Harry hears the music clearly, a lilting melody he hasn’t heard in eighty years. It’s inside his pitch-black room, not his head. He lays in his bed: he hasn’t been out of it in more than a year. This isn’t a dream, this is real.
A woman sings in a posh voice, not the Lancashire twang Harry’s had for ninety-two years. The words are lodged in his head: he’s never learned them, but he loves them and if he had the strength he’d sing along.
Goodnight, children, everywhere
Your Mummy thinks of you tonight
Lay your head upon your pillow
Don’t be a kid or a weeping willow
It’s Children’s Hour on the BBC wireless. There’s no radio: where in God’s name is that music coming from?
Harry lays alone in the dark. He never sleeps at night.
A light shines through the window, startling Harry. He thinks it’s car headlights, but it’s not moving. Through the brilliance, in the distance Harry sees a child in a Lancashire mill town, the boy’s father dead in the War.
Now, there’s the boy leaving school at thirteen. Married at eighteen, father at nineteen. Hungry days, scraping by; on the Dole more often than not. Six kids, twelve grandkids, seven great-grandkids. Memories of a life well lived.
And, that song keeps on going.
Sleepy little eyes in a sleepy little head
Sleepy time is drawing near
Harry’s not afraid. He’s ready to go.
Close your eyes and say a prayer
Goodnight, children, everywhere.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 