The Prophecy
“Come on, don’t sulk at me. You’ll love it there—the sea, the beach, the sunshine,” said Claire, trying to catch her daughter’s eye.
But Emily stubbornly turned her face to the window, where endless fields and low vineyards stretched out. A motorway ran parallel to the railway, and cars zipped along like tiny toys from the train’s height.
In the distance, mountain silhouettes flickered in the hazy morning light. The glare of the sun made her eyes ache. Emily checked her phone for what felt like the hundredth time that morning before tossing it aside in frustration.
“Ah, the torment of first love,” Claire sighed to herself before saying aloud, “Probably no signal. It’ll be better when we arrive…”
“Mum, stop,” Emily muttered, turning back to the window.
“Martha’s house is on a hill—you can see the sea from the windows. Sometimes you can even hear it. And the garden! The air! You’ll see for yourself in a few hours.”
“Just don’t tell me she’s got a son,” Emily shot her mother a sharp glance.
“She has. But not her own. Martha never had children. She raised someone else’s. He’s away at university—exams now, so you probably won’t see him.”
“You said she was your friend. How did you two meet if she lives down south and you’re from Surrey?” Emily asked.
“Oh, it’s quite a story. I’ll tell you if you like.”
Emily gave a slight shrug, eyes still fixed on the monotonous landscape outside.
***
Martha and I grew up on neighbouring streets, went to school together. She wasn’t a classic beauty, but her hair was striking—light blonde, curly, almost golden in the sun.
People always noticed her when we walked by. I used to think some of that attention spilled over onto me. Before our A-levels, our class went boating, then to the city gardens. That’s where she met a boy and fell head over heels. We saw less of each other after that—I didn’t want to intrude. And when we did meet, she’d talk about nothing but him.
She’d dreamed of being an actress, wanted to go to drama school in London. But she was so in love that she enrolled at the polytechnic where her Michael studied, just to stay close. I went to university.
When we did meet, we’d talk for hours. A year later, Michael proposed right before exams. I’d never seen her so happy.
We went dress shopping with her mum. Tried on everything. Martha looked stunning in any of them—she could’ve just grabbed one and left. Picked out a veil too. She insisted I get a pale blue dress as her bridesmaid. We were exhausted by the end. Sent her mum home with the shopping in a taxi, and we decided to walk along the pier. Late May, warm as summer.
Everyone turned to look at Martha. She was radiant. But she didn’t even notice—too busy laughing and eating ice cream, chatting about the wedding.
Then two Romani women approached us. They’d been bothering passersby. The heavier one blocked our path and said to Martha, “Pretty thing, let me tell your fortune. I’ll show you what’s coming.”
The other woman stood back—scrawny, sour-faced, with big teeth that left her mouth slightly open. Looked like a horse, I thought. Later, Martha said the same.
“I already know what’s coming,” Martha laughed, licking her ice cream.
We tried to walk past, but the woman grabbed Martha’s wrist, peered at her palm, and clicked her tongue.
“A wedding awaits you, golden girl.”
“I knew that.” Martha tried to pull away, but the woman held tight.
“We don’t need fortunes. We’ve no money,” I cut in.
“Joy costs, but sorrow’s free,” the woman said, sending chills down my spine.
Her stare was intense, hypnotic. The younger one smirked—or maybe it was just her mouth.
“Don’t listen, let’s go,” I urged, tugging Martha’s other arm.
“You’ll love deeply, but your joy won’t last. You’ll fall from a horse at your wedding, suffer greatly. The sea will heal you. You’ll never marry again, but happiness will find you in a son.” Then she let go and walked off without blinking.
The younger woman shot us a glare and scurried after her. We walked in silence, the earlier joy gone. Those words stuck in our heads.
“Martha, you’re not actually believing her? You’re not riding some old nag in a wedding dress. We’re taking cars to the registry office. She barely glanced at your palm—how could she see anything?”
“You’re right. No horse for me,” Martha said, as if snapping out of it.
“She made all that up because we didn’t pay,” I said lightly, and we laughed.
The wedding was set for right after exams, then a seaside holiday—a gift from family. We forgot about the Romani woman.
Wedding day arrived. The groom was due any minute. We stood in Martha’s room by the mirror. She adjusted her veil and suddenly said, “My dad calls his Land Rover his ‘horse’. I won’t ride in it.”
“Good. Take another car.”
“No, no car at all. The registry’s close—we’ll walk,” she said brightly, meeting my eyes in the mirror.
“Sounds fun. Not every day you see a bride in full dress strolling through town,” I said, and we laughed nervously.
It took ages to convince Michael to walk. His parents objected too, but Martha wouldn’t budge—walk or no wedding.
Nothing happened. They exchanged rings, kissed, became husband and wife. Now they could take a car. But Martha insisted on photos in the park—gorgeous flowers, arches covered in ivy.
“Let’s get you on the carousel,” the photographer said.
It was bright, with painted wooden horses. Michael helped Martha onto a white one, mounted another. I arranged her dress and veil, stepped back. Music started, the carousel spun. They held hands as the photographer snapped away.
“Mummy, look! A bride on a white horse, like a fairy tale!” a little girl cried.
No one saw it happen. Martha later said her dress was slippery, the horse smooth. The girl’s shout made her flinch—she loosened her grip, and that was enough. Her heel caught in the floorboards, she lost balance, and fell onto the ground.
She screamed, then passed out. Instead of the reception, we went to hospital in an ambulance. She’d badly injured her ankle. Surgery went wrong—she walked with a cane after. Constant pain. Six months later, she and Michael went to London for another operation. She was on crutches for ages.
***
“Did she recover?” Emily asked, now interested.
“Mostly. Still limped slightly.”
“And Michael?”
“The hospitals wore them down. Martha barely left the house, ashamed first of the cane, then the crutches. She told Michael she didn’t love him anymore. They divorced. She was afraid he’d leave her first, so she did it instead.”
“And he left?”
“Yes. Married again soon after. Real love weathers storms. First love often just feels like love.”
“I’ll never let anyone tell my fortune before a wedding,” Emily said.
“Good. Martha became obsessed with avoiding risk and made it worse. If she’d taken the car, skipped the carousel, she wouldn’t have fallen.” Claire sighed. “But it is what it is.”
“Did she marry again?”
“No. After the divorce, her parents took her to the coast. Off-season—hotels closed. They rented a room from a widow by the sea. That’s where we’re staying.”
“The widow’s daughter had run off with a tourist. Came back two years later with a baby boy, left him with her mum, then vanished again. The widow wanted to put him in care—too old to raise a child. Martha convinced her to keep him. Her parents couldn’t stop her. She refused to go home.”
“A few years later, the widow died. Martha still lives there with the boy. His real mother came once, tried to claim the house, but the widow had signed it over to Martha. The boy refused to acknowledge her. So they’ve stayed, just the two of them. The Romani woman was right—Martha found happiness with a son by the sea.”
“Why’d you tell me all this?” Emily squinted.
“So you wouldn’t ask questions later. Life rarely goes as planned. Sometimes what seems bad turns out for the best. Love’s tested by time and distance.”
The train slowed. Passengers stirred, gathering belongings. Emily checked her phone one last time, tucked it away. Outside, people waited, peering into windows. The train jerked to a stop.
“We’re here!” Claire pulled a suitcase from the rack.
On the platform, a tall, handsome lad approached.
“You’re Claire? I’m Daniel. Mum asked me to meet you.” HeAs they walked up the path to the house, Emily caught Daniel’s eye and felt the first flutter of something new, something that just might prove the old tales wrong.
