• The Sentinel Short Story Summary
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The Sentinel Short Story Summary

Every time one of the children lost a pet we would do an honorific burial in the garden. The garden is fairly
small but at the end there is a tree – cherry blossom – under which we would bury these little figurines that I
would pick up in charity shops or at car boot sales that looked like the animals we had lost. So there were
tiny graves of porcelain cats, old fuzzy Slyvanian family guinea pigs, a glass rabbit, and (when I was
desperate) two sugar mice that must have melted long ago and left behind their hard grey string tails. Of
course, some of the animals were small enough that we could have just buried their bodies under the tree
ourselves but the children were afraid of their stiff corpses, so my husband dealt with them instead. This
seemed like a fair compromise – a way of introducing the children to death and the ceremonies that go with
it, without distressing them too much. Douglas thought I was too soft with them, but if you can’t be soft
with your own children you may as well cut out your heart and replace it with a stone. It was a sweet ritual –
Lydia and Duncan would wear black and read out little poems that had been written for
Tigs/Marmalade/Florence/etc. and afterwards we would have sandwiches and crisps arranged on big plates.
Douglas did the digging. A few years ago it occurred to me that burying plastic was a terrible thing for the
environment – although I did also hopefully imagine that many many years from now the little talismans
would perhaps be found by archaeologists who would wonder why this site held so many small,
indestructible animals.
It was this practice I was thinking of when I went out in the garden the night after Douglas’ funeral and
buried an action man doll under the tree. I hoped Douglas would be flattered by the comparison. Towards
the end he struggled to hold things – both physically and mentally. Reading and writing were difficult,
impossible if the text was too small, and the garden – which had really been his garden – grew wild and
untamed. I like the freedom and somewhat savageness of weeds and wildflowers, but I know Doug would be
upset to see the garden as it is now. Before his strokes he had been someone my sister called “capable” – Joyce
said it like being capable was a bad thing, but I had always been a dreamer and needed someone to keep hold
of me, to tether me to earth. The children tried to take charge after the first stroke: in some ways it made me
realise that they don’t think of me as an adult at all. They can’t comprehend it – I’m their mum, which when
they were small meant that I knew everything, and now I am old, means I know nothing. These flashes of
being able to see how others see you are very disorientating.
It would have been maybe a week of so after the funeral – both funerals – that I noticed it. I was drinking my
morning coffee and doing the crossword. I was stuck on 4 down (Part – with ease, if broken? (8)) and feeling
dull-headed. The house felt empty. The house was empty – I am not enough to fill it. I rattle around like a
dried pea in the chamber of a whistle. The day was just dawning, since the older I get the earlier I seem to
rise, and the garden was full of shadows. There was a shadow in the tree. At first I just thought it was a trick
of the light – I had noticed it out of the corner of my eye as I turned my head – but when I looked again I saw
there was something. A black shape. Large. Hunched, insomuch as a shape can look hunched. Too big to be
a bird, I thought, but then, as I was looking, I noticed a beak, two legs that ended in claws, and wings. Black,
folded wings, tucked neatly behind its back like the hands of all the funeral directors I had recently met, who
clasp their hands away from you, and made me feel as though they were hiding something. That’s a trick
they teach people who don’t know what to do with their hands, since putting them in pockets is still seen as
slovenly. I don’t know why. If more women’s clothing had pockets I would put my hands in them all the
time. It feels less combative than crossing one’s arms but still as though you are neat and compact. My
mother was always insisting we – Joyce and I – not take up too much room. Our toys and books were packed
away every night and our hair wrestled into two long plaits. It seems so incredibly old fashioned now. I let
Duncan and Lydia do what they like with their toys – which I think Doug despaired of. Broken train sets and
tea sets and cars and prams and dolls with one arm pulled off, or two. Lydia had quite a violent streak when
it came to her dollies. But she was gentle – they both were – with the animals. That’s why you get a pet, of
course. So you can teach your children that all living things can feel and need to be treated with respect. And
so you can teach them death. Both difficult lessons. I still find it hard to grasp that everyone is walking
around with their own deep and vast worlds inside them. I feel real – but somehow nobody else does. Even
Douglas. Poor Douglas; I think I only saw how much there was inside him when he became trapped in
himself. Like a bell jar had come down over him. And it was only then I could see.
The bird in the tree interested me. On more than one occasion a sparrowhawk has killed another bird in our
garden. I once watched it pull out and eat the innards of a wood pigeon. As I looked at this new bird, it
didn’t move. It just stayed still and silent like a sentinel. The crossword answer presented itself to me and I
filled in the small white squares:
SEPARATE
We often got birds in the garden. I used to make fat balls with seeds and dried fruits studded in them –
Douglas said they were invitations for vermin, but then he considered a lot of birds vermin. Pigeons, mainly,
but I thought there was something charming in the way their necks were coloured green and purple. He
liked the robins and blue tits that came – smaller birds that looked picturesque on a wheelbarrow or fence. I
like corvids – crows and ravens and magpies and jackdaws. The most intelligent birds. They understand
things. Maybe they understand more than us. In fact, I’m certain they do. So the bird didn’t bother me. No,
that’s not quite true. I was curious about what sort of a bird it was that could be so big and still get up into
my tree – and I wondered why I’d never seen it before. But that was all.
