Victoria Cooke - It Started With A Note

‘Only it did happen again,’ I say sombrely.

‘Ahh, yes, but I wasn’t born then, and my predecessor must have lacked my charismatic charm.’ He smiles, and we fall into a surprisingly companionable silence, watching the Americans laying a poppy wreath before a stone fascia.

‘Hello,’ the lady in the gift shop says cheerfully as we enter. She has a southern English accent, broader than mine, but is wearing the same T-shirt as the other staff members. Olivier introduces her as Jenny.

‘Olivier has been filling me in. It seems you’re on quite a sentimental trip?’

I nod. ‘Yes. My great-grandfather fought in the area. He was out here for almost two years before he was killed in Ypres.’

She gives me a knowing look. ‘There’s lots of information in the museum if you want to know more about the battles in the region?’ she says. ‘There is the free exhibition too, just to your left.’

‘That would be great.’ I look at Olivier, unsure if he’d prefer to leave me to it.

‘I’ll join you.’ He smiles warmly. We walk in silence, reading the accounts and studying the pictures, some graphic, depicting the haunting faces of the fallen; others depicting more triumphant moments.

‘Some of these men are my son’s age.’ The thought is incredibly hard to bear.

Olivier nods and I notice his face is sombre.

There is a film to view too, and once we’ve seen everything, Olivier suggests paying to go into the museum, which I happily agree to.

As we walk the halls, I watch Olivier reading the information intently. He must have read it dozens of times, yet he is still engrossed, reading it like it’s new. A few of the people off the coach tour are dotted about and Olivier makes polite conversation as we pass.

We 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.

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