The Day Henry Died: A supernatural romance

by Lynda Renham

  Henry smiled. He did rather like how Rita always agreed with him.

  ‘Do we need to get the bus?’ Rita asked.

  Henry wondered if he should visit his graveside, but he didn’t fancy looking at rows upon rows of crumbling gravestones. He most certainly didn’t want to look at a mound of earth with lilies atop it that spelt out Henry. No, he’d give that one a miss, thank you very much. He and Rita watched as the mourners walked to their cars. Trevor stopped and hugged Imogen. He spoke earnestly to her, his head bobbing up and down. His girlfriend said something and then walked to the church entrance to wait for him. Rita smiled and then fidgeted on her feet. Henry was about to reply to Rita about the bus when the milkman approached.

  He might have been handsome once, Henry thought, but now his clear-cut features were ruined by a nose that had clearly been broken and reset several times. Perhaps he boxes in his spare time, thought Henry.

  ‘Do you need a lift to the pub?’ he asked, looking first at Rita and then the blonde at the side of her.

  ‘I think we’ll …’ Rita stopped abruptly and corrected herself. ‘I’ll walk.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m with Trevor,’ said the blonde.

  ‘If you’re sure, only I’m going there anyway.’

  Pushy so and so, thought Henry.

  ‘We don’t need a lift, thank you very much,’ he said. But, of course, the milkman just ignored him.

  ‘Thank you so much for the kind offer, though,’ said Rita.

  ‘Thanks anyway,’ smiled the blonde, tilting her head to one side.

  ‘No problem. Did you know Henry well?’

  Rita, taken aback, looked to the right of her where Henry was standing. She licked her lips nervously and said, ‘Oh yes, I know him … knew him very well. He used to come into the supermarket where I work. We became good friends.’

  ‘Trevor is his cousin,’ said the blonde, looking again over to Trevor. Her lips tightened in annoyance. He is taking his time, thought Henry.

  ‘Oh right,’ said the milkman. ‘I’m Ray, I deliver their milk.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ she smiled. ‘I’m Rita.’

  He didn’t comment on her name and Rita was relieved.

  ‘You’re their milkman?’ said the blonde, raising her eyebrows.

  Exactly, thought Henry. How many milkmen attend their customer’s funerals?

  ‘We ought to get going,’ said Henry peevishly, turning his back on Ray.

  ‘I’m going to hurry my bloke up,’ said the blonde trying to hide her irritation.

  ‘I’ll see you at the pub then,’ said Ray.

  Rita and Henry watched him drive away in an old battered Polo.

  ‘So that’s his name,’ said Henry scathingly.

  ‘Didn’t you know his name?’ said Rita, surprised.

  Henry shook his head.

  ‘Not until just now.’

  ‘But he was at your funeral?’

  Henry shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know why. I thought I knew more people. Imogen obviously asked him so he would make up the numbers.’

  ‘Oh no,’ exclaimed Rita. ‘I’m sure not.’

  She squeezed his arm and they began the walk to The Black Prince. Rita was feeling anxious about walking into a packed pub on her own. Those irritating butterflies were fluttering about in her stomach again, making her feel slightly sick. Henry will be with you, she told herself. But, if no one else could see Henry, then it would really be like entering the pub alone and that terrified her. She tried to ignore the butterflies and forced herself to think of the food that would be laid out there. She was quite hungry. It was way past her usual lunchtime. She wondered what Henry would do about dinner and whether she should invite him back to her bedsit. It was tidy. Rita always made sure to clean everything away before she left for work. Perhaps they could get a Chinese takeaway and a bottle of wine. No doubt, Henry knew a good wine. She and Billy did that sometimes and then they would … No, she didn’t want to think about that at the moment. It somehow made her feel unclean and she didn’t want to feel like that while she was with Henry.

  ‘I’ve lost a lot of my hair,’ Henry said suddenly.

  ‘Yes, I saw,’ said Rita. ‘It’s a shame.’

  Although she thought Henry quite handsome with or without his hair and besides, she rather thought too much was made of hair. It wasn’t that important; it was what was inside a person that really counted.

