A Brave Day for Harold Brown (The Harold Brown Series Book 1) Read online

  A Brave Day for Harold Brown

  By Mishana Khot

  © 2014 Mishana Khot

  All rights reserved.

  © 2014 Cover image by Arvind Mulam

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  For my mother, who read us bedtime stories every night

  Chapter 1

  On the morning of October the 18th, when Harold Brown woke up, it seemed just like any other day. He opened his eyes a few moments before the alarm clock rang, and lay under the quilt enjoying the warmth of his single bed. Winter was setting in and soon it would be snowing, but for now, it was just nippy enough to make you reluctant to push the warm blankets back. Harold reached out to pet Thomas Cat who slept curled up near his knee. Thomas Cat lifted his head and nudged Harold’s hand, purring softly in his throat.

  Oh well, time to get up. Harold sat up in bed and stretched slowly. The muscles in his neck clicked satisfactorily as he moved his head from side to side. He picked up his spectacles from the sideboard next to his bed, polished them on his night shirt, and slipped them on gravely. The far corners of the room suddenly appeared clearer to him, and Harold shuffled toward the bathroom to brush his teeth.

  Soon, Harold was in his kitchen, cracking an egg into a sizzling pan. Appreciative crunching sounds came from Thomas Cat who was enjoying a breakfast of cat nibbles in his own bowl. The toaster popped two slices of warm brown bread up and the sharp fragrance of brewing tea filled the kitchen. Harold lowered himself slowly into his chair at the small table and let out a small, comfortable sigh. His newspaper lay crisp and fresh, and as he unfolded it and lifted the cup for his first sip of tea, the day seemed just like any other.

  Little did Harold know, a strange new wind was blowing that morning.

  At the other end of town, not too far from where Harold lived, a circus was being set up. The travelling troupe had arrived late in the night, and was only now coming to life slowly. In the milky morning sunlight, a tent pole had been erected, and men were swarming around, hammering pegs into the ground and untangling tent ropes. A group of women examined the large candy-striped tarpaulin, repairing the damages from the last time it was up and strengthening seams that looked weak. Little children in raggedy clothes chased each other or their pet cats and dogs, giggling with excitement at the action around them. Behind the big tent stood several trucks and trailers, some brightly painted, some fading and worn. A tiger nodded drowsily in the corner of his cage. Two elephants emerged from the darkness of their trundling trailer, blinking at the sudden light. A gaggle of vibrantly hued macaws chattered at each other like a group of excited school girls. Other unidentifiable animal sounds emanated from the other trailers, but we shall return to them soon.

  Harold cut his toast into soldiers and buttered them, carefully spreading the butter to the edges of the bread. He disliked unevenly buttered toast almost as much as he disliked seeing a picture frame hanging crooked on the wall. It wasn’t that he was fussy; he merely disliked irregularity. He glanced down at the newspaper beside his plate and an advertisement caught his eye.

  “Need a dose of the unusual in your life? Come to BonBon Circus this evening and we’ll give you an evening you won’t forget! Meet the Fat Lady from Japan! We have tigers, elephants and many other wondrous creatures from faraway, exotic countries! Laugh out loud with our clowns! And stare in wonder at our Rubber Girl who can contort her body into amazing shapes!”

  Too many exclamation points, thought Harold, shaking his head. He looked at the advertisement for a minute. Harold was not in the least bit curious about seeing the Fat Lady or Rubber Girl – in fact he was quite sure he’d feel a little sick if anyone contorted their bodies in front of him – but he wouldn’t have minded seeing a real tiger once in his life. However, circuses were not for people like Mr Brown, who walked to work to avoid the press of bodies against his in the train or bus. He looked at his watch and rose. It was time to put on his coat and depart to his office, leaving Thomas Cat dozing on the sofa.

