The Foreshadowing (6 page)

“I mention this,” Miss Garrett was saying, “because we have been looking at the battles before the walls of Troy. Such dramatic events as these in human history of course give rise to many striking thoughts and images.”

It was a strange feeling, and not a nice one, to hear her say exactly what I knew she was going to say, just a moment or so before the words actually left her lips.

“One such symbol that occurs in many mythologies, including the Greek, the Celtic and the Norse, is that of the raven. It has become a symbol of the battlefield, a harbinger of ill omen and death. Why? Because the raven is a carrion bird, and would have flocked to feed on the corpses of the Greek and Trojan warriors.”

The raven.

That was my dream.

I saw a raven swooping down toward my face, all black beak and claws and feathers. The bird clawed at my face, and I felt its feathers brush my hair, smelt their mustiness. It came back to me so strongly as I sat there that I was unaware of anything else, and even Miss Garrett’s words came to me as if over a great distance. I felt as unreal as if I was a figure in a photograph, in black and white, not a person at all.

Though there were four other people in the room, I felt utterly alone.

86

As I was leaving Miss Garrett’s yesterday, I asked her if I could borrow a copy of
The Iliad.

She looked a bit surprised.

“I didn’t think you were interested,” she said coldly. “You appeared rather distracted in class.”

“Miss?” I said, not knowing what to say. “Could you lend me a copy, please? I would like to do some more reading.”

I don’t think she believed me entirely, but after the other girls had gone she led me into a different room, one I have never seen before. Every inch of wall was lined with bookshelves. Only the windows and the fireplace were not devoted to books. She pulled the curtains to let in some more light and began scanning the shelves.

“The primers we use in class are a little dry. They miss out on so much,” Miss Garrett was saying.

She stood on a small stool and pulled a book from a high shelf.

“Here we are,” she said. “This was my copy when I was your age. You can borrow it.”

She handed me the book.

“There’s not just
The Iliad
in there. There’re many other stories from the Greek myths too. I hope you will enjoy it.”

I nodded.

“I’ll take good care of it,” I said, and she smiled.

I got home a little while ago.

I thought about the dozens—in fact, hundreds—of books on her shelves, and felt proud that she was happy for me to take the little leather-bound edition that belonged to her.

I’ve been reading it in bed. I thought I was looking for something, but I realize now I just wanted to read a good story, to escape from everything that’s been happening in my head. The stories are full of deaths, awful deaths, and battles and tragedy, but somehow it’s comforting. It reminds me that what’s going on, what Edgar’s been seeing, is not so unusual. And that reminds me that one day, things will be normal again. Things will be all right, if we all try hard enough to make them that way.

85

Edgar came home yesterday. The first we knew was when he sent a telegram from Folkestone to say he was about to catch a train to Brighton. Even if we got in touch with Tom now, by the time he gets here Edgar may have gone again.

As much as Mother wants her family to be together again, a part of me thinks that maybe it’s for the best, really.

It was very late when Edgar arrived. Mother said I couldn’t wait up any longer and sent me to bed, but of course I couldn’t sleep. I heard him arrive sometime after the clock in the hall had struck twelve. I heard Mother’s voice, high with excitement but not loud, and then Edgar’s and Father’s voices, deep and quiet.

He went to bed after just a few words—I heard him come up the stairs. He went along the landing on the floor below me to the bathroom.

Something felt different.

I wanted to see him, but I hesitated and listened as he came out of the bathroom and back to his old room again. I knew Mother would be cross, but I crept out of my room and looked down the stairs to the landing.

“Edgar!” I whispered, waving a hand.

He jumped and turned at his door in the dark hallway. I heard him breathing, softly.

“Oh, Alexandra,” he said, looking up the stairs. “It’s you. Go back to bed.”

His voice was flat, and his eyes wouldn’t fix on me.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” I said, trying to sound cheerful, but his door was already shut.

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.