It Started With a Note

by Victoria Cooke

  As the waitress places down my salad and the small beer that I’d ordered because it was the only thing I could think of on the spot, I regret not ordering water. It’s a warm day and I’m parched, but got bogged down in the pronunciation. I know it’s eau. I can recognise it on the menu, but how do you say it? ‘Ooh’ or ‘oh’ or ‘you’? Do I say ‘un oh’ for one water, like the game Uno? Or is that Spanish? I twist myself in knots again and sip my beer, making a mental note to go into a shop to purchase a bottle of water later. I’ll ask Olivier when I next see him – with any luck that will happen before someone finds my painfully dehydrated corpse.

  Now I’m thinking about Olivier again. Something deep inside is niggling at me but I don’t want to admit what it is. I sip more beer. Perhaps if I say it quickly in my head, I won’t have to register it – I can get it out of the way and move on. I realise I’m chewing my salad quite frantically. If anyone has noticed, I’m sure I look quite a sight. On the plus side, I’m chewing my food properly, just as my mother always taught me, so I won’t suffer from digestion problems.

  Okay.

  I brace myself.

  I’m bothered because Olivier didn’t tell me he wouldn’t be at the hotel this morning and I’ve missed him.

  There! I’ve admitted it.

  In my head.

  I sit triumphantly for a moment with my mind finally clear and enjoy my delicious salad until my head fills up with questions again. Why should he? Why am I even bothered? When I was going out with Kieran’s father, before the pregnancy and all, he’d vanish to the pub for hours on end and not tell me where he was. Kieran and Gary are always off God only knows where all the time too, so men not being around is what I’ve come to expect. Besides that, Olivier doesn’t have to answer to me. I’m not his wife or mother. Heck, I’m not even his friend – not really. I’m just the annoying tourist he’s taken pity on.

  I finish my lunch and wave a twenty-euro note in the air to catch the eye of the waitress because I’ve no idea of how to ask for the bill. I’m shrunken in my chair as she places it down with a friendly smile and simply says, ‘Madame.’

  I definitely don’t know how to ask for change and feel too embarrassed to sit here any longer, so instead opt for leaving a generous tip.

  The city of Albert is as beautiful as it was the first time, and I take my time window-shopping and seeing the sights in defiant proof to myself that I don’t need to depend on Olivier. I visit the Basilique Notre-Dame properly this time, and I finally buy a bottle of water, which I gulp down greedily.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket just as I’m draining the last few drops. It’s Kaitlynn.

  How’s it going? Hope the weather is better there – it’s like 2007 all over again here. I’m sure Rihanna is planning on re-releasing ‘Umbrella’ soon. Seriously, it’s that bad!!! Anyway – did you see the memorial? Any hot French dudes? xxxxx

  Even in a text message, Kaitlynn still manages to spew out all the words from her head at once and for the first time since I arrived, I realise I miss her. I’m about to tell her about Olivier but stop myself. What exactly is there to tell? That I’ve met an attractive man who has been kind to me because I’m a bit of a Sad Sack. Instead, I keep it simple and stick to the facts.

  Weather has been amazing. Not seen my great-grandfather’s memorial yet but have seen others – very touching. So glad I came. xx

  Back in Arras I almost collapse through the revolving door. I’m completely shattered but on the whole, I think my second attempt at touring alone went well. I trudge towards the lift, staring down at my feet, which are throbbing in my shoes. I contemplate treating myself to something comfier, when all of a sudden, I’m met with a hard impact, stopping me dead in my tracks.

  My head snaps back up instinctively and I’m face to face with a woman with a blotchy face and puffy, red-rimmed eyes. Her hands clasp my arms and I’m able to make out her French mumbling of ‘Excuse me’, but instead of relaxing her hands as I expect, her grip tightens uncomfortably and she looks me in the eye. Her nose is moist with watery mucus. She starts to speak in her native tongue so quickly, I don’t recognise one word. The same sounds come out over and over, but I don’t know what they mean. She starts to shake me. I realise I’m just staring at her pathetically, trying my best to understand. Eventually, she lets go and huffs before storming towards the exit. My hands are trembling and I look up to the receptionist with widened eyes.

