by Louise Welsh
“It’s a fantastic story,” he was saying, gesturing flamboyantly as if in an attempt to outweigh the attractions of the dance band. “Here this new nurse for our baby arrives from the employment agency, and the very first thing I notice about her is her stomach. It’s enormous – as if she had a pillow stuck under her kimono! No wonder, I thought, for I soon saw that she could eat more than the rest of us put together. She polished off the contents of our rice bin like that….” He snapped his fingers. “‘Gastric dilation’ – that’s how she explained her girth and her appetite. Well, the day before yesterday we heard groans and moans coming from the nursery. We rushed in and found her squatting on the floor, holding her stomach in her two hands, and moaning like a cow. Next to her our baby lay in his cot, scared out of his wits and crying at the top of his lungs. A pretty scene, I can tell you!”
“So the cat was out of the bag?” suggested one of their friends, a film actor like Toshiko’s husband.
“Indeed it was! And it gave me the shock of my life. You see, I’d completely swallowed that story about ‘gastric dilation.’ Well, I didn’t waste any time. I rescued our good rug from the floor and spread a blanket for her to lie on. The whole time the girl was yelling like a stuck pig. By the time the doctor from the maternity clinic arrived, the baby had already been born. But our sitting room was a pretty shambles!”
“Oh, that I’m sure of!” said another of their friends, and the whole company burst into laughter.
Toshiko was dumbfounded to hear her husband discussing the horrifying happening as though it were no more than an amusing incident which they chanced to have witnessed. She shut her eyes for a moment and all at once she saw the newborn baby lying before her: on the parquet floor the infant lay, and his frail body was wrapped in bloodstained newspapers.
Toshiko was sure that the doctor had done the whole thing out of spite. As if to emphasize his scorn for this mother who had given birth to a bastard under such sordid conditions, he had told his assistant to wrap the baby in some loose newspapers, rather than proper swaddling. This callous treatment of the newborn child had offended Toshiko. Overcoming her disgust at the entire scene, she had fetched a brand-new piece of flannel from her cupboard and, having swaddled the baby in it, had laid him carefully in an armchair.
This all had taken place in the evening after her husband had left the house. Toshiko had told him nothing of it, fearing that he would think her oversoft, oversentimental; yet the scene had engraved itself deeply in her mind. Tonight she sat silently thinking back on it, while the jazz orchestra brayed and her husband chatted cheerfully with his friends. She knew that she would never forget the sight of the baby, wrapped in stained newspapers and lying on the floor – it was a scene fit for a butchershop. Toshiko, whose own life had been spent in solid comfort, poignantly felt the wretchedness of the illegitimate baby.
I am the only person to have witnessed its shame, the thought occurred to her. The mother never saw her child lying there in its newspaper wrappings, and the baby itself of course didn’t know. I alone shall have to preserve that terrible scene in my memory. When the baby grows up and wants to find out about his birth, there will be no one to tell him, so long as I preserve silence. How strange that I should have this feeling of guilt! After all, it was I who took him up from the floor, swathed him properly in flannel, and laid him down to sleep in the armchair.
They left the night club and Toshiko stepped into the taxi that her husband had called for her. “Take this lady to Ushigomé,” he told the driver and shut the door from the outside. Toshiko gazed through the window at her husband’s smiling face and noticed his strong, white teeth. Then she leaned back in the seat, oppressed by the knowledge that their life together was in some way too easy, too painless. It would have been difficult for her to put her thoughts into words. Through the rear window of the taxi she took a last look at her husband. He was striding along the street toward his Nash car, and soon the back of his rather garish tweed coat had blended with the figures of the passers-by.
The taxi drove off, passed down a street dotted with bars and then by a theatre, in front of which the throngs of people jostled each other on the pavement. Although the performance had only just ended, the lights had already been turned out and in the half dark outside it was depressingly obvious that the cherry blossoms decorating the front of the theatre were merely scraps of white paper.
