The following days passed in a flash. Jemima tried hard to get me to go with her, even suggesting that we go by sea for the outward leg but, at such short notice, we would not make the flight back anyway.

I went along along with it to some extent and, in all honesty, I really did want to go with her and join her on that wonderful new aeroplane but I knew, in my heart, that I would never have been able to do it, not without a sedative anyway and what, then, would be the point?

She flew out on the Twenty-Second of April, promising me she would return as planned but if anything should change she would send a telegram.

I had a few days leave to take so I took the opportunity to go over to France and visit my dad and the girls.

He and Françoise had not yet decided where they would settle but she was due to retire in just a few years so my dad hired a manager for the farm and moved into Françoise' house in Limoges.

Much had changed since I had first appeared on her ward. The crash had affected so many people that if all the survivors could tell the same story as I have then much good has come out of a terrible tragedy.

The house was a little quieter now. Pascale had moved out to live with her girlfriend and Dominique was training to be a nurse but with the French Air Force, so she no longer lived at home either.

The friendship that had grown between us was so strong that whenever Jemima and I came to visit, Dominique would always try to get some leave so she could see me at least once and Pascale would be over at every opportunity.

This time she brought her new love with her. Françoise had told me that she couldn't wait for us to meet as she was so proud of her and desperately wanted my approval.

When I finally met her I was pleased to find she was a very pleasant but very shy young woman called Renée. She was roughly the same age as Pascale but a little shorter with brown eyes and hair which was cut short, almost like a man but which gave her a cute, impish appearance which was exaggerated by her cheeky smile.

It was obvious that she was as in love with Pascale as Pascale was with her.

Between them all, they had found a couple of properties which they thought might be of interest to us around the Limoges district, and they took me to see them. One in particular was very nice and I thought it ideal for the two of us. It was an old house that had not been occupied since the war and needed renovating but since I was to leave my job anyway, it seemed ideal. My dad said he would help us and I began to make plans for our future.

That alone gave me a warm feeling inside. Making plans for a secure future that I could look forward to enjoying.

My return was set for May the first with the intention to be at home when Jemima returned and, hopefully, meet her at the airport.

It was a long journey back to England and I left the house at five a.m., saying my farewells at the door and getting into my dad's car. He had offered to take me to the station rather than get a taxi.

It was a grey and dismal morning. There was no sign of the sun today and I decided that it was likely to rain some time soon. Not that it really mattered, I would be on trains all day and the ferry but it did add to a strange, inexplicable sense of foreboding that had been with me since the moment I opened my eyes.

My father parked the car and came to the train with me. As we walked across the concourse my feet felt heavy, as though they didn't want to move.

“Are you all right, Sweetheart?” he asked me as we approached the ticket barrier.

“Er, yes, well, no. Oh, I don't know,” I stumbled over the words. “Oh yes, I am. I am just being silly I suppose.”

He took my arm and stopped me.

“Is something troubling you?” he asked, worry showing in his eyes.

“I don't know,” I replied, “I feel strange but I don't know why.”

“If you want to stay a little longer...” he began but I stopped him with a shake of my head.

“No, it's nothing,” I assured him, smiling, “Just being silly.”

“If you're sure,” he said with a hint of a question.

“Yes, I'm sure,” I laughed lightly and we continued on through the barrier, showing my ticket and his platform ticket to the uniformed man at the gate.

“Merci,” he said, waving us through and touching the peak of his cap.

At the prescribed time, whistles blew, doors slammed shut and, with a jolt and clank, the train began to move. I waved to my dad as he receded.

“Write soon,” was the last thing I heard as he disappeared into the smoke from the locomotive.

I sat back and relaxed, or tried to, but this feeling of dread just would not leave me.

The hours passed by slowly and passengers came and went. A few spoke and, although I had learned a little French, conversation was laboured and they soon lapsed into silence.

