The Mind's Eye Read online

  When I opened my eyes I was at a table sewing on a button. Or more precisely Henri was. I recognised the trickle of the nerves down his spine as he tried to concentrate, the sight of his hands filled me with glee. If I had had the physical strength to leap for joy this would have been the moment to do it. I had the found the right mind at the right time for once. I watched him for a few seconds as he continued to attach the button to a man’s brown suit, but I couldn’t resist the urge to make contact for long.

  Hello Henri, I thought.

  The young man stabbed himself with the needle as he jumped half out of his skin. He looked up into the same store room he had been in when I saw him last. There were a few other stations for tailoring among the swathes of cloth, but he was alone.

  “Hello?” he said aloud, sucking on his now-sore finger.

  I’m so sorry, I answered, I didn’t mean to startle you.

  “No harm done,” he answered with his finger still at his lips, “I had begun to think you were something in my imagination.”

  I had to rest my mind before I could come back, I explained, but they’re reporting on the occupation here, I wanted to make sure you were all right.

  “You did?”

  Henri felt sort of warm suddenly. I was grateful that he wasn’t able to see the blush that might have crept into my cheeks at his words.

  I don’t know how long we have to speak, I thought, avoiding his question.

  “Then tell me your name,” Henri prodded, setting down his tailor’s tools.

  Kit, Kit Cavendish.

  “Kit,” he repeated in his rich voice.

  How old are you? I asked.

  “Seventeen,” he answered, “And you?”

  An awkward moment settled on me. Well, I’ll be sixteen in June.

  “So you’re fifteen,” he corrected with a laugh hitched in his throat. I could feel his merriment rising slowly.

  Where are you? Are you a tailor?

  “Something like that,” Henri replied. He looked up around the room again to make sure no-one had come in. “I was an apprentice, but all the older men fled north to escape before the invasion, so now I am the only boy left. This is Mr Hoffman’s building, the clothing shop is downstairs.” He paused a moment, scratching his chin. “Can you see everything I see?”

  Yes, I answered, whatever you look at, I can see it too.

  Everything suddenly went black.

  “What can you see now?” Henri asked. I could feel a smile growing on his face.

  You’ve closed your eyes, haven’t you? I answered.

  He laughed, opening them again. Then he held up his hand in front of his face, still chuckling.

  “How many fingers?” he demanded.

  Five, four, none, two. I followed his movements and answered as quickly as he made them.

  “This is amazing,” he remarked, shaking his head. He looked down at himself, revealing a brown waistcoat over a black shirt. “So what am I wearing?” he tested again.

  I was about to answer when a sharp banging sound alerted us both. Henri snapped his gaze to the door where we both saw the horrific sight of big black boots kicking it open and marching into the room. A tall man with curly black hair stepped in wearing the German uniform. He had a thick moustache that emphasized his sneering lip as he approached Henri in the centre of the room. A half dozen more soldiers in their circular helmets followed him inside, gathering around the great dark man like a pack of wolves. Henri got to his feet as the German approached; all his merriment from a moment since was gone.

  “You speak English, boy?” demanded the German. He was carrying some kind of officer’s hat under his arm.

  “Yes sir,” Henri answered, his usually deep voice quivering a little, “I have a teacher. I am a student of Mr Bavistock.”

  The sneer turned into a horrid yellow grin under that huge ugly moustache. “Ah yes. He is an Englishman, no?” the German asked. Henri didn’t reply; I could feel his muscles tensing. “We are… talking with him, at the moment.”

  I had a pretty good idea of what he meant having seen the awful newsreel. That poor teacher would be one of the people dragged out of their lives by the grey-green uniformed mass of invaders. Henri stood firm, his face reactionless. The German’s dark eyes scanned the empty room.

  “Who were you talking to just now?” he demanded.

  “Nobody sir,” Henri stammered, his stoicism starting to fail, “I was practising my English. I always practice out loud when I am alone. It is good for pronunciation.” All the words came tumbling out in a nervous mess; I could feel his heart starting to thump in his ears, his blood rushing in anxious circuits to flush into his face. He felt hot suddenly, his breath was sharp.

  The officer barked something in German at his men, who then descended on the room, overturning huge piles of fabric, clothes, patterns, even machinery. They hurricaned through the large, empty room in pairs, uprooting everything in sight. Henri spun on the spot as he watched them until his focus came back to their superior. It was then that I noticed the officer’s great hairy hands folded in front of him and the clipped cigar perched in his pocket ready to be lit. I recognised them all too well, horrified to look into the ugly, dark face and realise I had been inside the mind attached to it.

  “Just a little inspection,” the officer explained with a horrible smile, “it is within the law.”

  “Whose law?” Henri asked. He seemed shocked with himself for even asking it.

  “Your law, by next week,” the officer answered, “things are about to change around here, Herr…?”

  “Haugen,” Henri answered, “Henri Haugen.”

  The officer approached with definite strides of his huge boots. He was at least half a foot taller than Henri, his dark eyes boring down on him. He took Henri’s chin in his hairy hand roughly; I felt the force as though he’d grabbed me too. The German’s yellow teeth were bared in another wicked grin.

