Valentine Joe

by Rebecca Stevens

  As Rose tried to get up there was a huge crash from an upper floor that shook the whole building.

  ‘Wuff!’

  The dog gave one small urgent bark and looked at the door. A chunk of ceiling crashed down on to the stairs and the grandfather clock toppled to the ground like a felled tree, hitting the ground with a sickening sound of breaking glass and splintering wood.

  Rose struggled painfully to her feet and limped towards the door, stumbling against the wall, the dog trotting beside her, watching her every move. A framed photograph of the Cloth Hall fell to the floor with another crash. Just a few more steps. She could make it. She had to make it.

  At last. Rose tumbled through the door, and fell straight into someone’s arms. She felt the rough khaki on her cheek and knew who it was before he said anything.

  ‘You all right, angel?’

  There was a deep roar behind her as the staircase went up in flames. They’d got out just in time.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ said Joe. ‘Looking and looking and looking. Ever since – when was it? Night before my birthday, that’s right, after me and the boys left the estaminet. I never saw you again.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Rose said. ‘I couldn’t help it.’

  ‘And then today, the raid started and I was scared,’ he continued. ‘They always aim for the clock tower, see, use it as a landmark, and seeing as this place is so close and it was where I first saw you—’

  His eyes were level with hers.

  ‘I thought you was inside, Rose.’

  ‘I was,’ she said and looked down at the dog. ‘He got me out.’

  Joe bent down and ruffled the dog’s head. ‘Our pal, eh? Always there when you’re needed, ain’t you? You’re a good pup.’

  Rose looked up at the hotel. The window she’d looked out of that night when she’d heard the soldiers singing in the square was no longer there. The whole of the top of the building had gone, blown off by the shell. Flames leapt up against the sky. She suddenly became very conscious that she was still in Joe’s arms. He touched her face with one finger.

  ‘They don’t believe in you, Rose. Fred and Tonk.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Think you’re a figment, don’t they? That I dreamt you up, gone doolally before I’ve even seen any action. But I don’t care. I know you’re real.’

  Rose pulled away. ‘I’ve got something of yours.’ She drew it out of her coat pocket by its leather thong.

  ‘Mum’s lucky sixpence! After all these weeks.’

  Weeks? Had it been weeks since Rose last saw him? How did that work? She felt a sense of panic rising in her throat. So she was just slipping in and out of random bits of the past? Out of someone else’s past?

  ‘Rose, you are a miracle.’ Joe put the sixpence away in the pocket of his tunic, the one over his heart. And Rose realised that it wasn’t random bits of the past at all. It was Joe’s past, and now she was a part of it. So it would be her past too.

  He grinned. ‘I’ll need all the luck I can get where I’m heading.’

  Rose felt a clunk in her chest. ‘What? Joe . . . You don’t mean—’

  ‘Yup! We’ve got our marching orders. We’re off to the Front. In fact’ – he watched as some soldiers emerged from a ruined building nearby – ‘I need to get back to barracks smartish. We’re leaving tonight.’

  At first Rose thought he was pretending not to be scared. And then she realised that he really wasn’t.

  ‘Tonight? Oh, Joe.’

  ‘It’s what we joined up for, Rose. See some action at last, have a pop at Fritz. Tell you what, you can walk along with me, if you want. Show Fred and Tonk that you do exist. If you’ve got the time, that is,’ he added, looking at her from the corner of his eye.

  Rose nodded. She had time – she just didn’t know how much.

  They set off, making their way between the military vehicles and the requisitioned London buses, the dog trotting behind them. As they crossed the square, more people were emerging from their hiding places, looking up at the sky as if they expected something else to fall out of it, and talking excitedly together as people do who’ve all survived to see another day.

  ‘This way.’ Joe indicated a side street with a nod of his head. ‘It’s a bit rough-going, Rose. Better take care.’

  He held out his hand. Rose took it and together they picked their way over the piles of rubble in the shattered street. You could still see the traces of the homes that had once been there: a smashed-up piano, its sheet music blown about in the wind, an iron bedstead, a single shoe, a patch of flowery wallpaper clinging to a wall.

