by Roald Dahl
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said. ‘Why do you speak like that? I’ve never done you any harm. I’ve never set eyes on you before.’
‘Oh, haven’t you?’ the man said. ‘But you’ve thought about me, and’ – his voice rose – ‘you’ve written about me. You got some fun out of me, didn’t you? Now I’m going to get some fun out of you. You made me just as nasty as you could. Wasn’t that doing me harm? You didn’t think what it would feel like to be me, did you? You didn’t put yourself in my place, did you? You hadn’t any pity for me, had you? Well, I’m not going to have any pity for you.’
‘But I tell you,’ cried Walter, clutching the table’s edge, ‘I don’t know you!’
‘And now you say you don’t know me! You did all that to me and then forgot me.’ His voice became a whine, charged with self-pity. ‘You forgot William Stainsforth.’
‘William Stainsforth!’
‘Yes. I was your scapegoat, wasn’t I? You unloaded all your self-dislike on me. You felt pretty good while you were writing about me. Now, as one W. S. to another, what shall I do, if I behave in character?’
‘I – I don’t know,’ muttered Walter.
‘You don’t know?’ Stainsforth sneered. ‘You ought to know, you fathered me. What would William Stainsforth do if he met his old dad in a quiet place, his kind old dad who made him swing?’
Walter could only stare at him.
‘You know what he’d do as well as I,’ said Stainsforth. Then his face changed and he said abruptly, ‘No you don’t, because you never really understood me. I’m not so black as you painted me.’ He paused and a flame of hope flickered in Walter’s breast. ‘You never gave me a chance, did you? Well, I’m going to give you one. That shows you never understood me, doesn’t it?’
Walter nodded.
‘And there’s another thing you have forgotten.’
‘What is that?’
‘I was a kid once,’ the ex-policeman said.
Walter said nothing.
‘You admit that?’ said William Stainsforth grimly. ‘Well, if you can tell me of one virtue you ever credited me with – just one kind thought – just one redeeming feature –’
‘Yes?’ said Walter, trembling.
‘Well, then I’ll let you off.’
‘And if I can’t?’ whispered Walter.
‘Well, then, that’s just too bad. We’ll have to come to grips and you know what that means. You took off one of my arms but I’ve still got the other. “Stainsforth of the iron arm”, you called me.’
Walter began to pant.
‘I’ll give you two minutes to remember,’ Stainsforth said.
They both looked at the clock. At first the stealthy movement of the hand paralysed Walter’s thought. He stared at William Stainsforth’s face, his cruel, crafty face, which seemed to be always in shadow, as if it was something the light could not touch. Desperately he searched his memory for the one fact that would save him; but his memory, clenched like a fist, would give up nothing. ‘I must invent something,’ he thought, and suddenly his mind relaxed and he saw, printed on it like a photograph, the last page of the book. Then, with the speed and magic of a dream, each page appeared before him in perfect clarity until the first was reached, and he realized with overwhelming force that what he looked for was not there. In all that evil there was not one hint of good. And he felt, compulsively and with a kind of exultation, that unless he testified to this, the cause of goodness everywhere would be betrayed.
‘There’s nothing to be said for you!’ he shouted. ‘Of all your dirty tricks this is the dirtiest! You want me to whitewash you, do you? Why, the very snowflakes on you are turning black! How dare you ask me for a character? I’ve given you one already! God forbid that I should ever say a good word for you! I’d rather die!’
Stainsforth’s one arm shot out. ‘Then die!’ he said.
The police found Walter Streeter slumped across the dining table. His body was still warm, but he was dead. It was easy to tell how he died, for not only had his mauled, limp hand been shaken, but his throat too. He had been strangled. Of his assailant there was no trace. And how he came to have snowflakes on him remained a mystery, for no snow was reported from any district on the day he died.
Harry
by Rosemary Timperley
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 of 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.’
‘Do you know what I think you should do to put your mind at rest?’
‘What?’
‘Take Chris along to see old Dr Webster tomorrow. Let him have a little talk with her.’
‘Do you think she’s ill – in her mind?’
‘Good heavens, no! But when we come across something that’s a bit beyond us, it’s as well to take professional advice.’
Next day I took Chris to see Dr Webster. I left her in the waiting-room while I told him briefly about Harry. He nodded sympathetically, then said:
‘It’s a fairly unusual case, Mrs James, but by no means unique. I’ve had several cases of children’s imaginary companions becoming so real to them that the parents got the jitters. I expect she’s rather a lonely little girl, isn’t she?’
‘She doesn’t know any other children. We’re new to the neighbourhood, you see. But that will be put right when she starts school.’
‘And I think you’ll find that when she goes to school and meets other children, these fantasies will disappear. You see, every child needs company of her own age, and if she doesn’t get it, she invents it. Older people who are lonely talk to themselves. That doesn’t mean that they’re crazy, just that they need to talk to someone. A child is more practical. Seems silly to talk to oneself, she thinks, so she invents someone to talk to. I honestly don’t think you’ve anything to worry about.’