  ‘Did I do something wrong?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘No, madame, you did not. The lady’s son is missing and she was asking if you’d seen him. She is very worried for him as he is only six years old,’ he says, sympathy etched into his features.

  My stomach lurches. Oh God. I just stood there like a fool, completely helpless because I’m so uneducated I couldn’t even recognise a frantic mother when I saw one. I feel terrible. ‘Is someone helping her?’ I ask, like that’s going to fix everything.

  Fortunately, he nods. ‘Yes, the local police and some hotel staff are searching. He had let himself out of the room about an hour ago while the lady was taking a shower.’

  I clasp my hand to my mouth. ‘Oh no, that’s awful.’ I know exactly how that poor mother must feel. My mind casts back to the day I lost Kieran in a shopping centre. He was just four years old and I can remember the feeling of panic flooding my body as if it were yesterday. Eventually, once your cavities are filled with the terror, despair consumes your every nerve, brain cell and organ, diluting all rational thought. You can only think about what you did wrong, how you let it happen. It’s truly awful. The poor woman. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Thank you, madame, but the family speak no English, and not many of the local police here do. Although you mean well, your help could hamper their efforts.’ Heat creeps across my face. ‘It is kind of you to offer, though.’ He smiles sympathetically, and it’s clear he pities me for being so inadequate. Feeling the need to be alone, I turn to walk to the lifts.

  ‘Cath?’ Familiarity forces me to spin on my heel. Olivier is standing at the revolving doors in his red tour guide T-shirt, and I sink into myself. I can feel my face still clutching the tingling heat of my embarrassment and I’ve already rubbed my eyes, so there’s a good chance they’ll be ringed with smudged mascara. In the space of about sixty-five seconds, I’d presumably gone from presentable to Worzel Gummidge, and this is when he decides to walk in.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks, and I realise I haven’t acknowledged him with anything more than a confused expression.

  ‘Sorry, I …’ I rub my face and start again. ‘Did you know there is a woman outside who has lost her son?’ The real reason for my flustered state is the missing boy and not the sight of Olivier before me. I shake my head a little, trying to rid it of that intrusive little thought.

  ‘I know. Some of my passengers are assisting her. She’d been on my tour this morning and her son is such a sweet young boy. Inquisitive too. We think he’s gone off to explore and that nothing sinister has happened, but there are some busy roads around so we do need to find him soon.’ His tone is steady and calm but the V-shaped furrow on his brow might as well be branded on.

  ‘If you want, I can help you search?’ I say, before remembering my hindering linguistic skills. ‘I mean, keep you company and be an extra pair of eyes. I know the boy doesn’t understand English and I’d probably frighten him if I approached him alone and couldn’t reassure him.’

  The furrow momentarily disappears, before coming straight back. ‘Yes, that would be useful. I just popped in to make a phone call to the office and my mobile phone has run out. Give me a moment.’

  A few minutes later, we are heading towards Place des Héros as Olivier fills me in on the boy’s description and what he was last seen wearing. His name is Nathan. I’m impressed by Olivier’s calm, methodical approach, and I think some of it rubs off on me. ‘The police are checking the train stations and toyshops, but today Nathan was quite obsessed wi
th the old buildings and churches. I’ve asked the police to check the town hall but it’s falling on deaf ears. The mother is so frantic she can barely communicate and hasn’t been able to suggest any rational place he may have gone. She has some of the other tourists comforting her now. The town hall is a stunning Gothic building and the belfry is so high – it can be seen from many a street in Arras. I think he’ll have gone there.’

  ‘Well, it sounds as good a place as any to start looking,’ I say, already picking up pace.

  The square is quiet when we arrive. It’s a midweek evening and there are just a few people dotted about at tables outside of the café bars. We walk through a cloud of cigarette smoke, past a couple of men enjoying a beer. They don’t look up. It’s easy to see how a young boy wandering the streets alone may have gone unnoticed. Thankfully, he should be easy to spot to those of us looking out for him thanks to his distinctive red jumper.