Even if that baby should grow up in ignorance of the secret of his birth, he can never become a respectable citizen, reflected Toshiko, pursuing the same train of thoughts. Those soiled newspaper swaddling clothes will be the symbol of his entire life. But why should I keep worrying about him so much? Is it because I feel uneasy about the future of my own child? Say twenty years from now, when our boy will have grown up into a fine, carefully educated young man, one day by a quirk of fate he meets that other boy, who then will also have turned twenty. And say that the other boy, who has been sinned against, savagely stabs him with a knife…
It was a warm, overcast April night, but thoughts of the future made Toshiko feel cold and miserable. She shivered on the back seat of the car.
No, when the time comes I shall take my son’s place, she told herself suddenly. Twenty years from now I shall be forty-three. I shall go to that young man and tell him straight out about everything – about his newspaper swaddling clothes, and about how I went and wrapped him in flannel.
The taxi ran along the dark wide road that was bordered by the park and by the Imperial Palace moat. In the distance Toshiko noticed the pinpricks of light which came from the blocks of tall office buildings.
Twenty years from now that wretched child will be in utter misery. He will be living a desolate, hopeless, poverty-stricken existence – a lonely rat. What else could happen to a baby who has had such a birth? He’ll be wandering through the streets by himself, cursing his father, loathing his mother.
No doubt Toshiko derived a certain satisfaction from her somber thoughts: she tortured herself with them without cease. The taxi approached Hanzomon and drove past the compound of the British Embassy. At that point the famous rows of cherry trees were spread out before Toshiko in all their purity. On the spur of the moment she decided to go and view the blossoms by herself in the dark night. It was a strange decision for a timid and unadventurous young woman, but then she was in a strange state of mind and she dreaded the return home. That evening all sorts of unsettling fancies had burst open in her mind.
She crossed the wide street – a slim, solitary figure in the darkness. As a rule when she walked in the traffic Toshiko used to cling fearfully to her companion, but tonight she darted alone between the cars and a moment later had reached the long narrow park that borders the Palace moat. Chidorigafuchi, it is called – the Abyss of the Thousand Birds.
Tonight the whole park had become a grove of blossoming cherry trees. Under the calm cloudy sky the blossoms formed a mass of solid whiteness. The paper lanterns that hung from wires between the trees had been put out; in their place electric light bulbs, red, yellow, and green, shone dully beneath the blossoms. It was well past ten o’clock and most of the flower-viewers had gone home. As the occasional passers-by strolled through the park, they would automatically kick aside the empty bottles or crush the waste paper beneath their feet.
Newspapers, thought Toshiko, her mind going back once again to those happenings. Bloodstained newspapers. If a man were ever to hear of that piteous birth and know that it was he who had lain there, it would ruin his entire life. To think that I, a perfect stranger, should from now on have to keep such a secret – the secret of a man’s whole existence….
Lost in these thoughts, Toshiko walked on through the park. Most of the people still remaining there were quiet couples; no one paid her any attention. She noticed two people sitting on a stone bench beside the moat, not looking at the blossoms, but gazing silently at the water. Pitch black it was, and swathed in heavy shadows. Beyond the moat the somber forest of the Imperial Palace blocked her v
iew. The trees reached up, to form a solid dark mass against the night sky. Toshiko walked slowly along the path beneath the blossoms hanging heavily overhead.
On a stone bench, slightly apart from the others, she noticed a pale object – not, as she had at first imagined, a pile of cherry blossoms, nor a garment forgotten by one of the visitors to the park. Only when she came closer did she see that it was a human form lying on the bench. Was it, she wondered, one of those miserable drunks often to be seen sleeping in public places? Obviously not, for the body had been systematically covered with newspapers, and it was the whiteness of those papers that had attracted Toshiko’s attention. Standing by the bench, she gazed down at the sleeping figure.
It was a man in a brown jersey who lay there, curled up on layers of newspapers, other newspapers covering him. No doubt this had become his normal night residence now that spring had arrived. Toshiko gazed down at the man’s dirty, unkempt hair, which in places had become hopelessly matted. As she observed the sleeping figure wrapped in its newspapers, she was inevitably reminded of the baby who had lain on the floor in its wretched swaddling clothes. The shoulder of the man’s jersey rose and fell in the darkness in time with his heavy breathing.
