CHAPTER 11
Little Henry Forsyth, born before his time, thrust into a world that was kind in its own way, kinder even than commonly supposed, was given the compassion he so desperately needed. He spent the first few days in the place of his birth, but was transferred to more congenial surroundings as soon as possible. His new home was to be his for the following seventeen years, years during which he relied totally on the generosity of strangers. One object only that he could count as his own did he bring with him. The rest was given, or as he preferred to think of it for the rest of his life, on loan. Even his name had been borrowed, but that was one he was stuck with. In later years, he vaguely considered changing it to one of his own choice, but rejected the idea as soon as it came to his mind, having got used to Henry, however old fashioned it may have been. Besides, he couldn’t think offhand what he would have changed it to. There were worse names in the world, and at least the one he had been christened with was usable. It was somewhat better, at any rate, than the nickname he had been given after the appearance on television of John Galsworthy’s well known family saga. Soames. It was for a good many years that he was known by this name, the use of which dropped off only after he became respectable enough to be addressed as Mister even by those considerably older than himself.
Of his early years there was little to relate. He grew up, went to school, where he did reasonably well, developing an independent spirit well in advance of his age, yet with sufficient commonsense to steer clear of trouble. Friends he made, but not easily, and nobody was allowed to get too close. There was only one incident. It happened slightly before he had reached full independence.
It was a dark robed moonless night. The frost covered streets were deserted except for occasional late night revellers slipping quickly along their way. Icicles hung from the eaves, sharp points sparkling in the street lights’ harsh glitter. Fed by a continuous day time drip of sun melted water, they refroze each night thicker and longer, becoming more and more bulbous with each day that passed. Feather light fingers of snow drifted aimlessly down, cleaving wherever they touched, gradually deadening all sound. Momentarily the silence was complete, unbroken by traffic or voices, or movement of any kind. The entire town could have been deserted for that one brief moment of time. Nothing disturbed. Not a sound. Not a footprint. Even time seemed to be at a standstill, while the whole world waited for something, though none knew what. Then, two small figures could be seen walking slowly along the street, one slightly ahead of the other, but in company, bound for the moment by ties of common purpose. They trudged wearily, sodden clothing flapping against their bare legs. They stopped by a smoke grimed stone building, surrounded by a high, metal spiked fence on top of a low wall.
‘Look at all those lights,’ said the girl. ‘I wonder what they are.’
‘It’s a church,’ said the boy with the withering scorn that only someone of his tender years could project. ‘Haven’t you seen a church before?’
‘Of course I’ve seen a church before. I didn’t ask you that.’ She grasped his arm tightly and pulled him, none too willingly up the steps. ‘Come on, I want to see what’s going on.’
The boy had little doubt about that. She always wanted to know what was going on. Personally, he would much rather have gone back to the little dormitory he shared with three other boys of about his own age. He could never quite think of it as home, but rather just as a home. His sense of curiosity, normally quite strong, had long since deserted him. They had been playing in the snow for hours, and now he was just wet, cold and miserable, but dare not lose face by saying so. Anyway, as long as she kept hold of his arm with a vice like grip, he had little choice but to follow her wherever she went. A little nervously, yet with a hint of determination beyond her years, she swung the door back a handsbreadth and bending down a little, looked through.
‘What can you see?’ asked the boy impatiently. It wasn’t beyond his imagination to look through the door himself, but he was well aware that he would not be allowed to until she had gazed her fill. His role in that particular relationship at that particular time was very definitely subordinate.
‘A tree,’ she answered. ‘A big one, with lights and decorations and things. Like the one in the park, only better. I’m going inside. Come on.’
‘You can’t go in there. It’s only for grown ups.’
‘Well stay here then. Or go back. I don’t care.’
Greatly daring, not wanting to be left on his own, the boy followed his companion as she made her way on tiptoe to the seats nearest the tree and sat down, completely under the spell of the glitter and tinsel, which seemed to her then as the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. They huddled into a corner and gazed in wonder at the candle lit altar shining with a golden glow, the blazing cross suspended from the roof beams which owed its existence to one hundred and fifty carefully positioned electric light bulbs fashioned to resemble candles, the cherub patterned choir stalls standing solidly as they had done for generations past, and above all, a towering tree festooned with lights of many colours and topped with a silver star paying homage to the crib in the shelter of its lower branches. They gaped open mouthed at the Nativity scene, feeling almost certain that the baby must be real. The church was practically full, but the congregation seemed to be composed almost entirely of adults, and adults were people apart, beyond the comprehension of children, and therefore to be ignored as far as possible.