Before she left for India, Jemima had insisted on paying for my tickets, 'as an apology for leaving you alone,' she had said and, for once, I didn't argue for she had booked me on a special train, the Fleche D'Or, from Paris to Calais, which connected directly to the ferry and continued with the Golden Arrow, from Dover to London. On both sides of the channel, the trains were special, Pullman carriages and, even though I insisted on travelling second class, were still very comfortable and luxurious as compared to normal trains.

By the time I arrived in London it had indeed been raining. The streets were glistening wet and the taxi from the station splashed through puddles galore.

The light was fading by the time I reached my front door and when it closed behind me I breathed out a deep sigh of relief that such a long journey was finally at an end.

I had hoped that at some point, this heavy feeling would leave me but it hadn't. I could only think that the reason was tiredness. I had got up very early, had an almost fourteen hour journey and I was exhausted, so I left my case at the bottom of he stairs and went straight up to our room and the cold empty bed that we shared.

I took a few minutes to prepare for bed and once in, I turned off the small lamp, I had kept my mum's Bakelite clock lamp, pulled the blankets over my shoulder and closed my eyes. I was asleep in no time.

Suddenly, I heard a crack of thunder in the distance. I opened my eyes but all was dark and I could see only blackness. Again, I heard the crash of thunder and the room was illuminated momentarily by the bright flash of lightning. I got a fleeting glimpse of faces and saw the fear before the darkness returned. I was puzzled. Who were these people?

My heart began to thud as I looked around in the pitch black. Again, the lightening flashed and I heard screams. I realised that all the faces were in rows.

Where was I? Even though there was no light, the frightened faces were now fixed in my memory. 

Another intense flash and crack as the lightning forked again and then it began, the screaming and crying, louder and louder until it reached a terrifying crescendo and then, suddenly, silence!

I lay perfectly still, trembling with fear, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would stop at any moment. I couldn't breathe.

From out of the deafening silence I heard another sound, distant at first then closer and louder. A sound I was familiar with. The raucous call of a raven!

The pitch darkness began to brighten to a dim grey light and the shiny black raven sat beside me on a crooked grave stone. I couldn't read the name, just the dates, 'Born 12th September 1912, Died, 2nd May 1953'.

I was puzzled, that date, tomorrow. How could someone be buried before they died?

The raven watched me intently, his shining little head tilted to on side and then the other. With a loud caw, he spread his wings and took to the air.

I stood, rooted and watched as he circled then flew off. He didn't go far before he turned back and flew towards me again, cawing as though trying to tell me something. When I didn't move he landed on a nearby tree branch. Although Spring was well established there were no leaves on the tree. When I looked about I realised that none of the trees had leaves. They all seemed to be dead.

Although my heart was still pounding, I didn't feel the terror any more but I was afraid of something, something I couldn't define.

The raven called again and then, as I looked, he turned his head to the side.

“Do you want me to follow?” I asked him and immediately he spread his wings and flew.

This time I followed and he kept circling as though to be sure I was there.

I was barefoot as I walked, the dead leaves rustling as my feet disturbed them and the gentle breeze blowing back my hair and disturbing the fabric of my thin cotton nightdress. We walked for what seemed an eternity. I passed through gravestones and saw names. Some I knew, the names from the manifest I had seen so often before and others unknown to me, names that, although clear, I could not read.

The unknown ones though, all had one thing in common, the date of death, 2nd May 1953.

Something caught my leg as I passed, scraping against the scar on my thigh, something sharp and hot and I looked down. It was a piece of charred metal which I recognised straight away as being from an airframe. It had letters barely visible on the scorched paint, two large blue letters, A and C.

What did it mean?

I became aware that there was now a stench of burning fuel in the air and all about I could see small fires.

Orange flames flickered, giving an eerie glow to the stones.

I walked on, counting the stones with the unknown names, forty-three in all.