  ‘Hey, Rose. Look at this.’

  Joe had stopped to examine something. It was a stuffed owl, a little brown one, mounted on a branch in the remains of a broken glass case. If Rose had been a bit younger she would have felt sorry for it and wanted to take it home.

  ‘I love owls,’ she said, thinking of the green ones all over her pyjamas.

  ‘Me too,’ said Joe. ‘Lovely silly-looking things. Always surprised by everything, ain’t they?’

  ‘It seems a shame to leave him there.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. But what’s to be done? Come on, chum.’ Joe looked at the dog who was sniffing at the owl. ‘You can’t eat that. It’s just feathers and sawdust.’

  They walked on, leaving the owl staring in eternal surprise up at the blue spring sky.

  ‘Here we are, Rose, this is it. Home sweet home.’

  It was a muddy square, enclosed on three sides by long low buildings. Steps went up to a sort of open walkway on the first floor where soldiers were leaning against the railings, smoking and chatting.

  ‘Over here, mate! Sid!’

  ‘Oi! Fred!’

  A football game was going on, the players in their shirtsleeves, jackets used as improvised goal posts. Just like the boys at school, thought Rose, playing football in the playground.

  A shout went up as she and Joe approached.

  ‘Look who it is! The wanderer returns!’

  Fred lobbed the ball over towards them. Joe stopped it neatly, then flicked it in the air with his foot before blasting it through the goal to cheers and laughter.

  ‘Where you been, Joe? Off with that imaginary girl of yours?’

  There was more laughter at this. Joe grinned at Rose, looking forward to proving them wrong.

  ‘Imaginary? Don’t make me laugh, boys—’

  ‘Look at this!’ shouted Tonk. ‘Joe’s brought us a visitor!’

  All interest in teasing Joe about his non-existent girlfriend was forgotten as Tonk, Fred and the others crowded round the dog.

  ‘He’s a nice little bloke!’

  ‘No collar, mind.’

  ‘His people must’ve left with the last lot of refugees. Had to leave him behind, poor old mate.’

  ‘We’ll adopt him! He can be our mascot.’

  ‘What’s his name, Joe?’

  Joe looked confused. Rose could see he didn’t understand why they were ignoring her.

  ‘What? I don’t know, chum. Don’t think he’s got one. He just followed us—’

  ‘Tommy!’ shouted Fred.

  Everyone laughed, and the dog pricked up his ears as if he recognised the name.

  ‘Tommy. Fine name for him. What do you reckon, mate?’

  Tonk addressed this last question to the dog, who wagged his tail politely then looked enquiringly at Joe as if to say, Is this all right? Do we trust these people?

  Joe squatted down and ruffled the dog’s head. ‘Don’t you worry, Tommy mate,’ he said. ‘You’re among friends. This is Tonk. He’s the stupid one. And that one with the big ears and the daft face is Fred.’

  He looked up at Rose.

  ‘And this—’ he began, looking round at the grinning faces of his friends, ‘this is—’

  He was interrupted by the violent ringing of a bell.

  ‘Time to go, chums,’ said Fred. ‘Let’s get loaded up.’

  As they started t
owards the door into the barracks Tonk looked back. ‘Joe?’

  ‘I’m with you, mate,’ he said. ‘Right behind you.’

  When they’d gone Joe turned to Rose. His face was puzzled. ‘They can’t see you, can they, Rose?’

  Rose shook her head. ‘No one can. Except you – and Tommy.’ Tommy wagged his tail at the sound of his name. ‘And children,’ she added. ‘Some children anyway. They can see me.’

  Joe took a deep breath. ‘Who are you, Rose? What are you doing here?’

  Rose shrugged. The sun was lower in the sky now and she was beginning to feel chilly. ‘I don’t know, Joe. I’m just – a girl.’

  ‘You’re not just an anything, Rose. You’re an angel.’ Then he said, ‘My mum did send you, didn’t she? To look after me. My own Rose in no-man’s-land.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Rose was embarrassed.

  ‘It’s true! I knew you was special when I first spied you looking down at me from the sky the night we arrived. It was the night before my birthday, wasn’t it? And you was going to give me a birthday kiss.’