It seemed to Toshiko that all her fears and premonitions had suddenly taken concrete form. In the darkness the man’s pale forehead stood out, and it was a young forehead, though carved with the wrinkles of long poverty and hardship. His khaki trousers had been slightly pulled up; on his sockless feet he wore a pair of battered gym shoes. She could not see his face and suddenly had an overmastering desire to get one glimpse of it.
She walked to the head of the bench and looked down. The man’s head was half buried in his arms, but Toshiko could see that he was surprisingly young. She noticed the thick eyebrows and the fine bridge of his nose. His slightly open mouth was alive with youth.
But Toshiko had approached too close. In the silent night the newspaper bedding rustled, and abruptly the man opened his eyes. Seeing the young woman standing directly beside him, he raised himself with a jerk, and his eyes lit up. A second later a powerful hand reached out and seized Toshiko by her slender wrist.
She did not feel in the least afraid and made no effort to free herself. In a flash the thought had struck her, Ah, so the twenty years have already gone by! The forest of the Imperial Palace was pitch dark and utterly silent.
HARRY
Rosemary Timperley
Rosemary Kenyon Timperley (1920–1988) was born in Crouch End, North London. Her father was an architect, her mother a teacher. After graduating from London University, Timperley taught English and History at South-East Essex Technical School. During World War II she volunteered at the Kensington Citizens Advice Bureau. In 1949 Timperley became a staff writer at Reveille where her duties involved editing the personal advice column. She is best remembered for her ghost stories, including Harry, which has been adapted for film several times.
Such ordinary things make me afraid. Sunshine. Sharp shadows on grass. White roses. Children with red hair. And the name – Harry. Such an ordinary name.
Yet the first time Christine mentioned the name, I felt a premonition of fear.
She was five years old, due to start school in three months’ time. It was a hot, beautiful day and she was playing alone in the garden, as she often did. I saw her lying on her stomach in the grass, picking daisies and making daisy-chains with laborious pleasure. The sun burned on her pale red hair and made her skin look very white. Her big blue eyes were wide with concentration.
Suddenly she looked towards the bush of white roses, which cast its shadow over the grass, and smiled.
“Yes, I’m Christine,” she said. She rose and walked slowly towards the bush, her little plump legs defenceless and endearing beneath the too short blue cotton skirt. She was growing fast.
“With my mummy and daddy,” she said clearly. Then, after a pause, “Oh, but they are my mummy and daddy.”
She was in the shadow of the bush now. It was as if she’d walked out of the world of light into darkness. Uneasy, without quite knowing why, I called her:
“Chris, what are you doing?”
“Nothing.” The voice sounded too far away.
“Come indoors now. It’s too hot for you out there.”
“Not too hot.”
“Come indoors, Chris.”
She said: “I must go in now. Goodbye,” then walked slowly towards the house.
“Chris, who were you talking to?”
“Harry,” she said.
“Who’s Harry?”
“Harry.”
I couldn’t get anything else out of her, so I just gave her some cake and milk and read to her until bedtime. As she listened, she stared out at the garden. Once she smiled and waved. It was a relief finally to tuck her up in bed and feel she was safe.
When Jim, my husband, came home I told him about the mysterious “Harry”. He laughed.
“Oh, she’s started that lark, has she?”
“What do you mean, Jim?”
“It’s not so very rare for only children to have an imaginary companion. Some kids talk to their dolls. Chris has never been keen on her dolls. She hasn’t any brothers or sisters. She hasn’t any friends her own age. So she imagines someone.”
“But why has she picked that particular name?”
He shrugged. “You know how kids pick things up. I don’t know what you’re worrying about, honestly I don’t.”
“Nor do I really. It’s just that I feel extra responsible for her. More so than if I were her real mother.”
“I know, but she’s all right. Chris is fine. She’s a pretty, healthy, intelligent little girl. A credit to you.”
