Valentine Joe

by Rebecca Stevens

  Joe patted the ledge next to him. His movements had lost their old quickness, and he didn’t crackle with energy like he used to, but his eyes still twinkled as Rose sat down.

  ‘It’s my birthday soon,’ he said, with a trace of his old grin. ‘A month today.’

  ‘Valentine’s Day,’ said Rose.

  ‘Yup. I’ll be sixteen. What an age, eh?’

  He held up one filthy forefinger and touched Rose’s face. His expression grew serious as he looked at her. ‘I made you something, Rose.’

  ‘A present?’

  ‘Yeah. While I was in the hospital, coughing my guts up into a bucket. I haven’t got it here, though, wasn’t sure I’d see you. Left it in Wipers.’

  Rose was ashamed how disappointed she felt. She really wanted that present. ‘I’ll never find it there.’

  ‘Ah, but you will,’ said Joe. ‘That’s the cleverness of it. D’you remember the hidey-hole we found last winter? In the wall of the old ramparts?’

  Rose remembered. It had been snowing that day too. Was it really almost a year ago?

  ‘It was the night before your birthday,’ she said.

  ‘That’s right.’ He gave her his old look out of the corner of his eyes. ‘And you was going to give me a birthday kiss.’

  Rose didn’t know what to say. She held his gaze as long as she could before looking away.

  ‘Anyway!’ Joe was grinning properly now. ‘When we heard we was coming out here, I left it there, your present. Right at the back of that hidey-hole where Tommy chased the cat.’ Tommy wagged his tail at the mention of his name. ‘Yes, you, you rascal!’

  ‘Who looked after him when you were back home?’

  ‘Chaps, I dunno. Everybody loves Tommy, don’t they, mate?’ The dog wagged his tail again, as if he was glad to have his two favourite people in the same place.

  ‘I told him to look after you,’ said Rose.

  ‘And he has done, haven’t you, boy?’ Joe turned to Rose, his face serious again. ‘Promise me something, Rose.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you’ll go and find it. Your present. If I don’t come back.’

  ‘Come back from what?’ Rose felt her voice rising again. His birthday was a month today, that’s what he said. So that made today 14 January 1916.

  A month before his sixteenth birthday.

  It couldn’t be. Not today. Not today.

  ‘Come back from what?’ she repeated. ‘What d’you mean? Joe?’

  ‘Wakey wakey!’

  ‘Joe!’

  An older soldier was making his way along the trench and everywhere the grey humps were stirring and revealing themselves to be sleeping soldiers.

  ‘Rise and shine, boys,’ the old soldier continued. ‘The sun is coming up on a brand-new day.’

  You’d have thought there’d be complaints and banter from the soldiers at being woken so early, but none of them said a word. They didn’t even look at each other as they gathered their kit together and picked up their rifles.

  ‘Stand to!’

  The soldiers leapt to attention, all facing the same side of the trench. Joe was with them. Rose saw there were ladders propped against the muddy walls. She was trembling, and it wasn’t because of the cold. She got up and touched Joe’s sleeve. ‘What does it mean? Joe? What’s happening?’

  She wasn’t even sure she’d said it out loud, but Joe flicked a quick look in her direction as another man made his way down the trench. He was in a different uniform from the others, cleaner and smarter. In the midst of her panic Rose guessed he was an officer, even though he didn’t look that much older than Joe. An image flashed up in her mind of the boys from the sixth form college where most of the people from her school went on to do A levels. He looked just like them. Behind him another young soldier was carrying a bottle which he offered to the men. They held out tin cups and threw back the liquid he poured out for them. Rose caught its sharp chemical smell.

  ‘Joe?’ Her voice was no more than a whisper.

  Joe swallowed his drink quickly with a slight shudder. ‘This is it, Rose,’ he said quietly.

  ‘What?’ she said. She decided to carry on feeling angry, because she didn’t want to feel anything else. ‘What is “it”, Joe?’

  ‘We’re going over the top. Do you know what that means?’

  Rose knew.

