It Started With A Note. Victoria Cooke

wouldn’t know, I’ve not actually been. My brother and I used to pretend our living room floor was Loch Ness.’ I don’t feel like sharing the story again; it seems strangely intimate all of a sudden.

      ‘Well, you must go. It’s one of the most beautiful parts of the world, and you live so near.’

      ‘I’m sure I will,’ I say politely, though our opinions of what constitutes ‘near’ seem to differ somewhat.

      The food arrives and the conversation mostly centres around travel. Since I’ve very little to contribute, I listen with genuine interest and make a mental note to travel more whilst I push the food around my plate. Now Kieran is grown up, I should travel more. It makes sense to see the world. My annual bonuses will cover the cost of a trip once a year and even though I’ve only just arrived in Arras, I feel like I’m doing okay if you discount the door fiasco and the fancy menu. Travelling alone doesn’t seem so bad.

      ‘Are you going to eat that?’ Olivier asks. The sauce is a pale green colour and it smells sort of fruity with a tinge of alcohol but there’s no indication of delicate embroidery fragments or the DNA of an ancient monarch so I take a forkful and raise it to my lips with trepidation.

      ‘Yes.’

      He leans across the table and whispers, ‘It’s an apple and brandy sauce.’

      I give a small smile in response but feel ridiculous inside even though there was nothing mocking in the way he said it and I don’t think he was trying to embarrass me.

      I take a bite and it’s a delicious explosion of flavour with the apple complementing the pork and the brandy flavour cutting through perfectly. Mum had always thought fruit and meat to be an odd combination, so much so she’d laugh at the cranberry sauce display at Christmas and shake her head with utterings of ‘bonkers, fruit is for pudding!’ As a result, I’d never thought to combine fruit and meat but this works so well. I stuff the next forkful in and it seals the deal. Cranberry sauce next Christmas it is!

      Back at the hotel, I bid the others goodnight and head up to my room where I fall asleep, wrapped in the warmth of the evening, the aromas and flavours of France, and, strangely, thoughts of Olivier. There’s something about him that’s quite unlike anything I’ve seen in anyone before.

       Chapter Eight

      ‘Good morning!’ my new travel buddies call as I walk in to breakfast the next day.

      ‘Did you sleep well?’ Martha asks. She’s dressed smartly in pink capri pants and a matching blazer with a white T-shirt underneath.

      ‘Good morning,’ I reply. ‘Yes, very well in fact.’ I think the travelling had worn me out because once I dropped off, I had the deepest sleep I’ve had in ages.

      ‘Did you sleep in?’ Cynthia asks.

      I nod, unable to confess the real reason I was late. Ridiculously, I couldn’t decide what to wear. I’d eventually settled on a thin white T-shirt and denim shorts and left the room before I could change my mind. I head to the buffet and take a tray, piling it up with coffee, orange juice, a croissant, jam, yoghurt and some fruit. ‘I’d never normally eat this much at home.’ I chuckle as I sit down at the next table.

      ‘You’ll need your strength. Lots of walking today, girl,’ Harry bellows, punctuating each word with his spoon.

      ‘Oh, Harry, I’m sure Cath can manage a bit of walking, can’t you, Cath?’

      ‘I—’

      ‘Olivier has us doing a lot of walking,’ Roland interrupts before I can reply. ‘I think he does it on purpose to tire us out so we nod off on the coach home and don’t bombard him with questions.’

      Cynthia pats his arm. ‘Oh, Rolly, you’re such a conspiracy theorist. He’s just making sure we don’t miss anything.’

      ‘Anyway …’ Martha holds her hands up. ‘Before this gets all domestic, let us summarise and move on. Lots of walking. Hard for us old folks, okay for Cath. No conspiracy. Got it?’ She places her hands down firmly on the table and leans over to me. ‘If we don’t nip these things in the bud early on, those two will be at each other’s throats before we set foot on that coach.’

      I stifle a giggle.

      ‘Good morning, my cheerful travellers,’ an accented voice booms above us. Turning, I see Olivier stood behind me. He’s in a crisp red T-shirt and navy chino shorts, and smells of that familiar, deliciously fresh scent, like a bottle of Original Source shower gel. Crisp, citrussy and minty. His messy hair has been arranged in some semblance of style with a dry product of some kind. Not that awful gunky stuff Kieran uses. I swallow as everyone else choruses ‘Good morning’.

      ‘We’ll be leaving in ten minutes. Please make sure you have everything you need. Your money, cameras, teeth and so on. I will be at the coach out front.’ I giggle as he turns and goes off to a few of the other tables. I doubt many people could get away with that kind of cheek with Martha, but she giggles too. Everyone excuses themselves to go and gather items, take medication, or pay a visit, and I arrange to meet them at the coach.

      After finishing my oversized breakfast, I make my way outside. I’m the first to arrive so lean against the wall at the entrance and rummage in my bag for no other reason than to look busy, but I do benefit from the reassurance that everything I need is in there. ‘You can get on board if you want.’ Olivier walks from around the far side of the coach as a few other people start to trickle out of the hotel.

      ‘Yes, thank you. I will.’

      I follow behind as the small group climb the steps and make their way down the aisle. About halfway down, I take a seat and shuffle up to the window enjoying the quiet for a moment.

      ‘They’re a nice bunch – your new American friends.’

      Surprised, I turn to see Olivier perch himself on the armrest of the chair across the aisle.

      ‘Oh, yes. Yes, they are. Considering I’ve only just met them, it’s so kind of them to invite me today. And you, thank you for letting me come along – I haven’t got my head around travelling alone and getting from A to B in a strange country yet. Not that France is strange, it’s normal just with the cars on the wrong side of the road and …’ My cheeks prickle.

      ‘It’s no problem,’ he says easily. His calmness is the perfect cure for my flustered babble and I start to relax. ‘Why are you here? In Arras alone, I mean.’

      I give him the shortened version of my story – that I’ve come to see my great-grandfather’s name inscribed on the Menin Gate – and I try not to sound like Sad Sack from the Raggy Dolls when I explain why I’ve had to come alone.

      ‘Ahh that’s a shame. We’ve already been to Ypres on this tour, in fact we’re almost done with the war trips for now.’ I’m relieved his attention is focused on the trip, and not the alone part.

      ‘It’s okay. Without wanting to sound ungrateful, I think it’s somewhere I should probably visit by myself.’ He nods knowingly as more people start filing onto the bus.

      Our first stop is the museum at Albert. While Cynthia and Martha natter the whole way around about what they might buy from the gift shop, Roland and Harry are as engrossed in the fascinating exhibits as I am as we follow the journey of a real soldier from a card we were handed at the reception. The gas masks, the weaponry, the life and fears of everyday people are all completely unimaginable.

      The tour ends with a sound and light display, giving me a taste of what life might have been like during the night-time shelling that decimated the trenches on the front line. With each ear-splitting explosive bang, I flinch. It’s hard to imagine how my great-grandfather and millions of other men lived this way, not knowing if the next one would hit him or a fellow comrade. I close my eyes. I’m sheltering