“So, Henry,” Victor took a quick sip from his silver tankard before putting it on the table between them. “Did I see your ma at the pictures last night? With a chap?” His Somerset accent made it sound like “charp”.
“Oh, yes. I suppose so.”
Victor tapped the end of his cigarette on the table top, put it to his lips and pulled out a lighter from his waistcoat. “Known him long, like?” The cigarette bobbed up and down between his lips as he spoke.
“No, just a couple of days, I think.” Henry felt uncomfortable and was beginning to wish he hadn’t taken up Mr Watson’s invite. He picked up the glass of mild and brought it to his lips. He couldn’t imagine how he was going to drink the whole pint. From the next bar he could hear shreds of conversational banter between the newcomer and the barman:
“…wet enough for bleedin’ ducks…”
“…warm yourself up by the fire…”
“…need any snout?”
“…stockings?”
The cinema manager blew a plume of smoke into the air and took another sip from his tankard. Henry noticed the base was made of glass and could see the liquid froth and swirl as he lifted it to his lips. He wanted to change the conversation to his father.
“You said you knew my father. Did you know him well?” Henry looked down at the table, twisting his glass on the wet ring it formed on the surface.
“Oh, yes. We used to meet in here most evenings.” Victor indicated the bar they had just come from with a gesture of his thumb. “I’d get my customers nice and settled for the first feature and then nip over here for a couple before the interval. Arthur was mostly in the public with the regulars, Charlie Payne from the shoe shop round the corner and George Seymour, the butcher just down the road from you. Have a chinwag about the day’s business, put the world to rights, y’know. Usual thing.”
Victor dropped the ash with a practiced flick into the metal tray between them.
“Of course, you were just a young lad when he died, weren’t you? I was forgetting. Seems such a long time ago now. So much gone in the war.” Henry noticed the same hint of regret or sadness slip into his voice as had heard the night before.
Victor stared into his drink, suddenly quiet. “We all got summat to remember, summat to forget, eh?” He pulled himself out of his reverie. “Arthur, your dad, and me, lucky buggers I suppose, in one way. Born too young for the first war and then just too old for the second.” Henry was tempted to tell him that his father didn’t live to see the start of the second war but Victor carried on. “As well as running this cinema, I was doing fire watch in Bristol whenever I could. Easy little number until those raids in April 1942, then all hell broke loose. I was up on the roof of the BBC and saw Bridlington go up in flames. Daft Kraut buggers undershot their targets and killed over 450 civilians.” Victor took a breath and looked into his beer. “My wife included.” Henry noticed Victor’s hand shaking around the tankard.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Watson. I really am.” For a moment Henry thought the cinema manager was about to dissolve into tears. His face had reddened and crease lines spidered from his closed eyes. Henry instinctively reached out to put his hand on Victor’s but pulled it short to let it rest on the table. Victor opened his eyes and breathed out.
“Nearly five years now and it still catches me sometimes.” He leant back in his chair and turned to face the frosted window. “And what was it all for, eh? What was it all for?” He shrugged and looked back at Henry. “Well, at least you’ve got your life ahead of you, eh? But you want to make sure you get away from this town. Go to London. There’s got to be something better than this for a young lad like you.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve got to help my mother with the shop. She can’t run it on her own.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised, Henry. I’m sure she could handle it OK. Too many of us think we’re indispensable and then all of a sudden we discover we’re not wanted!” He laughed. “Take me, for example. The projectionist in my cinema has just announced he’s on the move and it looks as if I’m going to be left high and dry. I’m not sure if I’ll go back to Bristol and try and see if I can get in with one of the big cinemas down there. But, you know what? Come back in five years and you’ll more than likely still find me here!” He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “I’m for another pint, how about you?”
Henry looked at his glass which was still half full. He didn’t think he could push down what was remaining, let alone another.
“I’ll stick with this one, thanks.”
Victor got up from the table and went over to the bar. Looking left and right between the divides he spotted the barman talking to a man at the far end of the saloon. They seemed to be engrossed in conversation.
