Six O'Clock Supper

Harry knew he shouldn't be climbing trees. The cramping pains had disappeared and he was now simply light-headed; but as he sat on a limb fifteen feet above the ground, Dudley's old trainers tied tightly to prevent them from falling off his feet, he knew that he was exactly where he wanted to be.

Leaning back against the sturdy trunk, he tipped his face up to look at the leafy canopy above him, pushing his glasses up his nose with one slightly grubby index finger. His peripheral vision was blurred beyond the edges of the lenses, but this seemed to exacerbate the sensation of depth beneath him, and the branches above him began to spin. Fixing his eyes on one young slender branch, his thighs tightened around the limb he was sitting on, his hands finding purchase in the ridged bark behind his waste. The dizziness passed, and a breath escaped his lips as he watched the leaves flutter above him, the sun passing through them and creating brilliant hues, merging green upon green in a continuous dance.

Harry wasn't sure exactly why Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon hadn't allowed him to eat since breakfast yesterday, but he had a feeling it had something to do with the required visit to the nurse he had made after breakfast; required because he had turned six years old two weeks ago and had to undergo a standard physical before he was allowed to enter the first grade. The curly-haired nurse had tapped on his knees, peered down his throat and ears, and weighed him. She had also taken blood from the crook of his elbow with a truly ghastly looking needle.

She had held it poised in her hand, Harry's arm in her other hand and done up with a rubber glove tied firmly around his elbow. He presumed that she had done this to prevent the blood from escaping to the rest of his body when she stabbed him with that needle and tried to take it. Aunt Petunia stood stiffly in the opposite corner, and the nurse paused for a moment, looking at her.

"He's quite tense," she told her. "Children often relax if the parent holds them in their lap. Would you care to . . .?"

Harry looked at Nurse Hawthorne as though she had grown another head. Hold him? Why would Aunt Petunia want to hold him?

Petunia drew herself up, her knuckles whitening on the bag she clutched in front of her person. Harry had watched as her lips pursed tightly, as through to prevent entrance.

"I'm not his mother," she said in a flat voice. Uncomfortable under Hawthorne's stare, she forced a smile and continued in a voice like honey dripped over brittle glass.

"Harry is a big boy, and it would only make him more uncomfortable if I were to hold him on my . . . lap. Dear."

"Fine," clipped the nurse. She had given Petunia a frosty look before turning her attention back to Harry. She had a strange look in her eyes that Harry couldn't identify.

"It will only sting for a moment, sweetheart, much less than a bee sting. You've had a bee sting, haven't you?"

Harry had nodded mutely, his eyes large behind his glasses.

Nurse Hawthorne had given him a kindly smile, and without hesitating, pushed the needle into his arm. Harry jumped and jerked his face away.

"There, now. There, now, Harry. That wasn't so bad, was it?" she said, covering the area of penetration with a cotton swab.

Harry shook his head, this time in a jerky fashion.

"Now we have to wait for just a moment. Just a moment longer, and you will be done! Tell me, Harry, do you enjoy school? What sports do you play?"

Harry had swallowed with some difficulty, and said quietly: "School is fine, and I don't play any sports." His eyes had begun to slide in the direction of his arm again.

"Look at me, dear," Hawthorne had said quickly. Capturing his eyes with her own, she gave him a commiserating wink. "I'll bet that you're mighty fast, though."

Harry had been unaware that a fission of pride had lit up his eyes, which had told Hawthorne that he was indeed fast.

In her corner, Petunia had shifted impatiently from one foot to the other, and without glancing in her direction, Hawthorne deftly slipped the needle out of Harry's arm.

"There! You're all done with this nasty business. Now I'm going to test this blood and we're going to make sure that you're all in tip top shape--and here's a lolly for being such a brave lad."

The tasty sucker had nearly made up for the awful experience, Harry thought to himself. The last time he had a sweet had been when he had managed to filch a couple small chocolate eggs from Dudley's Easter basket a few months earlier, which had been far richer than the sucker but no less satisfying.

Nurse Hawthorne had ushered both him and Aunt Petunia out of her office before she disappeared somewhere to test his blood. Harry had silently sucked on his sucker while Petunia stood with her arms crossed, tapping her foot and glancing at her watch every twenty seconds. Hawthorne had returned ten terse minutes later and asked Petunia to speak with her privately in her office, shutting the door to Harry's curious ears. Petunia had emerged five minutes later, her face more pinched than ever, but this time white with some unidentifiable emotion, a thin sheaf of papers clutched in her hand. She marched straight for the exit, leaving Harry to hurry after her. He hadn't eaten since.

Harry swung his feet in a scissors kick. He had a queer feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with lack of food: he was not quite feeling up to going home. Aunt Petunia had shooed him away from the kitchen for both yesterday and today's lunches, today's breakfast, and yesterday's dinner. He knew that it was close to suppertime by the way the sun was making everything look golden and dusky; but he didn't want to go home and be shooed away from the table again. Watching a squirrel wind around a topmost limb, he knew that he might have to resort to going to Mrs. Figg and ask her for something to eat, but he didn't want to; unfamiliar with how to label such feelings, he didn't realize that the uncomfortable squirming he felt at the very thought of asking for food from the neighbor was shame.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, he roused himself and climbed nimbly down the old oak. As he walked home, he formulated a game plan in his head: first, he would ascertain whether he would be allowed to eat. If he was allowed to eat: good. If he wasn't allowed, he would sneak out of the house at the first available opportunity and hike it over to Mrs. Figg's--but this second plan was dependent on keeping himself from being locked in his cupboard. If he was locked in there, he could forget the thought of getting out until morning--or perhaps even later, depending on when Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon let him out. But he could always make a quick get-away before they got their hands on him.

As he cut across yards, a grim smile crept across his small face: Nurse Hawthorne had been right when she guessed that he was fast.

***