The Day Henry Died: A supernatural romance

by Lynda Renham

  ‘You can use my phone,’ offered Rita reluctantly.

  ‘I don’t suppose she’s at home anyway,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ agreed Rita.

  ‘Especially today,’ he nodded.

  ‘After the funeral,’ agreed Rita, bowing her head, as though in respect.

  ‘Besides she wouldn’t be able to hear me.’

  ‘No,’ said Rita.

  There was a moment of silence.

  ‘Who is Joyce Grenfell?’ Rita asked.

  Henry’s face brightened.

  ‘She was a great talent. Very funny. I have a book about her. You can borrow it.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ said Rita, pleased. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘It was nice of them to read one of her pieces during the service.’

  ‘I’ll get the toast on,’ said Rita, jumping up.

  She doesn’t want to talk about my funeral, thought Henry.

  ‘I’ll warm the plates,’ she said, crashing the crockery as she pulled it out of the cupboard.

  Henry nodded gratefully. If there was one thing he hated it was food on cold plates. His mind drifted to the sausages and he licked his lips. Imogen made the best sausage and onion. He shouldn’t eat onions really, but he could never resist when Imogen made them so crispy. Besides, you couldn’t have sausages without onion could you? But he wasn’t having sausage and onion and he wasn’t at home and he hadn’t given in the Lester report. What was the world coming to?

  Rita heated the beans in a microwave and placed bread into the toaster. She’d already placed cutlery and torn pieces of kitchen towel onto the table. Henry pulled out a stool and perched on it.

  ‘Sorry I don’t have proper chairs,’ she said, her face reddening. ‘There just wasn’t enough room.’

  ‘It is rather a small bedsit,’ said Henry thoughtlessly.

  Rita sipped some wine.

  ‘The rent’s very reasonable,’ she said, her mind reluctantly conjuring up images of her and Billy on his musty green couch.

  ‘I should think so,’ said Henry.

  ‘Is your house big?’ she asked, placing a plate of steaming beans on toast in front of him.

  Henry tasted the beans. Not bad, he thought. A cheaper make to the ones he and Imogen bought but they tasted good enough.

  ‘Quite large,’ he said, dabbing at his chin with a piece of kitchen towel.

  Rita liked watching Henry eat. He’s so methodical, she thought. He doesn’t shovel food onto a fork like Billy. Henry carefully manoeuvred some beans onto the toast before lifting it to his lips. As Rita watched intently, Henry then tidied the remaining food on his plate, keeping everything neat. Not like me, thought Rita, who had already spilt tomato ketchup onto the table.

  ‘Is it detached?’ she asked.

  ‘End of terrace,’ replied Henry. ‘It’s in a nice location. We never hear the neighbours, so it feels like detached. Don’t you miss having a garden?’ he asked, laying his fork on to a piece of kitchen towel.

  ‘No not really.’

  Henry removed his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief.

  ‘I like my garden. I’ve done a lot to it. I should go home actually,’ he said, as though talking of it had reminded him that he had one. ‘I’m worried that Imogen has cooked our sausages.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Rita.

  ‘I wouldn’t want them ruined.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Rita, the food seeming to get stuck in her throat.

  ‘Yes. I’ve no doubt this business has been sorted by now,’ said Henry optimistically.

  ‘Yes, hopefully,’ agreed Rita who didn’t agree in the slightest. She rather hoped it hadn’t been sorted at all.

  ‘I’ll just finish this,’ said Henry, nodding to his plate.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Rita. ‘We don’t want to waste it.’

  Rita thought how pleasant the wine tasted. It didn’t have the sharp vinegary taste that Billy’s wine had. It was making her fuzzy headed just the same though, and she wondered if she and Henry might end up on her sofa. She wouldn’t mind that at all. Henry wiped his mouth again, let out a suppressed burp and said ‘I should go. I’ll need my indigestion pills after that food.’

  ‘Oh, I think I have some of those,’ said Rita, jumping up.

  She felt sure there were some Rennies in the bathroom.

  ‘They won’t be strong enough,’ Henry assured her.