“When you’re ready, Harry.” Victor called down the bar.
Harry looked up and made a quick comment to the customer before coming along the bar.
“Same again, Harry. Just the one this time.”
The barman picked up the tankard and placed it under the pump. As he pulled the beer he whispered to Victor.
“Possibly got a nice little deal going here. Don’t look now, but our friend down the bar has some stuff you might be interested in.” He looked over Victor’s shoulder at Henry who was sipping at his beer. He leant over the bar and dropped his voice even lower. “Keep it to yourself, Vic. Not for anyone else’s ears.” He raised his eyebrows and nodded towards Henry. “Right?”
“What kind of stuff?”
Harry silently mouthed the word “ciggies”.
Victor pursed his lips and gave a quick thumbs up. He took a sideways glance down the other end of the bar as he turned to Henry with his beer. The man had looked faintly familiar, someone he had definitely seen recently but he couldn’t quite place him. He rejoined Henry at the table.
“OK, Henry? Not a big beer drinker then?” He laughed.
“Not really.” Henry fingered the glass gingerly. “I think I should get going in a minute. Mum’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.”
The door to the pub opened in the saloon and someone went out into the rain.
“You like the flicks, don’t you, Henry? Seen you come through the doors often enough.”
“Yes.”
“Well, here’s a little proposition for you. Something for you to think over.” Victor pulled out another cigarette from his packet and tapped it on the table. “As I said earlier, my projectionist is leaving in a month’s time and I’m going to find it difficult to find another. Why don’t you come and learn the ropes as a rewind boy to start with and when he goes, you can take over and run the show? Give you another string to your bow and then, if you want to, you could get another job like it up in London or Bristol.” He flicked his lighter and set the flame to the end of the cigarette, narrowing his eyes as the smoke curled upwards.
Henry thought for a moment and then said: “But I think my mother still expects to me to help in the shop.”
“These are evenings, Henry, and just a Children’s Club matinee on a Saturday. That’s all. Give you a change of scene. Be good for you. I’m sure Arthur would have thought it was a great idea. Think about it and let me know. But soon, though. I’ve got to get something fixed and I’ve left it longer than I should. I’m sure you’ll like it.” He winked. “And free films, eh!”
Victor looked at Henry. It was difficult to imagine this was Arthur’s boy. He looked a bit of a lummox with his great big hands round the pint glass. He wondered if he had been a little unwise to offer Henry the job. It could get a little cramped and hot in the projection room but he was well and truly stuck without someone to take over. Although he knew how to run the films, he didn’t want to be stuck in the bleedin’ cinema all evening long, running the whole fucking show.
Henry finished the dregs of his glass and got up. The thought of working at the cinema excited him. And with Victor as well. Someone who had known his father. He looked at Victor who was tapping his cigarette ash into the metal tra
y.
“If my mother says it’s OK I’ll come round to the cinema tomorrow evening. What time’s best?”
“About 6.30 will be fine. You can sit in with the projectionist for the evening. Still got Brief Encounter going, I’m afraid, but it changes mid-week. Dancing with Crime. More your kind of thing. And mine!”
Henry nodded and smiled and then left the snug to pick up his hat and coat from the stand. Vic waited until he heard the pub door shut behind Henry before he went to the counter.
“OK, Harry, coast’s clear. Definitely interested in those ciggies. Where’s the fellow who’s offering them?” He peered round the glass divide of the snug but couldn’t see the stranger who had been at the other end of the bar.
“Said he had to be somewhere. Sunday dinner date, apparently. Lucky bugger, eh?” Harry had his hand stuffed into a glass and was wiping it with a cloth. “But he promised to be back this evening with the goods.” He lowered his voice even though there was no-one else within earshot. “R.N. ciggies, so you’ve got to be a little careful when flashing them around. Best put them into a Players packet. No-one would guess if they don’t see the packet.”
