It Started With A Note. Victoria Cooke

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СКАЧАТЬ where I’m from and it’s interesting to me. How about you? You’re here – were you the same?’

      ‘What, a geek?’ I say with a dramatic hand on my chest.

      He studies me and the hair follicles on the back of my neck tingle. ‘Somehow, I can’t see it.’

      I glance away self-consciously and think back to my comprehensive education in a failing school on the outskirts of London. Somehow, I can’t make it fit with the perfect image I have of him, reading history books studiously on an evening whereas I was probably chatting on the phone with my friend about which boys we fancied, whilst my mum yelled at me to revise.

      ‘History is something I’ve become more interested in recently,’ I say instead, before filling him in on the letters that I’d found. He nods animatedly as I explain all about them.

      ‘That’s fantastic. To have a piece of history that you get to keep for yourself. I’d love to read them … if they’re not too personal, of course.’ His interest is welcome and warm in contrast to Gary’s indifference.

      ‘No, they’re not personal, not anymore at least. I’d love you to look at them. It seems my great-grandfather was trying to learn French when he was stationed here and three of the letters are written in French.’ I bite my bottom lip, unsure as to whether I should continue. In the end, I dare myself to go on. ‘It would be great if you could translate them for me.’

      ‘I’d love to. I’d be honoured if you’d allow me to.’

      Once we’ve finished our coffee, we part ways. Olivier has some paperwork to take care of for the tour company and I’ve been desperate to browse the little shops. I have half an hour left to do it.

      ***

      On the coach, I take in more of the scenery. Olivier is sat in the adjacent seat. ‘You can’t drive very far without coming across a cemetery or memorial, can you?’ I ask as we pass another small garden filled with white headstones.

      ‘No. It wasn’t always possible to remove the bodies from the front line. Search and rescue teams were sometimes killed trying to retrieve the dead. In many cases, the solution was to bury men close to where they fell. What it shows us now, though, is how death was all around. It was everywhere. No living man on the battlefield escaped witnessing the horrors of the Great War.’

      I swallow hard and fall back into my seat, gazing out of the window and trying to understand how and why it even happened. Soon after, I catch a glimpse of a giant archway.

      ‘What’s that?’ I ask.

      ‘That’s the Thiepval Memorial to the Missing. That’s where Harry will find his uncle’s name.’

      ‘Wow. I wasn’t expecting it to be so big.’ I don’t really know what I was expecting.

      ‘It has to be big. There are over seventy-two thousand 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 СКАЧАТЬ