He laughs. ‘See, there’s nothing wrong with over-egging.’
‘I know why you came to be a tourist guide and that you like history, but how did you become so interested in the war in particular?’
He sits opposite me and rests his elbows on the dark wooden table. ‘That’s a good question. It just sort of happened. I live in the Somme Valley so, of course, it is an important part of our history, and the people here are still very fond of the British because of their alliance. It’s something that has been passed on through the generations.’
He takes a sip of his beer, which leaves a small white frothy line on his top lip, and I giggle. He leaves it there on purpose and pretends he’s confused, and I laugh again before he wipes it with the back of his hand. ‘I was very interested in the wars at school. I think it started when my father looked into our family history …’ He tails off before taking a deep breath. ‘Then when I became a tour guide, I discovered so much more. Of course, it is partly by design that I became so knowledgeable because that is why the tourists come here. But I do get to go to England, Belgium, Germany and so on, and I cover a number of Second World War tours too.’
‘I’d like to learn more about the Second World War. But that might be for another trip.’ I smile.
‘It’s a lot to take in.’ He draws another sip of beer. ‘So.’ He clasps his hands together. ‘You were saying that you want to learn French?’
‘I do. I feel so unsophisticated being here and not knowing any of the language. Not that I’m at all sophisticated back in England, but you know what I mean.’ His puzzled expression suggests he doesn’t.
‘So what French do you know already?’ he asks.
‘Well, MFL …’ He looks even more confused. ‘Modern Foreign Languages,’ I explain, ‘wasn’t compulsory when I was at school so I only learned a bit of French up until the age of fourteen, and since I had no exams to sit, it was a bit of a doss.’
‘A doss?’ He looks even more bemused.
‘People didn’t take it seriously.’
‘But you didn’t want to learn? How did you expect to go to other countries and not speak the language?’ A crevice forms between his eyebrows and suddenly I feel a little foolish. I don’t think British teenage culture is coming off too well so I brush over his comment.
‘I remember some basics. Je m’appelle Cath.’
‘Very good. But do you know anything more? Because going around telling everyone just your name may seem a little self-centred.’ I tense, feeling scolded, but a smile cracks on his face and I relax when I realise he was joking.
‘That’s a valid point.’ I smile back. ‘I do know some colours and a few food items – I’ve brought a phrase book with me and I read bits of it when I go to bed each night.’
‘Well, that’s a start. Perhaps I can help you during your stay? It would be nice for me to stop talking about history for a while.’
‘It’s very kind of you to offer but it’s okay, I’ll manage. You’ve done enough for me,’ I say, hiding the reluctance in my tone. Spending time with Olivier is fast becoming one of my favourite pastimes.
Chapter Sixteen
The first thing I see on my phone when I wake up is a message from Martha on Messenger. I sit up to read it and smile instantly when I read the first line.
CHITCHAT GROUP
The capitals hurt my eyes, but in the message, she explains how she can’t turn them off, nor can she find the punctuation on the ‘darn eyepad’. She goes on to say that they all arrived home safely and that they’re suffering from jet lag. Martha has an appointment at the hospital and Cynthia has enjoyed sleeping in her own bed. I tap out a quick reply so they know I got the message and fill them in on my trip to Mametz Wood before heading for a shower.
I’m eating breakfast in the lower-ground-floor restaurant when Olivier approaches me with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. Seeing him first thing in the morning has become something I look forward to.
‘We’re going to the Lochnagar Crater today. It’s a group of Belgian people but the coach isn’t full so you’re welcome to join us if you’d like to come along?’ I’m not sure if I’m imagining the hopefulness in his tone. ‘It’s the only crater of its kind to be open to the public.’ He almost sings the last sentence, like it’s an offer I can’t refuse.
I draw a deep breath, desperately wanting to say yes, but it doesn’t seem right taking advantage of all the free tours, and I’m not even sure if it could put his job at risk. ‘Olivier, that sounds like it would be really interesting, but won’t you get in trouble if you keep offering me a free seat on your bus?’
