Valentine Joe (16 page)

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, through 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.

Please let it be there, whatever it is, please.

But the German boy's face didn't change. It still had the same look of frowning concentration.

‘No. I'm sorry. It does not appear—'

He stopped. His face changed, the frown softening into a look of discovery.

He'd found something.

Rose couldn't speak. She kept her eyes on the boy's face as he brought his arm out. There was something in his hand, something dark with a string hanging from it. He looked at it briefly, then held it out to Rose.

‘Is this it? The thing you expected?'

Rose took it. It was a heart, about the size of the palm of her hand, carved out of wood with a rotten leather thong threaded through a hole in the top.

And there was something written on it.

Rose brushed the dirt away and read the words that were carved into the surface of the heart:

‘TO MY ROSE FROM YOUR VALENTINE'

Rose stared. She was unable to speak.

The German boy was looking over her shoulder. ‘Is that your name?' His voice seemed to come from a very long way away. ‘Rose?'

Rose nodded but she couldn't say anything. She was crying now, silent tears running down both cheeks, but she didn't try to wipe them away. It didn't seem to matter if anybody saw them.

She didn't know how they started to walk, she and the German boy. Neither of them suggested it. She just became aware that they had somehow ended up on the ramparts, following a winding path among the trees. Neither spoke. The boy didn't ask her why she was crying or try to make her stop. He just walked beside her, watching his feet on the path and glancing occasionally at her face as the tears continued to run down her chin and drip on to her parka.

Eventually they came to a bench overlooking the water that lay beyond the ramparts. It was set in long grass that was starred with celandines.

‘Shall we . . .?' he said.

Rose nodded. She'd stopped crying now, so wiped her face with her sleeve and looked down at the dirty wooden heart clutched in her hand. She knew it was the best present she would ever have.

‘It is a sad place,' said the boy, staring out over the water. ‘This Ieper.'

He said the name of the city in the Flemish way. Rose waited for him to go on.

‘We are all here because we lost someone,' he said. His words dropped into the silence like pebbles. ‘My great-great-grandfather. He was killed at the end of the war, only one month before the Armistice.'

‘Is that why you're here?' said Rose.

‘In a way,' he replied. ‘His sister, my great-great-aunt, came to visit his grave after the war. While she was here she met a Belgian boy, one that had survived, and she married him. So you see, I'm almost a native.'

‘You've got Belgian cousins.'

‘That's right.'

‘The boys I saw you with last night?'

‘Yes. They live on a farm outside the city. I visit them often for holidays. And you?'

‘Me? I haven't got any Belgian cousins.'

The boy smiled. Even his smile was serious. ‘You lost someone too?' he said. ‘Is that why—?'

‘My dad.' He looked so amazed that Rose almost laughed. ‘Not in the war, obviously. Last year.'

‘I see.'

He didn't say any of the things that people usually said, through embarrassment or pity, but just looked at her and waited. And then she told him something she'd never told anyone before, this boy from another country that she'd only just met.

‘I still send him texts.'

‘You do?' He didn't sound surprised. It was as if it was quite normal to send texts to a dead person.

‘I did, anyway.'

The boy smiled his serious smile. ‘Have you ever had a reply?'

Rose shook her head. She was smiling too now. ‘Not so far.'

‘Ach,' he said. ‘Maybe one day.'

‘I don't think I'll be sending them any more, actually.'

‘No?'

Rose shook her head. ‘It made me feel better for a bit,' she said. ‘But now . . .'

The boy nodded as if he thought she'd made the right decision. ‘You have got past that stage.'

Rose looked at him. He was right. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘I think I have.'

He got up. ‘Shall we go back? Your grandfather may be wondering where you are.'

Rose had forgotten she was meant to meet Grandad at twelve. She checked her phone. ‘Argh! It's ten to!'

‘Then we must hurry.'

‘Wait!'

He stopped, looking at her over his shoulder.

‘I don't know your name,' said Rose.

He smiled. It was a gentle smile, not cheeky like Joe's, and it made Rose feel calm and happy.

‘Did I not tell you?' he said. ‘I'm sorry. It's Friedrich. But you can call me Fred.'

I
t was five past twelve by the time Rose and Fred got back to the hotel and Grandad was waiting outside with his bag all packed and ready to go. Rose rushed up.

‘Grandad Grandad Grandad, sorry sorry sorry!'

‘Not to worry, Cabbage, we've got enough time if you get a shift on.' Grandad accepted her kiss with a smile, his eyes resting on Fred. ‘Hello again, young man.'

‘You don't have to call him that, Grandad. He's got a name. It's Fred.'

‘Pleased to meet you, Fred.' Grandad held out his hand and Fred shook it.