  He looked at her, the smile fading from his face. Rose could see herself reflected in his eyes. Although she was conscious of the distant boom of the guns at the Front, in that moment they seemed a long way away. She put a hand up to touch his cheek.

  ‘Joe!’

  The moment was gone. Joe turned to the voice, impatient.

  ‘I’m with you, Fred! I’m with you.’ He turned back to Rose. She felt very small, standing there in her borrowed coat. ‘I’ve got to go, Rose.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’ll see you again, though. I know it.’

  ‘Have you got your lucky sixpence?’

  He pulled it out of his pocket. ‘Course I have. I don’t need it, though. Not now I’ve got you.’

  He gave his funny little salute and headed off towards the barracks. Rose looked down at Tommy, who was looking up at her as if waiting to be told what to do. She crouched down beside him.

  ‘Go with him, Tommy,’ she whispered. ‘Look after him.’

  Tommy didn’t hesitate. He trotted after Joe into the barracks, his claws clicking on the cobblestones. Rose waited until she heard the shouts of welcome as the soldiers greeted their new mascot, then she turned and started back to the city.

  Perhaps if she kept walking she wouldn’t start to cry.

  The sun was very low in the sky by the time Rose got back to the square. She sat down with her back against the last remaining wall of the clock tower and watched the activity around her. The procession of refugees had petered out but there was still a lot of movement: troops milling around, women and children being helped on to the backs of lorries, horses huffing and stamping. For the first time since it all began, Rose realised how tired she was. She closed her eyes.

  A child’s voice was saying something, asking a question in Flemish. Rose opened her eyes. A little girl was looking down at her, a little girl with a green hair ribbon, her grubby face flat and curious – and familiar. It was the child from the café . Rose felt ridiculously pleased to see her.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. She didn’t want to frighten her again. ‘I’m sorry. I’m English.’

  The little girl shrugged and said something else in her rapid, guttural language, then held out her hand. She’d obviously decided this strange-looking person wasn’t so terrifying after all. Rose took her hand and allowed the child to pull her to her feet and lead her to where a crowd of women and children were being helped on to the back of a military truck by the Scottish soldiers Rose had seen earlier.

  The child’s mother spotted her daughter and grabbed her other hand, the one that wasn’t clutching Rose’s. The truck was nearly full.

  ‘Let’s be having you now, ladies, we need to get you out of here before the fun starts.’

  A soldier helped the little girl’s mother on to the back of the truck and then lifted the child herself, pretending she was a huge weight.

  ‘Whoa! What’s your mammy been feeding you on, hen?’

  The little girl laughed happily, even though she didn’t understand what the soldier had said. When he put her down in the back of the truck she held out her hand to Rose who took it and allowed herself to be pulled up after her. She flopped down on the floor, the little girl’s hand small and sticky in her own. The engine started and the truck began to move, bumping and swaying over the broken cobbles, the setting sun shining red through the opening at the back.

  No one said a word. Even the babies were silent. The little girl glanced anxiously at her mother, but she was staring straight ahead, her face set and expressionless. Rose squeezed her hand and the child looked up gratefully, before settling down and putting her head on her shoulder. As the truck drove on, leaving the shattered city behind, Rose closed her eyes. And slept.

  Rose woke with a jerk. For a second she didn’t know where she was. Her shoulder hurt and she was so hot her pyjamas were sticking to her skin underneath her coat. As her eyes adjusted to the light she realised she was still in the back of the truck. It was empty now and Rose was alone in the dim green light of the interior with the sun beating down on the canvas roof, the smell reminding her of camping holidays. She wondered where everyone else had gone and missed the comforting feel of the girl’s small sticky hand in hers and the weight of her head on her shoulder.

  Someone slammed the driver’s door at the front, making the vehicle shake, and a male voice shouted, ‘This is it, chum. Essex Farm.’

  Essex Farm?

  Another voice replied to the first, but Rose had stopped listening. She was back at Essex Farm? The cemetery?

