Terrance Winlow Bridden's Premonition

No matter how he turned in his bed Terrance Winlow Bridden could not sleep.  His dreams were disturbed and interrupted by horrible visions of a disaster.  

“Terry, it’s breakfast.” His mother called him as the servants had set the table for the morning meal.  He still had the horrible images from his nightmare swimming in his head.  His tennis lesson would begin promptly at nine with Mr. Cheevers on the tennis courts on the estate grounds.  His private tutor would follow at around ten, Mr. Jenkins was his name.  But no matter what he thought about, he could not get the premonition out of his head.  Something  bad was going to happen.  Something really bad.  

Mrs. Spander was standing at the stove when he finally appeared at the table with his two brothers and sister. 

“Sleepy head.” Margret, his sister, scolded him, but he made no response.  Instead when he looked at her, all he saw was her head as she went under water in a trail of bubbles. 

“Got your breakfast Master Bridden.” Mrs. Spander handed him a steaming plate of sausage mixed with cabbage, he knew as bubbles and squeak with two eggs over easy on the side. Mrs. Spander had worked at the Bridden household since before Terry was born.  She was always dressed in a gray uniform with a starch white apron.  Her face had started to sag, but she still had the air of a once striking handsome woman.  All Terry knew, was Mrs. Spander was not someone you could fool around with.  Her humor was as hidden as her past beauty. 

He picked at his food, but could not find his appetite.

“Are ya feelin’ alright?” Mrs. Spander asked in her rough cockney accent. It was something she had been working to get rid of, but had mixed results at times especially when her emotions started to rise up inside.  She did care a great deal for Terry, but sometimes she found him maudlin and melancholy moods trifling as he appeared to be at this moment. 

Yes’um.” He affirmed. 

“They get to eatin’ you.” She put her hands on her hips.

“I had a bad dream.” He bowed his head.

“I have bad dreams, too.” Hector the youngest spoke out.  He was only three, but already seemed to have a firm grasp on life.  Better it seemed than his older brother. 

“Is that all?” Mrs. Spander shook her head.

Mrs. Bridden glided into the room wearing her best dress as she was going to meet Arnold, her husband, for lunch with my Quimby the owner of the financial institution where he worked.  While Gladys was nearly fifteen years her husband’s junior, no one could deny she was a fine pairing to the dowdy old man Arnold was already becoming.  His hard working loyalty to London Central Finance was about to pay off.  After nearly twenty years, Mr. Quimby was going to offer Arnold Bridden the presidency of the new bank he was opening on Wall Street. The leap on the social ladder was a welcome step for the Briddens indeed.  But as Terry thought about life in America, visions from his horrible dream instantly came back to him.  He saw Hector struggle to draw a breath as the waves washed over him.  He disappeared in the blackness of the water that sucked him under.  

“Is something wrong?” Mr. Cheevers asked during his tennis lesson.  Once Gladys learned that her husband was being considered for the position on Wall Street, she decided it would be wise to have her oldest son coached to play the rich man’s game. 

“I’m just a little concerned about our trip to New York.” Terry tossed the tennis ball in his hands.  

“New York is the center of the world.” Cheevers laughed. “You will love it there, mate.” 

“I just keep having bad dreams.  Something awful is going to happen.” Terry looked at his coach.

“You’ll be fine.” Cheevers shook his head. 

“What if it’s not?” Terry squatted on the court.

“I played a tennis match professionally in New York.  I was only a few years older than you are now.” He leaned back and struck the ball.  It went whizzing over the net, “Best time of me life.” 

“I won’t be playing tennis.” Terry shrugged.

“Hey, didn’t I teach ya all I knew?  Who’s to say you won’t wind up turning professional?” Cheevers hit another ball that traveled straight like a bullet. 

“I dunno.” Terry stood up.  He was nearly as tall as Cheevers, but still had not developed the chiseled shape the tennis professional had. 

“You gotta stop doubting yourself, lad.” He pointed his tennis racket at the boy.

In his chambers an hour later, Mr. Jenkins was having him read about the rise of the Victorian Empire and how through commerce it had come about.  Britannia was coming of age as like an octopus, the tentacles of the Empire had now reached every corner of the world.

“What about America?” He asked.

“America?” His teacher snorted, “While their country reaches from sea to sea, their influence is hardly as substantial as ours.” 

“I have heard that most Americans are millionaires.” Terry blurted out.

“Hardly.” He scoffed, “If anything it’s their Negroes who have made them of any sort of account at all.” 

“We may move there.” 

“So I have heard.” Mr. Jenkins sniffed, “There are still primitive and savage people just like Australia.”