“R.N. ciggies, Harry? Bit rough.” Victor hesitated for a moment. “Mind, if the price’s right I’d smoke cow dung.” They both laughed. “Fill her up, Harry. One for the road.” He pushed his tankard across the counter. But the thought of going back to his cold, terraced cottage quickly lowered his spirits. He hated Sundays.
1946
Henry, Mavis & George
Henry stood by the shop doorway, hesitating, key in hand. By the shop entrance directly under his bedroom he noticed two footmarks, wet outlines glistening over the gilt mosaic name of Eastmans embedded into the red tiles. He guessed that George was already here.
Hanging his damp coat on the hall stand, he removed his shoes and put on his slippers. He could hear voices coming from the back parlour. Standing for a moment by the closed door he strained to hear what was being said but now, it seemed, all had gone quiet. Pushing open the door, he stepped in. His mother was by the stove, scooping out some lard from a cup and smearing it over a piece of meat in the baking tray.
“Ah, at last. There you are. Hello, dear. I was wondering where you had got to.” Mavis pushed the tray into the stove and closed the door.
“Just went out for a walk. I met Mr Watson from the cinema. We had a drink together down at the New Bear.”
Mavis raised an eyebrow and said simply “Oh.” She looked closely at her son for a moment before indicating towards the chair by the unlit fire. “Henry, this is George. George, my son, Henry.”
George rose from the chair – the chair that Henry’s father had always claimed as “his” – and stuck out his hand.
“Hello Henry, my lad. Heard a lot about you.” Henry took George’s hand. It felt cold.
“Hello.”
“I wasn’t expecting such a big lad! How old did your mum say you were? Eighteen?” George laughed. “Blimey, they build ’em big down here! Must be the country air or something!”
Mavis, fussing by the stove, chipped in. “He gets that from his granddad. Fortunately it skipped a generation.” Henry looked quizzically at his mother. She quickly added, “I mean it doesn’t affect the women in the family.” She laughed but it was the first time Henry had heard his mother make a joke about his size.
“Cigarette anyone?” George had slipped a packet out of his side pocket and flipped open the top. A neat row of unfiltered cigarettes protruded from the packet.
“No thanks.” Henry put his hands in his pockets.
“Mavis? One for you?”
“I know I shouldn’t but, well, one won’t hurt, will it?” Mavis wiped her hands on a cloth and delicately extracted one from the packet.
Henry noticed the “R.N.” emblazoned on the white packet. “Army issue, those?” He nodded towards the box that George was now putting back into his jacket.
“No, not these. Got these off a mate on board the boat that ferried us to and fro over the Channel. He gets more than he can cope with and we do a little deal.” George winked. He pulled out a lighter and flicked the spark wheel. A small yellow flame fluttered from the wick. Mavis leant forward and sucked in as the cigarette took light and the end began to glow. The smoke caught in the back of her throat and she began to cough.
“I grant you they’re not the most sophisticated ciggie on the market. Sorry about that.” George chuckled as Mavis continued to splutter. “But you’ll get used to them eventually. Or they’ll kill you first!” he laughed.
“Henry,” Mavis pointed to the larder between coughs, “go and get the beers, there’s a good lad. Beer OK for you, George?”
“Favourite tipple. Apart from a little scotch perhaps. But that can be a little hard to get your hands on these days but I…” He stopped short. Henry got the distinct impression he was about to say something other than he did. “…can make do and mend, eh?” He smiled at Henry, raising an eyebrow.
Mavis slipped the pinny over her head and hung it over the edge of the kitchen drainer. “I think we’ve got a little sherry left in the larder, Henry. I’ll have a glass of that. Dinner won’t be ready for an hour or so while that lovely piece of pork cooks. Where did you get it, George?”
George pursed his lips and touched the side of his nose with his forefinger. “No lies, no pack drill, Mavis. Things can be found if you dig around enough. It’s who you know, eh?”