There being nothing in his experience that quite matched the scene, the boy was longing to know what it was all about, but didn’t want to ask the girl in case she knew and started to act in her best superior manner, which with the natural advantage of being five days older could be very superior indeed. Watching out of the corner of his eye, the boy saw a certain expression steal across the girl’s face, an expression he would have found impossible to describe or to explain, but which meant that she was not altogether happy about the situation and felt unsure of herself. She was normally the leader in their activities, but he knew that often she was as uncomfortable in new situations as he was. He took her hand and gave a little squeeze, as much for his own comfort as for hers.
The uncertainty faded away as she watched the service follow its inexorable pattern of prayers, hymns and readings, to be replaced by the more normal feeling of effervescent buoyancy. The sight of people bobbing up and down for no reason she could define struck her as being very funny, and suddenly she gave a snort, half choked as she tried in vain to suppress it.
‘Everybody’s looking at you. Shut up,’ said the boy, but even he, usually much more sedate than the girl found the sound irresistible, and in a moment they were both laughing as only children can, unaffectedly and without restraint.
A sharp ‘hush’ from behind sobered them, but only for a short time. Hunched shoulders and mouths covered by hands could not prevent animated eyes from wandering, and before long, excited and uncontrolled laughter rang out again. The choir had risen, but sat down again at a gesture from a man in robes. The congregation looked at him blankly.
‘I have stopped the service,’ he said, ‘because there are two young people over there who do not know how to behave in the House of God. This is not a playground for those deficient in social skills, nor is this an occasion for levity. If someone will kindly put the offenders outside, we may be able to resume our proper worship.’
‘Out!’ said a voice roughly, as the youngsters were propelled through the doorway with a speed that at once enraged and frightened them. ‘And don’t hang around outside either. Get yourselves back home, whoever you belong to.’
By standing close to the door, they could hear the choir singing their delayed song of praise. Two angry looking adults pushed past them, muttering under their breaths, looking with some compassion at the children, but otherwise ignoring them as they made their way along the snow covered street.
‘What shall we do now?’
‘Might as well go back to the home. There’s nothing in there for us.’
It was a decision that the girl might well have challenged, but for once, she was content to go along with it, accepting the scolding they both received on return to the home with equanimity.
The incident made a difference to Henry, the young boy. His barriers had been breached; he felt that his barriers had been breached and he thought little of the idea. Ever after, he matured effectively on his own, not rejecting company, but being alongside rather than an integral part of it. He was friends with everyone, but intimate with none, popular with all without ever being emotionally attached. Such would change over the years, inevitably, but first he had to open his defences, and that was not easy given his known, and unknown, background.
School days were not unhappy, but for the most part, not exactly stimulating either. Long hours were spent in chanting out the multiplication tables, led by ill qualified teachers brought in to fill the inevitable gaps created by the exigencies of a world recovering all too slowly from war. Almost as many hours were wasted in learning interminable facts about an empire that was already in the early throes of collapse and disappearance. History was a list of kings, dates and battles, nothing else, with swift and painful punishment for those whose attention span was short, or whose memory was insufficient. Engraved on Henry’s mind was the occasion when the woodwork teacher had the class memorise the simple text, “Plane the face side, test it and mark it. Plane the face edge, test it and mark it.” He watched in dread as several of the boys failed to repeat it accurately, and were caned on the hand as though the pain would assist the memory. Luckily, Henry passed this test.
Kings, dates and battles. The Battle of Hastings to the Battle of Waterloo covered all that was taught about English History, as though nothing had happened later, and certainly nothing earlier, except for a single sentence summing up the Dark Ages “about which nothing is known”. The Second World War which they had just come through was never mentioned at all. Rebuilding was carried out as and when funds permitted, which meant that Henry was only one of forty eight pupils in a classroom large enough for perhaps half that number. Only a little earlier, he had been in a class of fifty six. There were no books. Chalk and slate acted as substitutes for paper. Chalk that was doled out a quarter of a stick at a time. Slates that were shiny with long use, often refusing to take a legible mark. No wonder it was difficult to learn. No wonder there were problems.
