Valentine Joe (8 page)

Rose moved across the room as if an invisible thread was pulling her to the window. She seemed to have no choice.

The square was familiar in the moonlight, but the misty drizzle had disappeared and now snowflakes were swirling through the darkness and whitening the cobblestones.

But that wasn't all. Because
they
were there. The soldiers. A hundred of them, maybe two hundred, marching four abreast, hunched in their khaki uniforms, packs on their backs, rifles over their shoulders, tramping through
the snow, singing their bittersweet song of longing and regret.

Rose stared. For one mad moment she thought it was maybe some parade, a historical re-enactment, a film was being made . . .

And then she thought,
In the middle of the night? With no one else there? And what about the snow? And the fact that I'm watching from a room that doesn't actually exist?

As Rose watched them, it felt like she and the soldiers were the only people in the world. Yet none of them saw her. Not a single one looked up. They just marched on, eyes front, weary, focused on getting wherever they had to be. To them, Rose didn't exist.

And then she saw him, at the very back of the line. He was smaller than the others, skinny and marching slightly out of time with a little skip in his step. And in his buttonhole was a bunch of yellow flowers, like the ones she'd picked from the bank of the canal. What did Grandad say they were called? Celandines, that was it. She'd left some on the boy soldier's grave.

And then he looked up.

He did.

He looked up and he saw Rose. Their eyes met, and for a brief moment everything seemed to stop. The snowflakes froze in the air and the stars held their breath. Then the boy grinned, a cheeky, familiar grin as if he'd known her all his life, and the picture broke up and time moved on. The boy touched his cap with one finger in a little salute and hurried after the others, with his strange skipping march.

For a second, Rose just stood there. Something had happened. She didn't know what it was, but she had to find out. She grabbed the coat from behind the door and ran out
of the room, pausing only to look back at the dog.

‘Coming?' she said.

‘Wuff!' He wagged his tail and followed her down the stairs, his claws clicking on the floorboards.

I
t was dark on the staircase, so dark that Rose had to inch her way down, putting out one foot at a time to feel for the next step and keeping tight hold of the banister. She could feel her heart thudding in her ears, but it was more from excitement than fear. What was she going to find when she reached the square? Who were those men?

Who was that boy?

When she reached the first landing, Rose felt around for a light switch. The wall was rough under her hand and she couldn't find a switch. It was probably just as well, she thought, she didn't want to wake anyone. She made it to the bottom at last, reassured by the clicking of the dog's claws on the stairs behind her. It wasn't quite so dark down here. Moonlight was shining though the semi-circular window above the front door, filling the room with greyness and shadows and, as Rose stumbled to the door, she could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the dark.

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.'