“And to you.”
“In fact, we’re thoroughly nice parents!”
“And so modest!”
We laughed together and he kissed me. I felt consoled.
Until next morning.
Again the sun shone brilliantly on the small, bright lawn and white roses. Christine was sitting on the grass, cross-legged, staring towards the rose bush, smiling.
“Hello,” she said. “I hoped you’d come… Because I like you. How old are you?… I’m only five and a piece… I’m not a baby! I’m going to school soon and I shall have a new dress. A green one. Do you go to school?… What do you do then?” She was silent for a while, nodding, listening, absorbed.
I felt myself going cold as I stood there in the kitchen. “Don’t be silly. Lots of children have an imaginary companion,” I told myself desperately. “Just carry on as if nothing were happening. Don’t listen. Don’t be a fool.”
But I called Chris in earlier than usual for her mid-morning milk.
“Your milk’s ready, Chris. Come along.”
“In a minute.” This was a strange reply. Usually she rushed in eagerly for her milk and the special sandwich cream biscuits, over which she was a little gourmande.
“Come now, darling,” I said.
“Can Harry come too?”
“No!” The cry burst from me harshly, surprising me.
“Goodbye, Harry. I’m sorry you can’t come in but I’ve got to have my milk,” Chris said, then ran towards the house.
“Why can’t Harry have some milk too?” she challenged me.
“Who is Harry, darling?”
“Harry’s my brother.”
“But Chris, you haven’t got a brother. Daddy and mummy have only got one child, one little girl, that’s you. Harry can’t be your brother.”
“Harry’s my brother. He says so.” She bent over the glass of milk and emerged with a smeary top lip. Then she grabbed at the biscuits. At least “Harry” hadn’t spoilt her appetite!
After she’d had her milk, I said, “We’ll go shopping now, Chris. You’d like to come to the shops with me, wouldn’t you?”
“I want to stay with Harry.”
“Well you can’t. You’re coming with me.”
“Can Harry come too?”
“No.”
My hands were trembling as I put on my hat and gloves. It was chilly in the house nowadays, as if there were a cold shadow over it in spite of the sun outside. Chris came with me meekly enough, but as we walked down the street, she turned and waved.
I didn’t mention any of this to Jim that night. I knew he’d only scoff as he’d done before. But when Christine’s “Harry” fantasy went on day after day, it got more and more on my nerves. I came to hate and dread those long summer days. I longed for grey skies and rain. I longed for the white roses to wither and die. I trembled when I heard Christine’s voice prattling away in the garden. She talked quite unrestrainedly to “Harry” now.
One Sunday, when Jim heard her at it, he said:
“I’ll say one thing for imaginary companions, they help a child on with her talking. Chris is talking much more freely than she used to.”
“With an accent,” I blurted out.
“An accent?”
“A slight cockney accent.”
“My dearest, every London child gets a slight cockney accent. It’ll be much worse when she goes to school and meets lots of other kids.”
“We don’t talk cockney. Where does she get it from? Who can she be getting it from except Ha…” I couldn’t say the name.
“The baker, the milkman, the dustman, the coalman, the window cleaner – want any more?”
“I suppose not.” I laughed ruefully. Jim made me feel foolish.
“Anyway,” said Jim, “I haven’t noticed any cockney in her voice.”
“There isn’t when she talks to us. It’s only when she’s talking to – to him.”
“To Harry. You know, I’m getting quite attached to young Harry. Wouldn’t it be fun if one day we looked out and saw him?”
“Don’t!” I cried. “Don’t say that! It’s my nightmare. My waking nightmare. Oh, Jim, I can’t bear it much longer.”
He looked astonished. “This Harry business is really getting you down, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is! Day in, day out, I hear nothing but ‘Harry this,’ ‘Harry that,’ ‘Harry says,’ ‘Harry thinks,’ ‘Can Harry have some?’, ‘Can Harry come too?’ – it’s all right for you out at the office all day, but I have to live with it: I’m – I’m afraid of it, Jim. It’s so queer.”