Harry's Mysterious Visitor
It was late afternoon on a damp, cold and gloomy day and beginning to get dark. A light mist hung in the air which was now slowly falling and obscuring the familiar local landmarks. Pools of light from the street lights were already failing to penetrate the darker shadows creeping out from the buildings, blurring the shapes on either side of the street. A strange quietness was descending, and those sounds that could be heard seemed muffled and eerie. And that is when it all began to happen. A light 'tap tap' on the window which grew steadily louder and louder and then, just as suddenly stopped. There was a momentary silence followed by the sound of shuffling feet and a loud 'knock knock' at the door. Harry sighed at the interuption, put down his book and got up from his chair next to a warm cosy log fire. He answered the door.
Harry drew back the bolt, turned the handle and cautiously opened the door a little way. He was not expecting any visitors, certainly not on an afternoon like this. The light spilled out from the room behind him onto the doorstep and in front of him stood a slightly dishevelled figure dressed in what looked like an old Edwardian style dress and wearing bright red leather boots with three-inch heels. A pair of spectacles was perched precariously on top of her head and twinkling blue eyes and an ever widening smile stared back at him.
"Hello, Harry" the figure said, "don't be alarmed. I do hope I have arrived in time for tea."
That must explain all, he thought to himself looking at a woman standing before him. But who was she. She was not a young woman, but not exactly old either. There seemed to be something vaguely familiar about her, and yet nothing he could quite put his finger on. Before Harry had the chance to reply she picked up a large faded and well-worn Gladstone bag resting at her feet, pushed past him and dropped into the armchair by the fireside. His armchair, the one he had just been comfortably sitting in.
"A pot of tea would be nice. There's a darling. Then we need to talk, don't we? And you can warm and butter these."
She held out a plate of scones plucked from the depths of the Gladstone bag and placed it on a small table nearby. This was becoming surreal. Further rummaging in her bag produced a well-thumbed notebook and a pencil all held together with an elastic band which she placed on her lap. As she opened the notebook a photograph fell onto the floor and landed face up. He glanced down and stared in disbelief at the image of the man who smiled back at him. It was a picture of himself and a recent one too.
The mysterious visitor caught the puzzled expression on his face as he stood there rooted to the spot, one hand on the open door.
"Well," she smiled, "you did n't think I would keep a picture of a complete stranger close to my heart, did you? Oh, my darling, my Romeo," she continued, her smile getting wider, her tongue seductively touching her red lips. "Do close the door. And when you've made the tea and warmed the scones, mmm some strawberry jam from the cupboard would be nice, could you put another log on the fire? It's cold out there without a coat in this weather you know. Be a love and help me off with these new boots. They're killing me. Oh, don't just stand there, Harry, and stop staring! "
"How do you know my name? Who are you, what do you want, why are you here?"
"Darling," her voice lingered for a while on the final syllable. "So many questions. Come, come. Surely you know. It's me, and now I've come back to you."
"Yes, but who..."
"Sweet cheeks. How long have we known each other now? Walking out, just the two of us. You and me. Drifting along, holding hands, side by side, together. That first kiss. Don't you remember, don't you recognise me, huh."
"What......."
"Oh, my Romeo, stop pretending." She gave a mock pout of indignation and folded her arms pushing up her ample bosom until it came dangerously close to falling out the top of her dress. "Harry! I'm the lady in your dreams. That's what you called me."
"My dreams! I have never set eyes on you before."
"Oh, my darling Harry, you have. Oh, yes you have, and so much more besides. Oh, so much more. You come and call on me each night and whisk me away to all these different places and exotic locations far and wide. So now it is my turn. I have come to call on you, to see you, to stay with you, to be with you, my darling. Not just in your dreams at night, but here and now and through your days. We can be together now, forever and forever, for all eternity. Come here, don't you want to give me a kiss? You did last night. Oh, go and put the kettle on then."
He finally pushed the door closed and leant against it, his head touching the wooden door frame. He could feel the handle pressing into his back and somehow the momentary pain felt re-assuring. He shut his eyes tightly, breathed deeply. What was happening? His head was spinning. Who was this woman? Why was his mind playing such tricks? He was dreaming. It had to be a dream. He was tired and must have dozed off reading by the fire. None of this was real. It was not happening. He opened his eyes. The chair by the fire was empty. He breathed out again, relaxed.