  ‘How did you see?’ asked Henry.

  ‘The pictures on the front of the order of service,’ explained Rita.

  ‘Oh yes,’ sighed Henry. Now everyone knew how much hair he had lost.

  ‘It doesn’t notice,’ said Rita reassuringly.

  Henry was touched by Rita’s kind words. She was most likely right. People didn’t really care how you looked. They were always too interested in themselves. Henry felt sure that Jack couldn’t give a toss about Henry’s hair loss as long as his own hair looked good. It’s funny, thought Henry, how we worry about how we seem to others and all others are doing is worrying about how they seem to us.

  ‘Thanks,’ he smiled.

  The relief Rita was feeling was quite overwhelming her. Henry was still here. It had been a little while now since the coffin had … well Rita really didn’t want to dwell on that. He was still here and that’s what mattered. She wondered if Henry had noticed the man that had been sitting alone in the church and the way he’d looked at Imogen. She’d perhaps ask him later when they’d had some wine.

  The clouds had grown dark again and Henry felt the weight of them. What was happening to him? Who was that man in the church? Where had Henry seen him before? Why did Henry have that flashback to their house? It was eighteen years ago. He never thought of it. Or is this what happens when you’re dead? He wondered. Do you see your whole life flash before your eyes like people said? Was this how it happened, in bits? He wasn’t in heaven, or at least he didn’t think he was. Henry didn’t believe in heaven so he surely wouldn’t go there. Well, one thing he knew for sure. He needed to get this business sorted, because he couldn’t live in this nowhere land for ever.

  ‘I’m a bit nervous going in on my own,’ said Rita, breaking into his reverie.

  He looked up to see The Black Prince pub ahead of them. Imogen was walking slowly towards the entrance with her parents either side of her like security guards. He looked around for the lone man but there was no sign of him. Everyone was waiting solemnly at the entrance. Sam and Helen were busy tapping away on their mobile phones. Trevor was rubbing at the shiny paintwork of his silver Bentley. I bet that cost a few bob that he doesn’t have, thought Henry. The brassy blonde with him was re-doing her make-up, with the aid of a small compact mirror. While the milkman stood smoking a cigarette and admiring the Bentley. Henry looked around for Larry and Jack and found them sitting in Jack’s car.

  Henry nudged Rita.

  ‘People are going in,’ he said.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Henry thought Imogen looked terrible. She hadn’t looked like that yesterday. Although Henry had to concede that yesterday did seem like years ago. There were dark circles under her eyes. She was clearly tired. Poor Imogen, he thought. She’s really grieving, and I have no way of letting her know I’m okay. Unless … No, he couldn’t ask Rita. Anyway, Imogen wouldn’t understand and what was Rita supposed to say?

  ‘It’s okay Imogen, really it is. Your husband is standing right beside me and isn’t dead at all. I’m not sure what he is but I don’t think it’s dead.’

  Henry didn’t think Imogen would respond very well to that. She didn’t have time for psychics or what she called ‘all that nonsense’. Henry would once have agreed, but now, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe there were lots of dead people like him walking around. Poor souls he thought. I wonder how they sorted everything out. Poor Imogen, it must be bad enough thinking he was dead without having a stranger tell you otherwise. But even Henry was beginning to wonder if he was indeed, actually dead. After al
l, no one really knew what happened after death. All the same, thought Henry angrily, someone ought to come and explain. Not leave people dangling like this.

  Ray was the first to the bar, Henry noticed. He caught the smell of stale tobacco that emanated from him and wrinkled his nose.

  ‘This will help,’ smiled Ray, knocking back a glass of white wine.

  ‘Sad affair,’ said the barman, putting on a grave face. He probably saves that expression for times like these, thought Henry.

  ‘What a tragic way to go.’

  Go, thought Henry, what a strange phrase to use. Like Henry had just gone on a holiday.

  ‘A terrible tragedy,’ said Ray.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Rita, without any clear idea what she was agreeing to.

  The barman shook his head.

  ‘The shock did it, so they say.’

  ‘The shock?’ said Rita.

  ‘Apparently he would have made it otherwise,’ said Ray.

