The Foreshadowing by Marcus Sedgwick Page B

knew Father would replace it.
    It was a fresh morning. There was a train for Folkestone at five, so I had plenty of time, though there was something I had to do first. I hurried down to the station, praying that I would see no one I knew, but I needn’t have worried. It was still dark, and besides, no one of my acquaintance, or that of my family’s, would be out at that time of the morning, a time only for thieves and tradesmen, or for people like me, with a long journey ahead.
    At the station I headed straight for the public conveniences. There, I pulled off my clothes, and changed into the VAD uniform. I put the clothes I had been wearing and Miriam Hibbert’s passport into the bag, and shoved it up on top of the cistern, where it was out of sight.
    I pulled out a little mirror and the scissors I had brought, and considered my hair. It was straight, and easy enough to cut, though when I’d finished I saw what a mess the back was.
    I tied my hair in a bun and hid the whole thing under my nurse’s cap. I took my case in my hand, and left.
    I waited at the far end of the platform for the train, and by five past five, Brighton was left far behind me. My journey had begun.
    I thought of my parents, still asleep in their bed, unaware that with every passing minute I was a mile farther from them.

46

    I thought I had planned my journey in detail, but on the train that morning I began to think of all sorts of new things.
    I knew that the hospital ships sailed from Folkestone to Boulogne, but had I fully understood what I was walking into, I might not have been so brave.
    Then there was the question of passports. I hoped the identity certificate would be good enough.
    As the train rattled into Kent I remember thinking I might have to give the whole thing up, or I would be stopped and sent home, in disgrace. Maybe they’d even think I was a spy trying to get back to Germany. The papers had been full of stories of people being arrested as spies, although most of them were probably totally innocent.
    I got off the train at Folkestone with little clue where to go or what to do, but then I saw another girl in a VAD uniform smiling at me. She came over. I began to panic. I should give the whole thing up, and go home to face the shame and anger of my parents.
    “Are you lost, too?” she said.
    I nodded.
    “I was, but I’ve got it all sorted now. I’m off to Boulogne. Are you?”
    Without thinking, I told her I was, and then, of course, she wanted to talk to me.
    “What’s your name?”
    I hesitated for a moment.
    “Miriam,” I said. “Miriam Hibbert.”
    “Where are you from?” she asked, after she had introduced herself. Her name was Amelia, but she told me to call her Millie.
    “Brighton,” I said. I didn’t want to be rude, but I couldn’t afford to give too much away.
    We made our way down to the docks, and soon we were in a queue of people, mostly soldiers returning to the front, all waiting at the gate in the docks. It was about midmorning by then, and the boat was due to sail at noon. It was a hot, bright day, and the queue was long. Millie smiled as the seagulls cawed and screeched above our heads. The boats in the harbor sounded their horns from time to time, and we could smell the salt in the air.
    In spite of everything, in spite of my fear, it was thrilling.
    Millie chatted as we shuffled slowly forward.
    “How old are you?” she asked. “I’m twenty-three.”
    “I’m twenty-three, too,” I lied, but she just laughed and I smiled. After that she chatted away merrily, and asked fewer questions. I learned a lot about her, without having to tell her much about myself.
    She’d been working in London and decided she wanted “a bit of adventure,” as she put it, so she had put herself forward for service overseas.
    I realized from what she said about her home that she was from a very wealthy family, but found life rather boring. This was her way of having an “adventure” in a manner that her parents