  Had she come back? Back to Grandad and the trip to Ypres to see Uncle George’s grave and the old Rose who was avoiding a Valentine’s Day party and sending texts to her dead dad?

  The realisation hit Rose with a thud. She hadn’t thought about Dad for ages, not since all this had started, whatever it was. She couldn’t have texted him if she’d wanted to, of course. Her phone was back beside her bed in the hotel in Ypres. In 2014.

  But the thing was, she hadn’t wanted to text him. She hadn’t thought about it. What had happened then, had happened then, she realised. A year ago, when Dad died. What was happening now, was happening now. And for the first time, now seemed more important than then.

  But was it still happening now, Rose wondered. Was she still in Joe’s world? There was only one way to find out.

  She got up. Her shoulder still hurt from when the shell had hit the hotel in Ypres, and she ached all over from lying on the floor of the truck. She half crawled, half staggered to the back and looked through the opening in the canvas.

  It was a beautiful day. The sun shone hot on her face, and high in the sky was a single bird, singing its heart out. Rose slid down from the truck and turned her face to the sky. The bird was only just visible, a tiny speck against the blue, and its song soared above another noise, a backdrop of sound that Rose knew she would never forget.

  She couldn’t work out what it was at first, this relentless grinding roar, a constant thudding and rumbling, like the workings of a giant angry machine. And then she realised: it was the guns, the heavy artillery. And it sounded close. She must be very near the front line.

  There were a few other vehicles parked nearby: another military truck, a motorbike and an ambulance. And a truck like the one she’d seen in Ypres when she was trying to talk to Fred and Tonk. Perhaps it was the same one, with its load of wooden crosses.

  She could tell that this was the same place, the cemetery she’d visited with Grandad, where she’d put her little bunch of celandines on Joe’s grave and where this, this – thing, whatever it was, had all started. It was Essex Farm. But it was different.

  There were no trees, that was the first thing. The cemetery she’d visited with Grandad had been bounded on three sides by massive trees. This space had no edges. It was just part of the battle-scarred landscape of churned-up earth that stretched out around it. A
nd there were no tidy rows of tombstones standing up from velvet lawns like nicely cleaned teeth. There were just a few tatty wooden crosses, stuck crookedly among the ragged grass, and mounds of earth marking fresh graves.

  But there were poppies. Just like everybody always said. Everywhere, there were poppies. Nodding in the long grass between the crosses, papery and delicate and beautiful.

  Rose picked one and put her nose in it, recoiling from its bitter smell. Its petals were like silk. She dropped it on the path, where it lay like a clot of blood.

  A short distance away some soldiers in shirtsleeves were digging a new grave. They worked silently, throwing the earth into a pile and wiping the sweat off their foreheads with their sleeves. High in the sky the bird, invisible now, was still singing and Rose could still hear the distant grinding rhythm of the guns but, like the remote roar of traffic from a motorway when you’re on a country walk, it didn’t seem as real as the bird and the sun and the poppies and the men sweating as they dug their comrade’s grave.

  Rose hated the poppies. They had no right to look so lovely in such an awful place.

  The sound of wheels on gravel announced the arrival of another vehicle. Another ambulance. Rose watched, a ghost in the sunshine, as the driver got out, slamming his door, and went round the back where he pulled aside the canvas and – Tommy jumped out.

  Her Tommy. Joe’s Tommy.

  And if Tommy was here . . .?

  ‘What’ve we got, Corporal?’

  The voice wasn’t English or Scots. It sounded American – Canadian maybe, Rose couldn’t tell the difference – and it belonged to an older soldier with a kind, tired face and a Red Cross armband over his shirt. He reminded Rose of Mr Lee, her favourite teacher at school.

  ‘More gas casualties, sir,’ the man replied. ‘This is the last of them.’

  Gas? Rose’s heart clenched with fear. Had Joe been gassed? What did that mean?

  She felt something nudge against her leg. It was Tommy. She crouched down with him and watched as the driver and the medical officer helped the injured men out of the back of the ambulance. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. The men’s eyes were streaming and they staggered against each other, coughing and retching and fighting for breath. Rose saw that the brass buttons of their uniforms had turned bright green.