Valentine Joe

by Rebecca Stevens

  Rose raised her eyebrows. ‘You reckon?’

  ‘I reckon.’

  He was very sure of himself, this boy. But Rose didn’t mind. She quite liked it, in fact.

  ‘I’ll show you all the sights,’ he continued. ‘The horse trough. The duck pond. The coal yard.’

  ‘Sounds exciting.’

  ‘It do, don’t it? It’s not, though. It’s the most boring town ever. That’s why I joined up.’

  ‘Joined up?’

  He patted his uniform. ‘The army, you know. Your country needs you, all that guff? I’m one of Kitchener’s boys.’

  That was just ridiculous. Rose couldn’t believe it. ‘You joined the army because you were bored?’

  ‘Why not? Me and my two best pals went along to the recruiting office. We reckoned it’d be a laugh. Better than staying at home anyway. In Dorking.’

  ‘What did your mum say?’

  ‘Mother? Lor’, what didn’t she say?’ Joe rolled his eyes. ‘She shouted, cried, threw a scrubbing brush at me head, shouted again. Cried again. Got over it in the end, though. Give me this.’ He reached in his pocket.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Her lucky sixpence.’

  He put it on the table. It was an old silver coin with a hole roughly drilled through the middle. A leather thong had been threaded through the hole. Rose picked it up by the thong and held it up in the candlelight. The markings on the coin were nearly worn away.

  ‘It belonged to her dad,’ Joe was saying. ‘He was in South Africa, fighting the Boers, and it brought him back in one piece. So Mum reckoned it’d bring me back in one piece an’ all.’

  ‘So now it’s your lucky sixpence.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose it is. Ah, here we go, grub up.’

  The old woman came out with a plate of food and a glass of light-coloured beer. She put them down in front of Joe, who paid her with a handful of change. ‘Mercy!’ he called after her retreating back then started on his meal, wolfing it down as if he hadn’t eaten for days. He paused, looking at Rose over a forkful of fried egg.

  ‘Sure you don’t wish to partake, m’lady?’

  ‘So sure.’

  He waggled a chip at her. ‘Go on. It’s trez beans, you know.’

  ‘What?’ Rose looked at him. ‘What did you just say? Trez—?’

  ‘Beans.’ He grinned and ate the chip himself. ‘Trez beans. I was lying before, wasn’t I, when I said I couldn’t speak French.’

  Rose laughed. ‘Oh, I get it! Trè s bien! “Very good”!’

  ‘Oooh! Hark at you with your frenchifiediness!’ He looked across at her, the grin fading from his face. ‘What did you say you was doing here, Rose?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘No, you didn’t, did you. How old are you?’

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘Fourteen?’ Joe looked as if he was going to say something, but changed his mind. ‘Bit young to be wandering the streets of a strange city by yourself, ain’t you?’

  ‘You can talk.’

  The words slipped out before Rose could stop them. Joe paused, his fork halfway to his mouth.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘It’s your birthday tomorrow, yeah?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Valentine’s Day.’

  ‘So? You going to give me a birthday kiss?’ His bright brown eyes danced around her face. ‘When I’ve finished me egg and chips, of course.’

  He went back to his enthusiastic food shovelling. Rose watched him for a minute.

  ‘So how old are you going to be?’ she said.

  Joe looked up from his food. There was a moment’s pause before he replied.

  ‘Twenty,’ he said. Rose detected a note of challenge in his voice, as if he was expecting to be contradicted.

  She put her head on one side. ‘Really?’ she said. There was no way this boy was nineteen.

  ‘Cross my heart, Rose. I would say hope to die, but that might be tempting fate.’ He pulled a face. ‘Any more questions, m’lady?’

  ‘Just one.’ Rose took a deep breath. ‘Is that your only name? Joe? Your only first name, I mean.’

  Joe put down his fork. ‘Have you been spying, Rose? Did my mum send you to keep an eye on me?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. It’s just—’

  ‘JOE!’

  She was interrupted by a shout from the doorway. Two young men in khaki were standing there, grinning.

  ‘Thought we’d find you here!’

  ‘What you been up to, you dog? Met some young mamselle, did you?’

