The Trouble With Harry (2 page)

The new captain sat on the lowest bough of an oak tree, one short leg dangling one side and one dangling on the other. He gripped a point-two-two rifle in his arms and a pipe of unknown calibre between his teeth. A short, plump little man with a mop of black, wiry hair and a brown, creased, clean-shaven face. A nautical figure with the innocent eyes of a baby. A man to inspire protection in a woman, trust in a child, fear in a coward and apprehension in a man of business. A man who knew the world without having seen more than the results of it in riverside taverns – for the new captain was neither new nor,
strictly speaking, a captain. The new captain was Mr Albert Wiles, retired lighterman of the Thames barges. He was not a charlatan or a pretender, either, for the title by which he was known in Sparrowswick was not self-sought. He had been made a captain by Mr Mark Douglas, property-owner, landlord and despoiler of things beautiful. Albert Wiles had been made a captain because Sparrowswick had to have one. There always had been a captain in one of the little bungalows and there always would be. Moreover, the bungalow set aside for men of the sea was a little ship from ship. It rocked on unsafe stilts amongst the waves of shrubbery and instead of windows it had portholes. What was more, it was called ‘The Ship’. In such a bungalow it stood to reason there had to be a seafarer. A man come from the lonely, watery places of the world. A wanderer. A bringer of salt and flapping canvas; a captain.

So it was only natural that when Albert Wiles had answered the advertisement regarding the tenancy of a bungalow on Sparrowswick Heath, wearing a rugged, peaked cap and smelling of deep water, Mr Mark Douglas had immediately mentally pigeon-holed him
into the captain’s bungalow. And it was only natural that since the previous captain – also a man of dubious rank – had obeyed a second childhood urge and run back to sea, Captain Wiles should be called the new captain by all the people of the estate.

Captain Wiles then, sat on the lowermost bough of an oak tree on Sparrowswick Heath in the hot afternoon sunshine. He sat puffing at his pipe, perspiring and looking for rabbits. He was not a good huntsman in the true sense of the word, for although he had a good aim and had killed more rats than anyone else between Battersea and Woolwich, he was not at all certain what a live rabbit looked like. Nor what a pheasant looked like, or a hare. The only game with which he was acquainted hung on hooks around the front of The Fisheries near the Blackwall Tunnel, and to imagine those stiff, stuffy-looking objects leaping around in this strange and wonderful land was almost impossible. Nevertheless, Captain Wiles had taken three shots at moving objects that
might
have been rabbits or pheasants or something; and soon he was going to wander amongst the bracken and look for the results.

Meanwhile, it was pleasant to sit and watch and wait. It was pleasant to listen to the drone of bees amongst the heather, and the cheep of some bird above his head that sounded as though it had finished its dinner and was scraping a fork against an empty plate. It was pleasant to be alive in such a wild, rugged, yet cosy world. Pleasant to have it to yourself. The bungalow was quiet enough, but up here you were above quietness. Up here you were knocking on the pearly gates and hoping they wouldn’t hear you. Captain Wiles let his eyes scan the tops of the bracken and he nodded, satisfied that he had that part of the heath to himself.

The captain had not forgotten the first time he went shooting. That had been a few days after he had moved in. He had come up here amongst the bracken and shot at what he had supposed to be a walking pheasant. But it had turned out to be a crawling Freddy Grayson. Mr Grayson had come to him that evening with a holed cap in his hand and wrath in his eye. He had told Captain Wiles a few things about dangerous shooting that he didn’t know. He had told Captain Wiles a great many things blunt and to the
point, finishing up with some advice about sticking to a pair of oars. The captain had vowed that never again would he go shooting amongst small boys. And so he was glad that, on this afternoon, the heath was deserted.

At last, long after the echoes of the last shot had gone over the hills, Captain Wiles swung himself agilely from the branch to the ground. He dusted the bark rust from his flannel trousers and set out along the path to inspect his killings.