‘It’s fine.’ He bats a hand in the air.
‘Can I at least pay for the trip?’ I ask, hoping the financial reimbursement will ease my guilt.
‘I’m afraid not. I cannot take cash, and this trip was booked through a tour operator. If I take your money it complicates things. The accountant will start asking questions about where all the cash is coming from … It’s better you just come along as my guest. We can bend the rules a little, like Bonnie and Clyde,’ he jokes but it doesn’t ease my guilt.
I consider his offer for a moment. The thought of not going gives me a sinking feeling in my chest. ‘Okay, as long as you’re sure it will be all right? And you do know that Bonnie and Clyde did a bit more than bend the rules a little, don’t you?’
‘Comme ci comme ça.’ He grins. ‘It will be fine. It’s an afternoon trip and the coach leaves at eleven-thirty from outside the hotel. I have some paperwork to do this morning, but I’ll see you later?’ His left eyebrow rises slightly in a way that makes him look vulnerable.
‘I’ll be there.’ I smile.
The weather is forecast to be warm again, so I change into some grey cotton shorts and a pastel peach vest top, which hangs loose and hides the traces of twenty years’ worth of milk chocolate addiction. Then I spend longer than usual twisting and turning in front of the mirror to make sure I look okay from several different angles. I even put on a tiny bit of make-up. It makes a change from towel-drying my hair and dashing out of the door without so much as glancing in a mirror and I look quite well if I do say so myself. I pack my ancient tan leather messenger bag with my phone, a small Vaseline lip tin, and a travel-sized hairbrush just in case. I’m ready.
‘You’re looking fresh and bright,’ Olivier says as I approach the coach; he’s leaning by the doorway as carefree as ever.
‘Thank you.’ My insides squeeze a little with the fact he noticed.
‘They’re a tough crowd,’ he says, pointing to the Belgian tourists on board. ‘I don’t think they liked the joke I just made. Maybe they don’t have very good English.’ He shrugs.
‘Your joke?’
‘Yes, I told a joke to break the ice.’ He frowns as though it’s obvious.
‘I think I’m going to regret asking, but what was the joke?’
‘I said …’ He pauses to clear his throat. ‘Please forgive my English. I try my best but I don’t yet know what Armageddon means, but that is not the end of the world, is it?’ He chuckles.
‘Oh dear.’ I groan.
‘Not you too! Jeez, I thought you were my ally. Now I think I have changed my mind about you coming along. When I tell it on the American and British tours they howl with laughter!’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘They howl, do they?’
‘Okay, giggle. A little. Perhaps with pity. Like I say, my English is not so strong.’ He holds out his hands and lifts his shoulders for emphasis.
‘Your English is fine! It’s your jokes that are not so strong.’ I chuckle and step on board.
The drive out to the crater is another picturesque treat. There is so much green land in this part of France, it’s hard to imagine where all the people live. It contrasts with the busy town of Berrybridge somewhat.
The coach pulls over on the side of a narrow road, which we’re instructed to cross. We’ve been given an hour to look around and Olivier is going to do a s
hort talk about the history of the crater.
The warm air feels delicious when it hits me as I step off the air-conditioned coach. The blue sky pops against the green countryside backdrop and is as beautiful as any exotic beach scene. I wasn’t sure what to expect when I booked to come to France, but my expectations have been exceeded.
I walk the gravelly incline to the brim of the crater, where most of the people from the coach have already gathered. Olivier is just settling everyone down and is about to start. I can tell because his face has turned all serious.
‘The Lochnagar Crater website cites this as being “the largest crater ever made by man in anger”.’ He pauses to allow his words to sink in then continues to talk about how a series of mines beneath the German trenches were detonated, forming the crater. I was particularly surprised to hear the blast was said to have been heard in London. He takes a battered navy-coloured notebook from his knapsack and opens it on a pre-marked page. My stomach flips. There’s something so attractive about him, confident and in his element.
