Henry

I think I may have been about three when Henry came to stay. Only I could see Henry; only I could know how naughty he was; only I could hear his laughter when he had wild fun and things flew around the room. I think it was winter when Henry first came. He was somewhere in the shadows of the play room, in the gathering half light before my mother lit the lamps. We had lamps, paraffin lamps, not electricity. They sputtered and smelt. Their light threw shadows, big shadows, across the rooms. There would be only one in a room, standing on a table. My mother would pick it up and carry it with us when it was time for me to go up to bed. Paraffin lamps light rooms softly and leave dark shadow filled corners, places where the imagination could lurk and things could be half seen. 

 

The play room was at the back of the house, off the great hall where the big inglenook fireplace was; the very fireplace in which I had stood the day the sky fell down – but that is another story. The play room had a fireplace too, one with a big fire-guard that was at least as high as I was – well, almost as high. It had a wide shiny brass rim at the top that my mother used to make gleam until it glowed in the fire light. I could see over that rim, see the flames of the fire reflected in its shiny top. I could stand on my tiptoes and, if I tried hard, I could throw things into the fire and watch as the flames licked them, wrapped round them, and then danced with delight as they ate them. 

 

It was fun when Henry came out of the shadows behind the big chair, out from the dark corner where he hid when anyone else was around, out and started passing things to me to throw into the fire. First one thing, then two. Flump, they would land in the fire. Sputter, flicker, foosh would go the flames as they grew around them and danced higher making the shadows frolic and flicker in the room. 

 

Henry was such a naughty boy. 

 

Henry liked teasing the terrier. Henry liked waving the ends of my sleeves in front of the terrier’s face. Henry kept doing this even when I knew the terrier would get cross and would bite the sleeve and go growly, growly, tug, tug until the threads of my jumper unwound and would hang all ragged down. 

Naughty Henry.

Naughty Henry would make me do this even when I knew the terrier would bite my fingers and hang on to them and make me cry. The excitement was worth it. It hurt. The pain seared. The pain was almost crazy fun, but it hurt too much, so much I had to do it again.

My mother told me how cruel it was to tease the poor dog like that. She told me not to make him cross. She told me not to make him bite my sleeve. She told me not to make him hang on to it until it unravelled, not to make him pull the thread after him as he dashed under the chair whilst Henry and I danced and laughed. I told her the truth. It was Henry who had waggled the sleeve in front of the terrier. It was Henry who had danced and skipped and pulled ever so hard as the dog shook and shook the end of the sleeve until the threads pulled out and it unravelled. 

Naughty Henry.

Mother did not find out about Henry giving me things to throw into the fire. Not then. I did not want Henry to get into trouble.

In the corner of the play room furthest from the fire, the corner opposite the door, there was a big toy garage where all of my brother’s toy cars were kept. It had an upstairs and a downstairs, big opening doors, and a ramp down which the cars would whoosh if you pushed them. But the real secret was their rubber tyres. If you picked the toy cars up and put them next to your face, you could get your teeth around the tyres, and, with a big bite and pull, you could get them to come off. They did go whoof and make big flames when you threw them into the fire. 

Naughty Henry. 

 

One day my mother sat me down and made me listen very carefully to her. She told me that the fire was very dangerous and that I must never, never throw things into it. I looked at her and I told her “Don't me cross mumma - I just be good”. 

 

I was. 

 

Henry wasn't. 

 

Naughty Henry.

When we were alone in the play room, when my mother had to leave us in the warm when it was getting dark because she had to go and feed the chickens, and the ducks, and the guinea fowl, and the white pheasants, and the geese and the pigs and she would not be long, but it was too cold and wet for me to be out, so I must promise to be good. 

 

I did promise, I really did.

 

Henry, naughty Henry, did not. 

 

He hid behind the big leather chair and he peeped out. Mother did not see him. She did not know he was there - he was so hidden in the shadows. When we were alone, that is when Henry came out from behind the big leather chair, the one with big lion's paw feet, the chair the terrier would hide under when Henry gave me toy cars to throw at him.

Henry made me pull the cat's tail. The cat had only three legs. One of his rear legs had been cut off by the gang-mower as it mowed between the trees. The men had come running into the house holding the poor cat with its leg hanging off. They were so sorry. My mother had grabbed me and had got Mr Fox to drive us to the vet's where the vet had cut off the leg to save the cat. The cat, Ginger, was cousin Ann's cat and my mother did not want Ann to come home from work and find her cat was dead, so she brought the poor bandaged thing home. It lived for many years after, happily stumping around on three legs and still laying waste to all the mice, rats and rabbits it could find. When Henry made me pull the ginger cat's tail it swung its front paw around so fast that its claw tore my arm and there were long bleeding scratches all across the back of my hand. Henry thought that was fun. He made me rub the blood on to the wall. Then he made me find my bothers wax crayons and scribble all through the blood and on over the wall to make scribble birds. 

 

I sat and watched them fly.

Naughty Henry. 

 

Henry thought it was such good fun when my brother’s toy cars went flying around the room. My brother got cross because they had missing tyres. I never told him what Henry had made me do with them. 

 

Henry was barefoot. Henry dressed in rags. Henry was a wild boy and Henry lived in the stinging nettles at the bottom of the larch wood. He was lonely and cold there, and he was afraid of the wolves that came at night. That is why he sneaked into the house and came and played with me - it was warm and we had fun. 

 

One day, when I had told my mother that Henry had made me throw things all over the room again - naughty Henry - she decided to go and find him. I told her where he lived and what he looked like. She got us ready to go out for a walk. I had my red Wellington boots on, the one that would get stuck in the mud and come off, making me fall over and get covered in the sticky mud. It must have been in the late spring because the stinging nettles had grown back. 

 

My mother walked me all the way down the hill to the bottom of the drive where the larch wood was. It was in the stinging nettles at its edge that Henry lived. It was in between the dark trees that the wolves would come peeping out, so softly tiptoeing on the spongy floor where the needles fell. In places the fallen cones stuck out. I was scared of the dark of the wood. I was scared of the wolves that might come out. Mother kept walking further and further in and calling “Henry” “Come out Henry”. I knew the wolves would hear her. I knew they would come sniffing with their ears pricked up. I knew their sharp eyes would come watching. I knew mother was not safe. I knew I had to get her out of the wood, so I told her a lie. I told her Henry had gone. He had run off with the gypsies. We went home and had tea. 

 

Funnily, Henry really had gone. He was not hiding in the shadows behind the big leather chair with the lion's paw shaped feet. He was not waiting for me in the attic. He was not under my cot. He was not in any of the cupboards. He was not hiding in the larder. He was not hiding in the doughskiels* along with my toys. He had gone. I hope he liked his life with the gypsies. 

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*For those who do not know, doughskiels – that is the name my mother used for them – were four legged chests used in old farms in the Marcher Country for bread making. The dough was kneaded on the top and then placed inside the chest with the lid down so that it might rise overnight ready for baking in the morning. My mother had found one at an auction. It was made of elm. It had bits of old dried dough sticking to its insides. She polished up the outside and then we used it to keep toys in.