Valentine Joe

by Rebecca Stevens

  The dog watched as she fumbled with the iron latch. The door wasn’t locked. That surprised her. She would’ve thought Muriel was the kind of person to be extra careful about things like that. But maybe Ypres was the kind of place where no one ever locked their doors. Muriel did say it was very safe.

  The door swung open easily when she pulled it, letting a gust of snow-speckled moonlight into the hall.

  Here goes, Rose thought.

  She hugged the unfamiliar coat around herself, catching a faint dusty whiff of Parma violets, the previous owner’s perfume perhaps. It reminded Rose of the old-fashioned chalky sweets Dad used to buy her from their local corner shop. Then, the dog at her heels, she stepped out into the square.

  The cold took her breath away. The icy wind pulled at her hair, spattering her face with snowflakes that stung like sand.

  ‘Wuff!’ The dog was looking up at her.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked him. ‘What’s happening?’

  He wagged his tail and then – to Rose’s horror – turned and scampered off into the snow.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she called. ‘Come back! Don’t leave me!’

  But he was gone, leaving Rose standing there alone, with the snow whirling around her. The square was deserted. There were no lights in any of the buildings, no sounds, no sign of the soldiers. Had she left her nice warm bed and come out in the middle of the night wearing nothing but her pyjamas and a manky old coat because of some stupid dream?

  But if it was a dream, where did the coat come from? And the room? Rooms didn’t just appear from nowhere. And then there was the snow.

  What about the snow?

  Rose turned her face up to the whirling snowflakes and breathed in the familiar smell of ice and winter. There was something else as well: a dark smell that was faint and powerful at the same time. It made Rose think of autumn and Bonfire Night and the sound of rockets screeching up over the London rooftops and exploding like giant fiery flowers.

  And then she realised: the smell was charred wood. Something had been burnt here recently, something big. She looked around, wondering what it was, but couldn’t see much through the whirling whiteness. And then she looked down. She didn’t know why she hadn’t done it before, because there at her feet was the proof she wasn’t dreaming.

  Footprints.

  The snow had been churned up by hundreds of feet. So they had been here, the soldiers. They were real. Which meant he was real too, the boy she’d seen from the window.

  And then she heard the noise. It was faint at first, so faint that she felt it rather than heard it, a vibration in the air, a weird fluttering, then whooshing sound. It was getting louder. And closer.

  ‘Look out!’

  A body, coming from nowhere, hitting her like a train, pushing her backwards so she crashed on to her back, head smashing on the cobblestones, the sweet metallic taste of blood in her mouth, the other body falling flat on top of hers, crushing her . . .

  And then, the explosion.

  The loudest thing she’d ever heard. Rose felt the world spinning around her and the ground shuddering beneath her and, after a tiny second of silence, debris coming down like rain.

  The loudest noise now was the pounding of her heart. That must mean she wasn’t dead, musn’t it?

  She became conscious of some scratchy fabric against her cheek and the fact that her head hurt where it had hit the pavement. There was a smell of wool and oil and sweat. A slight trace of peppermint. No, she wasn’t dead. Just flat on her back in the snow with someone lying on top of her.

  ‘Blimey,’ the someone said. ‘That was a close one.’

  It was a boy’s voice with a slight croak and a strange accent that sounded a bit like London but wasn’t. Rose realised her eyes were shut. She opened them and found herself looking into a pair of bright brown eyes.

  ‘Hello,’ said the owner of the eyes. He didn’t seem at all embarrassed by the fact that his face was literally an inch away from hers. ‘I forgot you was there for a tick. Old whizz-bang took me mind clean off it.’

  ‘Ow?’ said Rose. She didn’t know what else to say.

  The boy grinned. There was a gap between his front teeth. ‘You’re not dead, then?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘Nor me. Just as well, eh?’

  Rose was in too much pain to feel embarrassed. ‘I’m a bit squashed. Can you—?’

  ‘What? Oh yeah. Sorry. Sorry, sorry.’

  He scrambled to his feet and, before Rose had a chance to get up, stood there, silhouetted against the whirling snowflakes, looking down at her.

