‘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 house 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:
‘Harry! Harry!’
I thought I saw a glimmer of red among the roses, like close red curls on a boy’s head. Then there was nothing.
When I told Jim about Christine’s emotional outburst he said: ‘Poor little kid. It’s always a nervy business, starting school. She’ll be all right once she gets there. You’ll be hearing less about Harry too, as time goes on.’
‘Harry doesn’t want her to go to school.’
‘Hey! You sound as if you believe in Harry yourself!’
‘Sometimes I do.’
‘Believing in evil spirits in your old age?’ he teased me. But his eyes were concerned. He thought I was going ‘round the bend’ and small blame to him!
‘I don’t think Harry’s evil,’ I said. ‘He’s just a boy. A boy who doesn’t exist, except for Christine. And who is Christine?’
‘None of that!’ said Jim sharply. ‘When we adopted Chris we decided she was to be our own child. No probing into the past. No wondering and worrying. No mysteries. Chris is as much ours as if she’d been born of our flesh. Who is Christine indeed! She’s our daughter – and just you remember that!’
‘Yes, Jim, you’re right. Of course you’re right.’
He’d been so fierce about it that I didn’t tell him what I planned to do the next day while Chris was at school.
Next morning Chris was silent and sulky. Jim joked with her and tried to cheer her, but all she would do was look out of the window and say: ‘Harry’s gone.’
‘You won’t need Harry now. You’re going to school,’ said Jim.
Chris gave him that look of grown-up contempt she’d given me sometimes.
She and I didn’t speak as I took her to school. I was almost in tears. Although I was glad for her to