‘That’s what my husband says.’
‘I’m sure he does. Still, I’ll have a chat with Christine as you’ve brought her. Leave us alone together.’
I went to the waiting-room to fetch Chris. She was at the window. She said: ‘Harry’s waiting.’
‘Where, Chris?’ I said quietly, wanting suddenly to see with her eyes.
‘There. By the rose bush.’
The doctor had a bush of white roses in his garden.
‘There’s no one there,’ I said. Chris gave me a glance of unchildlike scorn. ‘Dr Webster wants to see you now, darling.’ I said shakily. ‘You remember him, don’t you? He gave you sweets when you were getting better from chicken pox.’
‘Yes,’ she said and went willingly enough to the doctor’s surgery. I waited restlessly. Faintly I heard their voices through the wall, heard the doctor’s chuckle, Christine’s high peal of laughter. She was talking away to the doctor in a way she didn’t talk to me.
When they came out, he said: ‘Nothing wrong with her whatever. She’s just an imaginative little monkey. A word of advice, Mrs James. Let her talk about Harry. Let her become accustomed to confiding in you. I gather you’ve shown some disapproval of this “brother” of hers so she doesn’t talk much to you about him. He makes wooden toys, doesn’t he, Chris?’
‘Yes, Harry makes wooden toys.’
‘And he can read and write, can’t he?’
‘And swim and climb trees and paint pictures. Harry can do everything. He’s a wonderful brother.’ Her little face flushed with adoration.
The doctor patted me on the shoulder and said: ‘Harry sounds a very nice brother for her. He’s even got red hair like you, Chris, hasn’t he?’
‘Harry’s got red hair,’ said Chris proudly, ‘Redder than my hair. And he’s nearly as tall as daddy only thinner. He’s as tall as you, mummy. He’s fourteen. He says he’s tall for his age. What is tall for his age?’
‘Mummy will tell you about that as you walk home,’ said Dr Webster. ‘Now, goodbye, Mrs James. Don’t worry. Just let her prattle. Goodbye, Chris. Give my love to Harry.’
‘He’s there,’ said Chris, pointing to the doctor’s garden. ‘He’s been waiting for me.’
Dr Webster laughed. ‘They’re incorrigible, aren’t they?’ he said. ‘I knew one poor mother whose children invented a whole tribe of imaginary natives whose rituals and taboos ruled the household. Perhaps you’re lucky, Mrs James!’
I tried to feel comforted by all this, but I wasn’t. I hoped sincerely that when Chris started school this wretched Harry business would finish.
Chris ran ahead of me. She looked up as if at someone beside her. For a brief, dreadful second, I saw a shadow on the pavement alongside her own – a long, thin shadow – like a boy’s shadow. Then it was gone. I ran to catch her up and held her hand tightly all the way home. Even in the comparative security of the house – the h
ouse so strangely cold in this hot weather – I never let her out of my sight. On the face of it she behaved no differently towards me, but in reality she was drifting away. The child in my house was becoming a stranger.
For the first time since Jim and I had adopted Chris, I wondered seriously: Who is she? Where does she come from? Who were her real parents? Who is this little loved stranger I’ve taken as a daughter? Who is Christine?
Another week passed. It was Harry, Harry all the time. The day before she was to start school, Chris said:
‘Not going to school.’
‘You’re going to school tomorrow, Chris. You’re looking forward to it. You know you are. There’ll be lots of other little girls and boys.’
‘Harry says he can’t come too.’
‘You won’t want Harry at school. He’ll –’ I tried hard to follow the doctor’s advice and appear to believe in Harry – ‘He’ll be too old. He’d feel silly among little boys and girls, a great lad of fourteen.’
‘I won’t go to school without Harry. I want to be with Harry.’ She began to weep, loudly, painfully.
‘Chris, stop this nonsense! Stop it!’ I struck her sharply on the arm. Her crying ceased immediately. She stared at me, her blue eyes wide open and frighteningly cold. She gave me an adult stare that made me tremble. Then she said:
‘You don’t love me. Harry loves me. Harry wants me. He says I can go with him.’
‘I will not hear any more of this!’ I shouted, hating the anger in my voice, hating myself for being angry at all with a little girl – my little girl – mine –
I went down on one knee and held out my arms.
‘Chris, darling, come here.’
She came, slowly. ‘I love you,’ I said. ‘I love you, Chris, and I’m real. School is real. Go to school to please me.’
‘Harry will go away if I do.’
‘You’ll have other friends.’
‘I want Harry.’ Again the tears, wet against my shoulder now. I held her closely.
‘You’re tired, baby. Come to bed.’
She slept with the tear stains still on her face.
It was still daylight. I went to the window to draw her curtains. Golden shadows and long strips of sunshine in the garden. Then, again like a dream, the long thin clear-cut shadow of a boy near the white roses. Like a mad woman I opened the window and shouted:
