Ken Westell annual comp submissions

Harry’s Game

By Janet Baldey     

      

His small face solemn with concentration, Harry’s chubby hands struggled to twist a grass stem around my finger.

         “When I get big, I’m going to marry you, Auntie May.”

         “That would be lovely.” My thumb holding the deep green band in place, I kissed the top of his sun-warmed head,

         My daughter, Susie, looked at him with disdain, befitting her four-year seniority.

         “Isn’t he silly mummy?” Boy’s don’t marry their aunties.”

         “Sssh,” I placed my finger against my lips, Harry’s eyelids were fluttering towards his cheeks and I felt him grow heavy in my arms on that long, slow summer afternoon as we sat underneath a blue sky that seemed as if it would last forever. I listened to the song of the birds and Susie humming softly as she threaded a circlet of golden-eyed daisies, and I remembered another day.

         On that day, I had held Harry’s mother in my arms. The front of my blouse was soaked with her tears and I strained to hear as she struggled to speak, her voice hoarse as if worn out by her sobs.

         “Colin’s gone,” she wailed. “He’s never coming back.”

         I’d looked towards the cot; Harry’s face was  rosy with sleep and his red-gold curls were plastered to his head, as if painted on.

         “How could he leave that baby?” My words were immediately regretted as a fresh storm shook Heather’s body.

         When Harry was six months old, Heather went back to work full time.

         “I must. I want him to have the best of everything.” 

During the day, I looked after Harry. I was lucky; I had a loving husband and one child easily became two. He was a good baby and I grew to love him as if he was my own but my love was marred by my sorrow for Heather. She missed out on so much. She missed his first stumbling steps from one chair to another. It was I who had to explain that “diddoo” meant dummy and that he only cried for a while after she left him. I had the best of Harry. After dropping Susie off at school, we headed for the park where I spent the morning shadowing a toddler following his own agenda. Together, we fed the ducks, watched the death-defying squirrels and stood entranced as workmen dug a hole.

         It only took six months. During that time Heather steadily became thinner and quieter. I squeeze my eyes shut and when I open them the room shimmers. Why didn’t I realise it wasn’t just fatigue but something much more sinister? Why didn’t I realise that the silent killer had wrapped his arms around my friend and was drawing her into the dark? In the end, Heather’s courage wasn’t enough.

         “I want you to have him. He’ll be safe with you.”

         Those were her very last words before she closed her eyes and her pale face merged with the sheets.

         So, our little family of three became four. Four is a good number. We couldn’t formally adopt Harry and for a while, his life with us was clouded by uncertainty but Colin never reappeared; it was as if he had vanished into the ether.

         When you have just turned two, the world is a bewildering place. Harry was too young to understand the absence of his mother. His world had been shattered and for a while he made us all pay for it. But gradually we weathered the night terrors and temper tantrums and with every passing day he burrowed deeper into our hearts.

         When he was four he became a cowboy. Using small sticks as guns, he would gallop around the garden, firing his weapons into the air.

         “Bang bang”, he’d yell. “Bang bang you’re dead.”

         When he was eight, my husband took him to the Imperial War Museum. When they got back, Harry was bubbling. All through supper, he didn’t stop talking, his eyes darting from one face to another, desperate for someone to share his enthusiasm. Susie, who had just discovered make-up, had made a great fuss about handing round the bread rolls and sat eating with large, showy gestures, waiting for someone to notice her neon-pink nails. At the end of the meal, with Harry still in full flow, she gave up.

         “Oh, shut up, Harry. Give it a rest, please!” Pushing away her plate, she flounced from the table.

         Harry stopped for a moment, turning his head to watch her as she marched up the stairs. When he looked back, his face was puzzled.

         “What’s the matter with Susie?” Then, he was back in the museum and his eyes grew dreamy. “I’m going to be a soldier when I grow up.”

         My husband looked at me and we grinned. He’d get over it. It was just a passing phase.

         Sometimes, at the leaden hour of three in the morning, I lie awake wondering why Harry became fascinated by the thought of war and all its violence. I’m haunted by the thought that it was my fault. I know that sometimes, worn to a frazzle by his boundless energy, I’d sometimes leave him in the care of the television. Perhaps, that was it. Or, maybe, the warrior instinct is a seed waiting to germinate in every small boy; what Susie would call, with a theatrical role of her eyes, “a boy thing.”

         But he could be so tender in other ways. I have seen tears roll down his face at the sight of a dead bird; its legs, like dead twigs, sticking skywards. And later he became strongly anti-hunt.

         “It’s like this, Mum. A wild animal has a tough time. It has nothing but its life and it’s not right that people, who have everything, should take even that away.”

         So, why did that compassionate boy join the Army?

         I turn to the mirror. I have to look my best for Harry today. I fasten the turquoise pendant, his gift on my birthday, and pick up my lipstick. Suddenly, a great rolling roar fills the sky and my hand begins to shake as the plane sweeps low over the house.

         My husband crosses to the window. For the longest of times, he stares upwards then looks back at me. He seems to have aged ten years.

         Susie appears in the doorway.

         “I think we should go now.”

         She’s trying hard, but her eyes are too bright.

         I always knew that one day I would lose Harry. He’d grown into a good looking lad; sooner or later some pretty girl would claim him and I would no longer be his number one. I often imagined myself sitting in Church listening to the chime of the bells and feeling a mixture of grief and joy as I watched Harry’s tall figure dwarf that of his bride, slim as a reed in a sheath of white satin.

         But I never thought it would be like this. Outside the house, a snowy cloud of orange blossom is outlined against the sky as we three crows walk towards the car polished to a high sheen, especially for the occasion. None of us speak as my husband starts the engine and we head slowly towards the small market town where, even now, silent crowds will be gathering in honour of my beloved ‘almost son.’ I remember Heather and try to be brave but all the time I hear, inside my head, the faint echo of a childish voice.

         “Bang bang. Bang bang. Bang bang, you’re dead.”

©  Copywrite Janet Baldey