The Foreshadowing

by Marcus Sedgwick

“Right, Alexandra. Or should I be calling you Nurse now?”

  I smiled and looked back at the man in the white room, a question on my lips.

  Sister came over. “Him? Mental case.”

  She said it loud enough for him to hear, but he showed no sign of having done so.

  “Nothing we can do for him.”

  She emphasized the word we.

  “Doesn’t he do anything?” I asked. “Say anything?”

  “Occasionally,” she said. “But it’s all nonsense.”

  “What’s his name?”

  She looked at a chart by the door.

  “Evans,” she said. “David. Welsh. Heaven knows how he ended up here.”

  She moved off with the trolley, and I followed.

  We went from bed to bed, and Sister dispensed medication. She gave morphia to those in pain, but for many there was nothing to do.

  Then came a moment I had been dreading.

  “We need to change this dressing,” Sister said.

  I looked down at the man in the bed. He was at least twice my age, and I felt my lip tremble. He was only half awake, but as Sister pulled back his sheets, he hissed in pain and his eyes shot open.

  “We’ll be as fast as we can,” Sister told him, and he nodded. His face showed no expression at all.

  The wound was in his thigh, and Sister deftly cut off the old dressing and dropped it into a metal bin underneath the trolley.

  “Good,” she said. “No need to inflict iodine on you today.”

  She smiled at the man, then turned to me.

  “Pass me that one,” she said.

  I handed her the clean dressing, and she bandaged his thigh again. She moved so rapidly I barely had time to realize how disgusting the wound was, how there was no muscle where there should have been.

  Everything was going well, and I felt proud of myself, though still nervous.

  Then we came to the last bed.

  The man who lay there was younger than all the others.

  Sister smiled.

  “Not much to do here either,” she said. “He’s nearly better. Gas case. His eyes and lungs were damaged, but he’s on the mend. Be back in France before he knows it.”

  “Where’s Nurse Gallagher today, then, Sister?” the man asked.

  “You’ve got me today. And this is Alexandra. She’s a special visitor, I’m showing her the ropes. You can be my guinea pig.

  “Lungs,” Sister said. “And look. Take a close look at his eyes. Can you see the inflammation of the tear ducts?”

  I leaned right up to the man and peered into his eyes.

  “Of course, it was much worse, nearly better now.”

  That was the last thing I heard Sister saying.

  I looked into the man’s eyes, but I didn’t see inflamed tear ducts. I saw an empty bed. I saw death.

  I think I began to shake, and then I heard the man speak.

  “My God,” he said. “My God. Her eyes!”

  He tried to back away from me, squirming in the bed.

  “Her eyes!” he shouted again, and other people began to call out from their beds.

  Then he began to cough and choke.

  “What does he mean?” I asked. “What’s wrong with—”

  “There’s nothing wrong with you,” Sister said quickly, “but you’d better go home. I’ll tell your father.”

  “No!” I cried.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not your fault. Go on.”

  She turned to soothe the man, who still lay hacking and coughing in bed.

  As I went I took a last look, and saw him staring back at me. I was too far away to hear him, but I could read his lips.

  “Her eyes!”

  It’s late now and I’m in bed.

  I didn’t have long to wait until Father arrived home. He came up to my room.

  “I heard there was some trouble,” he said, standing in the doorway.

  “It wasn’t anything to do with me,” I began, but he held up his hand.

  “I didn’t say it was. The hospital is full of damaged men, Alexandra. Sometimes it’s not their bodies that are damaged.”

  I nodded.

  “Is he all right?” I asked.

  “Physically, yes. He’ll be home in a week.”

  I said nothing. Nothing of what I’ve been thinking.

  Father took a step into the room.

  “You did well today,” he said.

  “That man, you’re sure he’s going to be all right?”

  “Absolutely,” Father said. “But you must understand. If you want to be a nurse, you’ll see plenty more men who won’t be.”

  I’ve tried to sleep, but I can’t.

  Father says the man is all right, Sister said so too, but I know that he’s about to die.

  I know it.

  And there’s something else: what he said about my eyes. I have spent all evening looking at myself in my mirror. I can see my long dark hair, the white skin of my face, and the redness of my lips, but in my dark eyes I see nothing.

  Nothing.

  91

  Something is happening to me.

  I knew immediately that that man is going to die. I didn’t see anything specific, just a bed emptied of its body, a body emptied of its life.

  I’ve waited all day for Father to get home. I need to ask him, yet I dread it, because I already know the answer. But I forgot that he was patrolling this evening, so he won’t be home for another few hours yet.

  Something is happening to me that I don’t understand. And yet it’s becoming clearer.

  Clare.

  When I saw what was going to happen to Clare, I was only five. What form do a five-year-old’s thoughts take? I spoke then without hesitation, without self-awareness. I said what was in my head.

  With George, Edgar’s friend, well, that was just a dream. With the soldier on the tram, it was a sensation, but I didn’t really know what I was feeling. But in the ward yesterday, I started to see something, a vision of death, and the knowledge of exactly what it meant.

  And if I saw something, then so had he. He saw something in my eyes that terrified him.

  If I can see the future, then what does that mean? It would be like knowing the end of a story right from the start, almost as if you were reading it backward.

  And who wants to know how their own story ends?

  90

  Three days have passed since Father came home and told me he was dead.

  His name was John Simpson. Each day I would ask how he was and Father told me he was fine.

  “Are you trying to be a diligent nurse?” he asked, taking off his coat and hanging it in the hall. “Is that it?”