Mr. Jenkins' account of America did not help Terry deal with his awful premonition of the future. He was a sensitive young man who like fine China could easily get damaged if handled incorrectly.  He was an easy target for the bullies when he attended primary school which is why Mr. Jenkins was hired to tutor him. One less thing to worry about Mrs. Bridden often told him when Jenkins came to the door. 

“I don’t wish to go.” Terry admitted after a long pause.

“Why not?  A proper education depends on seeing and experiencing the world for yourself.” Mr. Jenkins beamed since he had spent three years in Punjab as part of a dragoon company.  He walked with a cane after being wounded in the hip during an encounter with a violent group who wanted the British out of their country with their high taxes and restrictive laws.  

“I had a dream.” Terry felt a surge of reluctance in admitting the reason to his tutor.

“We all have dreams, Master Bridden.” He twirled his handlebar mustache between his fingers. 

“Yes, but in this dream we all perished.” His pale blue eyes were wide as he spoke.

“Ah lad, it won’t happen.  Cross Atlantic travels have gotten much safer since the days of wooden schooners and such.” He chuckled. 

After lessons, Terry went to his room and found his locked metal box which contained all his life treasures including nearly fifty pounds he had frugally saved, but now he must go and spend some of it.  After a trolley ride to the east side of London where the gaslights sent an intoxicating aroma into the air, Terry made his way to Madam Bubburba’s Psychic Parlor with the large brown eye painted on the window beneath the gilded writing.  When he opened the door, a bell tingled.  From a small opening in the very heavy fabric curtains, an elderly lady appeared with a silver streak in her hair like a lightning bolt.  Her smile had a grandmother quality to it even though her rich dark mocha skin was darker  than anyone he had ever associated with before.  

“May I help you?” She asked with her hands folded in front of her.  She was wearing a turban on her head, long dangling earrings, and lots of jewelry around her neck that glittered like gold in the flickering candlelight.  The wax had a soft sweet scent to it, filling the small room or parlor as he would come to know it. For a brief moment, a man stepped out of the backroom.  He was a very large man indeed with his head shaved bald, a single gold earring dangling from his left ear and a thick bushy mustache nearly covering his entire mouth.  His thick shaggy eyebrows expressed his concern at Terry’s sudden presence. Wearing no shirt, his enormous muscles were on prominent display.  This part of the city could be pretty rough at times.  Having dependable protection was always a good idea.

“Boris, dear, I have a customer.” She turned to acknowledge him.  He grunted and exited. “So what brings you to my parlor of psychic marvel?”

“I had a premonition.” He said softly.

“Aye, and what might this bring to thee?” Her smile widened.

“I have foreseen tragedy.” He shook as he spoke. 

“Ah, follow me, young lad.” She waved to him to join her at a table draped in a black tablecloth.  She pulled out a chair and Terry sat in it.  Hurrying to the chair across the table from him she sat down, letting her colorless eyes scan him thoroughly. Her hands were like talons and she was missing a finger on her left hand.  Knowing that he noticed, she explained, “I was once taken to a dungeon and tortured for being in a league with the devil.  The torture master clipped off my finger to remind me of my sins.”

Terry swallowed hard.  His sister had told him that psychics could foresee the future and read premonitions.  Madam Bubburba pulled out a deck of tarot cards and laid four on the table in front of him.  When she saw the cards she put her hand to her mouth and gasped.

“What is it?” Terry had no idea what she was seeing.

“Death.” She rasped in horror. “You are going on a journey, but you will never reach your destination.”

“How do you know?” Terry asked in a terrified tone, repeating, “How do you know?”

“It’s all right here.” She waved her hand across the cards. “Journey, good fortune, jester, and death.” 

It sounded like a chant.

“What shall I do?” He asked, feeling his throat nearly close up in terror.

“You must not go.” She picked up the cards.

“What about my family?” He could feel tears in his eyes struggling to free themselves.  

“”It is a tragedy of massive proportion.” She looked into his wide, panic stricken eyes. “Tell them.  Tell them that Death is waiting for them.  They must not go.”

He paid Madam Bubburba with all the folding money in his pocket and used his last coins to catch the trolley home. 

“You are late, Master Bridden.” Mrs. Spander scolded him when he came through the door.  He did not pay her any mind as he rushed into the dinning room where everyone had gathered to eat.

“We cannot go to America.” He panted.

“Sit down, son.” His father pointed to the empty chair at the table.

“Listen to me.” He pleaded, “If we go, something bad will happen.” 

“Terrance, I have never seen you like this.” His mother spoke in outrage, “Your father is to be congratulated, because he has been selected as the new president of the bank on Wall Street.  We are going to live in a nice house on Long Island.”

“If we go, we will not survive.  I have had a premonition.  A bad dream, but it’s no dream, it’s real.  I went and saw a psychic this afternoon.” He confessed.