"Darling, the teapot, where is it? I can't wait all afternoon and I do so much want to sit by the fire with you and hold your hand." The voice came from the kitchen. "And the kettle for the stove? Everything looks so different now."
No! He had to put a stop to this nonsense once and for all. He started for the kitchen and then stopped. The picture was still on the floor, his own face smiling back at him, as if taunting him. He bent down, angry now, grabbed it and flung it into the fire. It caught light immediately, curling up as it burnt, a vivid blue flare against the orange and yellow flames. His own cheeks suddenly seemed to burn and his whole face tingled as if a hundred needles were pricking him. A cry went up from the kitchen, a long piercing wail full of deep loss and anguish. It became a scream that wrenched at your very being and made the soul shudder. Harry spun round and sensed a figure brush past and rush out of the door and into the night. A cold blast of air hit his hot cheeks and suddenly all was quiet again.
Harry slammed the door, locked it and walked over to the fireplace. He slumped wearily back into the armchair and heaved a sigh. Then he noticed the worn Gladstone bag.
........................................
Over the weeks that followed the memories of that autumnal afternoon and the strange lady in red boots slowly faded. Harry put it down to a mixture of dozing in front of a warm fire and his mind playing tricks. There were a few questions in Harry's mind that remained unanswered and locked away at the back of his mind. Well at least for now. True, there had been a couple of minor strange little incidents since, but he had merely dismissed them and put it down to 'forgetfulness'. And the Gladstone bag? Harry had thrown it back into the attic. Well, he must have got it down from there in the first place for a reason. The trouble was that reason escaped him for now. Now, if he had only taken the time to look inside.
The accident had been a serious one. Harry had spent several uncomfortable months in a hospital bed with the associated boredom and frustration that a slow recovery brings. Thankfully this was behind him and the recent weeks spent at home had been far more palatable. He was getting out the house more now, a regular stroll each morning, gradually venturing a little further each day. His strength and fitness was returning and he was starting to feel more like his old self again.
Today Harry felt particularly cheery. The morning was bright and sunny, a clear blue sky with the odd fluffy white cloud. It was cold, but not frosty, with a light breeze just enough to blow away the cobwebs. He had adopted a slightly new routine. A walk, weather permitting, via differing routes to the paper shop and then to the village tea room to sit for a while reading his paper and enjoying a warming large mug of coffee or even hot chocolate. He looked at himself in the mirror and smiled, adjusted his hat and scarf, buttoned his coat, opened and then locked the front door behind him and set off. He walked briskly turning the corner and heading away from the high street. The postman waved him a jolly 'good morning' as he propped his bicycle against the wall to begin his deliveries. The lady from a few doors up smiled as he passed and called out to him to ask if he was well and what a lovely morning for a walk. It all seemed so normal.
Harry crossed the road and turned right sucking the cold air deep into his lungs. It felt good. In front of him stood the village church set on a piece of higher ground and separated from the road and footpath by a stone wall. A pretty 16th century church with a small squat steeple and a stone porch. In spring the graveyard was a mass of bright yellow daffodils with small islands of snowdrops and crocuses under the few trees that stood amongst the silent gravestones. Harry glanced across through the low wooden gates as he hurried past. He did not see the solitary figure of a lady standing under the branches of a bare tree watching him pass. A lady without a coat, a lady he should have recognised for she was wearing a familiar looking Edwardian style dress and a pair of red boots.
Twenty minutes later and Harry was seated at a table in the village tea room, grateful for a rest. Buoyed on by the crisp sunny morning he had walked a little further than he had meant to, so by way of a reward he had treated himself to a large piece of carrot cake and was sipping a steaming mug of caf latte. He was the only customer at the moment. Several nearby tables were set out with folded white napkins and blue and white crockery waiting for the small group of regular ladies who met for morning coffee and to chat twice a week. A selection of pastries and cakes on tiered cake plates were set out in readiness. A log fire crackled and burnt in the grate of a large open fireplace. He glanced at his watch. The ladies were creatures of habit and soon the bell attached to the door would begin to tinkle and dance announcing their arrival for their little get together.
The thought of them sitting there talking twenty to the dozen, a gaggle of voices rising and falling in volume depending on the topic of conversation made him smile. Harry turned to the sports page of his paper to look at last night's football results and in caught a teaspoon with his sleeve and sent it spinning to land with a clatter on the wooden floor. He bent down to pick it up and that is when he saw the red boots. One booted foot was tapping the floor impatiently. He looked up taking in the red boots, the Edwardian style dress, folded arms and a tight lipped expression with blue eyes that had now lost their twinkle.
