‘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.
Chapter Nine
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 confidence.
Martha smiles fondly and nods. ‘Yes, Harry is the only man I’ve ever been with. Sixty-two years we’ve been married. Don’t get me wrong, I could throttle him sometimes, especially now he’s older as he can be such a cantankerous so-and-so.’ She pauses and then smiles again. ‘But I wouldn’t be without him really.’
‘Same for Roland and me,’ says Cynthia. ‘Fifty-nine years.’
‘How about you, Cath? Have you ever been married?’ Martha asks.
Still chewing my toastie, I shake my head. ‘No. My son came along as a result of a few alcopops and a bag of Walkers prawn cocktail crisps.’ This draws a few blank expressions. ‘His father was an older boy who I’d idolised since year eleven. When I told him I was pregnant, he didn’t want to know. I heard he’d moved away not long after that and then, well …’ I realise I’m droning on, telling a story that’s probably the same one that thousands of women could tell.
Cynthia looks puzzled. ‘So, what happened?’
‘Nothing and there wasn’t anyone after him. With a young son to care for I can’t say I ever looked my best.’ I giggle at the memory of being complimented on the unusual pattern on my top that was actually dried formula that I hadn’t noticed had slopped down my side. ‘There isn’t much time for man-hunting with a little one. I don’t have any regrets though; I wouldn’t swap Kieran for a different life. How could I? He’s such a smart boy, off at university now.’
Cynthia places a warm hand on mine. ‘But now your son has grown up, don’t you feel it could be the time to start looking for that special someone?’
I feel heat flush my face, and it isn’t from the sun. ‘No.’ What I actually want to say is ‘that ship has sailed’, but I don’t want to seem like I’m fishing for sympathy.
‘No?’ Martha repeats. ‘Why in heavens not?’
‘I don’t feel like I need a partner to be happy. Besides, my lazy good-for-nothing brother, Gary, has moved in temporarily so I can hardly invite a man in for coffee.’ I feel like this is a good point to steer the conversation away from dating. ‘Before I came here, I was basically Gary’s live-in butler.’ I pause.
‘How long has he been living with you?’ Cynthia asks.
‘He’s been there six months but now I’ve told him he’s to find a job and a flat while I’m in France. Mostly because I’m sick of waiting on him hand and foot.’
‘You should never let a man walk all over you.’ Martha jabs a knobbly finger in my direction.
‘He should be waiting on you!’ says Cynthia.
I smile. ‘And pigs might fly! In a way, he’s been good company since Kieran left. But now he’s driving me mad. Do you see why I need to be single? Men annoy me.’ I direct my last comment at Martha but grin a little so she knows I’m joking.
‘I’m not painting a very good picture of Gary here, am I? He’s not that bad. He used to work hard as an engineer and got laid off and basically hit rock bottom, which is why I took him in. I didn’t mind doing all the housekeeping at first because I was used to it, but he was at home all day so I did expect him to chip in whilst I was at work. He didn’t. Eventually, he started spending more time at the pub and doing less and less at home, so I’ve given him his marching orders.’
‘And what did he say?’ asks Cynthia.
‘Okay then.’ I shrug. ‘He didn’t have a choice.’ I don’t want to tell them the real reason for the final straw.
‘Young men just don’t have the fight in them anymore,’ Martha says, shaking her head. She’s right; I can’t imagine Gary signing up to protect our country like our great-grandfather did. God knows what he’d do if conscription was ever deemed necessary again, because I don’t think ‘lazyitis’ would be suitable grounds for an exemption.
‘So there really hasn’t been anyone since Kieran’s father? It’s a long time to be by yourself,’ Cynthia says.
‘No, I’ve not really been interested. As Kieran started to grow up, I felt too frumpy to go on dates. I felt, well … I didn’t think anyone would be interested in me. Nobody was, really. Then I learned how to be happy alone and have been ever since.’
Martha points her glass at me. ‘Baloney. You’re a beautiful young woman. What I wouldn’t give for skin that doesn’t sag and hair that’s not all wiry and colourless.’
I smile because Martha doesn’t strike me as someone who gives a hoot about her physical appearance as long as her clothes are smart, but I’m grateful for the confidence boost.
‘A lot of happiness can come from marriage, but there’s no harm in a vacation romance either.’ She chuckles. I can’t help but laugh too, purely because of the contrast between her modern views and her deeply lined and frail face.