The first thing he found was a white paper bag with a sticky aniseed ball in one corner and a neat point-two-two hole in the other.

He grunted and walked on.

He recollected that his second shot had been at something that moved near a big clump of broom. In his mind he had an exact photograph of where the moving object had been and where his shot had gone. Sure enough, in the exact spot, half-hidden by the gorse, he found a warm but dead hedgehog. Snuffling against the hedgehog were two baby hedgehogs. Two small, brown, prickly things too young to see clearly and making tiny squeaking noises like real babies.

The captain stood looking down at them. His brown face was touched with dismay. His heart, which had gloated over the death of a multitude of rats, wept for this dead mother, for these orphan children. For a moment he looked at the gun he carried, in a manner which made its destruction seem eminent. But then he sighed and passed on to the site of his third target.

Once again his sharp, innocent eyes led him straight to the spot. And this time his findings left him weak and shaken. He staggered back against a young ash tree that bent under his weight.

‘Great Gordon Bennett!’

The dead man lay just as young Abie had seen him. The face, the moustache, the wavy hair, the blood. Everything.

‘Christ Almighty!’ said Captain Wiles. ‘I’ve done him in!’

He looked frantically around him and all he could see were the trees. And from every tree dangled a noosed rope. Every tree, even to the furthest horizon, had become a gallows in his eyes. His mother had always said he would hang sooner or later, and it was later. Just as he had got through his life nicely. Just
when he was looking forward to a quiet retirement. The times he had kept his temper and avoided brawls! The hundreds of times he had wanted to kill Tiger Wray – and had desisted simply because of wanting to live to prove his mother wrong and to enjoy the simplicity of the English countryside. And now this harmless pot at a rabbit and he was a murderer. A killer. He groaned. It wasn’t a bad shot, but by cripes! he’d done it now. He was in for it.

‘What the hell was you doing laying here?’ the captain asked the corpse. He groaned again.

He felt for the pulse of the dead man, more as a last politeness than anything. Then he ran his fingers through the pockets. He found an empty envelope addressed to ‘Mr Harry Worp, Eighty-seven, Eastfield, Fulham’.

‘Well,’ said the captain philosophically, ‘you’re a long way from home, cock. And you’ll never get back. Phone the police, Albert.’ This last remark was addressed to himself. Having heard it, he got to his feet and began to walk towards the woods and home. But even as he walked his mind was searching for an easy way out and he found it.

He stopped walking suddenly and turned to survey the glorious vista of greenery. He could barely see above the bracken and it all seemed more of a jungle to him than it would have done to a taller man.

‘All this jungle,’ he said, ‘and one little body …’

He retraced his footsteps and stood a moment looking down at the corpse. The man was large, but the grass was silky through long drought. The captain regarded the shrubbery in the vicinity, looking for a place that would hide a body, not only in the lushness of summer but also in the barrenness of winter. Soon he spied an immense rhododendron bush that lifted its next year’s flower-buds high into the sky and spread its evergreen skirts all round.

Without further hesitation he stooped, picked up the dead man’s ankles like the shafts of a wheelbarrow, and with his stocky body straining forward he commenced the journey down the path between the bracken, towards the rhododendron that was to serve as a tomb for all time.

Before Captain Wiles had got halfway to the rhododendron bush with his burden a woman appeared suddenly and miraculously in the middle of the path ahead. The little man, struggling along with short arms stretched behind him, his short legs shooting out beneath and his grim face tucked down into his collar, did not see his audience until his head was in danger of butting her in the stomach.

‘Captain Wiles!’ said the woman.

The captain dropped the dead man’s ankles and stood to attention. At that moment Captain Wiles was not entirely himself. He stood looking into
the woman’s face and allowing perspiration to run unheeded down his nose, even though it tickled.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said.

The lady looked down at the body. She then looked at the captain’s gun, which he had somehow managed to tuck into the top of his trousers. She said: ‘Been shooting?’