Henry watched in wonderment one day as he witnessed a stand up fight between a teacher and several older boys who had just found out that the school leaving age had been raised, condemning them to a further year in what they regarded as no less than a prison. Soaring inkwells spattering their contents across walls and desks, slates flying like startled ducks, furniture heaved across the room all testified to the boys’ dissatisfaction with their lot, causing Henry to retreat even further into himself. Bright spots there were, such as the time Henry’s teacher brought in some blue felt, doled it out and showed the boys - there were no girls in the school - how to cut out and stuff a soft toy cat with a curly tail. There were several odd looking models, but for a wonder, nobody was caned for incompetence. There were also darker times. The same teacher got her pupils to bring in a jam jar each in order to paste strips of paper on, building them up so as to take on the shape of a flower vase. Henry enjoyed that, having some talent for craftwork but when they were told they could take the vases home for their mothers as a present, he cried bitter tears in the school yard, tears for a loss he was unable to understand, but felt only too well. A boy had approached him and tried to give a sort of rough comfort.
‘What’s up,’ he had said. ‘Who’s hit yer, kid. Tell us and I’ll go and hit ‘em back for yer.’
Henry had shaken his head dumbly, unable to speak. Clutching his vase, he had stumbled back to the childrens’ home, where he hid the piece of craft in his cupboard, not wanting to throw it away, but not wanting to show it either, having no-one he felt he could show it to. Often he took it out, and looking at it, wondered.
Classified as an eleven plus failure through a certain weakness in mathematics caused by inadequate teaching coupled with an inability to see the blackboard properly from his usual place at the back of the classroom, he left school at the age of fifteen and entered the world of work.
Proving to be good with his hands, Henry found a job in a local shop, selling and repairing mechanical and electrical models. The precision of the work fascinated him, and he spent days labouring over tiny details in an effort to gain mechanical and historical accuracy. There, for the first time in his life, he discovered that he had weak sight, and needed glasses for distance work, although close up, he could see superbly. There, for the first time in his life, he learned that history was really about people other than kings and noblemen. It was a true eye opener, and a lesson he was to cherish over the years to come.
Mr. Diggens, his employer, rated Henry highly and went to a great deal of effort to ensure his new employee was usefully trained. It was Diggens who taught Henry to use delicate tools and machinery, making his own finely detailed spare parts which were unobtainable otherwise. Lathes, grinders, milling machines, drills and clamps, all small enough to fit in the palm of the hand became Henry’s playground. His technical expertise developed rapidly as he fitted up the garage of his own house with wood and metalworking tools, turning out decorative items which he found surprisingly easy to sell. It may have been solitary work, but it was far from lonely. Through his efforts, young as he was, he was able to raise sufficient cash to be able to buy the rented house he lived in.
Most of his hobbies at this time were of a solitary nature. Fishing was one. Cycling was another. Henry bought himself a touring bicycle, or to be more precise, he chose the appropriate parts as he could afford them and built his own, travelling many thousands of miles on it in the course of the year in order to learn more about the history and culture of the country he lived in. History fascinated him. The life style of medieval man was of absorbing interest, driving him to the libraries and bookshops in an effort to find out more. He became a familiar figure in the reference library, poring over a mound of books in order to make up the deficiencies of his formal education. The librarians came to know his face well over the months and years, yet never learned his name. He made no application for a ticket, preferring to buy his books as he could afford, much as he bought his bicycle.
Dancing was another interest he developed. Not so solitary, this. Persuaded to keep company one Saturday evening by an acquaintance, he found he liked the atmosphere. Being the sort of character he was, he decided to take proper lessons instead of simply trudging around the floor somehow, as so many others did. It was through a mixture of cycling and dancing that he met a certain person who was to have an enormous influence on his life in later years, driving him to efforts that raised him to the heights he eventually attained.
National Service loomed. The Royal Air Force beckoned, and took Henry in, one of the last of the conscripts in the country, for two formative years. He actually enjoyed the life, the self discipline imposed upon him in the children’s home standing him in good stead, as well as the ability to keep a section of himself totally private in an otherwise very public environment. Twenty two men, some even a little older than Henry, were crammed into a single billet, a simple, sparsely furnished wooden hut. Each had a bed, a wardrobe and a waist high locker. Two tables and eight chairs were shared by all. It was somehow familiar to Henry, comfortable even, yet that first night, the sound of sobs could be heard from more than one bed, sounds which were never referred to by anyone. Basic training over, equipped with tropical clothing and a resurrection of his childhood nickname, he found himself posted to one of the hotter places of the world, somewhere difficult to find even on a large atlas, a place where he was subjected to one of the odder experiences of his life so far.