  ‘Chuck it, Fred,’ said Joe, glancing at Rose. She looked away, suddenly feeling shy. ‘Just having a bite to eat, boys. You know how it is.’

  ‘Well, you’d best get a move on, chum,’ said the dark-haired boy. He was taller than the other. ‘We’re due back at ten and we’ll be for it if we’re late.’

  Joe looked at the clock on the wall. It was ten to ten. Cowboy time, Dad always used to call it.

  ‘Oh, lor’,’ he said, looking down at his half-finished meal.

  ‘You coming?’

  ‘You go ahead, Tonk,’ said Joe. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

  ‘You’d best be.’

  Joe bolted down the rest of his food as his friends left the café. ‘You be all right if I leave you here, Rose? It’ll be jankers for me if I’m late. Can’t risk it.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she replied, although she had no idea whether she would be.

  ‘Yeah, I think you will, actually. There’s something about you.’ He got up and wiped his mouth on his khaki sleeve. ‘Will I see you again, Rose?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She really didn’t.

  Joe held her gaze for a minute, then broke the moment with a little shake of his head. ‘Yeah, I’ll see you again. And next time I’ll have that kiss off you. Hey, look at that.’ He nodded towards the back of the café . ‘Someone else has took a fancy to you, Rose.’

  It was the same little girl, the one with the grubby face and the green hair ribbon that Rose had seen when she went off on her own after the pizza with Grandad. And then, just like before, the child’s mother appeared and pulled her daughter away into the back room, all the time casting frightened glances at the chair where Rose was sitting.

  Joe laughed. ‘Seems like it’s past someone’s bedtime.’ He looked at the clock again. ‘Mine too. See you, Rose. Next time.’

  He gave her his little salute – one finger touching the cap – just like he’d done when she’d watched him from the window of the hotel. Then the door shut and he was gone. Rose was alone in the empty café , staring at his empty plate, smeared yellow from the eggs. His plate, his glass and – his lucky sixpence, the one his mum had given him. He’d left it on the table.

  ‘Joe!’

  Rose grabbed the sixpence and jumped to her feet. It suddenly seemed terribly important to get it back to him. She ran to the door.

  But when she opened it and looked out there was no sign of Joe or his friends.

  The world had changed again.

  Sunlight. That was the first thing. It wasn’t dark any more, or cold. The snow had gone and the sun felt warm on Rose’s face, although there was still slush on her boots. She blinked, dazzled for a minute, then as her eyes adjusted from the dim light inside the café , she looked around, unable to believe her eyes.

  It wasn’t just the time of day that had changed, or the season. The city had changed too. The street which, moments ago, had only one or two buildings missing, like gaps in a smile, was now devastated. It wasn’t even a street any more, just heaps of rubble with a few walls still standing. There was a large shell hole by Rose’s feet, half full of oily rainwater that glinted blue and purple in the sun like the back of a beetle. Somewhere, a baby was crying.

  With a growing sense of panic, Rose turned to look back at the little café where she’d just been sitting, watching Joe eat egg and chips.

  It was gone.

  There w
as nothing there. Just a heap of bricks and broken glass. The back wall was still there, but the doorway through which the old woman had brought Joe’s meal was a gaping hole. Beyond it, Rose could see the remains of her kitchen: a smashed stove, broken furniture, saucepans on the floor. What had happened to the old woman? she wondered. To the mother? To the little girl with the green hair ribbon?

  Rose shut her eyes, screwing up her face like a little girl herself, and wished to be back in bed in her room at the top of the hotel with her grandad asleep downstairs. It was a dream, she told herself. It had to be. She’d seen the grave of the boy soldier, Joe – Valentine Joe – and she’d got upset. Mum always said she was too sensitive. Silly things made her cry: a lost spider, a lonely teddy bear in a shop window. And that was what was happening now. She’d felt so sad and sorry and helpless about the boy being killed that now she was dreaming about him, dreaming she’d met him. Dreaming she could help him, even. But it wasn’t really happening, of course it wasn’t. And when she opened her eyes it would be over.

  She opened her eyes.