  As Harold set off, locking the door firmly behind him (Thomas Cat had gotten out once and had been lost for an entire evening, causing Mr Brown severe distress), the wind lifted the brim of his plain brown coat and tugged at it. Harold didn’t like the wind. It riffled through his neat hair and unsettled him with its blatant lack of discipline. But this morning, it seemed to remind him of something from his past. He couldn’t quite place it, and not being one to indulge in sentimentality, he shook it off and started walking briskly to work.

  Chapter 2

  Mr Brown worked as an editor at the local newspaper. It was a job that suited him perfectly. Sheets of paper that needed to be carefully looked over would appear on his desk every morning, methodically arranged in files by his assistant, Mrs Springer. All day, he sat and worked painstakingly over the rows of neatly typed words, making small marks with a perfectly sharpened pencil to correct the language. Younger journalists tended to exaggerate, to sensationalize the news, and he felt it his duty to make sure that the newspaper reported the news in an impartial manner, as was proper.

  Every morning, he walked in at precisely 9 a.m. and greeted Mrs Springer politely. She’d nod at him, maybe exchange a comment about the weather, and then Mr Brown would retreat to his desk. He always felt safe behind the solid wood structure. For fifteen years, he had had his own corner, away from all the noise and camaraderie of the rest of the room. His desk was tucked away behind a pillar, just beside a window that looked down on the street, and he was always relieved to make it to his place without talking to anyone except Mrs Springer. Once he sat down, he could work quietly until it was time to go home at 5 p.m.

  The reporters streamed in and out all day, boisterous and self-important. They laughed and joked with each other across the desks with a lack of restraint that Mr Brown wondered at. He didn’t take part in the office banter, and never joined them when they went out in chattering groups for drinks after work. It had never been easy for him to make conversation with anyone, and now, at fifty-five, he simply felt too awkward, especially with people who made it look so effortless.

  Five years ago, when he was informed that he was to receive an assistant, he’d felt mildly relieved. It had been getting too much for him of late, to classify and sort all the sheaves of paper that accumulated on his desk and then work on them. An assistant would help him with that, leaving Mr Brown free to focus on his job. He didn’t enjoy the thought of interacting with someone on a daily basis, but was sure that a few gentle words of advice would be enough to train a polite young man who was keen on working with the local newspaper. He even started to look forward to mentoring the Polite Young Man and would stop work sometimes, in the days before the assistant was to join, to look at the desk in front of his and think modestly of the many ways in which he could offer guidance.

  But when Mrs Springer introduced herself one Monday morning, Mr Brown was completely flabbergasted. Although he would never describe his emotions in that terribly undignified manner. He walked in at his regular time and saw a woman seated at the empty desk in front of his. He always entered earlier than anyone else in office because he appreciated the silence before his colleagues started bouncing in. But here she was, sitting there before he arrived, and his precious few moments of solitude were lost.

  The woman had turned at his footsteps
and stood up. Her hair was a soft brown, like her eyes, and she had an air of calm about her. Smiling and extending her hand, she introduced herself as his assistant and Mr Brown turned pink with alarm. He would have to interact with HER, not with the Polite Young Man he had envisioned. When he had made the necessary noises, he walked to his desk, still upset and stealing glances at her every now and then to assure himself that she was still there. It had been five years since that day, and he had only mourned the loss of his Polite Young Man for a few weeks. Mrs Springer was a professional and competent assistant, and fulfilled her duties diligently. He never had to ask for anything twice, and she was quick to understand his preferences.

  At exactly 10.30 a.m. and 3.30 p.m., Mrs Springer would bring him a cup of tea, and he’d take a break to lean back in his chair and sip it slowly, gazing down at his desk. His desk was made of rich brown walnut, and gleamed with polish. It gave him great pleasure to contemplate it, sitting there sturdily, with neat stacks of files and his pencils arranged at perfect right angles to the paper he was working on. A desk calendar stood solemnly next to a serious clock, giving the impression of two soldiers guarding him as he worked. Sometimes, if he needed a break from work, he’d peer out of his window at the building opposite and watch the tiny people who walked about busily inside. He knew it was the headquarters of the local bank and wondered if his regularly deposited savings were making their way to the desks there.