  A shell flew over, its horrible fluttering whine sounding quite familiar now. There was a half-hearted cheer from the men as it exploded over the German line with a stomach-churning boom.

  ‘One of ours,’ Joe murmured. ‘Little taster for them. Then it’s our turn.’

  More shells went over. The earth shuddered with noise. The young officer was studying his watch. He nodded to the older man, the one who’d woken the soldiers.

  ‘FIX!’ the old soldier yelled.

  There was a swish and a clatter as the men drew blades from their kit. Then waited.

  ‘BAYONETS!’

  The men obeyed as one, attaching the blades to the ends of their rifles. They did it automatically, like men in a dream. Another shell flew over towards the German line.

  Rose looked up at the strip of whitish-grey sky above the trench. She felt – empty. She hadn’t been able to save him. In the end, all this had been for nothing.

  The men gazed at the muddy wall of the trench. One soldier crossed himself and whispered a prayer. Another looked at a little photograph in his hand. The rest of them just stood. And waited. The officer stared at his watch. The sky was getting lighter.

  ‘How about that kiss?’

  Joe’s voice was just a whisper in her ear. Rose turned her face towards him and looked into his eyes, unable to speak.

  She wasn’t aware of moving towards him but she did. As the sky turned pale in the cold winter dawn and the men stood waiting like statues, Rose closed her eyes and felt Joe’s lips on hers, cool and gentle and a bit rough. Another shell exploded, making the earth shudder. It was like the end of the world.

  Joe pulled away and looked at Rose, his face still only inches away from hers. He touched her cheek with one finger. ‘My Rose in no-man’s-land,’ he whispered.

  ‘Joe—’

  ‘I’ve got to do this.’

  Why? Rose thought. It’s not fair! I can’t lose you too. Not after Dad, not after all this! But she didn’t say that. She said, ‘I know.’

  ‘Look after Tommy, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  He kissed her again. She wanted to cling to him, hold on to him, beg him not to go. But she didn’t. She just stood there, trembling, watching his face to make sure she would never forget the smallest detail: the little scar above his eyebrow, the single freckle on the side of his nose. His grin.

  ‘Don’t forget your present,’ he said.

  ‘I won’t.’

  He let go of her. ‘Bye, Rose. And – thanks.’

  But I didn’t do anything, said a desperate little voice in her head. Joe seemed to hear it.

  ‘Believe me, love,’ he murmured. ‘You did.’

  The officer drew his pistol with one hand, and with the other held a whistle to his lips. The men tensed, like runners at the start of a race.

  ‘Joe – I can’t bear—’

  ‘You can, Rose. Trust me. You can. You will.’

  Rose sank to the ground and put her arms round Tommy. The whistle blew, the sound cutting through the air like a scream, and the men started to move up the ladders. Joe gave her his funny little salute, then turned to join his mates.

  And the world exploded.

  Rose was woken by the buzz of her phone. She opened her eyes to sunshine slanting through window blinds. She was lying in her bed in the neat white hotel room with the picture of poppies on the wall.

  She was back.

  Whatever had happened had happened. And now it was over. She didn’t know how she’d got back. Or why. All she knew was that she’d loved someon
e and lost him. Again.

  It wasn’t fair.

  Rose reached for her phone, grimacing in pain. Her shoulder still hurt from last night, or whenever it was that shell had hit the hotel and nearly killed her. Joe’s story had come to an end, she thought, and all she was left with was a bruised shoulder and a broken heart.

  The text was from Grandad:

  Good morning sleepy head. Have gone for walk. See you 12 outside hotel x

  Sleepy head? Rose checked the time. It was nearly ten o’clock. Grandad must have been up for hours.

  She swung her legs on to the floor and stared at the tiny specks of dust twinkling in the bands of sunlight, wondering what to do. The bright modern room seemed less real to her than the mud of the trenches.

  Did it really happen?

  There was no sign of the heavy coat that had kept out the cold of a winter’s day a hundred years ago. Rose remembered its faint smell of Parma violets and dust, and wished she’d kept the button she’d felt in the pocket as a souvenir. She would have liked to look at it and try to imagine the face of the coat’s owner and think about what might have happened to her. Was it the girl she’d heard singing in her room last night? A girl like her, who’d lost someone she loved? She’d never know. The coat and its button were gone for ever.