I have been sorting through Douglas’ clothes – a few old ties and shirts, smart trousers, and suit jackets; the
t-shirts he used to wear under his coveralls; his pyjamas and underwear and corduroys. I cried over his
jumpers – the cream one with a holey elbow and the fairisle one that had been a lucky find in a charity shop. I
hadn’t been able to cry before that. When I bought the fairisle it was a little large on him, but he grew into it.
We all put on weight as we age, don’t we? It’s true what they say about middle aged spread. I began baking
once we were both retired and that certainly contributed to our waistlines. Sometimes I worry – should I
have made him eat better? All the fats and sugars and delicious things that go into cakes and pastries and
pies… did that contribute? Would Doug be here still? You mustn’t think that way. That’s what Lydia says.
You Mustn’t Think That Way, Mum – but she sounds tired when she says it. You know when people don’t
fully let out the breath they’ve taken? And you know they’re tense. Even on the phone, I can tell.
She sounded tense when I called to tell her about the bird. Oh, she is busy – they both are, Duncan and her.
Duncan and his wife have four children; he teaches at the high school and Simone is a receptionist at a
dentist’s, while Lydia is a veterinary surgeon. After all that fuss with the pets! Not wanting to see their little
bodies and crying and carrying on. I know a lot can change but it doesn’t seem right that my children can
have changed so much.
I said, ‘Lydia, there’s a bird in the cherry tree – huge, black thing. It won’t come out of the ivy, so I
can’t see it very well.’
She wasn’t really listening. ‘You need to get a surgeon on that. Didn’t Dad used to have a company
come out?’
‘Oh yes, I expect so. But this bird – it’s so strange! It doesn’t seem to move and it’s been there for two
days now.’
‘Mmm. Do you have any things that need taking to the tip? I can come over Sunday and take them.’
‘Yes,’ the bird was looking at me and I was looking at him. ‘A few bits and bobs.’
‘Can you get as much as you can together? I don’t want to have to do more trips than I have to.’
‘This bird, Lydia -’
‘I have to go Mum, I’ll see you Sunday, ok? Love you!’
She was gone. The bird was still there.
I felt a little paranoid after the bird had been there a week. Lydia had to cancel the trip to the tip so the spare
room was piled with all the things I’d decided to get rid of. I’m not good at throwing things out. The last
thing this house needs is more space. I scuttle about from room to room and it’s only the things really that
keep me company. But then, sometimes, I look at all the stuff, so much stuff, and I wish it was all gone.
It’s the worst at night. I try, very hard, to sleep – I read and read until my eyes feel all dried up – but when I
put the book down I find I just toss and turn. I lay there the other night – my bedroom is at the back of the
house and the window looks out onto the garden – and I was struck with the thought that the bird, or
whatever it was, might still be in the tree. Waiting.
After the first couple of days I wondered if I was seeing things, or if it was a model or kite maybe, that had
been put there by schoolchildren, or blown in the tree by accident. We sometimes got balls stuck in the
branches – plastic bags have blown into it and been caught – even a pair of trousers once. We are
unfortunately located near the recreation ground and teenagers sometimes gather to drink or smoke or
whatever on the other side of our fence. Perhaps it was a prank? I opened the back door and stepped into the
garden. There really are so many weeds, I should do something about it. I took about two steps but then I
got dreadfully afraid – it was a silly fear, really – and I don’t know if I was afraid of seeing that it was a bird or
of seeing that it wasn’t one. I went back inside and locked the door behind me. Then I drew all the curtains
and sat in the dark.
It was dark as I lay in bed, thinking of the bird, also in the dark, nestled in the leaves of the trees and in the
ivy that has grown up its trunk. There was no reason why it wouldn’t be in the tree – it had been there every
morning when I got up – it had been there during my breakfasts and lunches and dinners. It had been there
and would be there. Doug would have known what to do. I did not.
I decided I would draw it. I don’t know why I originally thought this – I didn’t even like to look at it; but the
more I thought about it the more sensible an idea it seemed. Perhaps I could send the drawing to
Springwatch or the RSPB and they would be able to tell me what it was. I had already tried looking it up
online – but couldn’t see anything quite like it. The decision did not calm me, exactly. I got out of bed and
put on Doug’s old fairisle jumper. Then I went downstairs and sat in the armchair until light. I had spent
many nights in that armchair – when Douglas first came home he couldn’t manage stairs and a bed had to be
made in the sitting room. Duncan arranged a stairlift to be put in, which helped, but we’d both rather got
used to him sleeping downstairs. The downstairs loo was right by the sitting room so getting there was easier
and the frame that had been fitted around the toilet had been installed there. I find some of the fittings
useful – I use the stairlift myself some days – but mostly they’re just depressing. They’re lying in wait for me.
