Victoria Cooke - It Started With A Note

‘My hearing is fine too,’ she says.

‘Harry is right,’ I say, before the senior citizen banter escalates to World War Three proportions. ‘Olivier and I are just similar in age and there’s nothing to suggest he’s single anyway.’ I curse myself for getting drawn into the debacle.

‘Well, he must be, the hours he works … I guess I’m just an old romantic. When I see two wonderful people alone I just want them to be happy together.’

‘It’s not really how real life goes,’ I say softly, hoping not to offend her.

‘You’re here a while. There’s still time.’ Her eyes twinkle again, and I start to feel uncomfortable. Not least because she’s way off the mark and Olivier would probably be horrified if he knew.

‘Martha,’ Harry says, placing a gentle hand on her knee, ‘did you come here to matchmake, or did you come here to sightsee and learn about the Great War?’

She frowned. ‘Trick question. You forgot to say: raid the gift shops.’

‘Well, that goes without saying.’ Harry shrugs.

‘Do you want to come and look around the shops with us? The others went to get a late lunch and I’m not sure they’ll be finished yet.’

I smile. ‘No, I want to just sit for a while. It’s been a lot to take in but thank you. You go ahead. I’ll catch up with you later.’ They were kind to offer and I know they genuinely don’t mind me tagging along, but to them, this is a once in a lifetime trip, and having me hanging around wasn’t a part of their original itinerary.

Once they’ve gone, I lift my face to the sky, allowing the warmth of the sun to heat my skin, freeing all the happy endorphins. When I lower my head and open my eyes, Olivier is standing in front of me. My heart bangs in my chest.

‘Oh, hi,’ I say, hoping I hadn’t just looked like a complete idiot.

‘Sorry to disturb you. I’m just checking to make sure everyone is okay and seeing if you wanted any advice about the town or anything?’ He shuffles on his feet a little, and for the first time since meeting him, he looks a little vulnerable.

‘Thank you, that’s really kind, but I’m okay. I’ve treated myself to this delicious éclair—’ I gesture to the last partially melted bite that I’m clutching with my pincers ‘—and was just going to get a coffee and look around the shops. I’m easily pleased.’ Easily pleased? Cringe. Does that sound like I’m insinuating something? I’m definitely not.

‘Would you like some company?’ he asks. Perhaps I’m imagining it because of Martha filling my head with nonsense, but I think there’s a look of hopefulness on his face.

‘Yes, if you like,’ I say, trying to hold back my apprehension. It’s one thing chatting on the coach, but to go for an actual coffee seems a bit nerve-racking. I try not to panic thinking about it.

‘Great, I know a wonderful café just across the road.’ He points to a place with outdoor seating beneath a black and cream canopy that’s only about one hundred and fifty metres away.

‘Perfect.’ I stand up and we walk silently towards the place. My stomach starts to feel all twisty and I regret saying yes, wishing instead that I’d come up with an excuse and not mentioned the coffee. Shopping, I could have said shopping – men hate shopping! my brain screams, remembering how Kieran used to go pale and clammy at the very thought of it.

When we arrive at the café, we spot a table outside, and as we approach it, he pulls out a chair but doesn’t sit down. ‘For madame,’ he says, making my chest feel all light and tingly at the unfamiliar gentlemanliness.

I thank him and sit down, instinctively picking up the menu to avoid having to find something to say.

‘They do wonderful scallop and prawn skewers here.’ he says.

‘Oh, I’m not hungry. That was the biggest éclair I’ve ever seen and I ate it all. I’m sure it was meant for two people.’ I let out a small laugh and put the menu back into the holder.

He laughs. ‘No way! They’re standard one-person sized éclairs. The ones I make are twice the size.’

‘You can make éclairs?’

‘I prefer to make savoury dishes like casseroles but yes, I can make éclairs.’

Olivier beckons the waiter over and orders coffees for us both.

Blimey. ‘So, you can cook then?’ I ask, failing to hide the surprise in my tone but in fairness, Gary is my only real male comparison and I think he’d starve to death if he had to so much as open a tin of beans himself.

‘I wash the dishes too.’ He grins playfully. ‘I learned quite young,’ he says, glancing down at the table. When he doesn’t say any more I get the feeling there’s more to the story but I don’t ask. We sit in silence for a few moments.

‘The Basilica is a beautiful building,’ I say, struggling for conversation. At work we’re trained to ask the customers pre-set questions at the checkout to make them feel welcome and to avoid awkward silences but I think asking Olivier if he wants a five-pence carrier bag may strike him as a little odd.

‘It is.’ He perks back up. ‘It was hit by a German shell in 1915. See that golden virgin statue at the top?’ He points but he needn’t have. It’s huge. ‘It bent to a near horizontal position after the shelling. Legend has it, the Germans believed that the side to cause the golden virgin to finally tumble, would be the side to lose the war.’

‘Really? Did it tumble?’ I ask, intrigued by the story.

‘Yes, however, it was bombed purposely by the British in 1918 to stop the Germans using it as a lookout tower after they occupied the town. Needless to say, the Germans’ belief was proven wrong.’

‘That’s an interesting story,’ I say, finding myself wanting to absorb as much knowledge of the time as I can to build a picture of what life was like. ‘It’s hard to imagine it as a pile of rubble now,’ I add as the waiter sets two coffees down in front of us. Once the waiter has gone, I ask Olivier how he knows so much about history.

‘I was a bit of a history nerd at school.’ He grins. ‘A geek, I think they say?’ He’s still grinning as he speaks so it can’t bother him that much. ‘I didn’t care, though. There’s a rich history in the region where I’m from and it’s interesting to me. How about you? You’re here – were you the same?’

‘What, a geek?’ I say with a dramatic hand on my chest.

He studies me and the hair follicles on the back of my neck tingle. ‘Somehow, I can’t see it.’

I glance away self-consciously and think back to my comprehensive education in a failing school on the outskirts of London. Somehow, I can’t make it fit with the perfect image I have of him, reading history books studiously on an evening whereas I was probably chatting on the phone with my friend about which boys we fancied, whilst my mum yelled at me to revise.

‘History is something I’ve become more interested in recently,’ I say instead, before filling him in on the letters that I’d found. He nods animatedly as I explain all about them.

‘That’s fantastic. To have a piece of history that you get to keep for yourself. I’d love to read them … if they’re not too personal, of course.’ His interest is welcome and warm in contrast to Gary’s indifference.

‘No, they’re not personal, not anymore at least. I’d love you to look at them. It seems my great-grandfather was trying to learn French when he was stationed here and three of the letters are written in French.’ I bite my bottom lip, unsure as to whether I should continue. In the end, I dare myself to go on. ‘It would be great if you could translate them for me.’

‘I’d love to. I’d be honoured if you’d allow me to.’