  ‘Angel in the snow.’

  ‘What?’ Rose was struggling to get up now.

  ‘Didn’t you never do that when you was a kiddie?’

  Before Rose could reply, he lay down on his back in some fresh snow, spread out his arms and moved them up and down.

  ‘What are you—?’

  ‘Shh! You’ll see.’ He got up carefully, leaving behind the outline of his body, and pointed to the shapes he’d made with his arms. ‘See? Angel wings! Like an angel’s been lying there. I can’t believe you never done that.’

  Rose looked down at the shape in the snow. It was like the outline of an angel. Then she looked at the boy. He was small – not much taller than her – and skinny, dressed in the heavy khaki uniform of a British soldier. And in his buttonhole was a bunch of little yellow flowers, now very crushed.

  ‘It’s you,’ she said.

  The boy glanced over his shoulder, pretending there was someone else there, then pointed at himself. ‘Is it?’ he said. ‘I s’pose it must be. Large as life and twice as much trouble, as my Aunty Dot would say.’

  ‘I saw you. With the other soldiers. From up there.’ The snow was easing off now and you could see the tiny attic window quite clearly.

  ‘You did,’ said the boy. ‘And I saw you. Looking down at me like a little star in the sky.’ He twinkled at her, as if he was a star himself. ‘And what I want to know is, what the heck made you come out in the middle of a raid?’

  Rose’s stomach felt suddenly hollow. ‘A raid?’ she said. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t a vicarage tea party, was it?’

  Rose shivered. What was going on?

  ‘Chilly?’ said the boy. ‘You want my jacket?’

  ‘No. I’m all right. Thank you.’

  ‘Course you are. Angels don’t feel the cold, do they?’

  As he looked at her, Rose felt very glad of her borrowed coat. Not because it was warm (though it was), but because it was long and hid every inch of her pyjamas. She’d had them since she was twelve and they were covered in owls. Green owls.

  The boy sighed and looked at the sky. ‘Speaking of raids, we should get away from here,’ he said. ‘Blighters always aim for the clock tower – ’scuse my French – you can see it for miles.’

  ‘But . . .’ Rose looked at the hotel behind them. ‘I should really get back,’ she said. ‘My grandad—’

  ‘We need to go. Trust me.’

  And she did. Rose didn’t know why, but there was something about this boy that she did trust. She didn’t know who he was or where he’d come from. But somehow he made her feel – comfortable. She usually felt awkward with boys, especially ones she liked. She had often discussed it with Grace and Ella, all three of them wondering why they couldn’t talk to boys in the same way they talked to each other. But Rose didn’t feel like that with this boy. She felt as if she’d known him for ever, but at the same time she was excited, because they’d only just met.

  Most of all, in spite of all the weirdness, she felt – happy. She was out in the snow in the middle of the night with a boy – a boy who didn’t make her feel embarrassed or wish she was someone else. He just made her feel like herself. So if this was a dream, Rose didn’t want to wake up. Not yet, anyway.

  ‘It doesn’t look like I’ve got much choice, does it?’ she said, smiling at him.

  He
grinned back, his eyes dancing around her face. ‘No, sweet, it don’t. Come on.’

  He held out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it and they set off. Halfway across the square, Rose felt a bit awkward holding the hand of a complete stranger so she took her hand away and thrust it into the pocket of her borrowed coat. Inside there was a button and a screwed-up handkerchief.

  ‘You’re English,’ the boy said, looking at her from the corner of his eyes.

  ‘So are you.’

  ‘That is true, but to be expected. Whereas you—’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘I thought you was a local girl when I saw you sitting up there in your attic. A servant or something. Maid, you know. Not English, not an English girl. What you doing here?’

  Rose didn’t know what to say, so she told him the truth. ‘I’m here with my grandad.’

  ‘With your grandad?’ The boy looked astonished.

  But before she could reply there was a scrabble of claws and a flurry of snow as a white shape shot past them in pursuit of a smaller, darker shape.

  ‘Oi! Leave poor pussycat alone, you bully!’

