Once I’m sat down, all kinds of things whizz through my head. Is he taking the pills again? Was he trying to talk to me about it? Is it my fault? I grab my phone seeking a distraction and I’m surprised to see a missed call from Kieran. I call him back straight away, hoping to catch him. Normal life is the perfect distraction.
‘Hello, love,’ I say before he has a chance to speak.
‘Hi, Mum.’ The sound of his voice shocks me. The familiarity of it brings back so much feeling and emotion. My eyes start to sting with moisture.
‘Oh, Kieran. I’ve missed you.’
‘Give over, Mum.’ There’s humour in his tone and I know it’s because he’s missed me too but he’s too macho to say.
‘I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.’
‘It’s not been that long. Are you still in France?’
‘Yes, I’ve six days left here in Arras and then I’m going to Paris for a few days before coming home. It would be great if you could come home that weekend?’
He pauses to run some mental calculations. ‘Yeah, probably.’
‘Did you get your perm?’ I ask keenly.
‘I did. Shall I send you a pic?’
‘Please, love.’ I haven’t made my mind up as to whether I’ll laugh or cry when I see it but I’m definitely intrigued.
From the corner of my eye, I see Olivier step out on to the patio. Instinctively, I shout ‘Hi.’ And he shouts it back.
‘Who is that?’ Kieran asks.
‘Oh, it’s a … er … friend.’ I glance at Olivier and mouth ‘my son’. He smiles and sits on the lounger next to me.
‘A male friend?’ Kieran’s tone is teasing.
‘It isn’t like that.’ My hand becomes clammy around the phone. It’s a strange conversation to have with Kieran, especially since Olivier is sat next to me. I come over all squeamish.
‘Well if it is, it’s okay, you know?’ he says. There are so many things I want to say, that mostly centre around denial, but that was a very mature thing for Kieran to come out with and so I simply thank him. University must be doing him good.
‘Anyway, I’m playing five-a-side soon so I have to go. Love you, Mum.’
My heart swells with love. I can’t remember the last time he said that. ‘Love you too, son.’
‘How was work?’ I ask Olivier when I’ve put my phone and all thoughts of pill bottles away.
‘It was dull. I’m not a fan of office work. It’s more Julien’s thing but I have to do the accounts as he needs training so he’s swanning off to London today … but, I get to spend the afternoon here with you.’ He takes my hand and kisses it. My stomach somersaults and immediately after, knots.
‘Olivier. I think we need to talk,’ I say, sliding my hand from his.
A crease forms between his eyebrows; then he relaxes and looks down to the arm of the lounger. ‘I know. But first, you have to try my tarte au citron.’
I put my head on the side and give him the kind of look I used to give to Kieran when he tried to put off tidying his room.
‘Honestly, you won’t want to feel all maudlin when you eat it. It’s a fresh, happy flavour and should be enjoyed while fresh and happy.’
‘It’s a good job I’ve had a swim then,’ I say dryly.
He saunters off into the kitchen and soon re-emerges with the tarte, whilst balancing some forks on two small plates in his other hand.
‘Here you go.’ He hands me a piece. It’s even topped with icing sugar, and the lemon curd sits neatly in the pastry – none oozing over the side like it would be if I’d made it. I jab a piece with my fork and pop it in my mouth. The buttery pastry is the perfect base for the deliciously sweet and tangy lemon curd.
‘Mmm. This is heavenly. Seriously.’ I close my eyes to savour the taste even more. ‘I want you to come home and live with me.’ The last sentence pops out as a joke but straight away I realise the awkwardness of it, especially when Olivier doesn’t laugh.
‘I’m glad you like it.’ He’s already eaten half of his piece.
My phone buzzes and it’s the photo of Kieran. He has his tongue out and he’s pulling a ‘rock on’ gesture with his free hand – the other, I assume, is taking the picture. His perm looks okay, very similar to the hairstyles many boys have these days. I’d just assumed their curls were natural, not permed. I show Olivier.