  It wasn’t over. Nothing had changed. It was all still there. The sunshine, the shattered street, the baby crying. It was real.

  And Rose was part of it. Whatever it was, wherever it was, whenever it was, she was there and she didn’t know whether she could ever get back, to Grandad, to London.

  To Mum.

  She didn’t know what to do at all.

  As Rose stood there, helpless among the ruins, a woman hurried past, skirting around the edges of the shell hole. She was dragging a child by the hand, a little boy who was hanging back and complaining. As they passed, the boy stared at Rose, looking back at her over his shoulder, until his mother jerked him on.

  The woman didn’t seem to see Rose at all.

  As she watched them go, Rose became conscious of something clenched in her fist. She unfurled her fingers. Of course. It was Joe’s lucky sixpence, the one his mum had given him, warm from the heat of Rose’s hand. As she looked at it Rose knew what she had to do. She must find Joe and give it back to him. But where was he? Was he still in the city? Was he even still alive?

  A figure emerged from a side street up ahead. It was a young soldier, not very tall, a bit skinny, sauntering after the woman, hands in his pockets, as if he had all the time in the world. Joe?

  ‘Joe!’

  He kicked a small stone, catching it on the toe of his boot, then flicking it up in the air.

  ‘Joe!’

  He was too far away to hear. Rose started to run, stumbling around the edge of the shell hole, skidding on the loose stones.

  ‘JOE!’

  She was just behind him now, nearly close enough to touch.

  ‘I’ve got your lucky sixpence, Joe. You left it in the—’

  Then, another voice, behind her:

  ‘Bert?’

  Rose spun round. Behind her, two more soldiers had emerged from the side street and were calling after their mate.

  ‘Albert! Hold your horses!’

  The young soldier ahead of Rose turned to face his mates. He wasn’t a bit like Joe. He had ginger curls sticking out from under his cap. Rose was so close to him that she could see his freckles and feel his breath on her face.

  But he looked straight through her as if she wasn’t there.

  ‘What’s your hurry?’ he called, as his friends ran up to join him, boots pounding on the stones.

  Rose was surrounded. She felt trapped, like on a tube train at rush hour. They were close enough to touch, too close – she could smell them: the greasy scent of unwashed male hair and stale woollen uniforms. But they had no idea she was there.

  ‘Got to get back to barracks,’ said one friend.

  ‘We’ve got the call,’ said the other.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes! We’re off to the Front, boys!’

  Rose looked from one face to another as the young men laughed and slapped each other’s backs, as excited as schoolboys who’d won a football game. Then they moved off together, jumping and stumbling over the rubble, up the ruined street.

  Rose followed them. She didn’t know what else to do.

  Unlike the little side street where she’d sat in the café with Joe, the city square was heaving with activity. There was a smell of petrol, the sound of hooves on cobblestones and all sorts of vehicles: army lorries, what seemed to be ambulances with red crosses on their sides, wagons and horses, even a couple of old-fashioned London buses still with their advertisements for Pears’ Soap and PG Tips. The great Cloth Hall was gone. All that was left was part of its clock tower sticking up against the blue of the sky like a broken finger.

  ‘Quick march!’

  A battalion of Sikh soldiers wearing khaki turbans was on the move, marching behind an officer on horseback, heading out of the square. Rose wondered how many of their names would end up engraved on the cold white marble of the Menin Gate and be photographed by a schoolboy with an iPhone a hundred years from now.

  That was when the truth hit her.

  She’d known it for some time, deep down, what was happening, but she hadn’t accepted it. It was too big, too incredible, too terrifying.

  Until now. Now she knew it was true.

  She’d wanted to be in the past, to be with her dad again, and now she was. But this wasn’t her dad’s time. It was ages before that, the years of the First World War. She didn’t know how it had happened, or why, but somehow (the thought buzzed in her brain like a bluebottle against a window), somehow she knew it had something to with Joe. Valentine Joe Strudwick, the boy soldier whose grave she’d seen. Maybe she’d been sent back to help him? To save him?

  Was that even possible?

