The Foreshadowing (25 page)

21

Each night as I lay down to sleep in the tent that has become my prison, I hoped to sense Thomas. He seemed to have gone quiet on me, but at last he is back.

With no one to talk to, no one near, I’d had no premonition in days, not even a hint of that itch Jack spoke of. Although I hate it, and dread its coming, when it suddenly vanished, I felt lost without it.

Then, last night, I dreamt.

There was Tom. He had his back to me, he was walking away from me. He was in the countryside somewhere, in a wheat field on a beautiful rolling hillside. Away on the horizon was a lush green wood, in the full glory of summer, the trees thick with leaves.

I could only watch; I felt like a mere observer, unable to take part in this dream.

Tom held his right arm out to one side, and then I saw the bird perching there. At first I thought it was a bird of prey; he held it as if it were a falcon. But then he gave his arm a gentle lift, and the bird took wing, and then, of course, I saw it was the raven.

It flapped lazily into the air, and wheeled around, coming back toward me in a wide circle, just to let me know that it knew I was there. The raven flew by and I heard it flapping away behind me. Then it must have turned, because it came forward again.

It passed me, then passed Thomas, too, and headed toward the wood. The wheat withered and died where its winged shadow fell. As it flew on up the hillside, the blight spread with it, and the hill became a quagmire of sticky mud, pitted with shell holes and strewn with the wire.

Then the bird reached the lovely wood, which mutated before my eyes into a square mile of splintered trunks and stumps. Those were the strange spikes I’d seen before, and not understood. I knew them now for what they were: a wood that had been murdered. Killed by days of shelling.

It was another nightmare, but my spirits rose nonetheless. I am used to horror now, and the dream told me something I needed to know.

Tom is still alive, because I saw him in my sleep last night. More than that, I sensed him as a living being.

There is still time.

20

There is still time.

But I’m trapped.

Two guards outside the tent.

I had to do something to get out. I looked at the back of the tent. Only a tent, after all. Very soon they would surely move me to a proper prison somewhere, and then I would truly be stuck. I decided to wait until dusk before trying anything.

The day dragged so very, very slowly, but at last, the light began to fail. Through the tent flaps, I could see that there was now only a single man outside. They must have decided that two was a bit much to guard one girl.

I watched the soldier, what I could see of him, for a long time. He didn’t move—at least, the back of his right leg and the right side of his back remained motionless—and I watched him for more than half an hour.

As usual, outside, I could hear the noises of the camp. Men calling orders, vehicles rumbling by, shouts, some laughter.

I took another look at the guard, and crept to the back of the tent. I did it slowly. I used my watch, and made myself take ten minutes over it. I lay down on the ground, and taking a deep breath to try to calm myself, I peered under the flap.

All I could see was grass and more canvas. There were other tents nearby. Maybe if I could get out I could lose myself among them.

With a slippery wriggle I forced myself under the tent wall. I was halfway under when I realized that the pegs were too close together. I was stuck. I gave an almighty heave with my shoulders and slid out from the canvas.

“Just how stupid do you think I am?”

I rolled over and looked up into the face of my guard.

I spent the rest of the night lying on the bunk in the tent, staring at the canvas, tears rolling down my cheeks. In the distance I could hear the sound of big guns.

I called Tom’s name over and over softly to myself, hoping he could somehow hear me, though I knew he could not.

19

Now the tent is far behind me.

Early this morning I was woken by what I thought was a rumble of thunder. Then I heard the murmur of voices outside. I could only catch snippets of the discussion.

“. . . move her . . . Etaples.”

I couldn’t hear the reply, just a tone of dissent, but I knew then that my chances of escaping were over.

The discussion outside continued.

“All right. Wait here. . . .”

Then silence, followed by the sound of retreating footsteps.

A second later, the flap of the tent was pulled open, and a large soldier came in, ducking under the low doorway.

I stood up to meet my fate, and then, as he raised his head, my heart leapt.

Jack.