  At 1 p.m., he would lay his pencil down to take lunch. It was always a ham and cheese sandwich packed carefully into a brown paper bag along with an apple or an orange, and a bag of crisps, an indulgence he permitted himself daily. Once Mrs Springer moved to the desk opposite, he grew conscious of crunching his crisps too noisily or rustling the bag too much, so he stopped bringing them in and felt like his lunch was incomplete. Then Mrs Springer made her own circle of friends in the office and joined them at their desks for lunch. After that, the daily packet of crisps made a regular appearance.

  As the clock inched towards 5 p.m., Mr Brown would find himself wondering what Thomas Cat was doing, and feel a strong inclination to go home. He tried to concentrate because it was unprofessional to be thinking of his armchair and television while he was at work, but it was difficult even for his disciplined mind. As soon as his clock struck 5 p.m., Mr Brown would rise, put on his coat and pick up his bag. Wishing Mrs Springer a good day, he’d depart quietly and turn into the street, enjoying the moderately brisk pace he set for his walk home.

  Chapter 3

  Mrs Springer made it a point to get to work before Mr Brown did, so that she could prepare for her day. She also liked it, she admitted to herself, that he was vaguely discomfited to see her sitting there when he walked in. Mrs Springer guessed that he’d liked being the first one in office every day, and took a small delight in causing ripples in the smooth, unmoving waters of his life.

  Her work was easy. Stories and articles typed by the writers came to her desk in loose leaves of paper. All she had to do in the mornings was sort the articles into files tagged with Editorials, Features, Headlines, Fiction section, and Miscellaneous. After that, Mr Brown would work on them to make sure they were perfect, and she incorporated his changes, deciphering his notations and symbols, and typing out the finished articles to hand in.

  Mr Brown started making preparations to leave for the day at precisely 4.58 p.m. She could set her watch to him, Mrs Springer thought. He stopped politely at her desk to wish her before he left, and she struck up a conversation with him.

  “Off for the day then, Mr Brown?” She cast a look out of the window. “It doesn’t seem like the wind has died down at all, has it?”

  “No, Mrs Springer, it appears quite strong still.” Mr Brown cast about for something wittier to say. “I suppose it will rain soon.” Inwardly he cringed. Witty, he’d hoped for.

  “Well, I hope it improves by this weekend. Some of us here are planning to visit the circus.”

  “Oh, yes, well, splendid.” He looked at the door longingly, already feeling like a lamp-post towering awkwardly over her.

  “Would you like to come with us, Mr Brown?” Mrs Springer always asked if he would join them, knowing full well that he would refuse.

  “Oh, erm, let’s see, shall we? I do have some things to do this weekend…” His voice died away. He knew he wouldn’t know what to say if she asked him what it was, exactly, that he wanted to do that weekend.

  But Mrs Springer accepted gracefully. “Well, if you change your mind, do let me know. I know the young ones here would be happy to have you join us.” Mrs Springer didn’t say that she thought the ‘young ones’ would be terribly amused if Mr Brown did join them. They were affectionate about him, but viewed him almost as part of the office furniture.

  Mr Brown nodded and beat a hasty retreat, looking visibly relieved. Outside, he had to lean forward into the wind so that it didn’t buffet him about, and pull his coat closer around him. What was it about the wind that brought to mind something of his childhood? It whipped at his face, throwing his neatly combed hair into disarray, forcing him to stop every now and then to pat it down again.