  A steady stream of civilians was trudging past the Sikh soldiers towards the other end of the square. There were women carrying babies, their faces set and defiant. Children leading smaller children. Weary-looking old men pushing bicycles, prams loaded with a few sad possessions. There were animals, too: a mule pulling a loaded wagon with a little boy perched precariously on top; two children in a little cart pulled by a big dog; an old man leading a donkey; a boy with a cow on a piece of rope.

  The remaining citizens of Ypres were on the move, leaving their city because it was no longer safe for them to be there. Some, mostly women with young children, were being organised into military vehicles by a group of soldiers wearing khaki kilts.

  Rose looked across at the hotel where she’d gone to bed a few hours before. It seemed like a different life, with a different Rose drifting through it as if in a dream. She found herself wondering if she’d ever get back to that life, then quickly pushed the thought away. What mattered now, mattered more than anything had ever mattered before, was to find Joe and give him back his lucky sixpence.

  She felt it in the pocket of her borrowed coat and pushed another awful thought to the back of her mind: she’d seen his grave. What if he died because he’d lost his lucky sixpence? Because she, Rose, hadn’t been able to find him and give it back to him?

  What if he was killed because of her?

  She set off, slipping through the crowds like a ghost, looking into the faces of the soldiers as she passed. None of them was Joe. And no one saw her. No one knew she was there. Only the children looked at her, staring back over their shoulders as their mothers trudged past. Then, just as Rose was beginning to despair, she saw a face she recognised. Two faces, in fact, amongst a group of soldiers lounging in the sun near the ruined Cloth Hall.

  ‘Fred?’

  He was with Joe’s other friend, Tonk, telling him something that was making him laugh.

  ‘Tonk?’ Rose hurried over to them. ‘I’ve got to find Joe.’ She felt the sixpence in the pocket of her borrowed coat. ‘Please!’

  She was nearly shouting now, but no one heard her except a horse who shied away in alarm. In desperation, she grabbed Tonk’s arm. She could feel the rough cloth of his sleeve beneath her fingers but all he did was twitch his arm as if a fly had landed on i
t. Then he shuddered.

  Fred looked at him. ‘You all right, chum? Not coming down with something, are you?’

  Tonk grinned. ‘Nah, mate, I’m fine. Ghost walked over my grave.’

  As Rose stared at him, startled by his use of Grandad’s phrase, a lorry passed behind him, loaded with wooden crosses.

  ‘Where’s Joe anyway?’ Tonk continued. ‘Haven’t seen him for a while.’

  Rose’s heart leapt. So he was alive.

  Fred shook his head. ‘Who knows? Canoodling with that imaginary sweetheart of his, I expect. Come on.’

  They got up, laughing together in the pale spring sunshine. Rose stood and watched them go as the people surged around her.

  ‘Wuff?’

  That same small polite bark which meant, ‘Excuse me, but I’m here and I would like your attention, please.’

  The dog was looking up at her, wagging his tail, like he was just waiting for his evening walk. Rose felt a surge of relief as she bent down and buried her face in his coarse fur, breathing in his dry doggy smell. If he was here, things couldn’t be as bad as all that.

  Could they?

  ‘Take cover!’

  The shout went up from one of the soldiers.

  No one needed to be told twice. Women grabbed their children, soldiers threw themselves to the ground, those that could run, ran.

  And the dog bolted.

  ‘Wait!’ Rose sprinted after him across the square, dodging the frightened people and crying children and the rearing, rolling-eyed horses. ‘Wait!’

  He was heading towards the hotel. Rose’s hotel, the one where, in another life, another Rose was staying with her grandad.

  ‘Not in there!’

  Too late. He’d dodged in through the open doorway. Rose heard the sinister fluttering, whooshing sound she’d heard before, and didn’t hesitate. She dived in after the dog as the square exploded.

  *

  Rose was woken, she didn’t know how much later, by something nuzzling her face. She opened her eyes. She was lying on the floor, near where the reception desk had been when she and Grandad had checked in. She could see the grandfather clock (could it be the same one?) standing against the wall, but couldn’t hear its tick. The dog was standing over her, managing to look worried and cheerful at the same time. There was smoke everywhere and debris all over the floor. Her shoulder hurt.