The Foreshadowing by Marcus Sedgwick Page A

none came, and eventually I began to realize that I had done what I set out to do. I had my passport for France tucked up in a canvas bag under my arm.
    As I reached the Seven Dials I stopped in a doorway and took out the book.
    Miss Garrett’s copy of Greek Myths.
    There was no doubt. There, on the flyleaf, was her juvenile signature.
    The book had made its way back into my possession. Mother had pushed it into Miss Garrett’s hands as she’d left on that awful night over six months before. Had she sent it to Father? She must have done, but why?
    There was a piece of paper folded inside the book, and I wondered if it was a letter from Miss Garrett, explaining her reasons for sending it, but it was not. It was some official letter of Father’s that he was using as a bookmark. And if he was using it as a bookmark, that meant he was reading the book. I put the letter back between the pages where it had been.
    For the first time since I had decided to leave, I began to doubt myself.

48

    I have the book with me now, as I sit in the canteen on this Saturday morning. It was a hazy start to the day, but it’s clearing up now. In front of me is a bowl of porridge, and tea in an enamel mug. All around me are the smells of war and the smells of medicine. I’ve kept the book in the large pocket of my uniform since it came back to me. At first I saw it as an omen about home, telling me to stay. Then, more worryingly, I saw it as a link from me to Cassandra herself, and I was scared by that. But in the end I decided that it could only mean good luck, that maybe Father was trying to understand me at last. So I brought it with me to France.
    With a shock I suddenly realize that today is Tom’s birthday. I look up and around me. No one is looking at me, no one knows who I am. No one here knows Tom. I have no idea where he is. For a moment I feel very lonely, but it passes.
    I raise my tea to my lips and whisper.
    “Happy birthday, Thomas.”
    Sitting here, feeling the weight of the book in my pocket, I allow myself to dwell on my last few hours at home.
    When I got home with the uniform I went straight to my room. Father was still out, and Mother was sewing in the drawing room.
    Going downstairs again, I forced a yawn, and muttered something about an early night.
    Mother looked up at me.
    “Fine, dear,” she said, smiling weakly. “You need plenty of rest.”
    I didn’t agree, but that’s what I had been hoping she’d say.
    “I’ll take a drink up with me,” I said, and turned to go.
    Mother didn’t answer, but dropped her head back to her sewing, straining her eyes by the light from the standard lamp behind her.
    I was struck by the sight of her. She looked like a painting, a woman at her sewing in the half-light, her husband out in the evening somewhere, one son dead, the other away at the war. For the first time in my life I realized my mother was an old woman, and I felt like crying.
    I stood gazing at her for a long time, but she was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t even notice. The feeling of sadness inside me welled up so powerfully that I thought I would crumble. I looked at her one last time, and closed my eyes, trying to fight the feeling that I would never see her again.
    I closed the door.
    I slept, and I slept surprisingly well, until, at four in the morning, my alarm clock went off right beneath the pillow under my head.
    It was time to leave.

47

    It may be summer, but it is still dark at four in the morning, and since Daylight Saving Time started back in May, it’s darker for an hour longer in the mornings.
    The darkness would help me later, but in my bedroom I fumbled for the things I’d prepared the night before. I had my case that I used for holidays, small but strong. Everything I needed fitted into it, including the uniform, wash things and Miss Garrett’s book. I took all the money I had, as well as everything from Cook’s housekeeping jar in the kitchen. I felt bad about that, but I