It Started With A Note. Victoria Cooke
just about on par with that, so I hop in and thrust my printout from Expedia his way and hope for the best. I glance out of the window, eager to catch my first glimpse of Le Havre but the blocky, grey, modern buildings are something of a disappointment. I’d hoped for rustic and charming not modern and unusual but as my mother used to say, ‘The world doesn’t revolve around you, Cath.’ Besides, I’d read up on the place and knew it had been obliterated in the Second World War so I should hardly be surprised.
The lady at the hotel reception speaks to me in French and my cheeks flame as I sheepishly pass her the printout detailing my one-night stay. After dumping my bag, I decide to wander out for some food, and am relieved to spot a McDonald’s restaurant where I order a familiar Big Mac using the touchscreen menus and sit down, placing my receipt on the table so that the order number is clear and nobody should need to ask me a question.
The last person I spoke to was the bartender on the ferry and that was hours ago and now I feel as though my voice has shrivelled up and died. That’s probably an over-reaction but I’m used to talking a lot more because of the job I do and it’s surprising how isolated and alone you feel when you’re unable to communicate. I feel like a mute, which would no doubt please Gary if the condition was permanent.
As I stroke the condensation beads on the side of my cola cup it dawns on me that, actually, I don’t feel like a mute. I feel ignorant and stupid. I should have tried to learn a little bit of French before I came to France but I didn’t exactly make the decision rationally.
I finish my food and go straight back to my room and flop on the bed. Four weeks is a long time to be trapped in this solitary bubble and I don’t think I can do it. My stomach hasn’t stopped churning since I arrived. I don’t know what possessed me to come. Kaitlynn had filled my head with silly ideas and Gary pushed me over the edge. No matter, I’ll put this right and draw a line under it. Tomorrow, I’ll go and get a ferry home.
After a fitful night’s sleep, I pack my case and head down for the serve-yourself breakfast. Sunlight floods the room from two floor-length windows and in its warmth, I’m put at ease. I should at least see the town today. I help myself to a banana and a yoghurt and sit down to look over the first letter from my great-grandfather once more. Something about being in the place where he wrote it fills me with a sense of warmth and excitement, like I’m connecting with him.
When I read it again, I notice there is no sense of fear despite what he came here for. I’m obviously reading between the lines but I get the impression of a jolly old chap tootling off to war, not a scared young man heading towards life-or-death danger. It puts my own discomfort and fear of unfamiliarity to shame and if he could leave his homeland to fight a war for his king and country, I can bloomin’ well spend a bit of time touring the place he died protecting. Can’t I?
I wander the streets aimlessly. The kind English-speaking lady in the tourist information place gave me some leaflets and I learnt about the rebuilding of the town after the Second World War and how they used concrete because they didn’t have access to stone or any money to transport it here. The results are quite unique even if I’m not quite getting what I’d hoped for. As I browse the patisseries and boutiques, I wonder what my great-grandfather saw. I’m sure the place was bursting with military activity then, not shoppers and couples strolling by the water.
After collecting my wheelie case from the hotel, I make my way to the train station before I have a chance to change my mind about continuing my journey, only this time I walk to take in as much of the city as I can.
On the train, I see some of the stunning views I imagine my great-grandfather saw. The green and yellow colours of the vast rapeseed and corn fields. The gentle roll of the terrain with beautiful rustic farmhouses and churches dotted about like decorations. This is more like it.
Right! I need to make an effort with the language. I can’t stay silent for weeks. If my great-grandfather could do it, I have to at least try.
I fumble in the front pocket of my wheelie case and take out my phrase book.
Please.
Thank you.
What time is it?
Where is the nearest payphone?
The trouble with these phrases is that even if by some godly miracle I managed to pronounce them correctly, I wouldn’t understand the reply. I skip ahead to the ‘Ordering food and drink’ section and practise ordering some simple items aloud, which earns me the odd sideways glance from other passengers, so I end up stuffing the book away and staring out of the window.
When I arrive at Paris, I have an hour to kill before my train to Arras. It’s a town I chose by looking at the map for somewhere quite central to the places I want to visit, and which was large enough to have a train station. The reality is, I don’t know what to expect.
Sitting down in a small café I run over the phrase in my head – Un cappuccino, s’il vous plaît – but when the waiter comes over, he speaks so quickly that I don’t have a clue if he wants to take my order or wants me to move, leave, pay, or is complimenting me on my bargain blazer. Okay, that last one was a stretch. I freeze. Scrambling for the words, I manage to spurt out the sentence I’d been so sure of just seconds before, but it’s barely audible, even to me and doesn’t sound anything close to how it had in my head.
‘One cappuccino coming up,’ he says in perfect English before walking off. It is safe to say I won’t be masquerading as a French person any time soon – I feel such a fool. I’ve planned a few nights in Paris at the end of my trip before I take the Eurostar home and hope that by the time I come back, I’ll be better equipped to at least order a drink.
The train ride to Arras is okay, mostly because I don’t have to speak to anyone other than the ticket inspector and I do understand the word ‘billet’, mostly because the ticket inspector repeats it several times whilst jabbing a finger at the ticket I’ve left out on the table. Thankfully, finding my hotel on arrival is a simple task since it’s right opposite the station.
I stand outside and take a breath. It’s only four weeks; it will fly by.
A horn honks as I step off the kerb and I jump back.
I can do this. I definitely can.
I walk past a red coach towards the revolving doors of the hotel, nervously running the phrase I need through my head: J’ai une réservation pour Darlington. If I’m going to be in France for four weeks, then I’ll have to at least make an effort with the language even if I’m ruling out practising aloud on trains. Reservashon or reservacion? I run over it again as I step into the narrow cylinder, only remembering my wheelie case trailing behind me when it wedges in the doorway, jamming the entire mechanism. I yank the handle but it’s stuck fast, and within seconds a small handful of people have accumulated, waiting to get in. I yank again. Nothing. ‘Pardon,’ I say to nobody in particular.
I glance at the reception, but the man at the counter has his head down, seemingly unaware of my predicament. I bang the glass with the heel of my hand but he’s oblivious. Becoming frantic, I search for a stop button or an alarm or something but there is nothing. Surely this happens all the time?
A man from outside starts to try and prise the door open. He’s dressed in a red T-shirt that looks like a uniform of some sort, and I wonder if he’s here to fix the doors – surely they shouldn’t trap people like this. There was probably an ‘out of order’ sign somewhere. I tug the handle of my case while he heaves the two sides open with strong arms. Eventually, it springs free, throwing me back against the glass. That’s when my eyes meet his,