‘The perm,’ I say.
‘He’s a handsome young man,’ he says, shovelling the last forkful of tart into his mouth.
Now is as good a time as any to say my piece. ‘Okay, the talk. Shall I start?’ I want him to say no and take the lead because I might just be over-reacting in his eyes, but he doesn’t. Instead, he gestures for me to go ahead. I take a deep breath and decide to keep it light. ‘I’ve had so much fun with you. I’ve really enjoyed your company—’
‘Me too,’ he interrupts.
‘But I only have six more days left and then I’ll leave and this will be all over.’
He’s peeling a piece of dried-out wood off the armrest of the lounger. He doesn’t look up. ‘I’ve been thinking about this too. I wondered if I should keep my distance, but I can’t.’
‘Don’t you think the more time we spend together, the harder it will be to say goodbye?’
‘Can’t you stay longer?’ His tone suggests he knows I can’t.
‘I have a son, a job, and a home. I can’t afford to lose any of those things, just like you can’t lose your home and business here. And besides, staying longer would just make things worse.’
‘What is your suggestion?’
‘I’ve thought long and hard about it. We can either stop seeing each other now and draw a line in the sand, or we can enjoy the next six days together. Either way, we can stay friends when I leave.’
He sits back in the chair, looking into the distance. ‘I can’t stop seeing you, Cath, not while you’re here.’
My chest fizzes with excitement at the thought of the next six days together. It’s the right decision, definitely. A wonderful six days, then back to the life I know and love. What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The next few days are heavenly bliss. I join a couple of Great War tours. There have been plenty of knowing glances and stolen kisses and the world has felt a much brighter place. It’s now day four, which is our planned visit Ypres but first, Olivier wanted to show me the museum at Passchendaele.
From the car park, we walk past what looks like a building site. It isn’t until we’re right next to it that I realise what I’m looking at. ‘Is this …?’
‘A small piece of battlefield? Yes.’
The pulped ground is punctuated by the gnarly remains of trees and barbed-wire posts. Wooden planks lay across the mud to enable easier passage.
We continue walking to the museum, which is housed in a quaint, Flemish chateau.
‘Do you want “tour guide” Olivier or just the regular charming and handsome version?’ I glance his way, grinning.
‘I’ll take a bit of both.’
The gas masks, the weaponry, the lives and fears of everyday people are all completely unimaginable. I try to imagine my great-grandfather wearing these clothes, carrying these weapons whilst crossing the wooden boards I saw outside. Bullets flying and explosions deafening him as he went. He thought he might die here. I know that because of his final letter. He was resigned to it and fought anyway. His only hope was a prayer for survival.
I become aware of my heart racing. As we watch a short film about a raid on a village and the horrific bayonetting of a local man, I snuggle into the nook of Olivier’s arm. It’s hard to imagine why someone who had more than this, who had real love and a family, would want to volunteer for war. Chances are, he’d have been conscripted in time for the Somme offensive anyway but he didn’t know that back in 1914.
We make our way through the replica underground bunkers, which take us out into realistic-looking trenches. ‘It’s hard to imagine trying to stay alive down
here, isn’t it?’ I say as the reality sinks in. I try to imagine the bombs and bullets whizzing overhead, not knowing what direction they’re flying in or where they would land.
‘They think about three hundred and twenty-five thousand Allied men died here alone, and as you know, Miss Poetry, the conditions were much worse than what you see here. Men and horses died because of the mud, not just the fighting,’ he replies. I think back to the replica battlefield we’d passed when walking from the car park.
‘Then there were diseases and trench foot on top of the smell and the rats. Ten per cent of soldiers fighting this war were killed,’ Olivier continues. I can only see the side of his face, but there’s moisture glazing his eyes and it makes tears prick at my own. ‘Here.’ His tone changes to one that’s more upbeat, ‘Do you see this?’ He jumps up on the bench and points out a metal panel. ‘It’s a loophole for snipers to look out across no man’s land. Some snipers could make a shot right through the enemy loopholes and kill their targets.’ It’s hard to imagine they had the equipment back then. I stand on my tiptoes to peer through the hole and Olivier puts his hands on my hips and lifts me slightly so I can see better. The poor souls wouldn’t have stood a chance.