‘Henry Edwards—’ he waves the notebook, punctuating his words ‘—was here that day. He wrote a diary entry detailing his experience.’ He pauses and it has quite a dramatic effect. ‘I want to read you what he wrote because this is one of the only surviving accounts of the blast.’ He clears his throat and begins to read. ‘“Two minutes to zero hour. We stood in our dugout almost drunk with thirst and hunger. The earth ahead packed to the brim with TNT, lay deceptive to the unwitting man. The chambers of its heart filled, spilling into its arteries. Then, the earth shuddered as the ground split asunder, roared with a deafening fiery rage, shooting its black death into the sky.”’
He closes his book and puts it back into his bag before talking about how the explosion failed to neutralise the German defences and the Allied forces suffered heavy losses. ‘The Lochnagar Crater now serves as a memorial to the fallen. As you walk around, you will see tributes in all shapes and sizes that have been added over time. The path runs all the way around but there are some uneven surfaces so do take care.’
When Olivier finishes, the crowd disperses, but I hover, waiting to catch him. ‘That was impressive and interesting too. Well done!’ I say, unsure if it is the right thing to say to a tour guide who is just doing his job.
‘Thank you. I like it here, you know,’ he says, wistfully. ‘It has both history and nature combined. Look at these wild flowers.’ He points to the grass inside of the crater. I hadn’t noticed them before, but there are red and blue flowers dotted around.
‘Poppies and cornflowers?’ I say. Sure enough, amidst the foliage, and other wild flowers, poppies and cornflowers have sprouted sporadically. I pick a poppy and slip it into my bag.
‘Would you like to take a walk around?’ Olivier asks. I stare across the vast indentation in the ground, which looks like nothing I’ve ever seen before, and the beautiful landscape beyond, and I nod.
Even if there wasn’t a rich, morbid history, it would still be a wonderful place to take a walk, especially with a kind, handsome, interesting man by my side, and as we walk, I allow myself to wonder if it would be this nice to always have a man by my side.
Later, we pull up at a café in the town of La Boisselle, which had been pre-booked as part of the tour. It’s rather a novelty in some respects, kitted out with war paraphernalia and posters from the Great War era. The coach tour includes a bowl of soup and bread, which Olivier kindly presents me with once I sit down.
‘This smells delicious,’ I say, inhaling the delicious aroma of grilled Comté cheese atop the tangy homemade onion soup, which smells so traditionally French and homely I know it will stick with me as one of my fondest memories of the trip.
Olivier blows on a spoonful of soup. ‘The food here is very good. We always book a light lunch here for our coach tours to the crater.’
And I can see why. The first spoonful is an explosion of flavour; the bitter onion and creamy cheese together is delightful and given that it is served with proper fresh bread, I’m in my element.
‘Mmm. I must learn how to speak French, otherwise I’m going to really struggle when I move here because after tasting this soup, I’m definitely moving here,’ I say, gesturing to the soup with my spoon enthusiastically.
‘And we, people of France, would love to have you,’ he says, making me smile. ‘You know, if you really do want to learn the language, I meant what I said: I’d be happy to help you. You’re here for a while longer and it’s a decent amount of time to learn some basic conversation. Look at what your grandfather achieved in a short space of time.’ Olivier tilts his head slightly to the side, allowing a stream of sunlight to strike his face, lighting up his eyes. He smiles easily in a way that I imagine is supposed to authenticate his offer but it just makes him look gorgeous and my chest flutters before I remember myself.
It’s not just a polite gesture or flippant remark, but I can’t impose on him. I’ve already taken so much of his time up, and the free tours I’d been welcomed onto were beyond generous.
‘Thank you so much for the offer, but I really do feel like that would be an imposition too far. I have a phrase book and there are apparently some language apps I can get on my phone.’ Something flicks across his face. Disappointment? But he doesn’t argue; instead, he just shrugs and continues to eat his soup.
Perhaps I’m the one feeling disappointed.
