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. 

--- 

*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.

Waife

It was dark and from inside the warmth of the covers over me as I lay in my cot, kept all safe and secured against escape by the bars of its sides - like most two year olds, I was not a voluntary inmate of a bed but needed to be imprisoned there – thus it was from inside that cocooned warmth that I heard a kerfuffle of voices outside and the clicking of the front gate. There were few sounds at night where I lay, 'cept those of the countryside, each clear and sharp for the lack of the background hums and roars that so drown out distinct noises in towns; mostly the hoots and screeches of owls, or calls of foxes, the sudden sounds of wings, or the moans of the wind in the trees. The house had its own distinct creaks and groans as the old timber frame of which it was made settled, but these were all familiar for I had known them since my first days. 
 

Voices, footsteps on the path: my father's voice, my mother's voice. Then the closing of the heavy front door, creaking as it swung its studded oak on its old hinges and the resounding whoomp as it married back into its frame and the clunk as heavy latch dropped into place.

Some more voices downstairs. My brother, so much older than I and still up on this dark night, but still only a child. My cousin Anne, grown and a working girl in an office, a typing pool, whatever that was. She did look surprisingly dry each evening so I suppose the pool cannot have been that deep – even her shoes seemed dry. Not, so not like me when I went outside. My boots got so wet and muddy that they stuck and my feet came out of them. The the mud went all squidgy up between my toes making my socks all wet and sticky and I would fall over head first into the tractor ruts and get up all covered. That is what happened to people who went outside. If I went near the duck pond it got even muddier and even more slippy and I would get even more covered. How she could keep so dry in her pool, which must be something so much deeper than the duck pond, which I was not supposed to go near, and which I promised not to go near, even when the ducks ran off there when I chased them, which I did because it was what the boy on the salt did – if you don't believe me look at the picture on the box of Cerebos salt and believe me that ducks run much faster than two year old boys – how she did keep so dry and clean in her pool I had no idea. It must have been something to do with the ty ping. Perhaps it was a bit like a very big version of the tie-pin that my father wore. Perhaps it was some sort of pin that you stood on over the pool that meant that even your feet were dry. 
 

It was her voice down stairs with the other voices, all excited and high. 
 

Then the voices went quiet.

In a while the latch of my bedroom door clicked and softly it opened revealing the halo of light that came from the candle that my mother held in one hand to light her way. Her other arm was cradled around something. Softly she came over to my cot holding whatever it was quite close to her. 
 

“David” she said, “Look what I have got here. Some boys just dropped it over the gate. They said they had found it trying to keep warm in the ashes of a fire in the woods and that I would know how to look after it.”

It did smell of wood smoke.

It did look very small and fluffy.

It made a faint whimpering sound.

My mother lowered it into my cot so that I could see it.

It wriggled.

I touched it and it was soft.

Its little mouth closed over my fingers and there were needle like little teeth. 
It snuffled.

“We shall call it Waife” said my mother “Because it is a little waif and stray that has come to us. When it is bigger and stronger you can play with it, but for now I must keep it warm and feed it with a dropper.”

“Feed it what?” I asked

“Condensed milk” she said.

It was Christmas Eve and Waife was the best Christmas present ever. Not planned, but soon to be my playmate as we both grew strong and bigger that following spring and summer. 

 

Hens

Chickens, hens as a matter of fact, as cockerels are only there if you really want to breed your own replacements for a flock, so this is a true story about hens of long ago. Well, not so long ago really, just long ago to your lifetime as you were not alive then. The long ago I am telling about is the long ago that was in your grandmothers life, just about the time when I was to be added to her burdens, or perhaps a little before. She kept hens, lots of them. She kept them in a big orchard that lay in front of the house, stretching down the slope to the bottom of the valley, the other side of which was where the land rose and rose until it become that ridge of hills known as the Malvers. Once, even before my mother's time, the farm that clung to that hillside that faced the orchard had been my great-grandfather's; but that is so long ago that it hurts to think of, and is not to do with this story, but is another story entirely. I merely mention that farm and that hillside to set the scene of deep rural peace of an apple orchard stretching down to the bottom of a valley that faced those hills and that farm; an orchard that had hens pecking between those trees; hens that laid eggs; eggs that were collected each day from the movable chicken houses in which the hens roosted; eggs that were gathered in a wickerwork basket and then laid with care onto cardboard trays, twelve by twelve eggs to a tray, tray stacked on top of tray ready to be collected by the little van that would come for them a couple of times a week. Those were days of rationing when every egg laid was counted and recorded, collected and sent off to be stamped and packed so that everyone would get their share, townies and country folk alike.