‘Somehow, I don’t think this is the right type of holiday for a romance, but I am enjoying getting to know you ladies,’ I say, hoping that’s the end of it.
‘So, on to a completely different subject – Olivier is very handsome, isn’t he?’ Martha says, ignoring my comment with a wicked grin. Cynthia murmurs her agreement and I purposely remain silent. ‘If only I were a few decades younger.’ Her eyes are full of mirth.
‘It’s kinda sexy when a man is so knowledgeable,’ Cynthia says while I sit, gobsmacked at these seemingly respectful, delightful elderly women discussing Olivier like a group of year elevens would talk about their school crush.
‘A girl can dream,’ Martha adds wistfully.
I give Martha a mock-stern look. ‘I know what you’re doing here and it’s not going to happen. Poor Olivier, he has no idea you lot have his life planned out for him.’
‘Not his life, exactly, just perhaps, the next four weeks or so.’ She grins.
‘Okay, Martha, leave the girl alone now,’ Cynthia cuts in before turning to me. ‘You know when she gets her teeth into something she just won’t let go. She’s an old romantic really.’
‘I am too, but I prefer the movie kind of romance, not the real-life version.’
‘No harm in some real-life romance. Roland used to escort me to work at the clothing factory every morning. He lived on the next road to ours, and although I never asked him to, he was always waiting for me each day,’ Cynthia says.
‘They call that stalking nowadays – and when it goes on for that long it’s a felony,’ Martha interrupts, causing Cynthia and me to howl.
‘Oh, nonsense.’ Cynthia brushes her off. ‘He’d hold out his arm for me and say, “May I escort you, ma’am?” and we’d chat about the weather and movies and things until one day, he asked me out for a milkshake and he paid. There was none of this “split the bill” business you kids are fond of. That was our first official date and we’ve been together ever since.’
‘Ahh,’ I coo. ‘That is a lovely story and very romantic.’
‘Stalker,’ Martha chimes in again, and we all giggle.
‘I just couldn’t see anything like that happening nowadays – in the UK at least; I can’t speak for American men. Do you know, the last British man I made eye contact with stole a tin of corned beef from me.’ I fold my arms.
<
br /> ‘What the …?’ Martha says. ‘I knew there were some cultural differences, but I thought that was just because you had all the Colin Firths and we had the crazy uncoupled Scientologists.’ I smile at her celebrity mash-up.
‘That’s why I prefer to live vicariously through the movies.’
‘There hasn’t been a good romcom out in a while,’ Cynthia says, and we all nod in agreement. ‘There was that one with the handsome young man in it – what was it called? Stupid, Crazy, Love.’
‘Crazy, Stupid, Love,’ I correct. ‘That’s one of my favourites and yes, the boyfriend, Ryan Gosling, phwoar!’ I giggle.
‘The boyfriend? Not that young whippersnapper. I meant the father. Steve Whatshisface.’
I stifle a smile.
‘You old cougar, you.’ Martha nudges Cynthia playfully before the conversation finally moves on. I can’t help but think even the cougar ship has sailed for these ladies but I admire their optimism.
‘So, one more day before we head back to the States,’ Cynthia says, sharing out the last dribble of wine with a slightly shaky hand.
‘I’ve loved France, but I’ll be glad to get back to my big bed,’ Martha says. Though I’ve only known these women a few days, they’ve become a sort of safety blanket of warmth. I haven’t had to eat alone and joining their tour meant I’ve not had to really make an effort to do anything for myself. It’s been a lot easier than my time in Le Havre. I’m both nervous and excited for the days ahead, but I’ll miss my cosy nest of elderly companions.
‘What are your plans for tomorrow, honey? Are you sure you don’t want to join us in gay Paris?’ Martha asks while we wait for the cheque.
I pause before answering. ‘Actually, Olivier has offered to translate some old letters of mine, which my great-grandfather wrote to my grandmother. Some have been written in French and I’m desperate to know what they say.’
She doesn’t reply, but the look she gives me says it all.
Chapter Ten
Outside the hotel is a car park forming a sort of square-shaped roundabout with a couple of restaurants beyond it, one of which is where I’m meeting Olivier in just a few moments.
It Started With a Note Page 7