Against one of them another piece of twisted metal with more letters. This time in blue between two blue bands against blistered white paint. The first was cut across on the jagged edge but was clearly an L followed by Y and V.

It didn't make any sense to me at all. It clearly wasn't my aeroplane.

Ahead of me I saw a figure, gradually appearing from out of the thin mist that seemed to surround everything.

My eyes opened wide and I tried to scream but no sound came from my open mouth. The figure ahead of me was the Reaper!

I tried to turn and run but my feet would not move. All I could do was stand and stare at the thin skeletal figure in front of me.

He too remained motionless, his skull hanging forwards, covered by the hood of his ragged black cloak and in his bony hand he gripped his scythe as though an old man leaning on his stick.

Finally, I spoke.

“Am I dead?” I asked him but still he didn't move.

“Tell me!” I screamed angrily at him, “am I dead!?” I was shaking as I shouted the words, the sudden fear of death gripped me, taking away all my sense of reason and power of thought.

“Please...” I pleaded now, “Please tell me.” I began to weep.

Agonisingly slowly, the Reaper raised his head and the fear became stronger. I stood silently, shaking violently, hot and yet chilled to the core.

In the darkness beneath the edge of his hood I could see his eyes, eyes glowing red, burning into my soul, holding me and the feeling of dread was overwhelming me but I couldn't move, couldn't turn away, couldn't close my eyes even and the desire to scream filled my head but no sound came. I was totally paralysed but my mind was spinning.

So this was it then, the Reaper was taking me.

“Your time is not yet come, Karen.”

The memory of my mothers voice cut through the fear and I screamed out, “No! You will not take me. Not now, not like this!”

The red, glowing eyes still burned into my soul but I was strong now.

Slowly, the Reaper's bony fingers of his left hand, one by one, released their grip on the scythe handle and he stretched his arm out towards me, palm uppermost.

In my mind I was screaming 'No' defiantly as three inhuman fingers curled back into his palm, leaving just the first, pointing towards me.

My heart was thumping strongly and I was certain it would surely stop at any moment.

To my surprise, he didn't beckon me as I was sure he would but with incredible protraction, his arm moved to the side, pointing at something and all the while his eyes remained locked on me.

I jumped visibly as the raven cried out unexpectedly and I turned my head slowly toward the sound, following the direction to which the Reaper was pointing.

The shiny black bird was sitting on a stone, the forty-fourth stone, the same stone I had seen previously only this time, along with the dates, I could see a name, Jemima Rana!

I screamed, my lungs pushing out my breath to their maximum capacity.

“No, No, NO...” I screamed, barely taking a breath as I fell to my knees. “Nooo... you can't take her, not now, please!” I sobbed heartily. “You can't take her from me,” I begged, “Please, take me. I can't live without her!” I sobbed and screamed at the fading figure, “Nooo...”

I opened my eyes to the early morning light illuminating the window. I was drenched with sweat and gradually realised that I had had the most vivid dream of my life but a dream was all it was. I had become used to such vivid nightmares now and I looked at the clock beside me, six thirty.

Rising from my bed, I went to the bathroom to wash and stood at the basin looking into the mirror above. I looked awful, my eyes were puffy and red, I must have cried in my sleep and my hair was matted and sticking to my face. Already the dream was fading but still I had this deep sense of foreboding.

I breathed out loudly and went about running a bath where, for the next thirty minutes or so, I soaked away the grime and the last of the memories and just relaxed, allowing the heat to soothe away my worries. The scar on my thigh was throbbing a little as it sometimes did in the hot water, only it looked different somehow, it was pink as though something had irritated it. I put it down to the heat and lay back in the warm soapy water.

Sometime later I sat in the kitchen with my toast and coffee and contemplated my plans for the day. I didn't expect Jemima until very late so I thought I would spend the day tidying and cleaning and getting the house ready to welcome her home.

I was in no hurry though and I took my time with my breakfast and read the paper, even starting the crossword puzzle.