‘I just can’t understand why my great-grandfather enlisted,’ I say. ‘I can’t imagine why anyone would do that. Not when they have a wife and child at home.’
‘There was a strong sense of national pride and the propaganda was heavy.’ He reaches in his pocket and pulls out his phone before showing me the screen. ‘Here are some of the posters.’
I scan them. ‘Women in Britain say go. Your king and country need you.’ I read the headlines of two of the colourful posters aloud and take in the equally compelling images. The rest are just as powerful. Coupled with the media outlets back then it was easy to see how people wanted to fight for their country.
‘Thanks,’ I say and Olivier shrugs, stuffing the phone back into his pocket. ‘I suppose things were different then. These days people vape or do the ice bucket challenge under peer pressure; back then, it was saving your country.’ I sigh at the trivialisation and the phrase ‘you don’t know you’re born’ springs to mind.
Outside the museum is a beautiful, serene lake, and families make the most of the warm summer sun by eating picnics by the stunning vista. Children play happily in the playground nearby. It takes me a moment to adjust to the contrasting scene.
‘I’m glad we came here,’ I say as we take a seat looking out at the view. ‘It’s helped to complete the picture of my great-grandfather’s war journey. I feel like I’ve seen the beauty he wanted to share with my grandmother and I feel like I truly understand his bravery and the horrors he faced.’
Olivier puts his arm around my back and squeezes me close, kissing my head as I lean in to him and for a moment we glance across the lake.
‘I think I’m ready to walk the final footstep.’
We arrive in the pretty town of Ypres a short while later and once again, I’m surprised at how small it is. It’s not Neuve-Chapelle small, but because of the casualties suffered, I just expected it would be a bigger place. We park near the Menin Gate, but I don’t want to look at it yet, not properly, though its dominance of the town hasn’t gone unnoticed.
I want to visit the ‘In Flanders Field’ museum and learn all I can about the third battle of Ypres. The museum itself is a beautiful building dominating a square in the heart of the town. I take particular interest in the third battle of Ypres, in 1917. My great-grandfather was killed on the 27th of August after an advancement during a heavy storm. The men had been neck-deep in mud and had walked overnight through wind and rain. By the time zero hour came, they were numbed by the cold and barely able to move. They were sitting ducks for the German machine gunners. I close my eyes and put myself there, imagining the sounds from the museum at Albert for background noise.
Little shocks of emotion flare my nostrils and flood my eyes. I break down, heaving out the sadness that’s built up over the past three-and-a-bit weeks. After all the battles my great-grandfather took part in, all the wretched conditions he lived in, the training, everything, he was killed just stuck in the mud, waiting to be shot. Killed like he was nothing. I don’t know why his body was never found, perhaps it lies in the beautiful fields he was so fond of. I take a tissue out of my bag and clutch it to my face. Olivier wraps me in his arms and strokes my hair.
‘I’m sorry.’ I sniff. ‘It’s just so profoundly sad. What a senseless waste of life.’
‘I know,’ he whispers into my hair still clutching me tight.
‘Surely there could have been a better way.’
‘Maybe.’ Olivier holds me and for a few moments we stay like that.
‘I’m ready to find his name,’ I say.
When we exit the museum, I decide to buy a wooden cross topped with a red poppy. We call in one of the gift shops stocking British Legion merchandise and sit on a bench.
‘Here.’ Olivier hands me a Sharpie pen. ‘I always have this with me when we visit war graves as most people decide to leave a message of remembrance.’
I take the pen and fiddle with it.
‘Do you want to be alone?’ he asks.
I shake my head. ‘No, it’s okay, I just don’t know what to write. I’m not very good at this kind of thing. I never have the right words.’
