|
Moving On - Second Prize Winner
“THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT HENRY”
Our second prize winner is Sandy Neville from Verwood, Dorset. Della commented, ‘I chose Things You Should Know About Henry as our runner up because I really cared about Henry and the story moved me to tears.’
Vanda said that she found the story touching and the slightly different angle on the theme made it stand out from the rest.
Very well done, Sandy!
About the Author:
I began writing in earnest about ten years ago and, along with a mountain of rejections, have sold some short stories and been successful in a few competitions. If I could, I’d write every minute of the day, but life and work get in the way. My head is constantly full of ideas and I enjoy nothing more than immersing myself in the imaginary world I’m creating. My absolute love is writing for children, particularly from eight years old upwards. I have been running a writing group in Dorset for the past six years and it’s great to be able to enthuse and inspire others. Currently I’m working on my third novel and my dream is to become a published novelist
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT HENRY
I hoist Henry up onto my lap savouring his baby powder scent, the softness of his skin, the warmth of him. I’m rewarded with a toothy giggle as I run my finger tips across the nape of his neck, feeling the soft tickle of his fuzz of blond hair. He clambers from my knee, clutching his raggy, the square of muslin which is his constant companion. I reach for the laptop and open the file, ‘Things You Should Know About Henry’, scroll down and type, ‘He loves to have his face and neck stroked’. As I do so, another tidal wave of sadness takes me by surprise, almost knocking the breath from me. Stop this at once Jane Miller, I tell myself. But my churning stomach aches and my eyes prick with unshed tears.
Henry staggers on sturdy legs, like a miniature drunk. He’s still mastering the art of walking and lurches from coffee table to settee, heading resolutely towards the patio doors.
“We can’t go out, poppet,” I say, kneeling beside him. “It’s raining.” He watches as I follow the track of a raindrop with my finger. “And it must be lunchtime.” I glance at the clock – today is disappearing far too quickly. Henry frowns for a moment, lips pouting, as if sensing my mood.
“Look,” I say pointing towards the garden and the cat tiptoeing across the wet grass, “there’s Blackie.”
As he catches sight of his pal, his eyes sparkle - I’ll always be reminded of their colour by the clump of forget-me-nots I’ve planted outside – and he chuckles as we watch until Blackie disappears from sight.
“Now time for lunch, young man,” I say, lifting him into my arms and planting a kiss on his forehead.
***
He’s engrossed with licking the marmite and butter from a finger of toast. It’s still a battle to get him to eat and mealtimes can take an age. He turns his attention to the dish of scrambled egg, stirring it around with his red plastic spoon. ‘Be patient with him. He likes to feed himself but needs encouragement’ is Item six on the list.
I watch him now and recall my first sight of him, only eighteen months ago. I can still hear the unnatural high-pitched cry, see the pain in his contorted, old-man face. At three months old, he was still the weight of a newborn.
“The mother’s agreed to go into rehab,” Mary, the Social Worker, had said. “She feels she’ll be able to take care of him one day. I have my doubts but it’ll be up to the courts to decide.”
Henry was gradually weaned from the drug addiction passed on to him in the womb. Slowly the muscle spasms eased, he ceased vomiting after every feed, he slept less fitfully and found his smile. I learned to cat-nap whenever Henry slept, massaged baby oil into his fragile skin, comforted him through long, agonising nights. I also forgot my training and, despite trying to remain detached, began to love him.
I look up at the sound of the dish hitting the tiled floor. “You horror,” I say shaking my finger at him. “You’re supposed to eat that.” Henry laughs as Blackie’s head peers in through the cat flap right on cue. The cat trots across, tail held high, sniffs at the eggy mess and begins licking at it. Blackie will miss his partner in crime.
“How about some pudding?” I reach towards the fruit bowl.
‘Bananas are his favourite food,’ I type, ‘but he doesn’t like them mashed.’
Half an hour later, I’m rescuing raggy number two from the drier. Henry always sniffs suspiciously when he’s handed a freshly laundered muslin square. I pack this into the bag, along with his clothes, toys, medicines and other paraphernalia.