Chapter Seventeen
I’m sitting in the reception area scanning through a pile of tourism leaflets when I catch sight of the familiar red and white coach pulling outside. My insides leap, alert and ready for my daily dose of Olivier. If I was a puppy, my ears would be pricked. The coach is empty, so I assume it’s here to collect a group from the hotel. The doors open and I watch in anticipation for the daily glimpse of Olivier I’ve grown accustomed to.
When an unfamiliar blonde woman emerges, wearing the familiar red jacket that bears the tour company logo, my insides turn to lead. She enters the hotel, walking right past me, and heads straight to the reception, where she chats to the man behind the counter. She leans on the surface, resting her head on her hand, and they laugh at a joke I don’t understand. Their unintentional tête-à-tête unsettles me slightly, and because I know it is ridiculous to feel this way, I acknowledge the feeling to be my own isolation, like when I was in Le Havre. Meeting the Americans on arrival and having Olivier around in their absence had meant that I was part of something. I’d almost forgotten that feeling of being here alone.
How ridiculous. A grown woman like me feeling alone, on a trip I chose to come on. Alone. I shake my head, earning a curious glance from the man at reception, who quickly reverts his attention back to the female tour guide.
Seeing his familiar face, even though he obviously thinks I’m odd, reminds me that I have to leave the hotel on Sunday and my chances of meeting up with people after that will be even slimmer. Before I went to bed last night, I even checked my funds to see if I could afford more time at the hotel, but unless I get lucky on the EuroMillions, it just isn’t feasible.
I glance at the leaflets in front of me. One is showing the trench remains at Newfoundland Memorial park near Beaumont-Hamel, which looks interesting. I’ll go there. By myself. I stuff the leaflet into my bag and go to stand up, just as a swarm of people explode into the reception area from the stairwell. I slide back into my seat, doing a terrible job of convincing myself I’m waiting for them to pass, and not waiting to see if Olivier emerges with them. He doesn’t.
After talking myself into renting a car and waiting an hour for the concierge to arrange one, I’m on my way. The satnav is programmed so there shouldn’t be a repeat of Neuve-Chapelle – I shan’t be ‘doing a Cath’ today.
I read the John Oxenham poem carved into a bronze cast by the entrance, telling us to ‘tread softly’ and ‘grasp the future gain in this sore loss’. Now is the future, we have grasped it. I find myself hoping once again that our achievements and ways of life are enough.
/> I walk the wooden zigzag of the deep Allied trench until I reach a shallow scar in the ground. A trench dug after the Battle of the Somme. I sit in one of the unnatural ripples in the grass, allowing my body to curve into what was once a dug-out trench. A man-made hellhole. Laying my head back I squint at the bright sky. It’s overcast today but still a bright grey-white. Perhaps the soldiers took in the same sky and pretended they were anywhere but on the front line. I run my hand through the grass that was once thick, soul-sucking mud. It reminds me of a line from another poem by Rupert Brooke:
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England.
I take the poppy I picked yesterday out of my bag and lay it on the ground. For the men in this foreign field that is forever England.
Walking back, I pretend to myself that I don’t miss Olivier’s take on things: his interesting nuggets of trivia, his emotion or his company. I try not to think about how they may have sounded in his accent with his short vowels and stressed syllables. And wonderful passion.
Later, I find myself back in Albert, which is the nearest town. There are a few cafés and bars across the small square by the museum and I decide to get myself some lunch, choosing a place with outdoor seating. Recognising very little on the menu, I opt for the salade niçoise, as there is a pre-packed version from work that I’ve enjoyed on occasion so I know what’s in it.
I do feel foolish not even being able to understand a menu, and wonder if taking Olivier up on his offer of help would be so bad? It could work out well and having the freedom to come and enjoy lunch in one of the pretty local towns without worrying about language would be the icing on the cake. He’s patient and kind, after all. Or it could be disastrous. There’s a good chance I’ll be useless and either embarrass myself or frustrate him to the point of implosion. Neither of which are outcomes I could live with.
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