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    Oh Henry!
    Oh Henry!
    Oh Henry!
    Ebook73 pages1 hour

    Oh Henry!

    By Harold Wilson

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    About this ebook

    "Oh Henry" is a series of short stories recounting the misadventures of Henry Wilcox, a schoolboy living in a small English village during the years following the end of World War Two. The stories, written from the boy's point of view, start with Henry, a preschooler, instigating an accidental case of arson, and end seven years later with him learning of his family's plan to emigrate. In the interim the reader will share Henry's angst and appreciate his growing maturity as he attempts to deal with precocious girls, the practical jokes of his Uncle Steve, and the demands of the local sporting scene.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarold Wilson
    Release dateDec 7, 2012
    ISBN9781301462087
    Oh Henry!
    Author

    Harold Wilson

    I am a retired chemistry professor, now living in Pointe Claire, Quebec. I spent my early years in and around the town of Ulverston in N.W. England. In 1963 I took up a position teaching Elementary and High School in Montreal. After four rewarding years in teaching, I returned to University, obtaining a Ph.D. in Chemistry from Rice University in the Spring of 1972. In my professional career, spent largely at John Abbott College, I wrote a series of in-house texts to accompany my innovative award winning approach to chemistry teaching. I also co-authored several research papers, review articles and a book - "The Role of Solvents in Chemical Reactions". Since retirement I have found time to indulge my passion for sports, cryptic crossword design, and when the grandchildren cooperate - writing fiction.

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      Book preview

      Oh Henry! - Harold Wilson

      Oh Henry!

      The Misadventures of Henry Wilcox

      by Harold Wilson

      –

      Cover design by: Miss Mae

      Formatting by The Fiction Works

      –

      Copyright ©2012 by Harold Wilson

      Published 2012 by Harold Wilson

      –

      SMASHWORDS EDITION

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations to books and critical reviews. This story is a work of fiction. Characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

      This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Foreword

      The stories you are about to read relate the fictional misadventures of three young boys living in Northern England in the years just after the end of the Second World War.

      Throughout the stories, I have identified the boys by their nicknames, as is the custom in England. You may find the names strange.

      P.C. is the abbreviation for a police constable, and P.C. had the misfortune to be christened Peter Constable.

      Rev is the nickname of John Baird. Once, when asked in class what he would like to be when he grew up, he responded, a vicar. Asked why, he replied that he wanted to be called Reverend - hence the nickname.

      Henry, christened Henry Wilcox, was never nicknamed. Henry just seemed to fit.

      You will find that Henry’s Uncle Steve initiates many of the scrapes and embarrassing situations that the boys endure. This character is based on my own favourite Uncle, Steve Dover, a compulsive practical joker, who sadly passed away on March 17th, 2008. This book is dedicated to his memory.

      Chapter 1

      Crime and Punishment

      The war was over. This strange man called Dad came to live with us and suddenly we were eating foods such as bananas that I had never seen before. When the war in Europe ended, the village celebrated with a huge bonfire and lots of fireworks on what was called VE Day. Now villagers were building another bonfire in the cricket field to celebrate VJ day. This sounded like a lot of fun, but I thought it would be even more fun if Rev, P.C., and I built our own bonfire.

      I think I was born a pyromaniac. I loved to watch my mother make the fire. She would crumple up old pieces of newspaper into small balls and pile them in the grate. Outside of this pile, she would stand pieces of wood so that they would lean against the paper and make a shape like an indian tent. She then surrounded the whole thing with shiny black coal. Cleverly, she always left a little hole at the front through which you could see the paper. She would then remove a little red box from her apron pocket. Inside the box were little wooden sticks, far more than I knew how to count, and the ends were coloured bright red. When mother scratched the red end across the rough edge of the box, a bright yellow flame magically appeared. The paper flared up right away when touched with the flame. Soon the paper, the wood, and the coal were ablaze. I could do this, but where could I get my hands on some magic sticks. Mother kept them in some secret place.

      One day I was watching Mum bake when there was a knock on the front door. After wiping her flour-covered hands on her apron, she went to answer. I could see the red box on the stove. She had forgotten it. In a flash, I climbed on a stool, grabbed the box, and ran out the back to find my friends.

      Rev and P.C. were always easy to find as they lived on the same short street and could invariably be found playing on the nearby church green. They greeted my rattling of the box with great excitement. They had never played with matches either. Rev, who seemed to know everything, assured me that was what the fire sticks were called, but I had my doubts. They didn’t seem to match anything.

      All of us knew that we shouldn’t be playing with matches, but what were three pre-schoolers supposed to do. We tried to make things burn. It was V.J.Day after all.

      We scoured the green, looking for waste paper, bits of wood, and some black stones. Successful, we retreated to a nearby garden where I built a fire exactly as my mother would have done. We soon found out that the rain, which had fallen the night before, was going to cause some problems. Despite repeated attempts not even the paper would burn. Only three matches remained and we were nowhere near having a fire.

      Maybe we should try and burn some of that grass under the wall, said Rev. It looks pretty dry and there’s lots of it.

      The grass, yellowing at the tips, was only slightly damp. I carefully piled it into what Rev called a TP

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