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
