Valentine Joe Read Free Page A

slammed the train door. ‘This is it all right.’
    Rose followed him as he set off down the platform, dragging her case behind her. A few people had got off at the same time: a couple with a little boy who looked at Rose solemnly from under his fringe; a young woman with a briefcase; an elderly lady with an invisible cat yowling in a basket. They all hurried off to wherever they were going, leaving Rose and Grandad behind.
    â€˜Why doesn’t it say Ypres?’ said Rose. ‘I can’t even read that word.’
    â€˜It’s the Flemish name,’ said Grandad. ‘Ieper. That’s what they call it now. Ypres is the old name, the Frenchname.’
    So this city’s got three names , thought Rose. She repeated them to herself in her head – Ieper, Ypres, Wipers – and wondered which one it liked best. Then she felt a bit silly. Cities didn’t have feelings, did they?
    â€˜This way!’ Grandad had spotted the exit. ‘Follow me!’
    Outside the station was a car park where Rose saw the lady with the cat basket climbing on to a bus. It was grey and cold and flat, and the wind seemed to blow right through Rose’s new parka, the one Mum had bought her for Christmas. It was very dark green with fur round the hood and she knew it had cost more than Mum could afford. Rose huddled down inside it, wishing she’d brought some gloves.
    And then she saw the dog.
    He was sitting outside the station as they came out, and was right in the middle of the path, blocking their way. It was almost as if he’d been waiting for them.
    â€˜Hello, you,’ said Rose. She always spoke to dogs, whether she knew them or not.
    The dog looked up at her and wagged his tail. He was quite a small dog, black and white and scruffy-looking, with serious-looking eyebrows and a hint of a beard. He looked friendly and tough at the same time.
    â€˜He can’t understand you, Cabbage,’ said Grandad. ‘Belgian dog, see. Doesn’t speak English.’
    Rose held out her hand to the dog, with the fingers curled up into a fist like Dad had shown her. He gave it a polite sniff and then looked back at her face. There seemed to be a question in his bright brown eyes.
    â€˜How do you say hello in Flemish then, Grandad?’
    â€˜Don’t ask me,’ he said. ‘It’s a difficult language.’
    Rose crouched down beside the dog and ruffled his head. The fur felt coarse under her fingers. She’d always wanted a dog. She and Dad used to talk about them a lot – which were their favourite breeds, stuff like that. They’d agreed that mongrels were the most interesting because they were all different. If you had a pedigree dog, a Labrador, say, it would look just the same as all the other Labradors. But you never knew what you’d get with a mongrel. They could be big, small, hairy, soft, black, white, brown, anything. This one was perfect.
    â€˜Don’t you think we should try and speak a bit of Flemish while we’re here, Grandad?’ she said, scratching the dog’s ears. ‘Just to be polite?’
    â€˜Nah,’ said Grandad. ‘I reckon we can get by with speaking English in a funny voice.’ Rose looked at him, not sure if he was joking. And then he said ‘Hallooooo!’ in a ridiculous accent, so she knew he was.
    â€˜That is never Flemish for hello,’ she said.
    â€˜It is, actually,’ said Grandad, pretending to be hurt. ‘I’ve got a phrase book.’ Rose continued to scratch the dog’s ears, while Grandad rummaged in his bag. ‘I bought it especially. In Waterstones,’ he added in a prim voice. He produced the book, turned a couple of pages and then shouted, ‘Alstublieft!’
    The word sounded exactly like a sneeze. The dog looked startled and gave Rose a look that seemed to say, Is he with you? She smiled and stroked his back. She could feel his ribs under the fur.
    â€˜Bless