shrugged and said something else in her rapid, guttural language, then held out her hand. Sheâd obviously decided this strange-looking person wasnât 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 childâs mother spotted her daughter and grabbed her other hand, the one that wasnât clutching Roseâs. The truck was nearly full.
âLetâs be having you now, ladies, we need to get you out of here before the fun starts.â
A soldier helped the little girlâs mother on to the back of the truck and then lifted the child herself, pretending she was a huge weight.
âWhoa! Whatâs your mammy been feeding you on, hen?â
The little girl laughed happily, even though she didnât 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 girlâs hand small and sticky in her own. The engine started and the truckbegan 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.
R ose woke with a jerk. For a second she didnât 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 girlâs small sticky hand in hers and the weight of her head on her shoulder.
Someone slammed the driverâs door at the front, making the vehicle shake, and a male voice shouted, âThis is it, chum. Essex Farm.â
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 toYpres to see Uncle Georgeâs grave and the old Rose who was avoiding a Valentineâs Day party and sending texts to her dead dad?
The realisation hit Rose with a thud. She hadnât thought about Dad for ages, not since all this had started, whatever it was. She couldnât have texted him if sheâd wanted to, of course. Her phone was back beside her bed in the hotel in Ypres. In 2014.
But the thing was, she hadnât wanted to text him. She hadnât 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 Joeâs 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
The childâs mother spotted her daughter and grabbed her other hand, the one that wasnât clutching Roseâs. The truck was nearly full.
âLetâs be having you now, ladies, we need to get you out of here before the fun starts.â
A soldier helped the little girlâs mother on to the back of the truck and then lifted the child herself, pretending she was a huge weight.
âWhoa! Whatâs your mammy been feeding you on, hen?â
The little girl laughed happily, even though she didnât 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 girlâs hand small and sticky in her own. The engine started and the truckbegan 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.
R ose woke with a jerk. For a second she didnât 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 girlâs small sticky hand in hers and the weight of her head on her shoulder.
Someone slammed the driverâs door at the front, making the vehicle shake, and a male voice shouted, âThis is it, chum. Essex Farm.â
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 toYpres to see Uncle Georgeâs grave and the old Rose who was avoiding a Valentineâs Day party and sending texts to her dead dad?
The realisation hit Rose with a thud. She hadnât thought about Dad for ages, not since all this had started, whatever it was. She couldnât have texted him if sheâd wanted to, of course. Her phone was back beside her bed in the hotel in Ypres. In 2014.
But the thing was, she hadnât wanted to text him. She hadnât 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 Joeâs 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
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