his group and closes the door, unaware she was trying to peer in, seemingly after a seat.
He sits directly behind me and his back touches mine above the wooden seatback of the bench. The hair follicles on the back of my neck tingle with electricity.
Soon, we’re on our way. My boys are fairly calm and one, in particular, reminds me more of Kieran at that age than the others. That funny age where they start to feel much older and more capable at life than they really are. Most people dread the pre-teen and teenage years, but I used to think it was cute when Kieran was that age. As the train trundles by the Somme canal, I sit back and take in the stunning views. The boys do too but there is the odd mumbling of how boring it is. I smile to myself because twelve-year-old Kieran would have said the same if his friends were by his side but would have loved it otherwise.
‘Miss, how come you’re in France if you’re English?’ a cherub-like blond boy asks.
‘I live in England. I’m here for the same reason you are – to learn about the First World War,’ I say.
‘How come you’re on our trip then?’ another boy asks.
‘I’m in France for a while, and my friend, Olivier—’ he turns around and waves in acknowledgement ‘—has been taking me on some of the trips, so today I’m helping him out to say thanks.’
That seems to be it for the questions and we all return to silence. Soon after, the train goes through a narrow tunnel, taking us into the pitch black. I feel an arm come over my shoulder and a hand finds mine. Its warm familiarity sends my stomach into Cirque Du Soleil mode. As we approach the sunny daylight, his fingers slip away and our focus returns to the children, but there is a niggling question in the back of my head. What are we doing?
The train journey is quite long and doesn’t stop anywhere. After we’ve seen the beautiful poppy fields, we turn around and head the same way back to the station. ‘We’ve got to do all of that. Again?’ whines one of the boys.
I nod. Even the precarious zigzag back down the hill doesn’t excite them and soon they’re jabbing each other in the ribs and playing a good old-fashioned game of slapsies.
‘So where else have you been?’ I ask, trying to generate some interest in the trip.
The blond boy shrugs. ‘A museum. Some trenches.’ He doesn’t seem too interested.
‘My great-grandfather was killed in the First World War.
‘Really?’ He looks me over. ‘You don’t look that old. My great-grandad is still alive and the war was a hundred years ago,’ he says and I laugh.
‘My grandmother had my mother at an older age and my mum didn’t have me until she was in her thirties.’ I can see the cogs turning in his head, but I don’t think he fully computes.
‘So he was a war hero?’ he asks eventually.
‘I suppose he was,’ I say.
‘Cool.’ He looks back out of the window.
‘I have an idea,’ Olivier says, shuffling sideward on his bench so he can see into both mine and his sections. ‘Let’s play I spy, in French.’ A few children groan but decide to join in anyway, and I’m pleasantly surprised at one girl who starts the game off with unbroken fluency. Her chosen letter is ‘A’ and I’m stumped.
‘Arbre,’ one boy says.
‘Très bien,’ she says with a smile. I’m a bit lost but glad the fighting has stopped. I mouth ‘thank you’ to Olivier, who gives me a gorgeous lopsi
ded smile.
It’s a short-lived respite and soon the slapsies recommence to a greater extent. There’s a wail as one boy ends up in floods of tears after another caught his eye with a fingernail. Others laugh whilst a few continue to complain of boredom. The carriage is starting to descend into chaos.
‘Let me see,’ I say, beckoning the injured boy to come over. I inspect his eye. It’s red but he’ll live. ‘It’s quite funny that you’re injured on this track,’ I say. He doesn’t look amused. ‘Because it was used to transport injured soldiers to safety.’ The fighting escalates, and the injured boy thumps the inflicting boy whilst my head is turned. They both stand up and in the confined carriage it looks quite menacing.
I stand up and put my hands on my hips. ‘Quiet, now. Every one of you.’ I speak from the back of my throat in my loudest, sternest voice. Everyone across all three sections of the carriage turns to look at me. I’m quite relieved because if they didn’t, it would have been embarrassing. ‘That is quite enough. You are here to learn about the war, not prat around fighting. Now sit down!’ All eyes are still on me. I take out one of the plastic wallets from my leather folder. I’d brought them in case anyone was interested. ‘My great-grandfather was killed in the First World War and this is a letter her wrote to his family in England.’ It’s the one from Étaples and I read it out. Everyone remains silent. ‘Do you see what men had to go through? Some of those men were only six years older than you. In fact, some lied about their age and came to fight when they were only a few years older than you are now. They fought for their country and their friends, not among themselves.’ I think I’ve made my point now and the carriage is much quieter so I go to put the letter away.