“Did you call out? I’m sure I heard someone shout my name.”
There was another rustle, and Bill Door’s head appeared over the edge of the loft.
MISS FLITWORTH?
“Yes. Who did you expect? Are you all right?”
ER. YES. YES, I BELIEVE SO.
“You sure you’re all right? You woke up Cyril.”
YES. YES. IT WAS JUST A—I THOUGHT THAT—YES.
She blew out the candle. There was already enough pre-dawn light to see by.
“Well, if you’re sure…Now I’m up I may as well put the porridge on.”
Bill Door lay back on the hay until he felt he could trust his legs to carry him, and then climbed down and tottered across the yard to the farmhouse.
He said nothing while she ladled porridge into a bowl in front of him, and drowned it with cream. Finally, he couldn’t contain himself any longer. He didn’t know how to ask the questions, but he really needed the answers.
MISS FLITWORTH?
“Yes?”
WHAT IS IT…IN THE NIGHT…WHEN YOU SEE THINGS, BUT THEY ARE NOT THE REAL THINGS?
She stood, porridge pot in one hand and ladle in the other.
“You mean dreaming?” she said.
IS THAT WHAT DREAMING IS?
“Don’t you dream? I thought everyone dreamed.”
ABOUT THINGS THAT ARE GOING TO HAPPEN?
“That’s premonitions, that is. I’ve never believed in ’em myself. You’re not telling me you don’t know what dreams are?”
NO. NO. OF COURSE NOT.
“What’s worrying you, Bill?”
I SUDDENLY KNOW THAT WE ARE GOING TO DIE.
She watched him thoughtfully.
“Well, so does everyone,” she said. “And that’s what you’ve been dreaming about, is it? Everyone feels like this sometimes. I wouldn’t worry about it, if I was you. The best thing to do is keep busy and act cheerful, I always say.”
BUT WE WILL COME TO AN END!
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Miss Flitworth. “It all depends on what kind of life you’ve led, I suppose.”
I’M SORRY?
“Are you a religious man?”
YOU MEAN THAT WHAT HAPPENS TO YOU WHEN YOU DIE IS WHAT YOU BELIEVE WILL HAPPEN? “It would be nice if that was the case, wouldn’t it?” she said brightly.