It Started With A Note. Victoria Cooke

names of missing men inscribed on it. It’s the biggest Commonwealth memorial to the missing in the world.’

      ‘You’re like a walking, talking encyclopaedia,’ I quip and he grins.

      ‘I know, who needs Google, hey?’ I like how he matches my tone.

      ‘How can that many men have been lost in these fields?’ I say aloud, casting my eye back to the window and across the concealing beauty of the farmland beyond.

      ‘It was complex. Not just a case of a man killed, carried to a grave and buried. Some men were blown to pieces and others buried by bomb blasts. Some men who’d been buried by their comrades in the field were later excavated by further bomb blasts. Soldiers’ remains are being found to this day, usually when building works take place. But, as you can see, it’s a slow process as there is little building work going on here.’ The reality of what he’s describing is so far from what we see here today it’s hard to imagine.

      The coach churns up crunchy gravel before finding a place to stop before two grassy mounds with a path through the middle.

      Olivier stands up and taps the microphone twice. ‘We’ve arrived at Thiepval. That modern building over there houses the museum and visitors’ centre. There is a gift shop too and a couple of vending machines for refreshments. If you follow the path to the left it takes you up to the memorial. I’ll be wandering around if you need me.’ With that, he heads down the steps and begins helping the more infirm passengers off the coach, greeting everyone personally even if not by name.

      ‘Did you send that postcard?’

      ‘Have you found your glasses case?’

      ‘Is that a new handbag, Beryl? Someone went crazy in Albert!’

      I can’t help but notice how genuine he seems, and I find myself smiling.

      The sky is the brightest blue, the weather warm, and the grass a luscious green. It’s a beautiful day in the Somme Valley, and the forecast shows no sign of it changing. It’s as though the views and weather here are acting as some kind of consolation for what happened in the early twentieth century. It’s like nature’s own memorial to the sacrifices made. I fill my lungs with fresh country air and follow the path until I see the red-brick and white-stone structure. The path ends and the last part of the walk is across a well-manicured grassy area.

      I slow down, breaking away from Martha and the others. Harry had gone all quiet when we stepped off the coach and I sense this is a more emotional part of the trip for him. He needs to be with his wife and friends and won’t want some stranger tagging along. I wander into the vast space of headstones beyond the memorial, and I’m taken aback by the abundance of pristine, white crosses, each representing a fallen soldier. I glance at the inscription on one:

       A SOLDIER OF THE GREAT WAR

       KNOWN UNTO GOD

      They don’t even know his name. My stomach lurches. The headstones, each decorated with flowers, are aligned in four quadrants, symmetrical and all facing a larger, white-stone cross at the front. It seems like a beautiful testament to the heroics of these men.

      I sit on the steps of the archway, taking out a leaflet I’d picked up at the museum in Albert. It’s written in French. I’d paid no attention to the language when I picked it up, just the pictures, which are grainy, black and white images capturing the men in the trenches.

      Sometimes I feel like my life is hard. The thankless task of looking after Kieran and Gary, working a dreary job just to make ends meet and having no real friends to confide in, other than my teenybopper colleague at work. Most of my old friends drifted away when I had Kieran. There are only so many times you can say you can’t get a babysitter and go to the nightclub before people stop asking you. But I didn’t blame them then and nor did I care. And I don’t now.

      If this trip has taught me anything so far, it’s that I’m lucky. I live in a safer world, I’m with my loved ones and I have everything that I need. These men had it hard and how they got up and fought is beyond me, but they did.

      I glance across the archway, and in the corner, I can see Harry’s distinctive cornflower blue rain jacket. Martha has her arm around him as Roland and Cynthia hover behind them. It’s an emotional scene and whilst I feel almost voyeuristic, I can’t help but look on. Harry has these three people who’ve travelled thousands of miles to be by his side for this moment and it’s one of the most special things I’ve ever witnessed. As I dab the corner of my eye, I sense a presence behind me.

      ‘It is very moving being here, isn’t it?’ Olivier comes to stand by my side.

      ‘Yes. So many men lost. It’s hard to comprehend that each one of those names inscribed on the memorial and each of those crosses was a living person.’

      ‘And as you saw before, there are countless cemeteries just like this one. That’s what is the most staggering. Not just the number of graves in the cemetery, but the number of cemeteries.’ He sits on the step beside me.

      ‘What I find especially sad are the graves of the unknown soldiers. Their families won’t have had the opportunity to visit their graves to pay their last respects,’ I say, wishing I could do something about it.

      ‘Not many family members had the financial means to come and visit back then.’

      ‘I suppose, and we do have memorials back home. Every town and village has one.’

      ‘Yes, I know, we do tours to the UK too.’ This interests me more than it should.

      ‘So, you go to England sometimes?’ I ask.

      ‘Yes, about once a month. I love it over there. Especially when we visit London.’ The thought of Olivier being so close to where I live sends little sparks of excitement through my chest.

      ‘What do you do in London?’

      ‘You mean after I have lunch with the Queen, see my buddies in parliament and meet up with the Beckhams?’

      ‘Hmm?’ I twist the corner of my mouth in bemusement.

      ‘Okay, we have a picnic outside Buckingham Palace, walk past Big Ben and go to Kensington Gardens. It just sounds more exciting my way.’

      ‘So you do the touristy stuff?’

      ‘I suppose – we cover some of the points of interest surrounding the world wars too of course.’

      ‘So, you must know a lot about the Great War.’

      ‘I do. It’s interesting, but I also like to think me spreading the word about how horrific it was helps to make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

      ‘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