  ‘Strange business,’ said the barman.

  ‘What business?’ Henry asked looking at Rita beseechingly.

  Rita couldn’t bring herself to ask what had happened to Henry. She’d look crazy if she did. Who comes to a funeral not knowing how the deceased died?

  ‘It must have been terrible for Imogen,’ said Ray, tilting his head towards her table.

  ‘I heard they were going boating in the park. No sign that Henry was, well, you know …’ he stopped and glanced at Imogen.

  ‘Less said the better,’ said Ray.

  ‘A shock for her though, in more ways than one,’ said the barman.

  ‘Never try and be a hero I say,’ voiced Ray. ‘Never pays off.’

  ‘But if it’s someone …’

  ‘No one knows that,’ broke in Ray.

  ‘Henry would always be the hero,’ said Rita proudly.

  Henry raised his eyebrows and echoed the word ‘boating’. The word conjured up all kinds of images. Henry swayed. He couldn’t possibly have drowned. He was a strong swimmer, always had been. He would never in a million years have imagined himself drowning.

  ‘Surely, I didn’t drown?’ he said.

  Rita pictured the river in her mind, the water sparkling in some places and yet murky in others, a fast- or slow-moving current depending on the weather. She’d often walked along the banks dotted with wildflowers carrying a bag of bread in her hand. She could now smell the algae and hear the flapping of a bird as it took flight. Had Henry died in that river? Had she been there that day? She glanced at Henry, but his eyes were vacant as if he was somewhere else. Henry was remembering the days he and Imogen had gone boating on that river. They’d take a picnic and make a day of it. Henry was an excellent oarsman. A boat would never tip over with Henry at the helm and Henry most certainly would not drown. This stupid milkman had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘Terrible,’ said the barman.

  ‘Yeah sure was. I’m going to get some food,’ said Ray. ‘Or else it will all go.’

  Oh yes, thought Henry. We wouldn’t want you to miss out, would we? You didn’t even know me but you’re happy to eat my food, because Henry had no doubt that he had paid for the spread. Imogen must have paid for everything out of their savings. What a waste he thought, especially as we’ll have to do it all over again when I actually do die.

  ‘Philistine,’ he muttered. ‘He’s a fool, telling you that I drowned. I’m an excellent swimmer.’

  It then occurred to Rita how Henry must have died. She let out a small gasp.

  ‘You were a hero’, he said. ‘You must have saved someone.’

  Henry would like to think of himself as a hero but Henry knew even he wouldn’t put his own life at risk to save someone else. He wasn’t that unselfish.

  He glanced at Imogen who sat with her parents. Their grief-stricken faces sent a tearing pain through his heart. Sam was sitting with Henry’s parents at the next table. His father thankfully had recovered somewhat from the eulogy. Henry couldn’t bear to see his father crying. Trevor and his girlfriend were arguing about something, their faces cross, and their lips tight. Henry sighed. You would have thought his funeral would have put everything into perspective for them. Henry noted there was no sign of the lone man and he wondered what had happened to him. Their neighbour was leaning over Imogen and would occasionally pat her on the arm. A long table had been set out with an assortment of finger food. Everyone glanced at it, but no one wanted to be the first person to take some. It seemed disrespectful to want to eat after just dropping someone into the ground. Ray looked over at the table hungrily.

  ‘Shall I be the first,’ he said to no one in particular. Helen followed him and began to fill a plate with mini-quiches and salad.

  Henry sat next to his parents and listened in to their conversation but couldn’t bear to see his mother so sad, so he moved to where Imogen sat with her parents. He didn’t think they seemed quite as sad at his passing.

  ‘You can’t be on your own darling,’ her mother was saying.

  ‘I’ll be okay,’ said Imogen, staring into a glass of sparkling water.

  ‘I’m happy to come and stay with you but you really don’t have to go back yet, you know. You can stay with us for as long as you want.’

  Imogen lifted her head. Her make-up had streaked and there were bits of mascara on her cheek. How she has changed, thought Henry, from that young girl of eighteen years ago.

  ‘I need time to think,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what I want to do.’

  ‘Yes,’ said her father. ‘Of course. There is a lot to sort out.’