  Rita sat back down and looked slightly dejected, but Henry didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘What will you do if things haven’t been sorted out?’ asked Rita, following him to the door.

  Henry donned his coat and frowned.

  ‘I don’t know but I think it will have been sorted.’

  ‘You can come back if you like.’

  ‘Yes alright,’ smiled Henry. He leaned towards her and Rita’s heart began to pound in her chest.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Henry. His warm lips touched her cheek and Rita marvelled at the dryness of them.

  Rita gazed longingly at him as an overwhelming sense of loss enveloped her. There was tightness in her throat, a lump that signalled the onset of tears. The longing in her for Henry to stay was so intense that it caused her physical pain. Her chest ached and it was all she could do to keep her voice normal. It had been so nice having his company.

  ‘The dinner was lovely,’ said Henry.

  He was sad to leave. The bedsit was small and cramped but it was also cosy and now that the electric heater had been on a while, it was also very warm.

  ‘Take care,’ said Rita, a choke in her voice.

  She opened the door, and Henry walked out onto the bluebell-fragranced landing.

  ‘Do you want to borrow my umbrella?’ Rita said when they reached the front door.

  ‘I think it has stopped.’

  She watched him walk away and then closed the door. With her back pressed tightly against it, Rita began to cry. She suddenly realised how lonely she was.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Henry strolled to the bus stop. He was feeling quite confident that the whole business had most certainly been sorted. He only hoped Imogen wouldn’t be too angry about the ruined dinner. He thought of Rita and felt a little tingle of pleasure. He must thank her for all her help today. Perhaps he would buy her a bottle of perfume. He was certain she would like that. He’d certainly enjoyed spending the time with her in that little bedsit. It had smelt of bluebells. That’s how it felt being with Rita, thought Henry, like being in a field of bluebells with a warm spring sun on your face. It made him happy and content. Things were uncomplicated with Rita. His face darkened as he thought about her landlord. Surely Rita wasn’t involved with him? He’d sounded a bit of a lout, coming to her room without being invited. The thought of his lovely bluebell-smelling Rita with some common lout made Henry shudder. Seeing his bus approaching, Henry pushed Rita from his mind and hurried to the bus stop. He was slightly disconcerted when the bus driver didn’t acknowledge him but was relieved to see he didn’t acknowledge the person behind either. Henry went to check the time and then remembered his watch had stopped.

  ‘Do you have the time?’ he asked the man seated beside him.

  But the man continued reading his book. Henry felt a small pang of panic. Perhaps the man was slightly deaf, but Henry decided not to ask again. He got off the bus and walked slowly towards Mayberry Terrace. His heart was pounding, and he’d begun to perspire again. Usually, the house was welcoming. A warm glow would be seen through the windows, maybe the flickering light of a candle if Imogen had found time to light one. But tonight there were no comforting lights. His stomach rumbled and a sharp pain shot through the middle of his chest. He needed to take some of his antacid pills.

  ‘Calm down,’ he told himself firmly. ‘Imogen is probably in the kitchen trying to salvage the dinner.’

  Somehow though he knew the house was empty. He pushed his key into the lock, opened the door and called out.

  ‘Imogen, I’m home.’


  He turned to close the door but saw it was already shut and that the key was still in his pocket.

  ‘Crazy,’ he mumbled.

  No one responded to his greeting.

  ‘Imogen love. Sorry I’m late,’ he called again. His leg hurt. He rubbed at it and groaned.

  ‘What now?’ he muttered.

  There was no comforting smell of cooking sausages. He dropped his briefcase onto the hard-backed hall chair and waited for Imogen to come and greet him like usual. But the house was silent. It was cold too. He walked apprehensively to the kitchen. It was tidy. He ran his hand over the smooth varnished pine table. His pills were no longer there. He opened the dishwasher. It was empty. Where were his breakfast dishes? Where was the newspaper he’d been reading that morning? Nothing was out of place. The desk calendar still said the 18th September and the Isle of Wight’s sun-drenched beaches were still on the fridge door. He opened the cupboard and took two indigestion pills from it.

  ‘Imogen,’ he called walking back into the hall.

