Just Henry

by Michelle Magorian

  ‘I’d be too shy,’ said Ethel. ‘I wouldn’t know what to say, sir.’

  ‘You don’t have to do much in the way of talking. In fact the less you talk the better. You just need to listen. Try it.’

  He glanced down at his list again and called Henry’s group.

  Pip flung his arm up.

  ‘I got an idea, sir, but it’s a bit tricky.’

  ‘Go on, Morgan.’

  ‘I thought it would be a good idea to see a cinema projector.’

  Mr Finch looked puzzled.

  ‘Why do you want to see a projector now when I want you to find out about films fifty years ago?’

  ‘I thought if I could see a 1949 projector and then see a Victorian one . . . ’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Finch, ‘compare the two to see how projectors have developed in the last fifty years?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But I haven’t been able to see one yet. My mum, she works at the Plaza, she says no one goes upstairs, not even the usherettes.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find a way to get permission to go up there, Morgan.’

  ‘He’ll have no chance,’ said a loud voice from the back.

  Mr Finch looked up sharply.

  ‘Oh, yes, Riley, and why is that?’

  ‘’Cos he’s not kosher, sir.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You know, sir,’ said the boy, grinning.

  ‘I don’t. That’s why I’m asking.’

  No one spoke.

  ‘Would anyone like to explain?’

  No one did.

  ‘Morgan,’ he said, ‘I like your approach and your ideas. Perhaps others might like to take a leaf out of your book.’

  Pip was beaming. Henry had never seen a teacher praise Pip.

  ‘How about the rest of your team?’

  Henry swallowed.

  ‘I know this second-hand bookshop,’ said Jeffries, ‘and I’ve been to see the man who runs it and he says I can look through his books and magazines. I’ve found an old magazine about silent films but it’s all about ones in the 1920s.’

  ‘Never mind. You’re developing an eye while looking.’

  ‘I’ll help,’ said Pip excitedly.

  Jeffries smiled at him.

  ‘You’ll have to keep your arm gestures down a bit, Pip, or you’ll knock the shelves over.’

  To Henry’s surprise some of the people in the class laughed.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Pip, and they grinned at each other.

  Henry expected Mr Finch’s attention to be turned on to him. Instead he went on to the next group.

  ‘Group ten,’ he said. ‘Aeroplanes. I heard on the grapevine that one of you has a father who works in the aeroplane factory.’

  It was as if he didn’t exist. He was used to people in his class ignoring him but not a teacher.

  After the bell rang, Henry waited to see if Mr Finch would call him up or glance in his direction but nothing happened. All week he had been dreading his attention in the History lesson. Now, instead of feeling relieved that Mr Finch had taken no notice of him, he felt acutely uncomfortable.

  On Sunday, even though it was pouring outside, the kitchen windows, scullery door and door into the yard were flung open. Henry’s mother had been preparing steak and kidney pudding for Sunday dinner and because it took three hours to cook, the kitchen was tropical.

  ‘I feel sorry for the day trippers,’ said Uncle Bill as Henry’s mother served out the dinner. ‘Sternsea Front is going to be deserted.’

  ‘See the boats,’ said Molly, waving her spoon.

  ‘That spoon’s fer eatin’ with,’ Gran muttered. ‘It ain’t a Union Jack.’

  ‘We could go on the bus, Maureen, and sit in one of the shelters on the beach.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Henry’s mother. ‘It’ll be nice to get out of the house. Henry, do you want to come with us? Or are you going to the Pictures?’

  ‘Pictures,’ said Henry.

  ‘What’s on?’ asked Uncle Bill.

  ‘Words and Music.’

  ‘I didn’t know you liked musicals.’

  ‘I like some,’ he said defensively. ‘I want to see the other film too, Who Shot Jesse James?’

  ‘You’d better wear your raincoat,’ said his mother.

  ‘He can’t do that,’ said Gran. ‘It don’t fit any more.’

  ‘I’ll hold it over my head,’ said Henry.

  ‘You can get him a new one now,’ said Gran, looking pointedly at Henry’s mother.

  ‘Mrs Dodge, just because clothes have come off rationing . . . ’ She paused as if trying to control her temper. ‘You still need money to buy them,’ she added quietly.

  ‘Get one on tick,’ said his gran.

  ‘You know we don’t get anything on tick, Mrs Dodge. That’s the road to debt.’

  ‘I heard from your mother you saw The Third Man again,’ said Uncle Bill.

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Henry could see he was trying to change the subject, but he wasn’t going to help him out and he refused to speak.

  ‘Tell Uncle Bill about the darkroom,’ his mother said brightly, ‘how you’re helping the caretaker clear a room out for it.’

  ‘What’s this?’ said Uncle Bill, looking interested.

  ‘Mr Finch has got permission for us to have a darkroom,’ said Henry wearily.

  ‘Silly man,’ said Gran. ‘Where are you goin’ to find cameras?’

  ‘I dunno. Maybe he’s goin’ to have us develop his film.’

  ‘Anyone want some more cabbage?’ asked his mother.

