Fear

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 word of advice, Mrs James. Let her talk about Harry. Let her become accustomed to confiding in you. I gather you’ve shown some disapproval of this “brother” of hers so she doesn’t talk much to you about him. He makes wooden toys, doesn’t he, Chris?’

‘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 h

ouse 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.’