  ‘Nathan’s mother told police that the boy knows to go into a shop and ask for help if he’s ever lost, but at this time, there aren’t many shops open.’ Olivier’s words come out as a conscious stream, rather than him speaking to me directly.

  ‘Poor mite. He must be petrified,’ I say as we reach the town hall. ‘Do you think he’s gone inside?’

  Olivier checks his watch and shakes his head. ‘It is closed for the day now. Let’s walk around it. Perhaps we can ask a few people nearby.’ He doesn’t wait for me to reply; instead, he charges ahead, on a mission. My chest flutters a little, breaking tension I hadn’t even realised was there. Just like his knowledge of history, his proactive demeanour draws me to him, but I don’t let that thought linger for long. Instead, I scold myself for thinking it at all when my head should be focused on finding the boy.

  I have to run a little to catch up to Olivier’s long, powerful strides and when I do, he’s already speaking in French to a passer-by. I can tell by his facial expression and tone that they can’t provide anything helpful. ‘Let’s keep looking,’ I say and he nods.

  We make our way around the building, and once we’re out of the square, we see a couple of police officers. Olivier approaches them for an update while I wander up and down, checking doorways for tired little legs. I hear someone jogging towards me and turn around to see Olivier coming to a halt. ‘They’ve finally come to check the town hall, but so far they have nothing.’ My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. I don’t say anything, but the ‘what if’ questions are popping into my head as though a machine gun is firing them through my brain, and I almost choke on my own tonsils as I try to swallow.

  All of a sudden, a spear of light penetrates the dark thoughts. It comes so quickly, I can’t get the words out, so I tug at Olivier’s sleeve until he slows down and I can form a sentence. ‘The arches’ is all that comes out. I’m out of breath but I don’t know why. ‘Kieran.’ Olivier looks at me, confused. ‘Kieran used to hide away when he was scared. I’d find him in his wardrobe, under his bed, in the shed. Anywhere but in the broad light of day. If you think the boy probably came here, we need to check the arches at the front. It’s the only place to hide,’ I say, already breaking into a jog.

  Olivier doesn’t speak but he’s keeping pace. Once we’ve rounded the corner, we come to a halt and my body sags a bit with disappointment. The arches aren’t as deep as I’d initially thought, and the posts much skinnier. I can practically see without walking under them that there’s little room for hiding. ‘You look,’ I say, unable to face the disappointment of him not being there, nor could I reassure the little lamb if he was.

  Olivier’s Adam’s apple bobs, and he nods before walking slowly under one of the arches. I look away, back across the square to where I was sitting eating with Olivier and the Americans on my first night in Arras, without a care in the world. What a contrast. Roused by Olivier’s whispering voice, I turn around to see him slowly emerging from the corner post. I gasp, clutching my hands to my face as I acknowledge the blond boy in a red jumper, balancing on his hip. The boy is clinging to Olivier’s neck and has his face buried in Olivier’s sweater while Olivier continues to whisper to him in French, gently stroking his back. My chest cracks and all the air comes out. The sensation makes my eyes tingle and moisten.

  ‘Oh God, you’ve found him!’ I run over, stopping a metre or so before them so as not to startle the child. ‘Is he okay?’ I ask, scanning him over and resisting the urge to take him in my arms.

  ‘He seems to be. Frightened, tired, and hungry but otherwise okay,’ he says through a watery smile.

  I open my mouth to reply, but as I do, the two policemen we saw a few minutes ago come bounding over, immediately entering into a conversation I don’t understand a word of. One of the officers speaks into his radio, presumably informing everyone of the good news. Olivier hands over the boy to the other officer and there is some back-patting and handshaking before the officers leave with the boy and Olivier crumples in half.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask, placing an arm around his shoulders. It’s a moment before he stands tall again, and I allow my arm to flop down as the gradient of his back increases.

  ‘I’m so relieved. What his mother must have been going through, I don’t know. I’m so glad he’s been found in good health.’ He rubs his face with his hands. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t look there first – it was such an obvious place. I was convinced he’d want to be up in the tower or sitting admiring the building from afar.’