'Tis a truth that every keeper of hens knows, that hens do not lay for ever, but each in their time reaches an age when, no matter how well cared for or cosseted, no matter how rich the grass is that they peck between, no matter how good their feed, no matter how blessed they are with where they live, they will no longer lay eggs, or so few as to render keeping them any longer quite without profit. At that time the only fate that is in store for them is to be killed for their meat. In those days of rationing hotels were only too pleased to have such culled hens for their chefs use their skills upon, turning them into this dish or that, and what was left, if any, into goodly stocks and soups.

My mothers hens ended their days being supplied to The West Malvern Hotel, a once grand institution that had seen its heydays when Malvern was a bustling spa town, and which, in-spite of the privations of rationing, still had pretensions to preserving the standards of its past. It was said that it still employed a French chef, a shore token that the food was, or at least tried to be, above the average - perhaps a standard not to difficult to achieve in the early years of post-war Britain.

Be their destination what-ever, those old hens chosen each week or so to end their time as layers, were usually taken by my father, flapping and squawking, held firmly by their feet, off to the old shed by the side of the house, where he did what what was need to be done by way of wringing their necks, leaving the plucking and dressing of the carcasses to be done by my mother when he had finished.

That is what usually happened, but this one time my father was away, called off on business somewhere. The hotel had rung in an order for four hens and would be expecting them on the next day, so my mother went and selected the hens to be killed, bore them off to the shed, and, summoning up all of the courage and strength that she could, set to the task of dispatching them. She was, as you may or may not remember, tiny. Barely five foot high, if she stood ramrod straight and tried to stretch up as far as she could, and no more than six stone even at her heaviest. Certainly she was wiry. Certainly she was determined. Certainly she would not flinch from whatever she felt must be done and would give every last fibre of strength to the doing of it.

Having dispatched the hens, and hung them up by their feet on the clothes line that was stretched across the shed roof for the purpose so that they would be ready for plucking, she set to and did just that, and soon four quite still and plucked hens were hanging ready for the morrow to be supplied to the hotel. Thus pleased with herself she left the shed, closed the door well against the coming of any predators who might only be too pleased to steal a fresh chicken for their supper: even if the fox may not steal in and take such a easy meal, the farm cat, or one of the dogs might think such a treat worth having.

Now, come later that day and my mother, having done what she must around the house and kitchen, came to time to feed the hens and shut them away safely in their houses for the night. The bins with the chicken feed in were in the same shed that was used for plucking the chickens, so she opened the door to collect the feed, only to be confronted by a sight she was completely unprepared for - four naked hens standing in the feed bins pecking down food as fast as they could.

My mother might well have been a country woman, and had no illusions about the niceties of such life, but she had heart, a heart that was touched by the sight before her. She knew only too well that she had failed to dispatch those four poor hens, and she knew too that she clearly had now neither the heart nor strength to make certain of their dispatch. Her best efforts at so doing had failed. What was to be done? The poor hens could not be returned naked to the flock, nor could she apparently make and end of them so that the hotel might have their order filled. My father was away for a few days, so he, with his greater strength and skill in such matters, was not there to be able to do what she so clearly could not.

Now she had a order from the hotel that she could not fill and four naked hens that could not be returned to the flock as they were.

She phoned the hotel and apologised for not being able to fill their order. That was the simple part, no matter how cross it made the manager and his chef. A few bleatings of “I am but a small and feeble woman all on her own without some strong man to do what must be done” soon sorted that out. Little did they know that she was about as feeble as a tank regiment, nor did they know that she was about as resourceful as an entire corp of intelligence officers.

Next morning an unusual sight was to beheld amongst the hens pecking away under the trees of the orchard. Four of their number happily and warmly dressed in brightly coloured, chicken shaped jumpers, each quite content with their new plumage and feeding merrily.

I never did hear tell of what was the eventual fate of those four hens, nor what my father's comments had been at the sight that has greeted him when he returned - but I can guess that it caused some hilarity in the village pub as the sight of four hens dressed in newly knitted and well fitting jumpers was not too often seen, even in those parts.