The Foreshadowing

by Marcus Sedgwick

  I lay awake, listening to the noises of the house. Boards creaking and the November wind rustling the empty branches of the magnolia beneath my window, brushing fallen leaves along the high pavement of Clifton Terrace. I could sense my parents and Edgar asleep in their rooms, lost in their own dreams, and though Thomas was missing, it felt almost normal.

  84

  I didn’t see Edgar this morning. I woke with my head full of dark clouds, struggling to rouse myself. I think it was quite early when I finally dropped off. By the time I got downstairs Edgar had gone out.

  “I hardly saw him myself,” Mother said.

  “Where’s he gone?” I asked.

  “He’s gone for a walk,” she said, as if it were a crime.

  “He probably just wants to have a look at the town, you know. To make himself feel at home again.”

  “On a day like this?” Mother looked out the window at rain slanting across the houses and the sea in great gray swathes.

  Lunchtime came and went. It’s Sunday, and Mother asked Cook to make a proper Sunday lunch. We’ve had to skimp recently on those kind of things, and today she wanted it done properly, but Edgar still hadn’t returned.

  Father, Mother and I ate lunch without him, in the end, though much of it was cold.

  “That was lovely,” Father said, without smiling. “Thank you, dear.”

  It was suppertime before Edgar came back.

  Not a word was said about where he’d been, or that he’d missed lunch. We all pretended nothing had happened, and sat down for some bread, cheese and cold meat. Father opened a bottle of beer for Edgar and one for himself. I watched as the beautiful dark brown liquid frothed into the glasses, making such a lovely, comforting sound. The clock on the wall ticked, very slowly.

  “So,” said Father, “tell us what you’ve been up to.”

  Edgar was staring at his plate, and methodically pushing food into his mouth. It was clear to me he didn’t want to talk about anything.

  But Father was quite unaware.

  “What’s been happening in your section? Much action? I expect you’ve shown the enemy a thing or two.”

  “There’s not much to tell,” Edgar said, and took another slice of bread. “We’re doing our bit, you know.”

  “But you must have seen a sight or two,” Father went on. “Tell us something.”

  “Yes,” Edgar said, “we’ve seen a sight or two. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I ought to go to bed.”

  He got up. Father frowned.

  “But—”

  “Henry,” Mother cut in, “he’s tired. Let him sleep.”

  I was surprised at Mother’s boldness, but Father just sighed and went off to the drawing room to read by the fire.

  I stayed with Mother while Molly flapped around us, clearing away. When it was done we sat together for a while.

  “Why?” I asked Mother, quietly.

  “Why what, Sasha?”

  I could hear the sick weariness in her voice, but I couldn’t stop myself.

  “Why won’t you believe me? Why won’t anyone believe me?”

  I wished I hadn’t said it.

  Mother came round the table and put her arms around me.

  “Please don’t, Sasha,” she said. “Please stop saying it. Please.”

  She put her face in my hair and began to shake and then I realized she was crying.

  I stood up and held her.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to upset you.”

  She said nothing for a while, but then stood back from me, wiping her eyes.

  She was about to speak when we were interrupted.

  “Will there be anything else tonight, ma’am?” Molly asked from the doorway.

  Mother shook her head.

  “No, thank you, Molly. Alexandra is just going to bed. We shall follow shortly.”

  I tried to hold Mother’s eyes, but she wouldn’t return my gaze. I went upstairs.

  It’s always the same. I’m their dutiful daughter. That’s who they want me to be. And if I show the slightest sign of being difficult or strange, they simply won’t accept it. How I long to do something! If I don’t, then it would be better to have been Clare; for my life to have finished before I did anything to upset anyone.

  I got to sleep quite quickly for once, but I woke suddenly. I heard talking from Edgar’s room. Then I realized it was just one voice. Edgar’s. He was calling out in his sleep. Crying out.

  Some of it sounded like people’s names.

  Then he began to whimper, like a beaten dog. It went on and on, then stopped. It started again, not so loud, and stopped again.

  I think he’s sleeping more peacefully now, but I’m wide awake.

  What sights has Edgar seen to make noises like that?

  83

  Edgar has gone back to France, sadly before Thomas even knew he was in the country. It’s a shame because Christmas is coming and at Christmas a family ought to be together.

  He left a day early, too. He said in his telegram that he had six days, but he was gone by Wednesday morning. If I’m honest, though, it was a bit difficult anyway. Mother would be furious with me for saying something like that, but it’s true. Edgar spent much of the time out of the house, who knows where, as if he was an animal that didn’t like being locked up. When he was at home he was silent for the most part. Mother kept on smiling and having Cook put food in front of him. Father did all the talking, and spoke about the war and the army, while Edgar sat staring into the fire clutching a glass of beer with his big hands.

  I sat and watched, pretending to read Miss Garrett’s Greek Myths, while inside I felt a sadness so strong it seemed to paralyze me.

  It was strange that Edgar left early, as if he thought he would be more comfortable in France than he was here. What could make him feel like that?