  His eyes wandered to the open living room door almost expecting to see it as it was fifteen years ago. Perhaps he’d lost years not just days. But everything was the same. The carpet was fine. Not a urine stain to be seen. Then he saw them, lined up on their pine dresser. Condolence cards, lots of them. Henry stared, his mind struggling to accept their presence. He was sweating profusely now. He could feel the dampness under his armpits and then just as suddenly as he had grown hot, he shivered as though chilled. What was happening? What on earth was going on? He walked as though in a trance towards the cards that were strategically placed so each one could be seen clearly. He picked one up and opened it.

  ‘Dearest Imogen, we are so very sorry for your loss. Best wishes Trevor and Lorraine.’

  He placed it back on the dresser and licked his lips. His mind whirled. This business should have been sorted, he thought crossly. He forced his eyes to the photograph that sat at an angle at the side of the cards. It usually sat in the middle of the dresser. It had now been renegaded to the corner. It had been taken on their wedding day. The photographer had yelled ‘Say cheese’ and everyone had. Henry’s parents were grinning like Persian cats and Imogen was looking at Henry with love and pride in her eyes.

  The sound of a key turning in the lock startled him. He took a deep breath and rushed to the front door to see Imogen walk in with her mother close behind. She was carrying the small holdall they used when they travelled to the Isle of Wight.

  ‘Oh, Imogen, thank goodness. What’s going on?’ he cried, clutching at his stomach. The pain was quite unbearable.

  ‘It’s freezing in here,’ said Cynthia.

  ‘I didn’t want to leave the heating on,’ said Imogen.

  ‘I’ll switch it on and then make us a cup of tea,’ said Cynthia marching towards the thermostat.

  ‘You don’t have to stay,’ said Imogen.

  Henry stood in front of his wife.

  ‘Imogen love, I don’t understand. It’s making me ill, all this.’

  Cynthia picked up Henry’s briefcase. ‘You should put this away. It’s only going to upset you.’

  Imogen nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Just a minute,’ cried Henry.

  Cynthia opened the hall cupboard door and threw the briefcase inside. Was Imogen going to allow that? That case had been part of Henry for most of his adult life. It was like throwing Henry himself into the cupboard. Henry heard it crash to the floor.

  ‘Hey, now hold on,’ shouted Henry to no avail as Imogen walked past him to the kitchen.

  ‘I don’t think you should be alone,’ Cynthia said, following her.

  ‘She’s not alone. I’m here,’ shouted Henry.

  I don’t know why I’m shouting, thought Henry. It didn’t really matter how much he raised his voice. If they couldn’t hear him, then they couldn’t hear him. His father shouted at foreigners as though the louder he spoke the more likely they were to understand his English. He did it with elderly people too, as though all of them were deaf. Ignorant, was his father. But most of that generation were. He’d been surprised when they’d moved to Spain. That was the other funny thing. His dad never saw Spain as a foreign country. It was an extension of England for him. There were plenty of fry-ups and fish and chips to suit him. Henry sometimes thought Spain was more English than England.

  Imogen sat on a kitchen chair and Henry realised that the business most certainly hadn’t been sorted at all. That Imogen still looked pale and tired. There were fine lines around her eyes. She hasn’t been putting on her night cream, thought Henry. Those lines wouldn’t be there if she had.

  ‘It was a lovely service,’ Cynthia said, clicking on the kettle. ‘You did Henry proud.’

  Imogen didn’t reply.

  ‘There could have been more of my friends there,’ grunted Henry. ‘Better flowers too, those looked half dead if you ask me.’

  But no one was asking him, were they?

  Cynthia opened the fridge and sighed.

  ‘These sausages should go in the freezer,’ she said. ‘The date is almost up.’

  ‘You can throw them,’ Imogen said sadly. ‘I can’t think about food.’

  Henry watched despondently as the sausages were thrown into the rubbish bin.

  ‘Let me make you a sandwich,’ said Cynthia moving things around in the fridge.

  ‘I wish you’d leave things alone,’ snapped Henry. ‘We don’t like other people going through the fridge, bacteria and all that.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ said Imogen.