The conversation having started, the captain’s nerves loosened off a notch or two. He made the gun a little more comfortable in his trousers and wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. He looked down at the body as though it was something with which he had experienced some difficulty.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Bit of an accident. He’s dead.’

The lady touched the body gingerly and a little distastefully with the toe of her shoe. ‘Yes, isn’t he?’ she remarked.

The captain licked his lips. Exactly what to say next he did not know. This, then, was Miss Graveley. A lady he had seen only from a distance. A lady whom everyone, certainly every man, saw only from a distance. A reserved lady. A middle-aged man-hater. A spinster by choice and inclination. Miss Graveley
of ‘The Haven’, which stood behind hollyhocks next to ‘The Ship’. Miss Graveley, whom Mr Douglas had described as a confirmed virgin.

‘Do you know him, ma’am?’ the captain asked apprehensively.

She shook her head. She studied the face of the corpse as it lay on the soft grass. ‘What are you going to do with him, Captain?’ she asked. She spoke as though the body were a trophy and she was expecting the captain to put it into a glass case.

Captain Wiles took his fears and flung them into the bracken. ‘Hide him. Cover him up. Forget him,’ he rasped hoarsely.

Miss Graveley seemed to consider this for a moment and the captain watched her face for her response, as a small boy might watch his schoolteacher before some important announcement regarding half-holidays. At last the lady said: ‘Don’t you think you should inform the police, Captain?’

‘No!’ Captain Wiles was definite. Suddenly the trees around them dropped their hanging nooses again. The little captain clutched Miss Graveley’s arm: ‘Forget you saw me, ma’am! Forget all about it,
for God’s sake! It was an accident. An accident. He was laying in the bracken. How was I to know? He couldn’t have been up to no good. Don’t say nothing, ma’am.’

A faint smile came into the lady’s face as the captain worked himself into a state of terror. She removed his hand and stepped away. ‘Do as you think best, Captain. I’m sure you must have met many similar situations in your travels in foreign lands. I certainly won’t say anything. It was most unfortunate.’

The captain regained his composure and broadened his chest. ‘I’ve seen worse things happen,’ he admitted. ‘Much worse things. I remember when I was in Orinoco—’

‘Hadn’t you better … er … remove this … er …?’

Captain Wiles spat on his hands and took up the dead man’s ankles again. ‘You’re right, ma’am. Y’know something? I’m glad I met you. I feel better for telling somebody. Funny, eh?’

‘I’m glad I’ve helped you,’ said Miss Graveley. ‘Perhaps you would care to come over for a cup of tea later on?’

The captain blinked. She wasn’t a bad sort at all. Attractive too, in a way: Nice grey eyes, plenty of dark hair …

‘Yes, I’d like a spot of char,’ he said. ‘What time?’

‘Five o’clock?’

‘Okey doke,’ said the captain. He began to drag the body off down the path. ‘You better get along now. Don’t want to be an accessory after the fact.’

‘Good-bye then, Captain Wiles.’

‘Ta-ta,’ said the captain, digging his toes in.

After Miss Graveley had gone and just as the captain had reached the rhododendron, he heard the shouting of a small boy. The captain looked over his shoulder and was horrified to see the top of a woman's head just appearing above the bracken at a bend in the path he had traversed. There was no time to get the body into the bush so the captain did what was next best and hid his own body under the rhododendron. Immediately he heard a triumphant cry, followed by the thud of running feet.

‘Don't touch it!' came a faint and feminine voice. ‘Don't touch it, Abie!'

‘No, Mummy,' said a breathless Abie, arriving panting by the corpse, his small gun held at the ready.

The captain lay on his stomach peering from under the thick foliage. He cursed his bad luck. All afternoon he had been alone and now he wanted to be alone the place was crowded with unnecessary people.

‘I
said
follow the blood!' exclaimed Abie delightedly, as his mother came up. ‘I
said
follow the blood, didn't I?'

