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

  Harold was about to change his mind and turn around, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the wind bringing about a change in him, blowing away years of repetitive routine. Maybe it was the sounds of a happy and free crowd that told him that it wouldn’t be that bad. Maybe it was simply that Harold HAD to see the tiger. But as he stood there on a patch of grass overlooking the clearing before Wilson Wood, Harold decided that the tiger would be worth it. He took a deep breath, adjusted his hat, and started off down the path towards BonBon circus.

  The wind slowed as Harold walked towards the circus, sheltered by the hills around it. As he entered the milling crowds, he realized it had seemed less overwhelming when viewed from the top of the hill. Now that he was amongst them, Harold could feel the energy pulsating around him. The music was loud and grated on his ears and sounds of whooping and laughter mixed with it. A little boy with a shiny face ran past him, brushing past so close that Harold stepped back suddenly. A group of teenagers sidestepped to avoid him, and turned to look at him and giggle. Harold felt out of place and silly. Nobody else stood alone, as he did. Couples walked past, arms draped over shoulders or fingers entwined. Families moved in small groups, children circling their parents like satellites. Friends walked together, their strides matching perfectly. He felt as though people were looking at him, and was about to back away and go home. But then he saw it.

  The tiger’s cage.

  As if by magic, Harold’s anxiety disappeared. It was as if the music faded and the crowd melted away. All he saw was the tiger, sitting in the corner of the cage, with a head larger than Harold had imagined. Harold walked up to the cage slowly. The tiger’s fur was thick and bright yellow. Each paw looked as big as Harold’s head. Harold had read that a tiger could kill with a swipe of one paw, and this looked entirely possible. Its head was turned away from the people standing and staring, almost as if the tiger had turned its back on them. Harold’s eyes slid to them. They were hooting to get the tiger’s attention. One little boy was picking up tiny pebbles and skittering them into the cage, trying in vain to reach the tiger. The tiger only turned further into his shadowy corner, leaving just a thick tail visible.

  In a whoosh, the trance lifted and Harold could hear the music again. The crowds began to press in on him, and he turned and walked away rapidly. But Harold was already hooked and he knew he would have to come back.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning, Harold awoke to the sound of his alarm ringing. It had been a long time since he’d needed an alarm clock, waking up as he did at the same time for over twenty years now. But last night, as he lay in bed, meditatively stroking Thomas Cat and thinking about the tiger, he had decided to visit it in the morning, before circus-goers got there. He’d set his alarm for an hour earlier than usual, and gone to sleep with a distinct feeling of anticipation. For the first time in decades, Mr Brown woke up and didn’t make a proper breakfast. He shaved and dressed methodically, packed his lunch, fed Thomas Cat, and then hurried off in the direction of Limberlost Bowl and BonBon Circus.

  A shimmery morning mist still hung in the air, hemmed in by the Bowl and the woods on the side. There were far fewer people on the streets, and the cold wind whipped through Harold’s coat and stung his cheeks. He felt invigorated and strong. It felt like the wind was going deep within and blowing away fallen leaves that had been gathering in his soul. Harold tried to find a less maudlin way to phrase it to himself, but the image was too strong. When he reached the top of Limberlost Bowl, he paused to take a deep lungful of clean air, and had to hold himself back from throwing his arms out like a warrior. That had been a good walk.

  All thoughts disappeared as he neared the tiger’s cage. He saw that the tiger was pacing about, its massive head held high, paws treading softly and yet menacingly. Harold looked around for a place to seat himself, and settled on a barrel nearby. He didn’t think he wanted to go too close. Not because he was nervous – the bars looked very strong indeed – but because it didn’t seem right to go too close. He dusted the barrel off with his handkerchief, tested it with his hands to see if it would stay upright, and then gingerly placed himself on it. He looked up at the tiger and realized with a start, it was staring right back at him.

