Omri put down his spoon. There was some saying he’d always thought very silly, about a goose walking over your grave. But suddenly he understood it because the bumpy flesh all over his arms had the chill feeling of death.
“Was she really wicked?” he asked after a moment.
“I’ve no idea. She was some kind of actress back around the time of the First World War. Going on the stage in those days was considered fairly wicked by some people. But I’m sure there was more to it than that. Now darling, enough questions, it’s ten to nine. Go.”
Omri didn’t think about Kitsa more than half a dozen times that day. Nor did he give too much attention to lessons, and the Butcher had occasion to send him to the Tea Cosy, who gave him what-for without too much care for his feelings and added injury to insult with a detention. Murphy’s law in action, he thought furiously. If anything can go wrong, it will, and at the worst possible time. He was absolutely dying to get home.
By the time the Butcher let him go and he had raced home through the lanes on his bike (narrowly avoiding being run down by a tractor — well, better than a London bus!) he couldn’t possibly be bothered to clear the last of the thatch from the path properly. He just kicked it aside as he forged up the path and raced to his room.
He shut both doors and put some spare bricks against them so they wouldn’t open easily. Then he extracted the thick notebook from behind his books and opened it with hands that were not quite steady.
He read the words on the flyleaf again.
Account of My Life, and of a Wonder Unacceptable to the Rational Mind. To be hidden until a time when Minds in my Family may be more Open.
Jessica Charlotte Driscoll.
August 21st, 1950.
He turned the page and began to read the fine, beautifully formed handwriting.
I write this on my deathbed.
Since I have not seen or heard anything from Maria for nearly half a lifetime I cannot be sure she has not gone before me — though I have my own reason for believing she will outlive me by many years… Still, sooner or later we must come face to face on the Other Side. Much as I have missed and longed for her, I am in no great hurry to meet her there. Strange but true: I fear God in His Almighty Power less than I fear facing my sister Maria.
I am still at heart an artiste. So I write this account as a kind of rehearsal of what I shall say to her - and Him. I shall excuse nothing, omit nothing, extenuate nothing. When I look now into the glass on the front of the wondrous Cabinet Frederick made with such anger in his heart (which sits on the table by my bedside), I see, not my face, but Death’s. It tells me sternly that ‘naught now availeth’ but scrupulous Truth.
My Little People would speak for me, if they could. They’ve seen the best in me. With them, at least, I’ve dealt honestly and kindly. I have not shown them my accursed jealousy and spite.
But they must Go Back, pursue their own lives and make their own accounting at last. Though I still bring them sometimes, when I’m lonely and afraid, to comfort and distract me, they can’t help me now. Even though Jenny weeps (tears that are as small as points of starlight) when I tell her I’m dying. She weeps for herself, also… What will become of her? I can’t send her back now.
I don’t deserve the Wonder that has been my consolation at the end of my misspent life.
When Omri reached this point in the notebook, he found his heart was beating so hard and his breath had been caught in his lungs without breathing out for so long that he had to stop.
He swallowed, shut his eyes so he couldn’t read the delicate brown writing, and breathed in and out several times until his heartbeats slowed. He felt dizzy, confused. There was a faint sheen of sweat on his face. The ‘wondrous Cabinet’ in which she could see her face in a ‘glass’! The Little People from another time! Was this real? Was he really reading about IT — his own cupboard? Was it conceivable that this great-great-aunt of his had had it in this very house, over thirty years ago?
To rehearse my story, I must tell it all, from the beginning. And then I must do what I must do, and Maria will know my guilty secret.
Maria, my beautiful elder sister… Everything came to her, without her even trying. Our parents’ favour. The admiration of friends and relations. The chances in life that make all the difference. And the love of a man. In that, too, she was ahead of me. Her love was honest and true.
I hated her at times.
There, it’s out. My jealous spirit infected me like a virus. I wanted to be her, and I was not, so I hated her for her beauty, and for the way she attracted love. And for being good.
Everyone praised her goodness. Was it all true? Was she really, deeply, better than I? Had she been me - little, plump, plain, mocked, ignored, where she was tall and graceful and clever - would she have been so moral then?
Who can tell?
When she was barely sixteen her suitors were already crowding our house. I remember them, callow young men, bringing her presents, fawning on her, while I silently watched… But I didn’t stay silent! Oh, no!
After they’d gone, I would mimic them. Mercilessly! I would force Maria to laugh at their antics even when she had thought she admired them.
“Oh, stop, Jessie, stop!” she’d cry, weeping with laughter. “You are a demon, you’ve caught him exactly with his funny walk and his lisp. Oh, stop it, I will never be able to look at him again!”
She was my first audience. Those were my moments of fulfilment when I forgot my plainness and began to be an actress.
But there was something else about me, and this I kept to myself. I knew things. I knew she was not going to marry any of these. I knew what would be. Oh, not everything! But certain flashes of future knowledge came to me, even as a child.
I had a dream, I had it over and over again, of myself standing in a building that was half lit and half dark. I stood high, and many people faced me from below, and I could do as I pleased with them — make them laugh or cry or sing or cheer, at my will. It was a theatre of course, but I didn’t know it then — how could I? I had never seen one. My father thought a theatre was the devil’s own den.
But as I grew up, I learnt about the world. Actors were not ‘respectable’ but they were much talked of… and I found out the meaning of my dream, and I knew my destiny.
When I told our father I was going on the stage for a living, he told me - and meant it - that he would rather see me dead in my coffin. He refused to consider it. I was punished for dreaming of it.
To actually do it meant leaving home, enduring disgrace, being cast out, abandoning all that was familiar and safe… It meant being poor, living alone, begging for jobs, mixing with every sort of person. Yet I did it. I am still proud of that. It took a lot of courage. Somehow I achieved my ambition, and my father — though he never forgave me — at least noticed me and came to know that I was not the little nobody-and-nothing he had always thought me.
And Maria stood by me. Not openly, of course, but secretly.
It was the first time she had ever deceived