Abie's mother grimaced at the sight of the bloody face. Then suddenly she exclaimed: ‘My God! Harry!'

The heart of Captain Wiles turned to a heavy grade of commercial lead. The chance of keeping the body privately and decently hidden now was nil. She knew it. It had a name. It was called Harry. Probably she could remember when it talked and walked and breathed and filled in football coupons. Certainly she would never agree, as Miss Graveley had done so readily, to hiding it under the rhododendron for all eternity. And in any case the little boy would talk. No, he might as well make a clean breast of it. The captain ran his finger around his neck.

‘Harry!' breathed the young woman again, kneeling down and looking into the dead face. ‘Thank God!'

Now those two simple words caused the little captain some astonishment. He peered very hard indeed into the young woman's face and he read there no grief. Indeed, she was smiling, as though half expecting the corpse to enjoy the secret joke.

‘The last of Harry,' she said.

‘Who is it, Mummy?' said the little boy.

‘Don't you remember?' the woman said, bringing him closer to obtain a better view. ‘Can't you remember, Abie?'

The little boy studied the face carefully, then shook his head. ‘What's he laying there for?' he asked.

‘He's asleep,' said Abie's mother. ‘He's in a deep sleep. A wonderful deep sleep.'

‘How did he hurt his head?' said the little boy.

‘Putting it where it wasn't wanted I should think,' said the mother happily.

‘Will he get better?'

The young woman stood up. In the sunlight she looked beautiful. In any light she would have looked
beautiful. The captain felt glad he had killed Harry if it brought such joy and happiness, and beauty to this young woman. The captain's heart danced with joy just looking at her. A wonderful, happy young thing in the sunshine of a wonderful, happy day. A wonderful, happy boy and a wonderful, happy world. The captain felt wonderfully happy lying on his podgy belly with his brown face resting on his hands and his innocent baby eyes resting on the beautiful young woman.

‘I don't think he will get better,' said the young mother joyously. She took her son's hand. ‘Come on, Abie, let's run home and eat cakes!'

As they ran away to eat cakes, leaving the dead man staring into the chalk-blue sky, Captain Wiles began to ease himself out from under the bush. The gun, which was still stuck in his trousers, was digging uncomfortably into his thigh. He began to form a glowing and friendly feeling for the people who lived in the bungalows of Sparrowswick. His neighbours. His first impression, gathered from Mr Grayson, the father of the boy whose cap he had damaged, was erroneous. Mr Grayson was obviously
not representative of Sparrowswick. It was easy to see that Abie's mother would not care
where
he put the body; the little boy would forget – and anyway he was too young to understand death – and Miss Graveley would not tell. Miss Graveley was going to make tea for him. Miss Graveley approved of him. Him, of all men.

As the captain drew himself out from the bush a man dashed up the path. The captain withdrew quickly into the rhododendron bush. But he felt certain he had been seen.

The man came running. He was a tall, thin man, wearing tropical white ducks and an ancient white panama. His face was thin to the point of starvation and his eyes, behind a pair of spectacles, were large and eager. He did not see the captain because he was chasing a butterfly. He was chasing a large and rare and magnificent butterfly with a large and rare and magnificent net. He saw neither the captain nor the body and consequently he tripped over the body and fell headlong, pushing his net right under the rhododendron and within half an inch of the captain's nose.

Slowly and broken-heartedly the tall, thin man got to his spindly legs. Without looking at the body he began to search his very limited horizon for a sign of the butterfly. It was obvious to the watching captain that unless the corpse suddenly sprouted coloured wings it hadn't the faintest chance of discovery. Suddenly the butterfly, having waited sportingly for the chaser to regain his feet, fluttered into the air from a leaf of the rhododendron bush and in a split second the thin man and the butterfly were off over the heath again, the butterfly gaily leading.

The captain rested his face sideways on his hands for a moment to still his beating heart and recover his breath. It was indeed his lucky day.

‘'Struth!' he remarked.