“I will not listen to this blasphemy.  Psychics are nothing more than gypsies and thieves.” Gladys threw her napkin on the table as she stood up to face her son.  His face was red and there were tears rolling down his cheeks. “Your father is going to be a well respected man once we get to America.  J.P. Morgan has already made an appointment to have lunch with him once he gets settled in.”

“Please believe me.” He cried out.

“Go to your room.” She pointed to the stairs.

“Won’t anyone believe me?” He pleaded, but she stepped up to him and slapped his cheek with a forceful blow. 

“In our household, we respect each other.” Her fury was beyond control at this point.  Her mind was on the wonderful life that was now waiting for them in New York and she did not want her oldest son to ruin the vision she had of the future.  There would be running water and electricity. She would be sure to have a telephone installed and an ice box from Sears. 

“Wait a minute, love.” Mr. Bridden stood up and her head turned him instantly, “The boy is of age.  If he feels so strongly in his silly premonition, let him stay here.” 

“Arnold, where would he stay?” Her face was as red as he had ever seen it.

“With my brother, Alvis.” He nodded.

“Alvis?” She nearly shrieked. 

“Both kindred spirits, I would say.” His amusement showed with the smile on his face. “I’m sure after spending a month or so with Uncle Alvis, he would swim to New York if need be.” 

“Perhaps that would be best.” She sat down, her rage and fury spent.

“Uncle Alvis is a rag picker and a street musician.” His father explained, “He has adopted a Bohemian approach to life.” 

There was laughter, but Terry knew it was at his expense. 

“None of you will listen to me.” He sighed and put his hand where his mother had struck him.  With no recourse, Terry turned on his heel and went to his room as his mother had ordered him to do in the first place. 

He opened his book to “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” by Samuel Coleridge and read of the albatross that doomed the ship and crew. 

His thoughts turned into dreams.  Four tarot cards lay on the table in front of him, but the dealer was a large bird, an albatross with a curved beak and two soulless black eyes that scanned him closely.

“Going on a trip, are ye?” The large bird cackled. 

“Aye.” Terry nodded.

“And what say ye when icy waters of the North Atlantic wash over you?” Somehow the bird was able to project a smile that chilled him as if a wave crested over him as he tried to tread water.

“It is cold.” Terry shivered.

“Cold?  You think you are cold now, lad, wait.  You will hear others cry out for relief, but relief can only be found in death as the black water sucks you under.  Men, women and children.  None immune to the icy death that awaits them.” The bird tilted his head.

“Why?  Why must this come to be?” Terry asked.

“A lesson to those who feel that death cannot touch them, but the truth is Death is always waiting in the next room.  Death knows your weaknesses and your fear.  And yet you people try to hide from Death. Hmpt.” The bird snorted, “Welcome him like you’d welcome your best friend.  For in those final moments, he is all you will have.” 

He awoke to a blood red sunrise, the shadows were long across the wooden floors of his room.  He put his feet on the floor, tied his robe and went downstairs to tell his family the news.  It was a Saturday morning which meant his father would go into the bank a bit later and neither Mr. Cheevers nor Mr. Jenkins would not be coming for lessons.  

“Morning Master Terrance.” Mrs. Spander set some hot oatmeal in front of him.  

“Good news Terrance.” His father greeted him by putting his newspaper down on the table, “We have booked passage on a luxury liner to America.”

“That is good news, father.” Terry nodded. “But I will not be going with the rest of you.” 

“Pity.” He nodded, picking up his newspaper again, “I shall notify my brother.” 

“Very well.” He tried to smile.

Two weeks later, on April 10, 1912, Terrance watched his family march up the gangplank in the Southampton shipyard.  Each of them carried their suitcase and waved to him once they were on board of the gargantuan ship.  He had never seen a ship so massive and large.  

Was it possible that the newspapers were right that the ship was so big it was unsinkable?  A cool sea breeze blew across the docks as the ship prepared to set sail.  He would miss them.  He hoped his premonition was wrong and they would all arrive in America as planned, but something kept telling him disaster was looming on the horizon.

“Are ye sure you want to stay here in London...with me?” Alvis asked as the gangplank was raised and one of the four smokestacks sounded with a long moaning wail.  Alvis was dressed in some ragged clothes covered by a long coat.  He also covered his baldness with a battered old top hat and the gloves he wore had no fingers.

“I am sure.” Terrance assured his uncle as the engines began to turn the propellers churning the water near the dock. 

“You know I get premonitions from time to time.” Uncle Alvis confessed, but Terrance was still watching the massive ship pull away from the dock as he headed out to sea, leaving the last thing he saw before leaving was “HMS Titanic” painted prominently on the stern of the colossal ship.