It Started With A Note: A brand-new uplifting read of love and new adventures for 2018!. Victoria Cooke
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approach a replica German fighter plane and he turns to me. ‘Do you know the exact journey your great-grandfather made?’
‘Almost. All I’m missing is where he trained. He wrote a letter from the training camp he went to after landing in France but I’ve been unable to find out where it actually was.’
‘Perhaps Jenny can help. She’s worked here years and is as interested in the war as I am. Almost.’ He winks.
When we head back out to the shop, Olivier explains what we’re after and Jenny asks me for all the information I have.
I give her his regiment and battalion information and find myself nattering away. ‘He was just twenty-four.’
She tuts and shakes her head. ‘So young.’
‘It’s staggering how many were,’ Olivier adds.
‘He enlisted himself. Given the dates he served, he was one of the first out there and he was married too.’
‘The propaganda was very compelling back then. Many men signed up out of pride for their country. I don’t think the reality always hit them until it was too late. Not the Kitchener’s Mob anyway.
‘Right, so it was the training camp you were after?’ Jenny asks, squinting at the screen.
‘That’s right.’
‘This page here should have everything you need.’ She stands up and gestures for me to sit down. I read the in-depth log of where the regiment were from day one until the end. Most of the information ties up to what I’d found.
‘Étaples.’ I say. ‘That’s where he trained.’
‘I thought that was probably the case, but I wanted to be sure,’ Olivier says.
‘Is it possible to get there from Arras?’ I ask.
‘Yes, it’s about an hour and a half away by car, give or take.’
I feel like a weight has been lifted now the missing piece of the puzzle has been filled.
‘I’m really glad I did this today. Olivier, thank you so much for bringing me, and Jenny, thank you for all your help.’
‘Don’t be silly, we enjoy it,’ Jenny says.
The coach journey back to Arras is quiet. Many people on board had a relative killed in the war, and seeing so many names on the memorial was such a moving sight. Others are perhaps worn out after such a long day. I sense that the thick silence is that of appreciation for the efforts to maintain such a fitting tribute. I glance around and most people are sitting gazing out of the window; a few have even nodded off in the eerie, dusky light you sometimes get on a summer’s evening.
It isn’t long before my mind wanders to Olivier. Not because he’s good-looking – I can admit to myself that he is now – but because I saw a soft side to him that I didn’t expect. He seemed so confident in himself last night, which I suppose, being a tour guide, he has to be; but I didn’t get the impression he was quite so sensitive. But seeing him obviously touched by emotion earlier just made me want to hug him. I scold myself for being so silly. He could be a married man for all I know, and if he isn’t he would never be interested in me: a doughy checkout girl held together by Aldi’s own ‘I can’t believe they’re not Spanx’.
What am I even thinking? I scold myself. I don’t even want a man; I’m happy with the way things are and a man would complicate things. Besides that, I’m sure millions of soldiers didn’t give their lives so that I could lust after attractive Frenchmen. I think my existence should be more meaningful than that. Then I think about what my existence actually is and can’t imagine millions of men would have given their lives for that either. A routine of work, bargain-hunting, romcoms and David the weatherman. But I have brought up a son, who has got into university, a small voice in my head says.
‘You know, during the Second World War, soldiers passed the Thiepval memorial and paid their respect to their fallen fathers.’ Olivier has slipped into the empty seat beside me.
‘Gosh, it’s unimaginable. What they were going through, and to see that on top. I don’t know …’ I reply, no longer surprised by Olivier’s sharing of random contemplations.
‘I’m sorry, I know I keep bothering you with my war trivia but I don’t always get much interaction from the tourists. Some, not all, seem to want to say they’ve seen the sights rather than actually absorbing the history. They want an Ypres fridge magnet or the Thiepval shopping tote but not always the knowledge, you know? That is sad to me.’
I nod in silent agreement. His passion for war history intrigues me. I’ve not met many men with such rich interests. Since being in school, most of the men I’d met were into the same things: football, computer games, and pictures of topless women, with regular trips of enrichment to the pub thrown in of course. Cardboard cut-out-and-keep activities for a limited range of stereotypically masculine interests.
Different was drawing me in.
The following morning, at Martha’s insistence, I tag along on a short trip to the beautifully kept British cemetery in Arras, which is followed by free time in the town centre of Arras in the afternoon. It’s slightly off-piste but I have plenty of time in France and part of the reason why I’m here is to do the journey my grandmother should have done and experience France. After the heaviness of yesterday, something light and breezy ticks all the right boxes so when the ladies decide to go shopping while the men catch a game of football I’m quite excited.
We deposit the men, along with their mumblings of soccer being a ‘girls’ game’, in the pub and hit the high street. Martha and Cynthia are like magpies, drawn to the jewellery shops, whereas the great weather is giving me a penchant for some pretty cork-wedged shoes. If I play my cards right I’d need never wear my torturous pleather sandals again. By late afternoon, I still haven’t bought any but I have enjoyed ogling all the different ones in their pastels and metallic hues. The others, meanwhile, have all managed to secure some yellow gold items. A ring for Martha’s granddaughter and a necklace for Cynthia’s daughter, plus a few items for themselves, I notice.
‘Well, it’s a beautiful day and there’s outdoor seating at the cafés in the square. How about some alfresco lunch?’ Martha asks.
‘That sounds good to me,’ Cynthia replies.
‘Thank goodness.’ I sigh. ‘I was beginning to get embarrassed by my lack of shopping stamina in comparison to yours.’
‘We’ve just had more practice.’ Martha winks.
We find a table in the shade on the edge of the square and order three ham and cheese toasties and a bottle of white wine, and before long, we’re tucking in.
‘France is such a happy place,’ Cynthia says with a wistful sigh, before draining the last of her small tipple of wine.
‘Happiness comes from within and from the people you’re connected to, not from a place,’ Martha says between mouthfuls.
‘I know that, but the people here seem so relaxed.’ Cynthia gestures to couples ambling through the square and people sipping wine in the bars, chatting leisurely. ‘It’s the weather – it’s warm and sunny but not stifling like the summers back home in Georgia,’ she concludes, and I think back to my dreary bus commute home and mentally agree.
‘Well, I think it’s the company too,’ I say, raising my glass to a chorus of ‘I’ll second that’s.
Cynthia rests her head on her fists dreamily. ‘We do love our men, but having a “girls only” day is just what the doc ordered.’
‘So, these men you’re both sporting, are they your first husbands?’ I ask, spurred by my wine-induced