  Rose’s heart leapt. It was the dog, she was sure of it. Her dog. ‘Hey!’ she called after him. ‘Come back!’ But he’d disappeared into the darkness. ‘I’ve seen that dog before,’ she said.

  ‘There’s a lot of them about,’ said the boy. ‘People had to leave them behind when they went, you know, the local people. Left them running around the streets, nowhere to go.’

  Rose was outraged. ‘That’s awful!’

  ‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I don’t like to see an animal with no home to go to neither. Still, what could they do? Look, there he is.’

  They had arrived at a place which looked vaguely familiar where the street passed through a gap in the city walls. The dog was sitting in the snow with his back to them, staring at the wall.

  ‘What have you done with poor pussycat, matey?’ said the boy. ‘We could do with him down the barracks, nice big cat like that.’ He looked at Rose. ‘Rats, you see. Crawling with them, it is.’

  Rose remembered a song Grandad used to sing when she was little. She sang a snatch of it:

  ‘Rats, rats, big as pussycats—’

  The boy joined in: ‘In the stores, in the stores . . .’

  They looked at each other and laughed.

  ‘You know that one, do you?’ he said. ‘Our rats are bigger than pussycats, as it happens. Horrible things.’ He did a little mime of firing a rifle. ‘Boom. Where’d puss go? Come on, chum, out the way.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Rose, crouching down by the dog and scratching his ears.

  ‘Going to catch old puss. Take him down the barracks. Like a mascot or something. Keep the rats down.’ The boy squatted down beside the ancient rampart. ‘He’s gone in here, found himself a hidey-hole.’ He pointed to a gap among the stones. ‘ Come on, puss, come to Joe.’

  Joe? He was called Joe?

  It was a common enough name, there were two or three Joes in Rose’s year at school, but even so . . .

  ‘Keep hold of the dog, will you, angel? Don’t want him scaring puss away.’

  ‘What? Oh, yes. Yes.’ Rose held on to the dog, her fingers in his rough coat, as the boy – as Joe – peered into the hole in the wall.

  ‘Goes back quite a way. Come on, puss. I know . . .’ He rummaged in his pocket and brought something out. ‘Look at this, lovely bit of biscuit. Out you come.’

  ‘He won’t come. Not for that.’

  ‘He will. I’ve got a way with animals. That’s it, mate. Come on. See?’

  As the cat emerged from the hole in the wall, the dog went mad, slithered out of Rose’s arms and launched himself at him. The cat rocketed off down the road, with the dog after him. Joe stood up and watched them disappear into the night.

  ‘Oh well. It was worth a try.’

  He turned back to Rose with a grin. It had stopped snowing now and the moon was shining, bleaching the colour from the world and making it look like a black-and-white photograph. The grin faded as his eyes rested on her.

  ‘Look at you. Standing there in the moonlight.’

  If anyone else had said it, Rose would’ve felt embarrassed. Especially if they were looking at her the way he was. But with this boy it was different. She didn’t feel embarrassed at all. She felt special.

  He didn’t take his eyes from her face. ‘Where did you come from?’ He sounded puzzled, but also grateful, as if someone had just given him the most amazing present.

  Rose shrugged. What could she say? She couldn’t explain what she was doing there. She didn’t know herself.

  ‘I – don’t know.’

  ‘What? You must know where you come from.’

  ‘I thought I did, but . . .’

  ‘You’ve got to have a name, though. I can’t keep calling you angel.’

  ‘It’s Rose.’

  The boy sighed as if he was pleased with the information. ‘Of course it is. Of course! You’re a rose in no man’s land.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s another song. You don’t know that one?’

  Rose shook her head.

  He sang, posing as if he was onstage: ‘“There’s a rose that grows in no man’s land–”’ He stopped. ‘I’d sing you the rest, but I don’t want to scare you away.’

  Rose laughed. It was true. She did feel like she was in some sort of no man’s land.

  The boy held out his right hand. ‘How d’you do, Rose? I’m Joe.’

  Rose took his hand and for a moment they stood there in the moonlight looking at each other. ‘Hello, Joe.’

