The Foreshadowing (13 page)

“Father . . . ?”

“You heard me. I forbid you to continue nursing. That’s over now. You will go back to studying properly and conduct yourself in a manner more fitting to a young lady of your class. And that is all.”

He left the room, and a few moments later, I heard him leave the house, heedless that dinner was on the way.

I don’t think he will change his mind.

62

A generation of men is like the leaves on the trees. When the winter winds blow, the leaves are scattered to the ground, but with spring, a new generation of men bursts into bud, to replace those that went before. But this is a harsh winter, the likes of which has never been seen before.

I think of the words from my dream, croaked to me by that evil bird on the battlefield.

You alone saw the horror of war, and wept when we did not
believe you.

I don’t fully understand what it is that I have done in Father’s eyes. I don’t understand what is so terrible, but I have been punished anyway. Not just with words, but with deeds, too. I am not to be allowed to continue nursing.

And all for something I did not wish for. A power which has been given to me, to see endings, but to be unable to prevent them, or even to make others believe what I have seen. In idle fantasy you might think that to see the future would be a wonderful gift.

It’s nothing but a curse.

61

It’s nearly Christmas.

I haven’t been to the hospital, nor anywhere near it. I have seen no more visions of the future, and yet still I feel fate swirling around me like leaves caught in those tiny whirlwinds that eddy in the autumn streets.

Today there was another coincidence. I was walking home from Miss Garrett’s in Preston Park, and was surprised when a soldier coming up the hill stopped in front of me.

“Hello, Nurse,” he said. “And goodbye, I suppose.”

It was David Evans. The uniform stopped me from recognizing him immediately.

I struggled for words. I knew that it was perhaps because of what he’d said that I’d lost my position, but I didn’t want to talk about that. It wasn’t his fault; he probably didn’t even remember anything about it now.

“Are you leaving?” I asked, though it was obvious. He had a kit bag on his back and was heading for the station.

“I am indeed,” he said, smiling, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Got to get back to my mates. That’s important. Stick together, we do. That’s the only way.”

I nodded.

“Yes,” I said, “yes. Don’t you have family to see first?”

“No family, no,” he said. “The boys, the sergeant-major. That’s my family. See?”

I nodded again.

“Well, better be along, got to get the train to Southampton. Catch a boat, you know!”

I smiled.

“One last thing,” he said. “May I give you a kiss?”

I took a step backward, but I could see he meant no harm.

“If I tell the boys I kissed a girl as beautiful as you,” he said, laughing, “they’ll be green fit to burst!”

I laughed too.

“Very well,” I said. “Are all Welshmen as charming as you?”

“Not quite,” he said, winking.

He leaned down and kissed me quickly on the cheek, like an uncle.

As he straightened up again I noticed he was looking at me thoughtfully. At my eyes.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said, casually. “Nothing. I just . . . Well, anyway, I must be going now. Goodbye.”

He slung his kit bag over his shoulder, and set off to the station once more.

I felt a little glow of satisfaction inside as he went, though I never thought my first kiss would come from a Welsh soldier.

I was puzzled. He seemed to have made such a complete recovery from the wrecked shell of a man he had been when I first saw him. That didn’t often happen with shell-shock, and I spent the rest of the day wondering what had made him better.

60

Christmas has come. It’s Friday evening, and tomorrow is Christmas Day.

Earlier this evening, we sat in the drawing room, and all had a glass of sherry, even me. Mother asked me to play some carols on the piano, which I was happy to do for her, though my heart wasn’t really in it. I played quite badly, but Mother and Father and Tom sang along and thanked me when I finished.

I can’t help being sad that Mother hasn’t tried to get Father to change his mind about my nursing. If only Tom could speak out for me!

His own situation is hard enough, with the tension between Father and him over joining the army. Tom wants to continue his training until he is forced not to. If he were to try to take my side, we both know it wouldn’t help either of our causes.

We had a Christmas card from Edgar. I don’t know how he managed to get time to send it. It’s very jolly and shows some young ladies on a sleigh, wrapped in furs, with
Joyeux
Noël
in ornate writing across the front.

It had come a few days ago, but Father kept it hidden as a surprise and read it out to us this evening.

Dear Family,

I trust you are all together at home now in Clifton Terrace. I
wish I could be with you, too, but you know that I must be
here. Nevertheless I wish you all a Merry Christmas. We’re
hoping for a bit of a do ourselves, God willing, so don’t
worry about me. I must go now.

Your Edgar

Father put it up on the mantelpiece, in pride of place, moving a card from someone else aside to do so.

Mother was delighted.

“You were naughty to keep it from us,” she chided Father, gently.

He smiled, and kissed her on the forehead.

“But it’s the best Christmas present we could have had,” I said, and everyone agreed.

Then we had a supper of goose and gravy, and went to bed happy.

I am tired now; it is late, and Christmas is here.

59

The nightmare I was dreading has started.

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t. I don’t.

I woke early, but not with the excitement of Christmas morning. I woke in the grip of fear. And my heart pounding so hard it hurt.

A thought came into my head from nowhere.

The Christmas card. Edgar’s Christmas card. I suddenly realized that after Father had produced it and read it to us, he put it straight on the mantelpiece.

I had not touched it.

But I have now.

I went downstairs, took it from the shelf, turned it over and read it myself.

That was hours ago. I don’t even remember how I got back upstairs. I must have run here for safety, to my own place.

I don’t know what to do.

I have the card in front of me, and cannot stop looking at it, at the writing.

Writing that is now stained with my tears.

I can still see what it says, in Edgar’s writing, but it is what I heard when I read it the first time that has told me what I most fear.

The words are there just as they were before, when Father read them. But as I read them I heard Edgar’s voice, and he was saying something quite different.

“I must go now. I had a bayonet put into my back as I was
doing the same to another man. I must go now. I am dead
and I must go.”

I heard it only once, but it was clear enough; the minute I touched the card a shock shot through me.

I am dead and I must go.

I have sat for hours, shaking and crying. I am too scared to do anything, to talk to anyone. It is light outside now, I can hear the gulls screeching dimly at the back of my brain, but I cannot move.

I can’t even bring myself to get Tom, though I want him to be here more than anything.

I know I’m right, but no one will believe me.

What am I going to do?

There’s a knock at the front door.

I look to see what time it is. Later than I thought. It’s gone nine.

It strikes me dumbly that no one knocks on a door at nine o’clock on Christmas morning.

I know who it is.

I hear Mother going downstairs.

Clutching Edgar’s card, I open my door, go down the stairs, and reach the top of the landing just as Mother opens the front door.