He’s clean, changed into his new outfit. There’s just time for a final cuddle and then…
“She’s done really well,” Mary had said last time she collected Henry for one of his supervised sessions with his mother. “She’s been clean of drugs since he was born.”
“Surely it’s too soon,” I’d protested. “The courts can’t think that she’s ready for the responsibility.”
Mary had smiled, patted my hand. “Jane, you’ve been a foster mother for long enough to know the score. I think you’ve got too emotionally involved with this case.”
It was at that moment that I knew what the decision of the courts would be.
“I’m getting too old for this,” I’d said. “I think I might retire once Henry’s…” I’d fought to find the right word. “…settled.”
I stroke his hair. He clutches raggy and sleepily rubs his ear. He looks so beautiful.
“Well poppet, this is it,” I whisper, kissing the chubby fingers that reach up to brush my face. “Let’s get you into your seat and take you to Mummy.”
He’s asleep almost before I reverse out of the drive. I remember the days and nights driving him round and round. That’s on the list: ‘If all else fails, take him for a drive. It always sends him to sleep.’ Please drive carefully though, I want to add – make sure he’s warm enough and that he’s fastened securely into his seat.
The sturdy plastic bag bearing Henry’s life is on the passenger seat. At the top is his clean raggy and the list. I stop the car for a moment at the end of the road. Is there anything I’ve forgotten? Something that can delay this journey for a little longer? But of course there isn’t. I sigh, turn on the windscreen wipers and pull out into the traffic.
The rain is easing when I park in front of the red brick building which houses the Social Services offices on the sixth floor. I’m a couple of minutes early. I glance in the rear view mirror. Henry’s eyes are closed – his chest gently rising and falling. Please stay asleep, I think. I don’t want to say goodbye to you; to see you reaching out for me.
There’s a final item I want to add to the list. I reach for the sheet of paper. It’s now that I realise I’ve forgotten my pen. Damn, damn, damn. A tear drop plops onto the page. I tut and wipe it away, leaving a grey smudge. Henry stirs in his seat. It’s time…
***
I blow my nose, check my reflection. What a wreck I look! A quick lick on a tissue and I rub away the stain of mascara from under my eyes.
I’ve delivered the still sleeping Henry to Mary. “I’ll go and get his stuff,” I said after placing his seat gently down. Then I fled from the room before my tears gave away my weakness.
Take a deep breath Jane, I tell myself. Calm down. That’s better. I lift the bag from the car. At least the rain’s stopped.
“Henry’s still sound asleep,” Mary says when I return to the sixth floor. “We’ve moved him into one of the other rooms, where it’s quieter.”
“But, he’ll be waking soon,” I protest. “He shouldn’t be on his own in a strange place.”
“His mother and her social worker are with him,” she says. “He’ll be fine.”
I flop onto a chair. “I hope so,” I say, my trembling voice giving me away.
Mary puts an arm round my shoulder. “I know this is hard but you’ve given Henry and so many others a chance in life. You’ve got so much love to give, Jane.”
I fight to retain my composure. “I just can’t do this again. It hurts too much.” My voice is barely above a whisper.
“That’s a pity,” Mary says, “because I’ve got a little lady who so needs someone to love her.” She puts a photograph in my hand. A pair of huge brown eyes stare out at me.
“Her name is Courtney. She’s six weeks old, and was found abandoned outside a health centre a few days ago. They’re now trying to trace the mother.”
I look again into the baby’s pleading eyes. “This isn’t fair, Mary.”
“You have a think about it,” she says. “Take the photograph with you.”
It’s as I’m about to leave Mary’s office, that I reach into my pocket for a tissue and my fingers close round a folded sheet of paper. It’s the list - I’ve forgotten to put it into Henry’s bag.
“Don’t worry,” Mary says, “I can pass it on.”
“There’s just one thing to add,” I say, picking up a pen from her desk.
Now I write, ‘You must love Henry every second of every day. He deserves nothing less.’, and I hand the list over.
It’s an hour later. I’m in the garden. The rain has disappeared and a shaft of sunlight lights up the patch of brilliant blue forget-me-nots.
“Goodbye, Henry,” I whisper. “I’ve done all I can for you.”
I reach into my pocket for my mobile and dial Mary’s number. “It’s about Courtney,” I say.
Back To
|