  All the lamp-posts on his way home displayed freshly-plastered posters announcing the opening of BonBon Circus tomorrow. Each picture showed a different attraction that was on offer. He slowed down as he passed a picture of a tiger staring out of the poster at him. ‘Come and be amazed by the exotic majesty of the Indian Tiger!’ the poster said. Mr Brown was fascinated by the vibrant contrast between the red-orange fur and the darkest stripes that marked it. The next lamp-post featured the Rubber Girl, bending over backwards to peer out at onlookers through her knees, and it struck him as vaguely indecent. He hurried on, hoping nobody thought he had lingered to stare at her.

  Once he left the more crowded city streets, he slowed his pace and began to relax. As always, he began to ponder what to make for dinner. A nice steak, he thought. With some steamed vegetables and a bit of custard for dessert. He made his usual stop at the grocer’s shop to pick up only enough fresh fruit, vegetables and meat for one day, and found himself thinking about that tiger. There was a book shop that he usually passed on his way home and today, he stopped there and stepped inside, setting the bells above the door tinkling. About half an hour later, he left, carrying a package wrapped in brown paper.

  That evening, after dinner, Harold was distracted as he watched television with Thomas Cat on his knee. Eventually he placed Thomas Cat gently on the floor, rose and went to his bookshelf, searching for something in particular. When he sat down again, Thomas Cat was miffed to find that the large Encyclopaedia Britannica on Harold’s lap took up the space he had occupied recently. Thomas Cat walked stiffly over to his rug and settled on it huffily, turning his face away from Harold. But Harold was busy and didn’t notice. He ran his finger down the index and leafed over to the page he was looking for: T for Tiger.

  An hour later, if someone were to peep in at his window, they’d see Thomas Cat on the rug, and Harold Brown, dressed comfortably in striped pyjamas and a cosy dressing gown, deeply engrossed in a book with a tiger on the cover. A package lay opened on the rug beside his chair, spilling with books. All the books seemed to be about tigers.

  Chapter 4

  Mr Brown’s pencil hung suspended in mid-air. It was 11 a.m. on a Tuesday morning, and he had just decided that he would make his way to the circus that evening. The spontaneity of it had taken him aback. He never did something like this. It was almost as if someone else had made the decision for him.

  He permitted himself a small smile and began to scratch his pencil on the paper again. When the next article was a short piece exhorting the readers to visit the circus, it was almost as though the universe were sending him a sign. If one actually believed in that sort of thing. If he’d thought about it, Harold would’ve realized that he hadn’t wanted something so much in a long time.

  That evening, he worked until exactly 5 p.m., then pulled on his coat, and, wishing Mrs Springer a go
od evening, headed out into the gusts of wind blowing down the Main Street. The town stood on a hill, exposing it to the full force of the wind. In the papers, he’d read that BonBon Circus was set up in Limberlost Bowl, just a few minutes out of town, in a depression between hills. It was a considerable walk but with the wind blowing hard, it would take slightly longer. Harold buttoned his coat up, pulled his hat brim down to shield his eyes, and set off firmly.

  The Indian tiger, Harold knew from his reading last night, could weigh over 500 pounds. That was almost as heavy as … Harold searched for a comparison to something he knew. A piano! An Indian tiger could weigh more than a piano. He didn’t think he had ever seen an animal that weighed more than a piano. Harold had only seen pictures of India in magazines: small children with big brown eyes, women in colourful drapes walking across dry and cracked earth, emaciated men holding out tin cups. His mind swirled with these images, unable to bring them to vivid life or picture himself in the midst of such a foreign landscape.

  It was with dismay that Harold slowed down when he approached Limberlost Bowl where the circus stood. Usually the Bowl was empty, a rolling stretch of green grass edged with Limberlost Woods. Tonight though, it was filled with people. The opening night of the circus! How could that have slipped his mind? Dozens of people moved about on the green slopes, all talking or exclaiming loudly, calling to one another, standing in groups or running up to meet friends. A cheerful tune with a tinny quality carried in the wind over to where Harold had stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t realized that he would have to make his way through these crowds to see the tiger. He hadn’t realized he would probably meet people he knew, that he would have to stop and greet them and make conversation.