Before I could say anything, he put his finger to his lips, and gave me a look that told me he wasn’t meant to be here.

“Do you want to get out of here or not?” he whispered.

I nodded dumbly.

“Put this around you,” he said.

He swung off his greatcoat and handed it to me.

“We don’t have much time. My bike’s outside.”

“But h-how did—?” I stuttered, confused, half asleep.

“Not now!”

It was still early as we put our heads out into the camp. No one was around. Our guard had vanished.

And there was Jack’s motorbike, its engine the only warm thing in a cold, dew-laden summer morning. Condensation dripped from the tip of the exhaust into the damp grass. Never had a thing looked more beautiful to me. I did the greatcoat up. It swamped me. I pulled the huge collar up and around my hair. I could hardly see, and hoped that that meant no one could see me inside.

“Hold on tight,” Jack said as we climbed aboard. Once again I rode sidesaddle, and we roared away, passing out of the camp so quickly I barely saw the place where I had been held captive.

Now we are somewhere in the French countryside. Jack told me the camp was just outside Bethune. We drove as far as a village called Dieval on the main road; then Jack turned off onto roads that are only farm tracks. He said it was too dangerous to move on the main roads.

I wondered how he knew where he was going at all, but he seemed to know everywhere, without even using a map.

When I asked him about it, he laughed.

“It’s my job!”

He’s spent months riding all over the same small area of France, here and there and back again, avoiding trouble, learning the best routes. I suddenly felt safe, for the first time in weeks.

18

We headed to the south of Bethune, into the deepest countryside. We found a small stone hay barn at the back of a wood, and rested there.

At last, I had the chance to ask Jack all the questions in my head. He seemed quite amused by it, and I felt he was somehow different from the last time we had met.

As we spoke we sat on a cattle trough under the eaves of the barn. We felt safe; there was no one around. In front of us was a landscape of great beauty. It had been a misty start to the day, a typical summer’s-morning mist, which had turned into a drizzle of rain.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Jack said. “Reminds me of home a little.”

“Where’s that?” I asked.

“Hereford. I grew up on a farm. It rains there in the summer too.”

He smiled. As the rain eased off, wood pigeons began to call to each other in the treetops above us, but there was no other sound besides the dripping leaves.

“The fields, the woods, the low hills. But just think. If we got on my motorcycle and rode twenty miles that way . . .”

“What?” I said.

“They say it’s the closest thing there’ll ever be to hell on earth.”

He paused.

I thought of Tom. Of Edgar.

“What’s it like?”

He shook his head. The same shake of the head that the Royal Welch corporal had given me when he said “The Somme.”

“We’ve destroyed it,” he said. “All this. All that you can see here is gone. There are few trees, no grass, no buildings, no birds. No creatures but the rats and lice.”

He didn’t talk about the men who were dying, and something made me not mention it. I didn’t know why, but he seemed more upset about the landscape than the men.

“Mud, and wire. Mud and wire, and holes in the ground. If we keep digging long enough maybe we
will
find hell.”

“But when the war is over, it’ll grow back,” I said.

“When the war is over?” he said, shaking his head again. “You haven’t seen it. Nothing could ever grow there again. Nothing.”

We were silent then, and thinking I might have upset him, I changed the subject.

“What were you doing in Bethune?” I asked. “The chances of you just finding me . . .”

“. . . were nil,” he said. “That’s because it wasn’t chance. I came to find you.”

That surprised me for a start, but I should have known. He had planned everything.

“You’re big news in Boulogne,” he said, grimly. “Quite the celebrity. Some say you went mad over your husband. Others have you down as a German spy. I even heard one story that you’re a Russian princess, though God knows what they think you would be doing here!”

A Russian princess. With a sick stomach I thought of Mother. Where was her little Sasha now?

“Don’t look so worried,” he said. “You’re safe enough. For now. The more nonsense talked about you, the harder it will be for anyone to get to the truth. And only you and I know the truth, don’t we?”