It Started With A Note: A brand-new uplifting read of love and new adventures for 2018!. Victoria Cooke
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it like a lottery ticket with all the right numbers on.
A sleek leather wallet filled with my fragile pieces of history.
I’d sorted the letters chronologically and placed each one in a plastic wallet for safekeeping. I’m not sure what I’ll do with them after the trip but I know I want them with me as I retrace my great-grandfather’s Great War journey.
Another Kaitlynn idea – to treat myself. It seemed fitting to have something special to transport them in, and I’d got a pretty good deal, otherwise I wouldn’t have splashed out, but all that excitement is now wavering because the financial implications of four weeks abroad isn’t to be sniffed at. I’d be needing my entire prize money, my annual bonus, and there is a good chance I’ll need to dip into my modest savings too.
As if on cue, the waiter slips the bill in front of me, and when I spy the charge I baulk. Surely he’s charged me wrong? I pick up the wine list and double-check the price – something I should have done before I’d ordered ‘a nice glass of champers’, but I got caught in the moment. Sure enough, it is fifteen euros a glass. I leave the cash on the plate, mentally calculating how many tins of corned beef I could’ve bought with that, before I decide to head up to the sundeck.
Fighting the wind, I make my way to the railing and take out the first plastic wallet, clutching it tightly.
The letters don’t cover his whole story and he never discloses his location so I had to use the internet to research the journey of his regiment and match up the dates. He’d been an early enlistee, one of the so-called ‘Kitchener’s Mob’ and he’d sailed from Southampton to Le Havre in December 1915 after almost thirteen months of training, prolonged partly by a lack of training equipment and uniforms. Most soldiers arriving after him had nowhere near that length of training.
The first letter my great-grandfather sent was just after he’d landed in France during the winter of 1915.
12th December 1915
My dearest Elizabeth,
It was a choppy trip across the old ‘salt water’ and the paddle steamer was bursting at the seams. I’ve not seen so many sick men before. We’ve travelled a bit by train and foot since. The combination of new boots and woollen socks hasn’t been fantastic but otherwise, I’m getting on all right. There are some pretty villages around and the locals I’ve met have been very hospitable, but we’ve not really been allowed to explore.
Give my love to Rose.
Forever yours,
Will
I glance out, over the railing, taking in the formidable grey rolls beyond. The same ‘old salt water’ my great-grandfather crossed on his first trip to France, no doubt feeling a sense of apprehension incomparable to my own. Though you wouldn’t know it from the letter. It’s hard to decipher his tone from so few words but I’m sure I’ve conveyed more terror in the three text messages I’ve sent to Kaitlynn already this morning:
This is a bad idea. I should cancel. C x
I honestly think I’ll get lost and I can’t speak French! What am I doing?
Kaitlynn????
I certainly didn’t have the calm demeanour to use words like ‘choppy’ and ‘salt water’ colloquially.
I tuck the letter back into the wallet and look across the waves, allowing my eyes to close whilst I feel the roll of the boat. My mind wonders to the men. Boys? For most of them it would have been their first time on a boat and their first time leaving their parents, never mind their country. If they could go off to France then I should stop being silly and put my big girl pants on.
After some time on deck and a leisurely lunch, I can see land from the lounge and cannot fathom how five hours have passed already.
My phone shrills to life. We must be close enough to land to catch a signal.
Mum, I’m coming home this weekend. K
I’d specifically phoned to tell him I was going to France and was met with the usual grunted response. I tap out a quick reply.
I won’t be there, but your uncle Gary will be. Mum xxx
His reply is instant.
What do you mean you won’t be there?
I almost chuckle, amused by his shock. It was typical he hadn’t listened when I’d told him about my trip.
If you’d paid attention last time I phoned you, you’d know all about it. For the second time, I’m off to France on holiday. For 4 weeks xxx
My phone shrills loudly and instead of a message, Kieran is ringing me. My face flames as the other people in the lounge look over at me, clearly displeased with the commotion, but if I don’t have my volume right up I can’t hear it in my bag, so what am I supposed to do? And anyway, who doesn’t love a bit of Beyoncé? I mouth ‘sorry’ and answer the call in a whisper.
‘What do you mean you’re going on holiday?’ Kieran demands before I have the chance to say hello.
‘I mean I’m going to France. I’m going to see where my great-grandfather is buried.’
‘Is this some kind of midlife crisis?’ he asks. ‘Can’t you just buy a sports car like a normal person?’ I understand his shock, but perhaps he’ll listen to me better in future. Whenever I’d had money to spare in the past, I’d spent it on him instead. New trainers, a PlayStation, you name it. Year on year, I spent every spare penny, ensuring Kieran had the best I could provide so he didn’t stand out at school or feel like he was missing out. It’s understandable that he’s feeling like his nose has been put out of joint.
‘No, Kieran – look, love. I just felt it was time I did something for me. It’s just four weeks, and you’re away at uni anyway. I didn’t expect you’d be home in the first term. Isn’t it all fresher’s balls and one-pound vodka shots?’
‘I know … I … I just assumed you’d be around to do a bit of washing for me. It’s no big deal.’ It’s silly to say, but I can sense this is his way of showing affection. He misses me, and the fact he does make my chest swell.
‘I didn’t know you were planning on coming home, love.’ My stomach twists with guilt and I wonder if I should head home and postpone my trip for a few days. ‘What are you coming home for anyway?’ I hear some loud jeering in the background.
‘Just a friend’s birthday. Mum, I need to go but … be careful and have a good time, yeah?’ I smile at his words. It’s the closest he’s come to showing any emotion since he stopped wearing Spider-Man pyjamas.
‘I will. I love you, Kie.’
‘Yeah. Okay, Mum. See you soon,’ he says awkwardly.
‘Bye, love.’
When I hang up the phone, the ship is docking. I go to the window to catch my first glimpse of France, just as I’m sure my great-grandfather would have done.
I arrive in Le Havre warm, sticky and tired but, luckily, my budget hotel is only a short taxi ride away. The taxi driver doesn’t speak a word of English and my French is just about on par with that, so I hop in and thrust my printout from Expedia his way and hope for the best. I glance out of the window, eager to catch my first glimpse of Le Havre but the blocky, grey, modern buildings are something of a disappointment. I’d hoped for rustic and charming not modern and unusual but as my mother used to say, ‘The world doesn’t