  ‘You can practically see the entire space from here,’ I say, gesturing towards the arches. ‘He must have been tucked away in a tiny ball.’

  ‘He was,’ he says, staring at the building.

  ‘He’s safe now.’ I sense pensiveness. Seeing how much he cares gives me a pang of something in my stomach. It’s a mixture of affection and sadness, to know there are men in this world like that and yet Kieran’s father, and my own come to think of it, never even gave us the time of day.

  ‘Yes. Now I need a drink, will you join me?’ His crinkled brow backs up his statement.

  I nod.

  ‘I want to speak to the mother again but will do it tomorrow. The police will be with her a while. There’s a bar just off the square. It’s quiet.’

  ‘Okay.’

  We take a seat in a corner inside and Olivier goes to the bar, returning with two large beers. He hands me mine before sitting down and taking three large glugs of his own and letting out a sigh.

  ‘You’ll be in the news tomorrow, hailed a local hero,’ I say, trying to lighten the thick atmosphere.

  He raises a smile but there is no jubilation behind it.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask in a more serious tone.

  ‘I just can’t help but think of how wrong today could have gone. That child could have been hit by a car, kidnapped …’ He trails off and sips his beer.

  ‘I know that. But you found him, safe, and now he’s back with his mother where he belongs. Imagine how she feels?’

  ‘I know. You’re right. It’s just been a hell of a day.’ He raises his glass. ‘I couldn’t have done it without you, though.’

  I shake my head, unable to accept the praise. ‘His mother approached me, just before you arrived at the hotel. She was frantic but I couldn’t understand what she was saying so I just stood there staring at her like an incapable idiot.’ It was my turn to take a long draw of my beer.

  ‘That wasn’t your fault.’ His tone is comforting.

  ‘I know, but if I could understand the language a little better, I would have understood her problem. I could have offered to help or reassured her.’ I sigh.

  He rests his head on his hand and looks me directly in the eye, causing the hair follicles on the back of my neck to tickle. ‘You’re quite hung up on this whole language barrier thing, aren’t you?’

  I sigh. ‘Yes, I suppose I am. I feel so stupid. But that isn’t all. I love the sound of the French language, it sounds so …’ I feel the heat in my cheeks again as I realise how foolish what I’m about to say will s
ound, but I’ve committed to the statement and swallow hard before choking out the word. ‘Romantic.’

  As I say the word, I have to look away, but I can tell he’s smiling. Fortunately, he does his best to make me feel comfortable by shrugging. ‘They say it is the language of love.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I reply, with more confidence than I feel.

  ‘My offer still stands. I will teach you some French. In fact, I’d enjoy it.’

  His face is hopeful: a half-smile, a slight rise of the eyebrows and his head cocked slightly to the side. ‘Are you sure it wouldn’t be an imposition?’

  ‘I’d enjoy it,’ he repeats, slowly and much louder to ensure I’d got the message.

  I chuckle and notice his brows press together. ‘Sorry, you just did the “speak slower and louder” thing that English people are renowned for.’

  Fortunately, he laughs too. ‘Well, that was your first lesson!’

  ‘Thank you,’ I mouth, loud and slowly.

  He pats his stomach. ‘Are you hungry? I didn’t think I was before but it must have been the adrenaline. Now I’m famished. They do good food here if you want to eat?’

  My stomach growls in response and I clutch it, hoping he hasn’t heard. ‘That would be lovely’.

  ‘Great.’ He claps his hands together. ‘We can start our first lesson now.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, glad to see his lifted spirits.

  Olivier disappears to ask for some menus and returns with them and two glasses of wine a minute or so later.

  ‘Okay, well in France, we like to enjoy a glass of wine.’ He places the glasses on the table to make his point. ‘One of the first things we teach our children to say after mamma and papa is: “La vie est trop courte pour boire du mauvais vin”.’ He speaks so quickly I can’t so much as pick out a sound other than vin, which I know is wine. I frown. ‘It means that life is too short to drink bad wine. It’s a very important lesson, no?’ His eyes dance mischievously. And I go along with his joke.

  ‘English kids are tougher – they drink aged whisky.’