  Harold felt hypnotized by the great amber eyes. He looked at the tiger quietly, not moving, sensing that the tiger was weighing him. The tiger had stopped its pacing and stood facing Mr Brown, who was transfixed. He felt as though he couldn’t move. The animal was so vital, so alive. Strength and power flowed fluidly through its body. It seemed like it was from another world, or at least, not of Mr Brown’s world. Images of India flitted again through Harold’s head: dusty deserts with fierce heat blazing down onto yellow sand; towering mountains scattered with the small shacks of people who inexplicably chose to live on their slopes; wild jungles filled with snakes, insects and animals, the likes of which Mr Brown could only imagine.

  For a minute, man and beast steadily looked into each other’s eyes. If someone had walked past at that moment, it would have been hard to tell which had hypnotized the other. Something about the stillness of Mr Brown soothed the tiger. Mr Brown seemed filled with calm and didn’t race around the cage, calling out or making strange actions. Mr Brown just sat there, mildly looking at the tiger. The tiger suddenly lowered its strong haunches, sitting down in a manner so reminiscent of Thomas Cat that Mr Brown was moved to smile. The tiger watched him, and Mr Brown watched the tiger.

  “Oi, whatchu doing here?” A voice startled Mr Brown out of his reverie. A large woman with a large bust stood behind him, hands on her ample hips. He hadn’t even heard her approach.

  Mr Brown stood in a hurry. “I’m terribly sorry. I only came to….er… see the tiger.” He was filled with confusion, realizing how odd he looked, caught in the early hours of the morning, staring at the tiger.

  “Came to see th’tiger?” The woman’s eyes narrowed. She wore big sparkling earrings, and the beads danced every time she changed expression.

  “Yes. I…I came by yesterday, but it was too crowded. So I …erm…. thought I’d come by when there were less people around.” By now the tiger sensed Mr Brown’s discomfort and was slowly lifting itself to stand.

  “Well, we don’t like people hangin’ around ‘ere. We ‘ave kids ‘ere, see.”

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean any harm” Mr Brown started to pick up his bag and back away. “I’ll leave right away.”

  The woman relaxed suddenly, her pink face wreathed with a smile. “Oh, it’s alright, dearie. I know you don’t mean no ‘arm.” Her eyes skimmed over his very proper suit, his neat tie and his tidily parted hair. “You don’t look like you’d be kidnappin’ our kids.”

  “Good Lord. Certainly not!” Mr Brown was horrified.

  “Well, we ‘ad some trouble a few months ago, so it’s only nacheral we’d be keepin’ an eye open. You take a look around if you want to, dearie.”

  “No, no, I must be going. Late for work. Thank you all the same.” Mr Brown rushed away, leaving the large lady staring after him, an amused look on her face.

  He walked to the top of the hill to join the main road and was rudely buffeted by the wind. Steadying himself, he turned for one last look at the tiger, and then turned back toward office. It must have been the wind that brought back memories of his childhood, because they suddenly came in a flash, images pushing each other in their rush to be first. One autumn month in particular. That’s what had been tugging at the back of his mind all week.

  Chapter 6

  Harold was nine years old that autumn, and his most precious possession was the blue bicycle he’d just been given for his birthday. He’d had a red tricycle for too long, and knew he didn’t need those extra wheels any more. But his mother, always cautious, made him keep the wheels on for a year longer than the rest of his class. He was teased mercilessly about it, and called Baby Harry by freckle-faced Eddie Block and gang. But because Harold never responded or turned red or started crying, eve
ntually Eddie and his gang would get bored and saunter off looking for little girls with pigtails to pull.

  So it was with excitement that Harold walked out into the front yard with his father on the morning of his ninth birthday. He knew what he was getting – his parents had discussed it with each other first, and then with him to make sure that was what he wanted. Harold thanked his father correctly, gave his mother a dutiful kiss on her cheek, and asked for permission to ride it before breakfast.

  After the first few shaky trials down the road, Harold began venturing further afield and gathering courage. He was soon cycling confidently down to the fields outside his town. He often wished for a dog to accompany him, but Mother was allergic and he didn’t want to make her ill, did he? But Mother wasn’t there to prevent him from stopping to pet all the sheep dogs he passed on his rides, and he was soon spending his pocket money on bread to feed his canine friends.