  “We could use some boys like you who know their English well,” he mused cruelly.

  Henri was shaking, but the fire of his anger and injustice had returned. He took the German’s hand away from his face by force, stepping out of his reach and back behind his table.

  “I will not help the Nazi swine,” he spat.

  “You insolent little cur!” The German was instantly enraged, his hairy hands balling into fists as though he might swing for Henri any moment. I feared him, though Henri was now more angry than frightened, but a thought occurred to me as I recalled my previous encounter with the pig-headed officer. He was afraid of someone too.

  Quick Henri, say what I say exactly.

  “Officer,” Henri began as I fed him the words, “I hope you will not consider doing anything outside of your orders here today. I’m sure you weren’t ordered to harm civilians. The Generalfeldmarschall might hear of it if you do.”

  The dark German stopped in his tracks, a flicker of hesitation crossing his furious dark eyes. I knew the man’s fear of his general, I had felt his heart thump in his chest just like Henri’s and mine did right now.

  “Watch your tongue in future, Herr Haugen.”

  The officer barked at his soldiers again and they stopped their rampage of the store room, leaving everything in a mess as they followed their commander swiftly from the scene. Henri waited several long moments as we listened to them descending the stairs. He went to the window, watching until the little troop of jackboots had marched off into the street, then let out a huge relieved sigh.

  “You saved me there,” he told me in the empty, wrecked room, “Sometimes I do not think before I speak.”

  What you said was very brave, I replied. I felt the heat of pride building in Henri’s chest. But he might have given you a beating for it.

  “Yes,” he agreed, “I’ll have to learn how to manage with these dogs in command.” Henri walked to the smallest of the piles of upturned fabric and began to right them. “I expect Mr Hoffman will be up in a moment to inspect the damage.”


  I’ll go then, I began, feeling the store room start to blur even as I said it.

  “But you’ll come back?” Henri asked. His voice was level, but there was something much more hopeful in the way he hitched his breath, awaiting my answer.

  Of course, I replied. He let out the air he was holding in.

  “Good,” he answered, smiling, “I might need you to save me again.”

  I expect you will. The room started to flicker in and out of view. I could feel myself smiling too.

  “I’m alone at this time almost every day,” Henri offered.

  The cold shiver in my back caught my attention and I focused hard for one last moment to feel that smile on his face.

  We’ll speak soon then, I promised. And suddenly Norway was gone.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Blod demanded in a whisper as my hands dropped away from my face. She nudged me hard in my shoulder until my eyes refocused and I remembered where I was and what I was supposed to be doing.

  “Oh, I had a headache,” I answered all too loudly. Someone behind shushed me.

  “Oh shut your face,” Blod snapped at the disgruntled person before turning back to me, “You’ve missed half the film. Look don’t let Mam see you feeling ill. I’m enjoying this film and I don’t want to have to go home ‘cause of you.”

  “Right, sorry,” I answered quietly.

  Blod went back to looking at the screen, placated. I too turned my attention to it for the first time. It was a war film, something about heroes and romance. A handsome blonde-haired chap in a pilot’s uniform was wrapping some girl up in his arms, promising her that he’d return someday. The girl had dark ringlets blowing in the wind. She looked up at him with a loving smile and answered: “Til we meet again”.

  Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I had a tiny thought that that would have been a good thing to say to Henri.

  “Miss Cavendish, please,” Doctor Bickerstaff said from the door of his office.

  I looked up from the warm little waiting room, noticing immediately that he wasn’t coming over to wheel me in. I looked down at my gloved hands and grimaced. This was yet another of his little tests, I knew. I pulled hard on the wheels of my chair until I made it to his door, but there was a bump where the carpet met the lino that I couldn’t get over. I struggled determinedly until my skinny biceps burned and tears came unbidden to the corners of my eyes, at which point Bickerstaff rolled his big blue eyes and pushed me over the threshold and up to his desk in a snap.

  “Poor progress,” he sighed as he came to stand in front of me, “Let’s see if your legs are any better than your arms.”

  He had been checking on me every couple of weeks for improvements and I knew the drill well enough by now. I could set my feet down with a lot more purpose than when I first met the cold, clinical physician, but the part where I had to actually stand on them always ended the same way. I resented the fact that he always had to help me back into my chair when my knees collapsed under the strain. This time I hauled myself up more slowly than before, trying to lock the joints into a stronger position. It was a good idea in theory, except that as soon as I was standing I felt as though my knee caps had been replaced by two nervous jellyfish.

  Bickerstaff held out his hands, palms up. “Lean some weight on me,” he instructed.

  This was new. I took his too-clean hands, happy that he’d have to hold onto the dirty palms of my gloves, and pressed into them.

  “Too much,” he said immediately, “Take some weight back and try to balance. Don’t depend on me.”

  “I wouldn’t,” I answered. It took me a moment to realise I’d said it out loud, but Bickerstaff didn’t look offended, in fact he was far too preoccupied in looking at my feet to even hear me.