  ‘It’s my birthday tomorrow,’ he said, releasing her hand and throwing her a sneaky look.

  Rose caught her breath. He was called Joe and his birthday was on Valentine’s Day? ‘February the fourteenth?’ she said. She couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Not just a pretty face, are you, Rose?’ No one had ever called Rose pretty before. Well, except for Mum and Dad, but that didn’t count. ‘Yup, same day every year. Comes around like clockwork. Tick tock, tick tock.’

  ‘Valentine’s Day . . .’

  ‘That’s right. You can’t say no to me now, can you?’

  It’s a coincidence, thought Rose. It has to be. She shook the thought away. ‘Depends what you’re asking.’

  ‘Ah ha! I’m asking you to join me for a bite to eat at a little estaminet what I happen to know in the vicinity. It ain’t far and they do a cracking egg and chips.’

  Was he asking her out? Like – on a date?

  Rose had often thought about this moment , talked about it with Grace and Ella: what you’d say when someone asked you out. If you didn’t like them, how would you say no without hurting their feelings, and if you did like them, how would you say yes without looking too keen? And it was funny, because now it had happened she knew exactly what to say. She said:

  ‘All right.’

  ‘All right!’

  Joe held out his hand. Rose took it and they walked down the street together, leaving a trail of footprints behind them in the fresh snow.

  As they turned into the little side street, picking their way across broken pavements and slithering in the snow, Rose began to feel she’d been there before.

  ‘There she is,’ said Joe. ‘The finest estaminet in town. Well, the only one open this late.’

  There was a window lit by a single flickering candle. And now Rose realised where they were. It was the street she’d walked down when she’d gone off on her own after dinner with Grandad. The street where she’d seen the little girl in the doorway of the café .

  ‘Look at it,’ Joe went on. ‘The light of the world, shining in the darkness, calling out to us, “Egg and chips . . . come and get my egg and chips . . .”’

  Rose giggled. ‘It’s a caff,’ she said.

  And it was the same café , she saw that now. But something had happened since she was last there. The shutters were open,
and the windowpanes were broken. There was rubble on the pavement outside.

  ‘Call it what you want, sweet,’ said Joe. ‘Long as it’s got a bit of a roof and serves hot grub, it’s good enough for me.’

  As he made for the door, Rose stopped him. ‘I’ve been here before,’ she said. ‘What happened to the window?’

  Joe shrugged. ‘Caught the force of a blast, by the looks of it.’

  He held the door for her, and she stepped inside. The café was a tiny place with only a couple of tables and a small counter at the back. It was just as cold inside as it was in the street and there was snow on the floor that had blown in through the broken window. Joe made for the table furthest from the door and pulled out a chair for Rose. They were the only customers.

  ‘Egg and chips, m’lady?’ said Joe.

  ‘I’m not hungry, thanks.’ She was still full of the pizza she’d had earlier.

  ‘Sure? Well, you’ll just have to watch me eat. Not a pretty sight. Bong jour?’ he called out. ‘Madame?’

  Rose waited, wondering if the same woman would appear, the mother of the little girl who’d been so frightened of her. But it was an elderly woman who emerged from the back room. She was dressed entirely in black and wore a scarf over her hair.

  ‘Erfs?’ said Joe. He used the same voice that Grandad did when he was talking to foreigners. ‘Chips? Bee-er?’

  The old woman nodded and said something in Flemish.

  ‘Merci,’ added Joe as she trudged away. He pronounced it ‘mercy’.

  ‘They don’t speak French here, you know,’ said Rose.

  ‘Neither do I, so that’s all right.’ He grinned at her across the table. ‘Poor old soul, she ought to get out while she can. A lot of the people have gone already.’

  ‘Gone?’ said Rose. ‘Gone where?’

  He shrugged. ‘Dunno. France, I think. Holland? Some to England. Where you from?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘London! Straight up? You’ll be looking down your nose at me then. Dorking,’ he added in answer to her unspoken question.

  ‘I’ve never been there.’

  ‘You don’t want to. Well, you do now, of course. You’ll be coming to see me when we get back.’