While they were waiting for the dinner to cook Henry remained seated at the dining-room table, idly twirling the knife on its place and half-listening to the on-going conversation between his mother and George. He was lounging back in the seat by the fire, legs and feet stretched out over the rug that his father had made up from a kit. The design had been a complicated one and had taken many months and a couple of hours each evening before he went off down to the pub, pulling through threads, stitching ends of rows and trimming the finished picture. Henry had a clear memory of his father constantly swearing at the pages of instructions that became more frayed and tom as the months went by. Just occasionally he would hold up a finished section for Mavis and Henry to admire but more often than not the evening would end up with the matting and thread pull – the screwdriver type device which locked and tied the threads in place – being thrown across the room in exasperation. The day he finally finished it he had been so proud he had taken it into the front shop and shown it off to customers all day long. Now, the sailing ship which had originally billowed forth on white cresting waves under a clear blue sky and a school of dolphins breaking surface by its bows wallowed in a scene almost uniformly grey. A spill of coal onto the carpet some years before had turned all of the painstakingly created white sails into ghostly shrouds.
George had been talking about his war-time experiences. Mavis, alternately seated in a chair close by George and then jumping up to see to the potatoes or vegetables, listened attentively to his story.
Henry had been silent for a quarter of an hour or so when he suddenly said: “What’s this camp you were at? Baden something or other. Where is it?”
George sat back in the chair, drawing on his cigarette before puffing out little perfectly formed smoke rings.
“Neat trick, eh?” He looked at Henry who failed to respond. Tapping the end of the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray that balanced on the arm of the chair, he pursed his lips. “Baden Endorf. That’s its name. Baden Endorf. Bavaria, right on the borders of Germany and Austria. Takes a couple of days to get there by train once you’ve crossed the Channel. Pretty uncomfortable I can tell you. The journey, that is.”
Mavis touched his knee as she got out of her chair. “Carry on, George. I’ve got to start serving up the dinner.” George watched Mavis as she retreated to the kitchen area. Henry noticed how his eyes ran over her back and down her legs.
“Well, it’s all a little hush-hush really. Shtum like.” He laughed to himself. “Yes, shtum’s the right word. I can’t say too much so don
’t breathe a word outside these walls, eh?” He raised his eyebrows and tapped the side of his nose again in a gesture that Henry found mildly annoying. “It was a converted youth hostel. You know, one of those places where the glorious Hitler youth used to go to on summer holidays before the war. All open air activity, dumb-bell swinging and a quick ‘Heil Hitler!’ before being packed off for a cold shower and bed at nine o’clock. No wonder they were cracked, half of them. Enough to send anyone off their head. Anyway, after the war finished we’d got a few of the high-ups from the SS holed up there, processing them through just to see if they got up to anything naughty during the war.”
He paused to take a quick look at Mavis who was busy spooning boiling fat over the roasting potatoes. The sizzling pork drowned out his next words for Mavis.
“We made bloody sure the bastards didn’t have it cushy.” George suddenly looked at Henry and leant forward conspiratorially. The cheery grin he had carried all morning was gone and in its place was a grim tightening of the lips. “Murdering fuckers.”
After dinner was finished, Henry got up from the table and took the dirty pudding plates to the sink.
“Nice apple stew, Mavis. Very nice.” George pulled out his cigarettes once more. “Beats the slop we had to eat day in, day out at the camp. Here or in Germany. I’ll be glad to get away from it all.” Mavis had declined the offer of a cigarette and George now puffed enthusiastically. “Can’t beat a fag and a decent cup of char.” The teapot with its brown knitted cosy sat in the middle of the table.
“No need to wash the dirty things up yet, Henry. You can leave them for the moment. Did you want a cup of tea?” Mavis picked up the teapot and placed the strainer over Henry’s cup.
“No thanks, Mum, I’m fine. If it’s OK I’ll go up to my room. I got started on that detective story I bought yesterday. I thought I’d get a couple of chapters done before I check over the shop stock before tomorrow.” He had intended to tell his mother about the job offer from the cinema manager but didn’t want to mention it in front of George. It could wait.
A Coin for the Hangman Page 18