by John Hinge  

IT WAS ON A TUESDAY AFTERNOON in Tescos that Henry became William Wallace. Agnes had just picked up a bottle of scented toilet cleaner. 'Will Citrus be all right for the loo?' she asked him. He wasn't listening. He was peering at the delicatessen manager with a wild gleam in his eye. 'Death to the English,' he declared in a loud voice.

She was thankful the shop was nearly empty. 'Who are you talking about dear?'

'He's one,' he said, pointing to the man cutting the bacon, 'I can tell.'

Later at home, she reviewed the situation. Apart from telling her he was William Wallace, he seemed healthy enough, although he was getting picky with his food, and he'd found a new word. He kept referring to the 'usurpers'.

'I bet this William . whatever-his-name didn't eat like this,' she said a little huffed that he should leave some of his meal.

'I can only eat what the people eat,' he replied grandly. 'If it's good enough for them, it's good enough for me.'

'Well they don't all get the best pork chops.' She retired to do the washing up rather hurt that he should make remarks about her cooking. They had been married over fifty years and this was the first time.

When she came back he had disappeared into the shed. She could hear banging noises. He must be over his spell of make believe and back to normal. The television was showing a cooking program and she marvelled at the exotic ingredients being used. Perhaps she should be using those. She was dozing when he arrived back.

Henry stood in the doorway, legs apart, and shoulders back, in a dramatic pose that reminded her of their six-year-old grandson in the school play. He waited for her to speak. When she didn't, he pulled something from his belt and flourished it in the air. It was a sword made out of two pieces of flat wood nailed together, the sort of thing a child would make. 'Now we're ready to fight the usurpers,' he said in stentorian tones. 'Are you with me?'

She was still half-asleep, but she sensed a change in Henry. Normally he was a quiet man content with the garden and the television. When they married, he'd been a spotty faced youth with a desire to be a plumber, now he was an ancient warrior ready to do battle. 'I'll telephone Gavin,' she said. 'He'll know what to do.'

'Perhaps he'll help me get rid of the English,' Henry said.'

'I don't think double-glazing salesmen go around fighting people, dear.'

'Hello Mum.' The voice on the telephone was upbeat.

Agnes always bristled a little when her daughter-in-law called her that. 'Tracey? Is that you? Can I speak to Gavin.'

'He's rather busy working out his figures for the month. Can it wait until tomorrow?'

'Not really. It's about his father. It is rather urgent.'

'Oh well, I'll get him. He won't be very happy though.'

A few minutes later Gavin came to the telephone. She could tell from his tone that he resented the interruption. 'What is it Mother?'

'It's your father.'

'Is he ill?'

'Well not exactly, but he thinks he's someone called William Wallace.'

Gavin sighed. 'Tell him that's nonsense. Wallace was a much younger man. Give him a couple of his sleeping pills and send him to bed. If you'd done as I asked years ago and gone into sheltered housing you'd have someone on hand.'

'You know father likes his garden . , ., ' she stopped as the phone went dead. Gavin was upset again. As hard as she tried, she always seemed to say the wrong thing.

Henry was watching the television when she came back into the room. 'How are you feeling now dear?' she asked. 'Like a cup of tea?'

He grunted and went back to his program.

For the next few days, she lived with William Wallace. Henry took to preparing his own food, which consisted mainly of dry bread with a variety of meats and raw vegetables. He scoffed when she offered him potatoes. 'Wallace didn't eat potatoes,' he told her.

The sword became his constant companion. She protested when she found it in bed with them and after that he placed it carefully on the bedside table. During the day, he pushed it through the belt of his trousers. She noticed that he'd stopped complaining about his lumbago, and when he wore his sword, he walked with a swagger. 'That piece of wood has done your back good,' she said. 'They should have thought of that at the hospital.' Henry grunted in return.

The sword was also a problem in the supermarket. Henry stalked the aisles waving it above his head. He seemed convinced that the English were camped near the cornflakes. The manager, a bespectacled individual barely out of school, wasn't happy with the situation. 'What do you think you're doing?' he asked.

