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‘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?’