  When the time came for him to leave, Father said he would walk with him to the station, but he forbade Mother and me to go. He said we would only get upset. I have walked past the station a hundred times and seen women saying goodbye to their men, some calm, but many with tears streaming down their faces. Father is probably right, but I don’t see what would be wrong with getting upset.

  So the moment came for Edgar to say goodbye, and it was a moment I had been fearing, in case . . .

  In case I should feel something.

  He gave Mother a kiss, and she smiled at him, but there were tears in her eyes.

  He took a step toward me. I froze. Then he put his arms around me and kissed me. It has been years since he has done that, since I was a child. I could feel him, strong and wiry under his smart uniform, and it was a surprise to me. And though he was home for five days and had a bath almost every day, I could smell the war on him still.

  I could smell earth and things that I don’t know the names of. A faint but clear aroma of something chemical that pricked the back of my nose, a smoky smell.

  I could sense it all, but as my heart began to calm itself, I realized I could sense nothing of death.

  I pulled away from Edgar, relieved, smiling.

  “Have a good Christmas,” I said, and almost for the first time since he had returned, he laughed.

  “Bless you, Alexandra,” he said, and then he went.

  82

  At last I have been able to get back into the hospital. Father called me to see him a few days ago. It was quite late and he was obviously tired, but he seemed to want to talk there and then.

  “You’re still serious about this nursing business?” he said.

  I was taken aback, but this was no time to appear vague or uncertain.

  “Yes, Father,” I said. “Yes. I really want to do it.”

  “Very well, then. You may begin your training as a VAD nurse. You know what that is?”

  I said I did. I’m seventeen, so it means I can work part-time in one of the hospitals, though I will live at home.

  “You’ll be among the youngest. There are Voluntary Aid Detachme
nt nurses at my hospital. I’ve got you a place there, starting next week. But you’ll have to fit this in around your studies, you understand that?”

  “Yes, I do,” I said. “Thank you!”

  I smiled from sheer happiness.

  “Don’t let me down, Alexandra, will you?”

  There was no smile on his face.

  “No,” I said, “I promise.”

  “Off you go, then,” he said, as if I were ten years younger.

  I turned, but then stopped. I had to know something.

  I wondered if he had forgotten, or decided to ignore, the business with Simpson. Whatever else, I am pleased that nothing has happened since those three recent occasions when I saw the future. I hardly dare to think it, but maybe it has stopped. Things come in threes, after all.

  “Father?”

  “What?”

  “What made you change your mind? About me working in the hospital?”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  “Isn’t it?” I said. I was taking a big risk questioning him, but I thought it too odd to drop the subject.

  He looked at me, but I could read nothing from his face; as if he were a stranger.

  “It was your brother,” he said, eventually.

  “Thomas?”

  “No, Edgar.”

  “Edgar?” I spluttered.

  “When I walked him to the station, he said you ought to have your chance. He convinced me. So I’m giving you your chance.”

  I smiled, my hand lingering on the brass doorknob.

  “It’s a good thing, Father,” I said. “I believe I should have work to do.”

  “He also said he didn’t think you were up to it.”

  He looked away out the window.

  The smile left my face and I left the room. As I closed the door behind me, I heard Father say one more thing.

  “Prove him wrong.”

  81

  I spoke to Thomas on the telephone this evening, and Mother let me have almost the whole three minutes myself. Father didn’t talk to him at all.

  When I told Thomas about Edgar’s visit and what he had done for me, he said, “That’s wonderful,” but you wouldn’t have thought so from the sound of his voice.

  It’s hard to tell what someone is really thinking on the ’phone. I could only feel the distance between us.

  It’s such a long way to Manchester. In fact, it’s a funny thing that Tom is farther away from us in Manchester than Edgar is in France. But Edgar’s not just in a different place, he’s in a different world now too.

  80

  It was my first day as a VAD nurse today. I am only allowed to work part-time, but it’s a big step forward from my few days’ trial earlier in the autumn.

  I walked to Seven Dials and carried on up Dyke Road. At the corner of the Old Shoreham Road the hospital stood waiting for me. It’s a massive building, of red brick, with an elaborate sculpture on the portico above the entrance, and on top, a small cupola with a copper dolphin weathervane.

  I stood for a moment, feeling scared, but then two girls brushed past me, laughing.

  “You lost?” one of them asked.

  “No,” I said. “Well, a little. It’s my first day.”

  “Well, you don’t look like a patient, that’s for sure! You need to report to reception.”

  Before half an hour had passed I was standing in my uniform outside Sister’s office, waiting to be called in. The uniform felt strange, and itchy, but I was happy to be wearing it. It’s a long gray dress, with full sleeves. Over the top I wear a white apron with a bold red cross.

  Sister Maddox is not nice. She’s a small, thin woman, maybe in her fifties, but I’m not sure, because I have tried not to look at her directly. She seemed hostile before I had even opened my mouth.