  His stepfather held out his plate. ‘Please,’ he said.

  ‘Mrs Harris at Number 14 was telling me your Mr Finch wants you to do a History presentation at the end of term,’ she said, handing back Uncle Bill’s plate. ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’

  ‘Do I have to talk about school?’ said Henry.

  ‘You don’t have to, love. I’m just interested. What is it you have to do?’

  ‘Look at life fifty years ago,’ he mumbled. ‘We’ve all been given different subjects.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ said Uncle Bill, his mouth full of potato. ‘What have you been given?’

  ‘Films,’ said Henry.

  ‘Well, that’s good!’ exclaimed his mother.

  ‘Lumière brothers. French,’ said his stepfather. ‘They made the first films, I think.’

  ‘And you have to do this all on yer own?’ said his gran. ‘Sounds like you’re doin’ the teacher’s job.’

  ‘You’ve all been put into groups. That’s right, isn’t it?’ said his mother.

  Henry sighed.

  ‘There’s no call for rudeness,’ said Uncle Bill.

  ‘Sorry,’ he muttered.

  ‘Who have you been put with?’ his mother asked.

  Henry didn’t answer.

  ‘Henry?’ Uncle Bill leaned across towards him. ‘Your mother asked you who you’ve been put with.’

  ‘Two other boys,’ said Henry evasively.

  ‘Do I know them?’ his mother asked.

  ‘Not to speak to.’

  ‘Oh. So who are they?’

  ‘Why do you need to know? It’s not very interesting.’

  ‘Is there some reason you don’t want your mother to know?’ asked Uncle Bill.

  Henry froze for a moment and then nodded. His mother sat back in her chair and stared at him.

  ‘Well, I’d like to know if you don’t mind.’

  Henry swallowed.

  ‘Morgan.’

  His grandmother gave a gasp.

  ‘Oh,’ said his mother. ‘I’m not sure . . . ’ She stopped. ‘I mean, I’m sure he’s a nice enough boy.’

  ‘Nice!’ said his grandmother.

  ‘But people do talk, don’t they?’ added Henry’s mother.

  ‘Of course they talk,’ said his gran. ‘A man is judged by the company he keeps.’

  ‘I asked if I could be put with someone else.’

  ‘You did what?’ Uncle B
ill asked quietly.

  ‘But Mr Finch wouldn’t change his mind.’

  ‘Did you tell him why?’ said his gran.

  ‘Yeah. And he told me what being born on the wrong side of the blanket means.’

  His mother reddened.

  ‘So he knows?’ said his gran.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Uncle Bill.

  ‘He said he would be treated the same as everybody else in the class.’

  He saw his stepfather suppress a smile. Henry felt like hitting him.

  ‘So you still have to be in a group with him?’ said his mother.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, if that’s what Mr Finch wants, you must do as you’re told.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘So who’s the other boy?’ asked his gran.

  Henry turned away from her and looked out the window.

  ‘Henry,’ added his mother. Henry looked across at her. ‘I think I know,’ she said slowly.

  ‘Jeffries,’ said Uncle Bill.

  Henry nodded.

  ‘No!’ cried his grandmother.

  Molly began banging her tray with her spoon.

  ‘Auntie red! Auntie red!’

  ‘But didn’t you tell him?’ Gran demanded.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, what did he say?’

  ‘That he’s not his dad.’

  ‘What about the sins of the father . . .?’

  ‘He doesn’t believe that.’

  His stepfather glanced briefly at Henry’s mother and then scraped another forkful of steak and kidney pudding into his mouth.

  ‘Maureen,’ said his gran, ‘you gotta get up to that school and put a stop to it straight away.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any point. It sounds as if I won’t be taken much notice of.’

  ‘You should be ashamed of yerself!’

  ‘Auntie cross!’ shrieked Molly.

  With that, Gran rose to her feet and stalked out of the kitchen. After the loud slam of her door they heard the wireless at full blast.

  ‘Auntie gone!’ yelled Molly, jubilant.

  ‘I’ll get the plums and custard,’ said Henry’s mother quietly.

  As soon as his mother had left the house with Molly and Uncle Bill to catch a bus to the seafront, Henry knocked on his gran’s door. At first there had been no response. Eventually he heard her mutter, ‘Come in.’

  She was sitting hunched over in her armchair, wringing her hands. He could see she was still upset.

  ‘I’m sorry, Gran. I really tried not to be in a group with them.’

  She nodded and gave a tight smile.

  ‘Of course you did,’ she said, ‘you’re a good boy. But I’ve been havin’ a bit of a think. And there’s a way round this, yer know.’ She looked at him intently. ‘You don’t have to find out about films together, do you?’

  ‘No, but we have to do this presentation thing together.’

  ‘But you could keep yourself separate till then, couldn’t you?’

  ‘That’s what I’m doing.’

  To Henry’s relief she gave a broad smile.

  ‘Atta boy!’ she said.

