It Started With A Note. Victoria Cooke

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      ‘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 moments.

      ‘Some of these men are my son’s age.’ The thought is incredibly hard to bear.

      Olivier nods and I notice his face is sombre.

      There is a film to view too, and once we’ve seen everything, Olivier suggests paying to go into the museum, which I happily agree to.

      As we walk the halls, I watch Olivier reading the information intently. He must have read it dozens of times, yet he is still engrossed, reading it like it’s new. A few of the people off the coach tour are dotted about and Olivier makes polite conversation as we pass.

      We approach a replica German fighter plane and he turns to me. ‘Do you know the exact journey your great-grandfather made?’

      ‘Almost. All I’m missing is where he trained. He wrote a letter from the training camp he went to after landing in France but I’ve been unable to find out where it actually was.’

      ‘Perhaps Jenny can help. She’s worked here years and is as interested in the war as I am. Almost.’ He winks.

      When we head back out to the shop, Olivier explains what we’re after and Jenny asks me for all the information I have.

      I give her his regiment and battalion information and find myself nattering away. ‘He was just twenty-four.’

      She tuts and shakes her head. ‘So young.’

      ‘It’s staggering how many were,’ Olivier adds.

      ‘He enlisted himself. Given the dates he served, he was one of the first out there and he was married too.’

      ‘The propaganda was very compelling back then. Many men signed up out of pride for their country. I don’t think the reality always hit them until it was too late. Not the Kitchener’s Mob anyway.

      ‘Right, so it was the training camp you were after?’ Jenny asks, squinting at the screen.

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘This page here should have everything you need.’ She stands up and gestures for me to sit down. I read the in-depth log of where the regiment were from day one until the end. Most of the information ties up to what I’d found.

      ‘Étaples.’ I say. ‘That’s where he trained.’

      ‘I thought that was probably the case, but I wanted to be sure,’ Olivier says.

      ‘Is it possible to get there from Arras?’ I ask.

      ‘Yes, it’s about an hour and a half away by car, give or take.’

      I feel like a weight has been lifted now the missing piece of the puzzle has been filled.

      ‘I’m really glad I did this today. Olivier, thank you so much for bringing me, and Jenny, thank you for all your help.’

      ‘Don’t be silly, we enjoy it,’ Jenny says.

      The coach journey back to Arras is quiet. Many people on board had a relative killed in the war, and seeing so many names on the memorial was such a moving sight. Others are perhaps worn out after such a long day. I sense that the thick silence is that of appreciation for the efforts to maintain such a fitting tribute. I glance around and most people are sitting gazing out of the window; a few have even nodded off in the eerie, dusky light you sometimes get on a summer’s evening.

      It isn’t long before my mind wanders to Olivier. Not because he’s good-looking – I can admit to myself that he is now – but because I saw a soft side to him that I didn’t expect. He seemed so confident in himself last night, which I suppose, being a tour guide, he has to СКАЧАТЬ