I had thought of going to my neighbours and asking them about it, but I could not imagine a scenario where
I left and safely returned: it seemed impossible that the bird would not attack me. There was something
threatening in the way it watched the house. Something unnatural. I thought it was perhaps hungry.
The weather was glorious – a perfect day. The curtains were all drawn. I opened one, the one in the sitting
room, near my armchair, cautiously. It was still there. My heart sank. It looked as though it had never moved

• I thought that maybe it had always been there, and I was only just noticing it now. I had been distracted
  lately after all – there had been Douglas to think of, and look after, and – when things got worse – to go and
  visit in the hospital. The house fell into chaos. He had dealt with the bills – there were stacks of them to
  consider; he had all the passwords to our online banking and shopping and whatnot. Duncan says, don’t
  write your passwords down! But he doesn’t tell me what a person should do when her husband dies and
  takes everything with him. He and Simone are modern – I expect she handles all the accounts. Doug liked to
  do it – he liked sorting everything – he was good at it. What was I good at, in our marriage? Not even the
  cooking. Not the cleaning – it bored me. I was good with the children when they were small, but once they
  stopped wanting to hear fairy tales and pretend to be dragons or princesses or knights, they grew tired of me.
  They aged out of my reach.
  It was there. As I watched it moved slightly from foot to foot and tipped its head so that one eye could
  observe me. A terrible weight pressed down on my heart. I took up the pencil and the pad of paper I was
  going to use and began to draw. Every time I looked at the bird I felt a tightening in my chest. I couldn’t get
  the drawing right – the proportions seemed too off, although I was trying very hard, and usually I consider
  myself good at art. There are my sketches all around the house – Doug insisted on getting them framed – of
  the children and of him. Funny, how a pencil can capture so much. But the bird was impossible to pin
  down. I got out the mobile phone my children demanded I carry around and took a photo. It was blurry –
  just a dark shadow near the heart of the tree. I tried again, but it looked to me like the bird was angry with
  me, and I dropped the phone in fright and in my eagerness to draw the curtains. I kept them drawn. I would
  not open them.
  The photo I sent to Duncan and Lydia. They both said the same sort of thing: that they couldn’t see a bird,
  but didn’t I usually like birds? And how Dad would be sorry to see the state of the garden – which I already
  knew, of course. Sometimes they do speak to me as if I don’t have a brain. Or as if they know their father
  better than I ever could! Frankly, they were spoilt as children. Doug tried to warn me, but I was a pushover.
  Well, my parents hadn’t exactly been loving – just tired, mostly, and stressed. It was the era they were from as
  well. Parents didn’t say I love you to their kids back then. I didn’t want my children to grow up and dread
  coming to see me. But then, they don’t really come and see me anyway. Douglas is barely cold in the ground
  and I can’t get my children to visit on a Sunday. At least my parents instilled a sense of duty in my sister and
  me. I’m being ungrateful. I don’t want them to feel like they have to; I want them to want to. They are busy
• they have full lives – it’s not that they’re bad children. They aren’t children! Haven’t been for a long, long
  time.
  I seem to upset myself more and more these days. Perhaps it’s natural. I only have my thoughts to keep me
  company – but they turn so black and bitter. We should have got another cat – or a dog even – but after our
  last one passed away and with the children grown it didn’t seem urgent. We were both working. Then, after
  we retired, I was beginning to look at pet adoption websites when Doug became ill. It would be too much to
  take care of an animal, I expect. A dog would need to be walked, and I haven’t left the house now for three
  weeks. It feels like longer.
  A bright line of light forms a square around the curtains. I have not looked out again since the day I tried to
  draw it. Some days I get so upset – I want to fling open the windows and shout WHAT DO YOU WANT
  FROM ME? And sometimes I think I’ll just go and face whatever it is, in the garden, let it do what it wants.
  Did I summon it? I keep thinking of the action man doll, growing cold and damp in the earth. Oh Douglas.
  It’s too vulnerable to be buried isn’t it? There should be someone down there with him. He hated to sleep
  alone.
  All I can think of is the bird.
  There’s no singing in the garden. I miss the other birds that used to come.
  I sense it sitting, waiting, on the other side of the glass. At night I can’t sleep; I can feel it like a tumour, a
  cancer idling, biding by the cherry tree.
  I have to dig up the doll. Doug would always find a practical solution to any problem. I must think like him
  and do as he would do. I pull on his jumper, although it is too warm for jumpers. It smells like him. His soap
  and his shaving cream. I’m in front of the patio doors. I’ll open the curtains, open the doors, march to the
  end of the garden and dig. If it attacks – so be it. What will be will be.
  I open the curtains and though I have told myself not to look, I do. At the tree.
  And now there’s two.

The Sentinel Short Story Pdf

SENTRY Fredrick Brown He was wet and muddy and hungry and cold and he was fifty thousand light-years from home. A strange blue sun gave light, and gravity, twice what he was used to, made. The Sentinel (2006) Plot. Showing all 6 items Jump to: Summaries (5) Synopsis (1) Summaries. A Secret Service agent is framed as the mole in an assassination attempt.