  Like Joe.

  And Dad.

  And the old city of Ypres which Rose had felt sleeping beneath the stones of the new town.

  Perhaps none of it had happened at all.

  And then, as she stood up, she saw her boots. They were lying discarded on the floor by the bed and they were caked in mud. Rose picked one up to look at it more closely. The mud was nasty yellowish stuff, thick and claggy, like clay. And it was still wet. It was the mud of the trenches, and it was as real as the sunlight on the wall and the carpet beneath her bare feet. She put the boot gently back down on the floor. She’d have to clean the mud off, she supposed. But not yet.

  She wasn’t quite ready to wash away the past.

  Rose pulled up the blind. Sunshine flooded in, making the bright room even brighter. It was a beautiful day. The sort of blue winter’s morning that reminded you of Christmas when you were little and you went for a walk in the park after breakfast with your mum and dad, riding your new scooter or clutching the giant cuddly animal that your grandad had bought you. Rose smiled as she remembered all those animals. One year it was a black panther with bright green eyes that scared her a bit. The next it was a huge orang-utan, bigger than she was, whose long ginger hairs got up her nose when she cuddled it. And then there was the year they’d stopped and drunk ginger beer (because it was Christmassy) in a chilly pub garden before going home to dinner. That was the last Christmas they’d had with Dad.

  Outside, the not-square square sparkled in the morning sun. Rose watched a mother sweep her little boy up into her arms to give him a kiss, and a laughing teenage couple chase each other around the fountain before falling into each other’s arms.

  Of course. It was Valentine’s Day.

  Joe’s day.

  Rose remembered his face as he looked over his shoulder at her for the last time. She understood now why he’d done it, why he’d gone back to fight. It wasn’t for his country, not really – it was like he said. He’d rather be dead than spend the rest of his life feeling bad about his mates.

  But she still wished he hadn’t, wished she could’ve convinced him to stay in England. What was it he said?

  ‘People like us, Rose, we just want to live happy quiet lives, don’t we? Little house. Enough to eat . . .’

  That was all he’d wanted. And Rose wished with all her heart he could have had it. But she knew now that you can’t change the past. It doesn’t mean you have to forget it, but you can’t change it and you can’t stay there. Perhaps, deep down, she’d always known it.

  Rose turned away from the window and went to have a shower. She had the dirt of another century beneath her fingernails.

  It was quite late by the time she arrived downstairs, glowing from her shower and glad to be out of her owl pyjamas and into some proper clothes. She didn’t have another pair of shoes with her, so she’d cleaned her boots in the shower, washing the mud of the trenches away in a froth of strawberry-scented shower gel.

  Everyone must have had their breakfast, because there was no one in the restaurant. Grandad had already gone out, Muriel explained, as she led Rose over to the table they’d sat at the night before where Rose had drunk hot chocolate and wondered what was going on. It was laid for breakfast now, with a plain white coffee cup, cereal bowl, plate . . .

  And a heart wrapped in red foil.

  Muriel smiled when she saw Rose’s face. ‘It’s from your grandfather,’ she said. ‘He got up early this morning, asked me which of the chocolate shops would be open.’

  Rose picked it up and smelled the chocolate through the foil. Grandad knew that Dad always gave her something on Valentine’s Day. She thought of her mum; this was the first year she wouldn’t get her roses from Dad, one for every year they’d been together. Rose was glad they were going home today.

  ‘Where’s Grandad now?’ she said. ‘Did he say?’

  Muriel was finding it difficult to look her in the eye. ‘I’m not quite sure,’ she said, although she obviously was. ‘He asked me to say he’d see you back here at midday,’ she went on, trying to change the subject. ‘I think you are catching your train this afternoon?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rose. ‘We’ll be home by teatime.’

  And she would buy some flowers for Mum at the station when they got to London, she thought. Not roses, no. Something cheerful and spring-like. She thought of the celandines she’d picked at the cemetery, and the ones Joe had been wearing in his buttonhole when they first met. Yes, she’d buy yellow flowers.