Henry had acquired a certain stature over the last few days. He looked positively regal as he scrutinised the man in front of him. 'You smell like an Englishman,' he said, and prodded him with his sword.

Agnes intervened. 'He's only playing around,' she said.

'Well let him do it somewhere else. Get the silly old fool out of here and keep him out.'

'Come along dear,' Agnes said in her most soothing voice, 'the nice man doesn't want to play.'

After that, she did the shopping alone. It was harder carrying the bags on the bus, but she managed. Henry disappeared into the local library and returned home with his arms full of books about Wallace. She was resigned to the fact that the warrior was here to stay.

It was a surprise when, at the end of the week, Gavin and Tracey called to see them. 'Thought I'd just see how the old man is,' her son said not very convincingly, and then smiled as Henry appeared in the doorway. 'Hello Dad.'

Henry swung the sword above his head and gave a whoop. Gavin retreated quickly behind the sofa. 'You'll never take our land,' his father declared in his new found dramatic voice.

'I didn't realise he was so bad,' Gavin said, white-faced and shaken.

'He just needs a cup of tea,' Agnes declared, 'come on dear, I'll make one.' Henry dutifully followed his wife into the kitchen. She busied herself with the cups and saucers, put them neatly on a tray, pulled out a packet of chocolate biscuits, and waited for the kettle to boil. She could hear her son in the hallway talking to someone on the telephone.

When she carried the tea through Gavin and his wife were in earnest conversation on the settee. They looked guilty as they pulled apart. 'Who were you talking to dear,' she asked as she put the tray in front of her son.

Gavin looked around the room with a proprietorial air. 'Must be worth quite a bit now, this place.'

Agnes's gaze was one of nostalgia. 'Henry carried me over the threshold when we got married,' she said. 'You were born here.'

'At a guess, one hundred and fifty thousand pounds.' Gavin said gravely.

'At least,' Tracey agreed.

Agnes looked at her daughter-in-law and wondered what had gone wrong. She had become a cloned version of Gavin, and that was a terrible thing to be. She couldn't think for herself and rarely spoke unless he prompted her.

'It's worth more to us than that, isn't it,' she said to Henry who had come to sit beside her.

'A man's home is part of his soul,' Henry declared, and everyone went silent for a moment as though surprised that he could be so profound.

Gavin wasn't to be put off. 'It's a lot of money,' he said. 'If you were in sheltered accommodation and Dad was somewhere where they could cater for his whims .' He drew the word out. 'Then the money could be put to good use.' He paused for a moment as though gauging the effect of his words and continued. 'I've been in touch with a local agent. He's coming around tomorrow. You don't have to worry, I'll be here to see him.'

He was true to his word and the next day he arrived early armed with photographs of properties for sale cut from the local newspaper. The agent was a short man with a loud suit and a continual sniff who ignored Agnes and Henry and spoke only to Gavin. Together they toured the house with Gavin pointing out various features, which the agent noted.

Henry was busy in the kitchen poring over a history book. His prized sword lay on the table in front of him. From time to time he lifted an arm in triumph and then plunged back into an attitude of despair. Agnes gave him a loving pat on the head as she passed.

At last the agent seemed satisfied. He and Gavin shook hands at the doorway and then he was gone. 'Well that is good news.' Gavin rubbed his hands together. 'Better than expected. I'll get on to the doctor now.'

'Doctor dear? Are you sick?' his mother asked.

'Not me silly, it's for dad. We need to get him thoroughly checked over. We'll go private. That'll make sure we get a fast result. Don't you worry about the money. I feel it's my duty to pay.' He oozed charm, something Agnes found difficult to swallow. He'd been a difficult child and she'd been glad when he married and left home. She'd struggled with her conscience when he was five years old about whether or not to have him adopted.