  Harold on the bicycle was very different from Harold at home. Father still followed the military regimen of his time in the Army, before he was injured and had to come home and work in a newspaper shop. Everything that normal families did, Harold’s family did, with one exception: everything was planned down to the minute.

  Routine, Father said. It’s all about routine. Once you establish a routine and stick to it, it brings stability to your life. So the Brown family did everything according to what the clock said it was time to do: ate their meals, went to school and work, watched television and bathed. But once he was on his bicycle (allowed for two hours after school because it was exercise), Harold was free of clocks and routines and could do as he pleased.

  Every day, Harold cycled as far as he could, his skinny legs pumping, not stopping until his breath came in short ragged bursts. He loved the feeling of being able to escape into a world where he wasn’t expected to make conversation, not teased for being strange. The trees and birds around him didn’t laugh at him, and the dogs were delighted to see him.

  And then one day, he cycled straight into a gypsy camp.

  He hadn’t expected it. The previous day he’d cycled right past the same glen, and today, there they were, with caravans parked and looking like they’d been there for years. Men sat on the steps of the caravans, dressed in strange clothes, and played guitars or fiddled with wood carvings. Women stood in groups, talking to each other or bent over huge pots that hung over fires. He’d been warned by his parents not to go near the gypsies, because they kidnapped little children. But here he was, and the gypsies were turning to stare at him.

  Harold gulped. It took only a few seconds for some gypsy children to run up and start chattering to him. They looked like strange woodland creatures, with big shining brown eyes, tangled hair and copper skin. They spoke in a language he didn’t understand, but he smiled uncertainly at them. They smiled back, and pulled him into their game, and within minutes, he was laughing out loud. The adults watched warily, and then, detecting no threat, turned back to their groups or guitars. Harold had never felt so accepted, so much a part of the group already. He didn’t feel like the odd one out. He didn’t feel he had to talk. And for once, he was staring just as hard at the other children as they were at him.

  Harold had to go home at six o’clock, just like he’d promised Mother, but all evening he hugged his secret to himself. When he went to bed, he smiled to himself until he fell asleep. The next day at school passed in a blur because he couldn’t wait to get back on his cycle and meet his new friends. And when he went back, they were just as welcoming.

  By the end of the week, Harold was even eating with the gypsies. He was a picky eater at home, not enjoying the bland chicken and finely cut vegetables his mother boiled for him, but out on the hills, he was just as ravenous as the other children. One day one of the men came back with dead rabbits slung over his shoulder, and Harold stopped for a moment in shock. He’d never actually seen anyone hunting. But a while later, when the women called the children back to eat, Harold was offered a bowl of steaming stew too. And food had never tasted as good as it did out there on the hill overlooking the town, sitting on the ground with his legs crossed and the bowl on his lap. He’d dip thick hunks of bread into it and gobble it down, and then go home and eat what his mother set in front of him so as not to make her suspicious.

  Harold started putting on weight and his cheeks turned ruddy. It had been weeks since his new friends had first pulled him into their games, and now he couldn’t get through a day without going out to see them. They taught him how to stand stock-still in a river and wait for the trout to come swimming past his legs so he could whisk a bag over their heads. He bought candy with his pocket money and stuffed the packets into his shirt to smuggle them past his parents, finding more fun in sharing than he’d ever had in eating chocolate on his own. He ate chicken flavoured with spices he’d never tasted before and fish cooked over fires and sprinkled with lemon juice. He was sent with the other children to pick mushrooms and came back home with his clothes muddy for the first time in his nine years. It was the best time of his life.

  And then, just like that, one day it was over. Harold bicycled up after school one day, looking eagerly for the tell-tale flashes of crimson clothes between the trees, only to find that the hilltop was empty. He threw his bicycle down and ran into the trees, thinking they were all hiding. But even the big caravans were gone. The only sign that people had lived there for weeks was the big sooty circles in the grass where the fires had been lit every evening.