  I shrugged, but next day when I asked, he was angry, and told me I was not a nurse in his hospital, not yet, and that I ought to spend more time supporting Mother, whatever that means. She’s not allowed to do anything.

  On the third day, the first thing he saw was me, waiting in the hallway.

  He had a very grim look, and I was scared, but not really of his anger.

  He made to walk past me to the drawing room, but I stood in front of him.

  “How is he?”

  Father glared at me.

  I followed him into the drawing room.

  “Simpson,” I said. “How is he?”

  “Alexandra, leave it be!” Father shouted. “You are obsessed!”

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  The words tumbled from my mouth.

  I had my answer. Later I learned that a pneumonic infection had set in suddenly.

  “Why are you cross with me?” I asked Father. “It’s not my fault!”

  “Of course it isn’t,” he shouted as Mother came running into the room.

  “But why do you think I kept asking about him?” I turned to Mother. “You know I kept asking about him!”

  She looked from me to Father, then went and held his arm to calm him down.

  “But I knew it was going to happen,” I said. “
I knew.”

  “You knew nothing,” Father said. I could see he was tired as well as angry. “You are a silly girl who is too sensitive to be a nurse. A man has died, Alexandra! Show some respect. Please—go to your room.”

  I was only halfway up the stairs when I realized I’d been foolish to say anything. They don’t want to talk about it, and now Father will probably stop me from visiting the hospital again.

  I was stupid to say anything, but I couldn’t help it.

  I’m scared.

  I have seen the future four times, and each time the future has been death.

  89

  It is November 1915.

  The war continues, with no sign that it will end before this or any other Christmas. It’s like an avalanche started by a single gunshot, but which roars down the mountain more loudly than a thousand cannons. Every day there are new complications, new engagements, new political battles.

  Even so, there’s some better news. Edgar wrote a few days ago and thinks he’ll be getting leave soon. It will be good to see him and will put Mother’s mind at rest too. To have one brother home for a few days might make things seem more normal. The house is much too quiet. Tom writes almost every other day from Manchester. I’m so proud of him for doing what he thinks is right, but I know it’s been hard.

  He says he’s been white-feathered again in the street. When Father read that part of the letter he grunted and wouldn’t read the rest, though Mother and I did later.

  I only hope he gets to finish his training. There’s been talk in the newspapers that the government might introduce conscription, and then that would be that. Tom would have to join the army whether he wanted to or not. But maybe he could join the medical corps, so he could at least keep on being a doctor.

  I’ve been studying as usual, visiting Miss Garrett’s house with the three other girls who attend her private lessons. And I’ve been trying to persuade Father to take me back to the hospital. So far he refuses to discuss it, though he himself said I did well on my first day there.

  I know what he’s afraid of.

  88

  Edgar doesn’t write much. The last time was to tell us about his leave, but he did say that his battalion had seen action at last.

  Father read the letter out loud at breakfast. Edgar is a captain. He is twenty-four. These two things seem not to belong together, but they’re true. He has a company of men to command.

  “I’ll write to Thomas,” Mother said.

  “What for?” Father asked, looking up from the letter.

  “To see if he can come home. When Edgar does.”

  “What for?” Father asked again.

  “It will be nice for us all to be together.”

  Father put down the letter and took up the paper.

  “The boys will want to see each other,” Mother continued. “We ought to try to be together as a family when we can.”

  Father snorted.

  “We won’t know when he’s coming,” he said. “We may not get any warning at all, so you won’t be able to tell Thomas.”

  “Well,” said Mother, “we’ll see. Maybe Edgar will be able to let us know.”

  “He won’t,” Father said.

  Mother put down her teacup with a rattle in its saucer.

  “And maybe he will,” she blurted out. I looked up at Father, who had dropped the paper and stared at Mother. He got up and left the room without another word.

  Mother stood up too without even calling Molly to clear the things away. I heard her open the back door and go into the garden. I stared at the tablecloth, a blue gingham. I noticed all the tiny crumbs from my toast lying on it, and then I noticed fat tears dropping onto them from my eyes.

  I knew why Mother was upset, and I felt it too.

  I sat by myself at the table.

  87

  There is no one I can talk to about what I feel, what I have felt each time it has happened. That it’s just as real to me as any other emotion.

  Mother won’t listen to me, because she loves me too much. To her I’ll always be Sasha, her little princess.

  Maybe I could talk to Thomas. He’s got a scientific mind, that’s why he’ll be a good doctor, but he’s open-minded, too. I know he’d listen to me at least, but he’s not here. I wouldn’t even try to talk to Edgar.

  Maybe I could talk to Miss Garrett about it. I’m not sure it’s wise. I certainly wouldn’t talk to the other girls in her class. They’re so silly, and just spend their time gossiping and giggling. And odd things have been happening to me there, as well.

  Small things, chance occurrences, coincidences.

  I’ve been studying The Iliad, the story of Troy. Of Helen and Paris, of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra. Today Miss Garrett broke off from her discussion of the death of Achilles and began to tell us about something else. She was very animated and engaging as she spoke of the recurrent symbols of myth.

  Miss Garrett is amazing. She’s not that young, and despite the fact that she’s quite beautiful, she hasn’t married yet. She went to university and has been teaching privately ever since. She has such energy in what she does. I want to do the same with nursing.

  She was talking about specific symbolic meanings, and as she did, I knew just what she was about to say before she had said it. And as I felt this, I remembered a dream from last night, a vivid dream, which I had quite forgotten.

  “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 th
at 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.