The Foreshadowing (5 page)

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.