  ‘Things to go through,’ agreed her mother.

  ‘What things?’ Henry questioned.

  ‘My accountant can help with that,’ said his father-in-law. ‘Get the insurance sorted as soon as possible. You don’t want to be worrying about money.’

  ‘Hold on,’ interjected Henry. ‘Don’t start messing with things yet. I’ll be coming back soon.’

  ‘I’m not worried,’ said Imogen.

  ‘All the same, the sooner these things are done.’

  ‘Just a minute …’ began Henry and then realised he was wasting his breath.

  He stood up and walked over to where Rita was sitting with Ray and Helen.

  ‘How do you know Henry?’ Ray asked.

  ‘I worked with him. He was such a nice person. He always said good morning,’ said Helen, nursing a glass of lemonade. ‘It was such a shock when they told us.’

  ‘You never said good morning back,’ snapped Henry.

  Everyone went quiet as Imogen strolled by. Henry got a whiff of her perfume. She opened the door of the ladies’ toilet and Henry stood up to follow her.

  ‘Imogen,’ he said while knowing it was most likely futile.

  The fluorescent light flickered chaotically above them. Imogen stood in front of the soap-splattered mirror and looked at her reflection before splashing her face with cold water and removing the black mascara streaks from her cheek.,

  ‘Oh, Henry,’ she said softly as though she could see his reflection behind her.

  ‘I’m here love. It’s going to be okay. I’ve just got to get this sorted.’

  ‘Where did it go wrong Henry?’ she asked.

  Henry frowned.

  ‘It didn’t go wrong love. I’m sure it will all be put right soon.’

  ‘Oh God Henry, how will I ever deal with this?’

  He reached out to touch her arm but withdrew in shock when instead of her arm he felt nothing but thin air. He looked down at his hand, which was trembling. Imogen glided past him and he was suddenly alone in the ladies’ toilet. I can touch Rita, he thought. That doesn’t seem right. Not right at all. A man should be able to touch his own wife, even if he was dead.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rita was feeling anxious now that Henry had left her and disappeared into the ladies’ loo with his wife. Rita thought that was very odd. It wasn’t right for a man to go into the ladies’ toilet, not even if he was dead. She o
ught to go in too, but she really didn’t want to confront Imogen. Surely, he would come out soon.

  She really didn’t like Ray much. He was too friendly and stood much too close for Rita’s liking. She didn’t like the smell of tobacco that emanated from him either. She was feeling quite tired now. It was something of a strain being the only person who could see Henry.

  ‘Hello Ray.’

  Rita turned to see a brunette. She remembered her from the church.

  ‘Margo, how are you? Having semi-skimmed now I notice?’ Ray laughed and Rita spotted a black stained tooth at the back of his mouth.

  ‘I’m trying the healthy option,’ laughed Margo.

  Her face clouded over and she added, ‘Terrible tragedy this, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sure is,’ said Ray.

  ‘I didn’t know him that well. Just neighbourly nods, you know, I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Yeah, tragic,’ said Ray, tucking into a bacon and pepper quiche.

  ‘How horrible,’ agreed Rita and wondered if they knew who the man was that had been in the church.

  ‘Could happen to any of us,’ said Margo with a sigh. ‘I think I’ll get another glass of wine,’ she said dabbing at her cheeks. ‘This is all too much for me.’

  ‘That’s not good for the diet,’ said Ray.

  Margo turned to him with a smile.

  ‘Don’t you go leaving me full fat now? Semi-skimmed for me. I’ve got to give it a good try.’

  Rita glanced across to the door of the ladies’ and saw Imogen walk out. Her face was red and blotchy and her eyes bloodshot. Rita’s heart went out to her and she wanted to rush over and tell Imogen that it was alright. Henry was alive and in fact, had only that moment been in the toilet with her. She then realised how insane she would sound. Imogen would no doubt become hysterical and everyone in the pub would turn on Rita as if she was the very devil himself. Rita’s nails dug into the flesh of her palms and she winced. It wasn’t true. She didn’t have the devil in her at all. It wasn’t the devil that had made her walk away from the bloodstained snow.