  Henry let out a long sigh and sat opposite Imogen at the table.

  ‘She’s taking over you know,’ he muttered.

  Imogen stared at the floor.

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ Henry grumbled. ‘If I’m dead I wish someone would let me know. Surely there’s somewhere for me to go.’

  His head was aching, and the room was quickly becoming very warm. The clock on the wall said seven and Henry wondered how long Cynthia would stay. Maybe Imogen would be able to see him if there was no one else around. However, Cynthia had no intention of hurrying and began rummaging in cupboards to find something with which to make a sandwich. She pulled out a tin of tuna and began to slice tomatoes.

  ‘It will do you no good to go without food,’ she said firmly.

  Henry shuddered as she sliced the tomato on the kitchen counter.

  Imogen dutifully ate the sandwich while Henry wandered around the house anxiously waiting for Cynthia to leave. Finally, at Imogen’s insistence she put on her coat.

  ‘If you’re sure,’ she asked doubtfully. ‘You can come back to ours, you know. You can stay with us as long as you like.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Do you want Dad to come round to sort out the insurance?’

  ‘Insurance?’ cried Henry. ‘Don’t start interfering with that.’

  ‘No, it’s okay,’ said Imogen rubbing at her eyes.

  ‘Dad can advise you on investments.’

  ‘Investments?’ said Henry, shocked.

  ‘It’s a lot of money,’ said Cynthia.

  ‘I know,’ Imogen sighed.

  ‘At least he had the forethought to take care of you should …’

  ‘Mum please,’ Imogen pleaded.

  ‘Well, you know where we are. Are you sure you don’t want to come back with me?’

  Much to Henry’s relief, Imogen shook her head.

  It was all Henry could do not to push Cynthia out of the door, although he rather knew if he attempted to do that the chances were nothing would happen anyway.

  Finally, he and Imogen were alone, and Henry tried again. This time he felt more hopeful.

  ‘Imogen love, we need to talk about what’s going on.’

  Imogen tossed what was left of the sandwich into the bin and walked past Henry and up the stairs. Henry followed her into their bedroom where she sat on the edge of the bed, her face in her hands, sobs racking her body.

  ‘Oh Go
d, oh God,’ she moaned.

  A lump formed in Henry’s throat.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ he said, sitting beside her. The mattress was firm and inviting. It had been Henry’s idea to get a memory foam mattress.

  ‘It will need to last us all our life,’ he’d said when Imogen had argued it was too expensive. He now wished he could get into it and hide beneath the duvet.

  ‘This is all too much. I couldn’t have drowned, Imogen. I’m far too good a swimmer,’ he said.

  Imogen suddenly jumped up, startling him. Falling to her knees, she opened the bedside cabinet. Henry couldn’t fathom what she was looking for. As far as he knew that cupboard held tampons and the kind of paraphernalia a woman needed for that time of the month that he didn’t really care to know about.

  ‘What are you looking for love?’ he asked. She produced a box with colourful flowers painted on it. Henry couldn’t recall having seen the box before but then he never looked inside Imogen’s bedside cabinet. He drew in a sharp breath as from the box Imogen removed a pair of white baby bootees and a matinee jacket, lifting them to her face and breathing in their fragrance. In those few brief seconds Henry had imagined what could be inside the box. Never for one second would he have considered baby clothes.

  ‘What’s going on Imogen?’ asked Henry, puzzled.

  Imogen’s face was blotchy and red with tears.

  ‘Oh, Henry, how did we manage to live such a lie?’ she sobbed.

  ‘A lie?’ repeated Henry.

  Henry had never told a lie in his life.

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’ he asked, knowing the answer wouldn’t be forthcoming.

  Imogen stood up, dropped the baby clothes onto the bed and opened the wardrobe door. Henry stared in amazement. He could see quite clearly from his place on the bed that inside the wardrobe were not their clothes, but instead their bedroom as it had been many years earlier.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Henry.

  Nothing surprised him any more, and it seemed quite natural for him to walk into his wardrobe and come face to face with himself many years earlier.