The Trouble With Harry (11 page)
The small boy named Abie climbed the woodland path that led to Sparrowswick Heath. His body lay at an acute angle with the steep and stony way, a toy gun was clutched firmly beneath his left arm.
He left the dark tunnel of the woodland path for the broad paths of the heath. Splendid paths bordered by a tangle of blue heather and wild snapdragons; paths where rabbits could hop when the sun went out and where hares could race recklessly yet safely on bright mornings. Also a million little paths that darted and flitted and curled and twisted and climbed and tumbled about all over the place without any
definite plan or notion. Paths to lead the unwary into an entanglement of brambles, or sweethearts into quiet places. They led Abie to Harry.
When he saw the corpse lying there he was surprised and annoyed because he clearly remembered coming across it before; was it tomorrow, or just now? He didn’t know. The man was sprawled on his back and Abie nearly stepped on him. A big man with a moustache and wavy hair. On his forehead there was a neatly cut piece of sticking plaster and in his breast pocket was a newly ironed white handkerchief. He was a most immaculate corpse.
Abie hesitated before turning back. He stooped and tried to lift the body by the shoulders, but found it impossible. He stood there, undecided.
On the opposite side of the path, hidden by the bracken and shrubbery, three people were staring anxiously at the small boy, trying to will him to run home and tell his mother. These three were Captain Albert Wiles, Miss Graveley and Sam Marlow. Eventually Abie did reluctantly turn and plod towards home, his gun at the trail.
When he had gone the new captain turned to
his companions and winked, putting his thumbs up expressively. Sam smiled and beckoned them out on to the path.
They stood for a moment in silent farewell of the body.
Miss Graveley turned to the new captain and there was a happy light in her eyes. ‘What is your first name, Captain Wiles?’ she asked.
‘Albert,’ said Captain Wiles.
‘Albert,’ said Miss Graveley, ‘take my arm.’
Captain Wiles took her arm and cocked his head to one side. ‘Can you hear them bells?’ he asked joyfully.
‘They’re not bells,’ Sam said, leading the way into the woods. ‘I have an orchestra in my head – listen!’
He sang: ‘
I want to carve your name on every tree
…’
Soon they were gone, but the song remained on the heath. It dwelt in the bracken and the grassy glades; it soared through the highest branches of the trees and it whispered amongst the blue heather, gladdening the hearts of all the little creatures.
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J
ACK
T
REVOR
S
TORY
was born in Hertford in 1917 and was published prolifically from the 1940s to the 1970s. Respected by many in the media, he wrote a weekly column for
The Guardian
in the 1970s and appeared on TV in the series
Jack on the Box
as well as writing several screenplays before his death in 1991.
Allison & Busby Limited
12 Fitzroy Mews
London W1T 6DW
www.allisonandbusby.com
First published in Great Britain in 1949.
This ebook edition published by Allison & Busby in 2013.
Copyright © 1949 by J
ACK
T
REVOR
S
TORY
Introduction © 2013 by M
ICHAE
L
M
OORCOCK
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–1467–4
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