"Well, my Romeo, this is a pretty to do. Deserting me like that. Did you think I would let you, did you think you could merely dismiss me and I would just go away, disappear for good. Oh no, my Romeo. Oh, no. I have been lonely without you. I have come back for you, my darling. We have lots to talk about, much to do together. So that earlier promise of a pot of tea and warm scone would be most welcome. Now where has that waitress got to?"
He involuntarily twisted round following her line of sight as her eyes searched round looking for the waitress. As he did so the bell behind the door jangled as the first of the ladies came in for morning coffee.
"Look, it's that nice gentleman, though looking a little pale today. I do hope he's not been overdoing it too soon. And all on his own too. Do you think we should invite him over, dear."
It was said in one of those ways where it was never quite clear whether the speaker was actually talking directly to you or merely passing comment for all to hear. Harry turned to see the two smiling ladies standing in front of him. Neither was wearing red boots, and there was no one else to be seen.
Harry's departure from the village tea room was made quite hastily and he hoped he had not appeared rude. He could always apologize later. He wanted to get home. He needed to think, to try and put things into some sort of perspective. What was happening to him. Who was this lady in red boots? Was she real, or imaginary? How could she be real. She must be imaginary. Was he going mad, seeing things, imagining things, these occurrences? Everything seemed so real, so solid, and yet how could it be. There must be an explanation. He needed to think.
Harry reached home almost without realising. His mind felt in turmoil, his head was spinning. He unlocked the front door, went inside, and leant back on the closed door. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath and held it for what seemed ages. He opened his eyes, exhaled with a sigh and told himself this was ridiculous.
He bent down to pick up the mail where it had landed on the mat by his feet and turned the envelopes over in his hand. The top one was hand written, no stamp, and no postmark. It merely said in bold copperplate writing 'To Romeo'.
He sat down quickly, sank into the armchair and stared again at the envelope clutched in his hand. He realised he was shaking the handwriting dancing before his eyes, as if mocking him, almost daring him to open it. He turned the envelope over and lifted the flap. It was not stuck down. Inside was a card, a white card edged with black. He slowly pulled the card out and started to read: "It is with a heavy heart and deepest regret I write to inform you of the sad and unexpected loss of my dearest Harold, 'Harry'......."
He tore the card and envelope up into small pieces and flung them into the fireplace on top of the unlit coals and logs. He felt cold, chilled to the bone, colder than he had ever felt before. He imagined it felt as it might if someone was walking over your grave. He glanced towards the window but a sudden shaft of bright sunlight and tears in his eyes made him look away and close his eyes. He did not see the face behind the glass, those blue eyes twinkling again or those red lips parted in a smile watching him. The pain in his chest was too great, and Harry never opened his eyes again.
The doctor ushered the man into the room and gestured for him sit down before sitting down next to him.
"My condolences, I am very sorry. Your father passed away 30 minutes ago. There was nothing more we could do. It was very peaceful, he felt no pain."
"I suppose it's for the best," the son said. "Not regaining full consciousness for all those months after his accident. I wish I could have got here sooner, just that one last time." The son's voice trailed off.
"Oh," the doctor continued, "there was someone with him when he died. A frequent visitor over the last few weeks and days, a lady, an old friend I think. She would just come, sit quietly holding his hand and talk to him for a while and then go, disappear almost. I'm sorry I did n't manage to speak to her. You must have just passed her in the corridor. An elegant looking lady, very striking in an Edwardian style dress and red boots and she always had a Gladstone bag with her. She dropped this on her way out; an old photograph of them in their younger days perhaps."
He handed the picture to the son. He recognised his father, Harry, much younger of course, sitting under a tree surrounded by daffodils, but not the lady or where it was taken. He turned it over. 'My darling Romeo' it said in faded copperplate writing.
The funeral at the village church was a few days later. In the shade of a tree by the cemetery wall a couple stood hand in hand, surrounded by daffodils watching the funeral, the slow walk to the graveside, and the mourners in their grief following the coffin. As they watched the man slowly turned to the woman next to him, kissed her gently and squeezed her hand. She was dressed in an Edwardian style dress and wearing red boots. In one hand she held a Gladstone bag. She was smiling and her blue eyes twinkled in the morning sunshine.