‘The Strange Whistle’

by Harry Riley

“But I don’t want to, I’m scared mum…”

“Don’t be silly, there’s nothing to worry about, death is something that comes to us all Edgar. Just go in there and do as he says, he has something for you, never mind the smell, it’s only medicine and stale tobacco. They haven’t had the windows open for a day or two whilst he’s been so ill. And listen…don’t go showing us up and doing anything silly, they’ll all be watching you!”

“But I can’t…can you come in with me?”

“No, there are too many people around his bed as it is, the doctor won’t allow it, and I shall wait in the front room with your dad. We are not far away so no screaming or shouting remember, he’s dying so you have to whisper.”

Two minutes later young Edgar Watson stood at the bedside as the doctor left off checking the old man’s open pyjama front with his stethoscope and made way for the awkward looking boy.

“You can have two minutes, mind and no longer” said the tall stern faced physician as he glared down disapprovingly at the youngster, “we can’t afford to tire him too much…he hasn’t got long.”

Edgar wondered why the doctor was so concerned, ‘what did it matter if he spent two or even twenty minutes or a whole day with his granddad if he was going to die anyway. And why had the nurse been tidying the sheets so carefully, she didn’t have to do the washing! Mum was right though; the smell was horrible.’ He felt like gagging.

Several uncles and aunts reluctantly made way for him as he entered the room clattering over a bed-pan in his clumsy way.

Remembering his granddad was deaf the ten year old boy shouted loudly down his good left ear.” It’s alright granddad, it’s me Edgar and mum says you’re to give me a present before you die.”

A bony hand reached out from the covers and grabbed the lad’s wrist in a grip of iron. Edgar was pulled down towards the frail figure in the bed by the surprising strength of his grandfather’s withered arm. Then his face was within inches of the old man’s slobbering mouth. He could hear the hoarse death-rattle in the sick throat as strangled words were forced out from between the broken gravestone of a tooth “Good-lad, don’t be scared, we all have to go, I’ve had a long innings…just open the top drawer in the cupboard over there and…and take out the silver whistle…it’s yours.” The dying man relaxed his grip and his head fell back on the pillow with a deep sigh as the effort took its toll on the shattered body.

Importantly: as on a mission, Edgar did as he was bid; hearing the whispered curse from his Uncle Roland as he trod on his foot in his rush to get at the old wooden chest.

“That whistle was meant for our George, mother, and this little tow-rag will have it now, it’s not right!”

Edgar couldn’t help hearing the hushed comment and noticed Uncle Roland’s face was puce with hardly concealed anger.

Opening the drawer the boy retrieved the whistle complete with silver chain and waved it over his grandfather’s face staring hard into the yellow rheumy eyes. “Can I keep it granddad?”

“Well done lad…now remember…always wear it round your neck…only blow it when you’re in real trouble.”

Unceremoniously Edgar was hustled away by the nurse as he shouted his goodbyes.

Three years later Edgar Watson was crossing the stepping-stones of a brook dividing two fields when suddenly he was set-upon by a gang of louts from his school. He was ruthlessly pushed to the ground and within seconds smothered in mud. His new Scouting Uniform was torn, he had a bloody nose from the beating the gang leader had dished out and his knees were grazed from the fall.

“Give us your money and your phone Watson or you’re dead meat!”

Painfully he dug his right hand into his trouser pocket and then remembered his whistle. He wore it round his neck but it had lost its pea, probably after his mum had sterilised it. He’d long since given up on trying to blow it as nothing ever happened. Now in distress he blew on it hard as the leader made a grab for the chain.

The little glass covered compass; set in the top of the whistle spun round dramatically as Edgar closed his eyes and puffed with all his might.

In the fast flowing stream the gang leader struggled to keep his head from being pushed under by the stranger holding him down. The rest of the gang had fled as the big tough looking gypsy with the wild hair and bulging biceps toyed with their mate. They wanted nothing to do with him. He was well out of their league. The man kept their leader’s head down until he was within an inch of drowning before releasing his grip and allowing the choking bully to sit up. Not a word had been spoken but the frightened lout scampered away with his tail between his legs and the gypsy vanished as quickly as he came.

Back at home Mrs. Watson was amazed to see her son home so early and looking like a drowned rat. Edgar gabbled out his story, omitting to say how the whistle had saved him. That was his secret.

End.