  Harold searched through the trees, looking for a sign, anything, of the friends he had come to love. There were tracks made by heavy wheels in the ground, and he followed them with his cycle for a short distance, but they disappeared and he was left without a trace. How could they have left him? They were all he had! If they’d told him they were going, Harold was sure he would have gone with them – so dear were they to him now. Just yesterday, one of the men had put up a tyre swing for the children and now even the rope was gone.

  Harold’s face crumpled and he began to cry. He sat on the grass and tears streamed down his face. On his way home on the cycle, the wind dried his face to salty stiffness, but still he couldn’t stop crying. His mother was bewildered, not knowing what to do to console him. When she coaxed the story out of him, she was horrified that her pale, shy son had been gallivanting with gypsies! She was possibly more upset that he had liked their food than that he’d wanted to live with them. When Mr Brown came home to his usually quiet son wailing in the kitchen, he was dismayed. He took Harold into the living room to give his wife time to make dinner, and tried talking to him.

  “Look son, gypsies are not like us. They don’t live by any rules. You’re too young to understand that now, but they’re very different from us. That’s why they don’t live in houses and go to school like you do.”

  Harold had always been intimidated by his father, and even now, struggled to gulp his tears back. He wanted to tell his father how he’d never been a part of a group before, how he didn’t feel like they were laughing at him all the time, but all he could manage was “But they were my friends.”

  “It doesn’t matter to them that you thought they were your friends, because they don’t know what that means. No discipline…humppff.”

  And that was the end of that. His father retired behind his newspaper, and Harold went to wash his face for dinner. That night he cried himself to sleep and woke up completely exhausted. His life went back to exactly the way it had been before the gypsies, with school and other activities. His mother forbade him from going up into the hills, so Harold rode about sedately on the streets, ducking to avoid pebbles thrown at him by the teasing neighbours. Eventually, when the pebbles started finding their target, he gave up cycling and stayed home to read instead. By next autumn, Harold was a quiet boy who found as much comfort in the routine at home as his parents did. He never went up to those hills again.

  Now though, four decades later, Harold found himself remembering what it felt like to have the win
d buffeting his face. He remembered the thrill it gave him when he pushed his bicycle out of the gate of his house and turned up the road towards the hills, and how he felt like he was discovering something new every day. It had been years since he’d even bought a new brand of bread at the grocer’s shop. Yes, the wind was definitely opening up parts of his heart that he’d closed that long-ago autumn.

  Chapter 7

  All morning, Faith Springer had been stealing surreptitious glances at Mr Brown from between the potted ferns on her desk. There was something definitely different about him today. She wasn’t sure what it was, but she was finding herself very drawn to him. Was it because he walked into office that morning, with his hair windblown? Was it because when he entered, he was… yes, she was almost sure… he was striding into office?

  He sat there at his desk, looking just the same as he always did, being just as silent as he always was. His hair was neatly smoothed down and she hadn’t seen him striding anywhere for the last few hours. In fact, she was beginning to think she had imagined it. During their eleven o’clock tea break, she asked Meg and Bessie, her closest confidantes in the office, if they thought there was something different about him today, and they merely laughed.

  “Something different about him, love? I don’t think so. There’s not been anything different about him in years.”

  Meg winked at Faith and giggled. “Sometimes I think maybe he goes to sleep in his suit. You can’t imagine him in his pyjamas, can you? Someone like him?”

  Faith blushed as she swatted Meg on the arm and laughed. She didn’t tell them she had very often imagined Mr Brown in pyjamas, sitting next to her on a cold winter’s evening with a fire crackling in the fireplace, or drinking tea at the dining table in the morning. She was too old, she told herself, for silly girlish fantasies like that. But she liked the fantasy very much. Every day, when she came to office, she resolved to talk to Mr Brown, but couldn’t quite see how to frame the words without scaring him away.