  ‘But for now, breakfast!’ Muriel seemed relieved that Rose wasn’t asking any more questions about Grandad’s whereabouts. ‘Full English?’

  Rose hadn’t realised how hungry she was. After bacon, eggs, hot chocolate, three pieces of toast and the chocolate heart, she felt a lot better. She got up from the table, put on her parka and set off for a last walk around the city.

  The streets glowed with life and happiness. Perhaps the ghost of the old city was finally laid to rest – Rose didn’t feel her any more. The past was the past, she thought. It wanted to be remembered, but not relived. She’d spent too much time in the past, reliving her time with Dad, thinking about him, dreaming about him, sending him texts she knew he’d never read. Now she would just remember him and try to feel happy, not sad. And she’d help her mum do the same.

  Rose found that her feet had taken her to the place where the road passed through the gap in the city ramparts. The great arch of the Menin Gate shone bone-white in the sunshine as she remembered her last promises to Joe: Look after Tommy for me. And don’t forget your present. Rose smiled – a boy from the past had given her back her present. That wasn’t what he’d meant, of course, but it was true.

  Was this the place? The place they’d walked when they’d first met, where he’d told her he’d hidden the present? She tried to remember exactly what had happened on that cold February night a few hours and a hundred years ago. Joe had been on her right as they’d walked up this same street in the snow. She could almost feel the touch of his shoulder against hers.

  Then Tommy – this was before he had his name – Tommy had rushed past them after the cat in a flurry of claws and snow. They’d had to get out of the way, she and Joe, and Tommy had chased the cat to the right of the road, where the ramparts went up.

  There was grass there now, neatly tended, and a sign that told you all about the ceremony of the Last Post. And some bushes, growing close to the old wall.

  Rose took a step nearer and dropped to her knees on the grass. She peered through the undergrowth. It was difficult to see . . .

  But, but, but . . .

  There was . . . there was a gap in the stones. She could see it, a dark hole in the wall, t
hrough the tangle of twigs.

  It was still there. Their hiding place was still there.

  Heart thudding, Rose pushed her way through the bushes and reached inside the hole. The twigs scratched her face, and a sharp stone was digging into one of her knees, but she didn’t care.

  ‘Good morning.’ An amused voice with a slight accent.

  It was the German boy, wearing a tartan fur-lined hat with ear flaps, and pushing his bike as usual. Rose realised with a slight jolt of surprise that she was glad to see him.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, trying to look as if it was completely normal to be on your hands and knees in the middle of a bush on a chilly morning in Belgium. ‘I’m just – looking for something,’ she went on. ‘Well, not looking, obviously, because I can’t see anything. I’m more, sort of, feeling around for it. In this, um, hole.’

  ‘I see.’ He was the kind of person who never seemed surprised. ‘Is it something you have lost?’

  ‘No. Not really.’ Rose decided to tell as much of the truth as would make sense. ‘Someone left something here for me a long time ago. I promised to look for it.’

  The boy seemed to accept this too. Rose was glad he didn’t ask any more questions. She liked him for that.

  ‘But I can’t’ – Rose was feeling around inside the hole again – ‘I can’t reach far enough. All I can feel is grit and stuff.’

  ‘Can I help?’ said the boy. ‘My arms are perhaps a little longer?’

  ‘OK.’ Rose was grateful for the offer. ‘Thanks.’

  The boy parked his bike and crouched down beside her. She held the bushes out of the way while he put his arm inside the hole.

  ‘It goes back quite a long way,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, but the boy – the person – who left the thing for me, he wasn’t as tall as you, so . . .’

  He continued to feel around, frowning with concentration. Rose watched his face.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I can’t . . . just little stones and dead leaves and . . . oh . . . one moment.’

  He shifted his weight so he was closer to the wall, then lay flat on his stomach so he could reach further into the hole, concentrating all his energy on his one-handed search. Rose continued to watch his face, her heart thumping so hard she thought he would hear it.