  I was still standing. It had been perhaps thirty seconds, which I thought was longer than any of my other attempts, and my feet were planted firm. The jellyfish sensation in my knees was definitely present, but the more pressure I put into Bickerstaff’s grip the less I felt the nervous twinge. It didn’t feel like they were going to give way for quite some time. I smiled in spite of the vile company and it was just my luck that the doctor chose that moment to look up at my face. He gave me a smug look.

  “Shall we try taking a step?” he asked.

  I hated his self-satisfied face, but the prospect of actually walking was too exciting to hide. I swallowed my pride and nodded eagerly, looking down at my own feet. It was a strange perspective to see myself standing upright like that; I was so used to looking at my knees that it was funny to have them out of sight under the flowing pleats of my skirt. Under Bickerstaff’s instruction I gently loaded more weight onto one leg than the other, eventually letting one foot come off the ground completely. But before I could use it to step forward the jellyfish feeling in the knee with the weight on it vanished, leaving only the crushing agony of bone hitting bone as it jarred.

  I collapsed in an awkward swinging motion, my lifted foot finding nowhere good to land, and suddenly I felt the familiar wave of defeat as the doctor’s arms swept around my torso and put me back into the seat of the chair with a little heave. I tried to tell myself that I had made a great stride, that this was serious progress, even if it had still ended with me flailing and landing back in the chair. A dark little voice also told me it was Bickerstaff’s fault. He always pushed me too far. He had his nose in his file again immediately, one blonde strand of his hair falling down over his eyes. He pushed it back sharply without looking up from his notes.

  “I want you to try standing like that for a few minutes at a time,” he instructed. No praise for my progress, as usual. “Lean on a person or a mantelpiece or something.”

  I didn’t bother to say ‘Yes, Doctor’ because it was quite clear he wasn’t listening. Bickerstaff wrote a few things down and then snapped my file shut, checking his appointment list like he always did, ready to call in the next patient whilst I struggled to get my chair out of the way. When he saw the list his brow came down hard over his eyes and to my surprise he actually looked at me.

  “Why am I seeing Vanessa?” he asked. It took me a moment to realise he meant Ness Fach. I hadn’t heard her full name in months.

  “She’s bumped her head,” I explained, “Mam thought you’d better see it.”

  Bickerstaff rose from his seat sharply and actually took hold of my chair to wheel me out. He did everything too quickly, like he couldn’t wait to get rid of me, swinging his door open and pushing me back out into the waiting room where Blod sat with Ness curled up on her knee.

  “Vanessa Price,” he said quickly, abandoning me as he waited for Blod to scoop up her sister and follow him into the room.

  She went in after him her usual haughty, high-heeled way. His behaviour was too strange to resist. There was no-one else gathered on the second hand chairs of the waiting room and the nice old receptionist was nowhere to be seen, so I closed my eyes and let my hands slowly rise to my face.

  I got Bickerstaff immediately, which was both pleasing and awful as I remembered that horrid heavy feeling of being in his mind. I had steered well clear of connecting with him up until now, but as he shut the door of his office there was something new in the mix of depressing sensations in the doctor’s head. Fear. He focused on Ness immediately and crouched beside where she sat on Blod’s lap, pulling back her tawny strands to see the reddish-purple welt about the size of a shilling on her head.

  “When did this happen?” he asked in a breathless tone. I could feel his whole face frowning as Ness tried desperately to wriggle away from his touch. Something sad hit him square in the chest when she turned her head out of his reach.

  “Oh yesterday sometime,” Blod said without a care, “She’s fine, it’s just a bloody bump.”

  “Where were you?” Bickerstaff demanded.

  “Doing things,” Blod retorted. Bickerstaff was watching her face now as she rolled her eyes at him. I wished I had the courage she did to be so rude to the unpleasant man.

&n
bsp; “You should take more responsibility,” he ordered.

  Blod gave a short laugh. “Ha! You’re one to talk.”

  “I would have,” he answered sharply. I could feel him getting hot under his collar, tense and angry in an instant. “If you’d let me.”

  I was lost suddenly. They were talking about something that they knew about and I didn’t.

  “Shush!” Blod said quickly, looking down at Ness, who had once again curled into a hedgehog-like ball. “Don’t say nothin’. She’s repeating everything at the moment like a bloody parrot.”

  “Bloody,” mumbled Ness.

  “Especially that,” Blod sighed.

  I couldn’t be sure at first, he was awfully hard to interpret, but I rather thought Bickerstaff might be smiling a little. His focus went from Blod’s beautiful, irritated face back to the little girl.

  “I’ll get her a plaster and a lolly,” he said with a sigh.

  “Lolly!”

  Ness exclaimed the word suddenly, uncurling to look for the person who had promised her something sweet. And now I knew Bickerstaff was definitely smiling. A tiny spark of some nice feeling cut into his heavy chest, but it seemed like agony for it to stay there, like it was struggling against the crushing weight of sadness that consumed the rest of him. The young doctor went to his desk and retrieved a little yellow lolly and a sticking plaster. He unwrapped both but gave Ness the lolly first, using the time to attach the plaster to the welt on her head before she noticed what he was doing. As she slurped away happily his gaze fell on Blod again, who was looking right at him. Her mean face had fallen away, leaving just her pretty features and a blank, thoughtful look.