I was usually quite good at the puzzles but, for some reason, I couldn't concentrate today. I was struggling even to solve the easy one and the cryptic was just not going to happen.

After an hour, I gave up and went upstairs to dress.

I had all day to clean and polish so I pulled on a pair of slacks and a cotton blouse which I tied in a knot at the waist and finished off with a scarf tied around my head to keep any dust out of it then immersed myself into my work, trying to shake off this heavy feeling and thinking ahead to Jemima coming home. I had missed her so much whilst we had been away. Ten days was the longest we had been apart since I returned to England.

As the hours passed, my heart beat more heavily and my breathing became more difficult, as if I was panicking over something but still I didn't know why. I thought it must be the excitement and the anticipation of seeing her again.

I didn't stop for lunch as I just wasn't hungry so went upstairs and made a start on the bedroom. I began by changing the sheets and, as I wafted the clean sheet over the mattress, a piece of paper was blown from the night-stand on her side and drifted to the floor by my foot. Bending down to pick it up my heart missed a beat, stopping me in my tracks, for there were the flight details and times which she had written for me.

One thing jumped out, bringing my nightmare vividly back to me. The airline, BOAC!

The image of the piece of charred metal came to me instantly and the letters there-on, the big blue letters, A and C!

“Oh my dear God, no!” I gasped as the whole thing became clear. It wasn't a nightmare at all, it was a warning, a premonition and I didn't get it.

I picked up the sheet of paper, my hands shaking violently, and looked at the clock. One-fifteen.

My blood ran cold and I felt sick. I couldn't stop it now, she was already in the air.

Gasping for air, my chest heaving, I fell to my knees, the paper screwed up between my tightly clasped hands.

“Dear Lord, please don't take her from me, I beg of you,” I prayed in earnest, rocking back and forth and pressing my joined fists to my chest, pressing against my heart, the pain becoming intense and unbearable.

I didn't know what to do as the tears began to flow down my cheeks. I remembered the dream I had about Harry Simmonds and how my dad had told me about his death.

With all the strength I could muster I stood up and ran, almost falling headlong in my haste, down the stairs to the front room and turned on the radiogram. There I sat for the next forty-five minutes, waiting for the news and I swore I would not move until Jemima walked safely through the door.

Exactly Two O'clock, the time signal beeped and the clipped voice of the announcer began:

“This is the BBC Home Service and here is the news read by Alvar Lidell.”

I held my breath, not daring to take a single proper one, just shallow, almost panting and clutching my chest as the newsreader read out the latest bulletin.

“Another De Havilland Comet airliner has crashed in India killing all forty-three passengers and crew. Initial reports said that the aircraft broke apart in bad weather. BOAC Flight 783 took off from Calcutta's Dum-Dum airport in bad weather...”

I didn't hear any more, I was numb and in deep shock as I stared at the big dial in front of me. The room was swimming and my eyes filled with tears as I gasped for air and then, taking a huge intake of breath, let out and ear splitting wail, 'Nooo...' and sobbed heavily, barely able to breathe in between.

I lay on the floor for what seemed like hours, curled up, crying. No thoughts, just empty as though my soul had been torn from me.

As though through a thick fog, I vaguely heard knock at the door and then the ringing of the doorbell but it meant nothing to me and soon stopped.

Even after the tears had dried up I remained still. Lifeless and empty.

Again I vaguely heard the knocking and ringing at the door and a voice calling my name but still I remained curled up on the floor. Nothing mattered any more, I had nothing left.

As the light began to fade I sat up and dragged myself unwillingly to the kitchen and to the cutlery drawer. Pulling it slowly open I looked down into it and saw immediately what I wanted. Gripping the long bread knife by the handle I took it out of the drawer and sat down at the table and placed my arm against the warm wooden surface, palm uppermost, then lay the cold steel blade against the warm, yielding flesh of my wrist.

To be continued...