A week later Gavin was at the door with his car ready to take them to the private clinic. He insisted Henry brought his sword and even offered to carry it for him. Henry pushed him away. 'We'll never give up our weapons,' he declared. 'Do you really think we can trust the English after what's happened in the past?'

Gavin seemed lost for words as Agnes got into the car followed by an upright and autocratic looking Henry.

At the clinic Henry was interviewed, examined, and tested for a whole day. He saw innumerable specialists and was subjected to a variety of electronic probes. Outside in the relative's room, Agnes held his sword while she drank endless cups of tea, read health magazines and suffered Gavin's smugness. At last it as over. A consultant in a smart suit came out to tell them that they had finished and that the results would be sent to Henry's doctor in the next few days. Gavin's questions were brushed aside. 'Wait until you get the results,' he was told.

For the next week Agnes and Henry didn't see their son; he didn't telephone or get in touch. Agnes wasn't quite sure what the day of tests was meant to prove. Her husband was in excellent health. He was eating well and getting plenty of exercise in the garden practising sword drills. He was even being nice to the supermarket manager and he complimented the school-crossing woman on the use of the pike she carried. 'Use it to defend your home,' he told her.

Gavin and Tracey were waiting for them at Doctor Croft's surgery. Gavin was all smiles. Agnes noticed he was wearing a new suit.

'Come in.' The doctor ushered them in and offered Agnes and Henry chairs. Gavin edged forward to be as near the doctor as he could without getting in his way. Tracey stood at the back of the room.

'I have the results from the clinic.' The doctor smiled benignly.

'I hope you can recommend a good place for him,' Gavin said.

The doctor gave him a quizzical look and carried on. 'I have good news.' He directed his comments to Agnes. 'The tests show that Henry is not suffering from any mental disorder. There is no sign of Alzheimer's or any indications of an onset of senility.'

'But that's ridiculous.' Gavin looked shocked. 'He's barmy. Look, he's brought his sword with him. What sane man carries a wooden sword around.' As if to emphasise the point Henry raised the two pieces of wood above his head and made as though to get out of his chair. Gavin retreated to the back of the room and stood next to his wife.

'Henry is choosing to live part of his life in a fantasy-land. In the past we would have called him eccentric. He's probably bored with real life and some of the people in it.' The doctor gave Gavin a hard look. 'He is not likely to harm himself or anyone else. He was able to answer all the questions put to him.'

'So he can still live at home?' Agnes asked.

'Of course.'

'But what about the estate agent?' Gavin moaned. 'It's all arranged.'

'Do you mean that nice man who called?' Agnes looked her sweetest as she said, 'don't worry about him. He telephoned and I told him we didn't want to sell after all.' She turned to her husband. 'I had faith in William Wallace.'

'That's that then.' Gavin grabbed his wife's arm and propelled her towards the door. Her loud whisper reached Agnes as she prepared to leave.

'What about my new car?' Tracey asked. 'You promised.'

'Shut up,' Gavin said. He pushed her out the door and followed close behind.

Agnes left the surgery in a happy state of mind. The doctor had been positive, Henry would be staying at home, and they were going to keep their house. It would be nice to get back to a routine again. She was therefore surprised when Henry after a spell of rummaging in the attic appeared in the doorway to the living room without his sword. He stood legs braced holding something up to his face - a telescope, and he was scanning the horizon like a captain on the bridge of a ship. He looked back at her smiling, prompting her to a guess what he was doing.

'Not William Wallace?'

He shook his head.

She was caught up with the enthusiasm on his face. 'A sailor?'

He nodded.

'I know.' She clapped her hands with delight. 'Horatio Nelson.'

'No.' He beamed. 'Captain Cook, and we're going on a voyage of discovery.'

© John Hinge

John Hinge is a retired lecturer living near Carstairs. Active in the South Lanarkshire writing scene, he is a member of the Biggar Writers Group. He is the author of numerous short stories and he currently is working on a romantic novel.

Late news (15/06/05). His short story enterd in the Eildon Tree competition has won first prize.