  “Fox,” she said, “you may only be a Voluntary Aid Detachment nurse, and a part-timer at that, but in my hospital you will behave correctly. You will refer to me as Sister, and my nurses as Nurse such-and-such. You will not refer to VAD nurses by anything other than their surname, nor will you expect to be addressed in any other way yourself. Clear?”

  I nodded. I didn’t want to speak in case my voice sounded as scared as I felt.

  “VADs are here to relieve the workload on my nurses, those who have proper medical training. And you are only here because of who your father is. Now report to Staff-nurse Goodall.”

  That was my introduction to the world of nursing, but I am determined not to let one horrible sister spoil it. Later in the day, talking to other VAD nurses, I discovered that Sister Maddox hates all VADs because we haven’t had full medical training and yet are in demand. The soldiers call everyone Sister, out of friendliness, or politeness, or maybe just ignorance, when really they shouldn’t, and that annoys her even more.

  “So don’t take it personally,” one girl said.

  “But it is personal, with me,” I said.

  “Oh, yes. Your father,” she said. “But don’t worry, most people around here like him. And they respect him because he has hard work to do. He works on the neurasthenia patients.”

  “The what?” I asked.

  “Neurasthenia. The ones with shell-shock.”

  I noticed that the corner of her mouth twisted slightly as she said the word. She got on with her work, and I with mine.

  It was a hard day, and by the time I got home this evening, I was ready to cry. Fortunately Father was working late. Mother seemed to realize I’d had a difficult time. She didn’t question me, just asked Molly to bring my supper. Then she sat and talked to me.

  “My first day, too,” she said, but I didn’t understand. I felt guilty because although I could see Mother wanted to talk, I needed silence.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, forcing myself to talk.

  “My first day alone. Father at work. Edgar and Tom gone. And now you.”

  “Mother, I—”

  “It’s all right, Sasha. I’m just saying. That’s all.”

  “You had Cook, and Molly.”

  Mother dropped her voice.

  “That’s hardly the same,” she said, pulling a face.

  In spite of myself, I laughed. I knew what she meant.

  “I’ll get Molly to bring in your favorite supper. I’ve had her make an omelette for you.”

  Any other day I would have been delighted. But I was just too tired.

  I made an excuse and left Mother by herself in the dining room.

  I came upstairs to bed, where I am now. I know it’s selfish, but I don’t want to think about anyone at the moment, not even Tom.

  79

  After half a dozen shifts at the hospital I’m no longer nervous each time I close those great front doors behind me. And I feel proud walking up the Dyke Road in my uniform.

  As I pass women in the street, they smile, and some even say a word or two. Perhaps they have sons fighting in the war and I’m doing something to help. That means a lot.

  This morning a postman standing in the doorway of a café whistled at me. Mother would have been appalled, but it made me smile. He meant no harm, and I marched into the hospital ready to face Maddox, or whatever else came my way. In my few days I have already seen some awful sights.

  The worst are wounds to the face. A missing leg or arm is bad, that’s true. It’s terrible to think how that must feel, but at least you can still see that the patient is a person. But some facial wounds stop a man from looking human. There’s a poor man in one bed who has a hole where his nose and mouth should be. He’s covered in bandages, of course, but even that is wrong. There’s no bump where his nose should be. His face is just a flat round ball of bandages, with a tube to feed him through. It’s impossible not to wonder what will be there when the bandages come off. And somewhere he must have family, a wife or a brother. Certainly a mother and father, though no one has ever come to see him.

  Despite these horrors, I’m enjoying it at last. I know I have a more privileged background than many of the
nurses here, but I’m trying hard to be one of them. The work is hard and constant and we’re all in it together. The main difference is something on the inside. The other nurses see the war differently, they see the soldiers differently.

  “What brave men!” they’ll say.

  “Poor things.”

  “We’ll soon get them right, then they can go and sort them out!”

  The Germans, they mean.

  And they crow about our brave men. It’s not that I don’t think they’re brave, it’s simply that when I look at a broken body, all I feel is sadness. Not pride, or pity, or horror, or hatred. To me those are false feelings, emotions that we put on top of our sadness, because of the war, because of our country or because we don’t want to feel afraid.

  I just wish it didn’t have to be like this.

  78

  As I went to bed last night I saw the Greek Myths Miss Garrett loaned me. I’ve barely picked it up since then; I’ve been too tired in the evening to think about reading.

  Maybe there’s another reason too.

  At first I read the stories greedily each night. They’re so full of wonderful characters; heroes and heroines. Such awful things happen to them, it’s easy to sympathize. I wondered who I would be, if I was in the myths. And after a few nights I found my answer.

  I read a few lines, just a very few lines, about a young girl from Troy called Cassandra. A prophetess who sees the future, and whom no one believes.

  Suddenly I found I didn’t want to read anymore, not these stories of people killing and loving and dying. There’s too much of that going on as it is. I don’t want these stories now, even though they were comforting before.

  Thomas wrote to me today, which was wonderful.