‘You’re a caring, compassionate woman,’ he says, catching my eyes with his. The back of my neck tingles. ‘Most people want to thank the men for their sacrifice and tell them they’ll never be forgotten.’
‘Of course. That’s what I’ll put.’ I pop the lid off the pen and write clearly:
William Edward Ainsley
Lost but not forgotten
27/8/1917
Thank you for your sacrifice.
From your great-granddaughter,
Cathy
xxx
‘That is perfect,’ Olivier says as I place the lid back on the pen. ‘Would you like me to walk with you while you lay it?’
I look at him with moist eyes and nod. A lump has formed in my throat. The fact that I’m here, the only person in the whole world who has ever made the effort to see the tribute to my great-grandfather, is almost a raindrop of relief in a lake of crushing sadness. ‘Thank you,’ I say eventually, but it comes out in a whisper. Sensing my emotion, Olivier places a comforting hand on mine, and enjoying the warmth and tingle beneath, I let it rest a moment. He’s good at this. It must come from years of experience.
‘Whenever you’re ready,’ he says, leaving his hand on mine.
Before I came I’d printed off the grid reference so I know where to find his name. We take the steps under the archway to the panel; poppy wreaths and crosses line the way.
‘There he is. Ainsley W.E.’ I point to his name.
‘Honoured a hero for all time,’ Olivier says quietly.
‘Agreed.’ I kiss the cross before gently placing it down on the immaculate stone floor beneath the inscribed fascia and stop to look at it. A simple name, a beautiful tribute, the end of a journey. I dry my eyes and turn to Olivier.
‘Thank you for being here with me today. I’m so glad I’ve completed this journey for more reasons than I can even describe.’ He kisses my head and I take out the last letter.
25th August 1917
My dearest Elizabeth,
If you get this letter, it probably means the worst for I’ve left it with a friend to post if I don’t make it back from the battlefield. There have been so many killed that I can’t be sure I will ever return home and I want you to know that you and Rose have been in my heart and thoughts since the day I arrived.
In many ways, I will die a lucky man. So many men out here haven’t had the chance to love. I meant what I said in my letters to Rose. Peace will come, and when it does, you must visit this beautiful country by whatever means. See the world and open your horizons, otherwise what is this all for?
Live well, live full and live happy.
&n
bsp; All my love, forever and always,
Will
‘Let’s take a walk,’ Olivier says once the words have sunk in. He takes my hand gently and leads me through a grassy area on top of the memorial. It turns into a memorial pathway down by the river. It’s a beautiful conclusion to the day. To the whole trip in fact.
‘When you took me on that first trip to Thiepval, I realised what a truly good person you are. The fact you were so kind to your passengers, your sympathy for the war heroes, your passion to share their stories, and your knowledge is such a unique combination,’ I say, looking at the vast countryside ahead while a gentle breeze blows my hair behind me.
‘And here’s me thinking you just liked me for my looks.’ He laughs easily.
‘Don’t get me wrong, I admire those too.’ It surprises me just how easy those words were to say.
‘It was your innocence that attracted me to you,’ he says.
‘Innocence?’ I nudge him in the ribs. ‘You called me an independent woman during one of our first proper conversations.’
‘You are. I mean here. You seemed vulnerable and lost, but at the same time, I admired how you came alone anyway because you had a goal to fulfil. Your great-grandfather would be proud of you.’
‘I smile. Well, at twenty-four, I doubt he’d given much thought to great-grandchildren,’ I say, laughing after.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I know.’
We walk back to the memorial, Olivier’s warm hand wrapped around mine, and we arrive at the stone my great-grandfather’s name is inscribed on. Olivier pulls me into a hug and kisses my forehead. My nose starts to tingle and my eyes sting.
‘I’ll probably never come back here again,’ I say through a sob. ‘It’s bizarre. He was killed long before I came along and I don’t even know what he looked like but the connection I feel with him is there.’
It Started With a Note Page 22