  Being a U film, Henry could join the queue for Words and Music without having to ask an adult to take him in. As he held his raincoat over his head, he noticed the three ‘western’ boys in his class. They were huddled together, talking and laughing. He felt a pang of envy. He had seen loads of westerns. He could easily have been in their group. Not that he wanted to talk to anyone just then. He was still smarting from the scene at home.

  Hidden under his raincoat, mulling over what Gran had said, he suddenly spotted the posh girl with the black plaits, but then she disappeared, swallowed up by the crowd. It wasn’t until later that he caught sight of her again. He had been sitting in the dark, watching the usherettes moving down the aisles showing people to their seats, when he discovered she was sitting in the same row.

  And then the music began, the screen flickered and blazing hugely in front of them was Words and Music. Judy Garland, who had played Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, was in the film. She sang a song called Johnnie One Note, which had everyone laughing. Henry glanced down the row and saw the girl beaming.

  And then a beautiful black woman in a nightclub took his attention away. She sang two numbers. The one Henry liked best was called The Lady is a Tramp. He peered in the dark down the row again. The girl was leaning forward, almost off her seat with excitement. During one song, when a man sang Blue Moon, Henry watched her the whole time. She looked as though she wanted to dive into the film and join in.

  He returned to the screen, where a man and a woman were dancing. The man was stocky and muscular and looked more like someone who worked in Sternsea Dockyard than a dancer. He danced right into the ground, moving gracefully round the girl as if his body was liquid. Henry didn’t like ballet but this kind of dancing was different. It was jazzy. The dance even had its own name, Slaughter on Tenth Avenue, and the music was so powerful, it made Henry want to leap to his feet.

  When the credits came up he looked for the name of the black singer.

  ‘Lena Horne,’ he whispered in the dark.

  The Pathé news flickered above his head and he found himself thinking back to what his gran had said. It was silly not to find out anything for the presentation just because he didn’t want to work with Pip and Jeffries, and if he carried on doing nothing, Mr Finch might think he was stupid. But how was he going to find out about films in 1899?

  He couldn’t ask Gran. She hadn’t started going to the cinema until much later and then didn’t go very often.

  And then he remembered Mrs Beaumont. She would be too young to help him but her parents would be the right age. Maybe he could ask them questions. He sat back relieved.

  There was a way out.

  5. Mrs Beaumont and the mystery girl

  HENRY’S CHANCE TO MEET MRS BEAUMONT CAME THE FOLLOWING Sunday as he made his way to see a film at the Classic. He took the usual route to the cinema towards the town centre, past decimated houses, dust, rubble and jagged walls. He was so used to these deserted spaces that he couldn’t imagine them with proper buildings on them but the greyness of his surroundings still left him feeling as flat as the landscape. Tumbleweed drifting down the road wouldn’t have looked out of place.

  He walked swiftly past a railway station, the new C&A department store, the empty shops and the deserted stalls in the street market. And then he heard voices and laughing. He broke into a run and turned a corner to where the towering Classic loomed. Immediately, he spotted Mrs Beaumont in the queue, opening her umbrella. She waved to him and he strolled casually in her direction.

  ‘Are you going to see the Errol Flynn film, Silver River, at the Majestic? It’s only on till Wednesday.’

  ‘I can’t,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t have enough time to get there from school for the first showing. And I work at a shop till six if I can. And the Majestic is a bus ride away and once I’ve paid the fare . . . ’

  ‘You’ve used up money you could have spent on a cinema ticket. Yes, I see what you mean. What about Joan of Arc?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Do come. Ingrid Bergman’s in it.’

  He hesitated. ‘It’s not . . . ’

  ‘Soppily romantic?’

  He grinned.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And if you’re wondering how I guessed, I brought up two boys, which is how I know you’re itching to ask me something but don’t quite know how to pitch it. Am I right?’

  Henry nodded, smiling.

  ‘Fire away.’

  Mr Finch was right. The most important thing about getting information from people was to listen and let them do the talking. And she talked. Unfortunately the more she did, the gloomier he felt. She had hardly any relatives left. Her husband had been killed in the Great War, as had two of her brothers.

  ‘And I’ve only been in Sternsea for the last three years, since 1946,’ she explained. ‘I moved d
own here from London to nurse my mother, but she died and then I stayed to look after my father.’

  ‘Could I speak to him?’ asked Henry.

  ‘I’m afraid not. He died in June. And my one remaining brother died five months before him. The only relatives I have are my two sons and they’re too young to be of any use to you. I’m so sorry. But my brother’s collection of cameras is here,’ she said.

  ‘Cameras?’ Henry repeated, suddenly alert.

  ‘Yes. He was mad about films and photography. After he died all his belongings were sent from his flat to my parents’ address here. He had friends in London who are involved in all that too. I could get in touch with them if you like. And then there’s my younger son, Max. He knows a lot about cameras.’

  ‘So you live on your own in that big house?’ Henry blurted out.

  ‘Yes. Disgraceful, isn’t it? With so many homeless people.’

  Henry felt his face grow hot.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he stammered, realising he must have sounded rude.

  ‘No, you’re quite right. But the house isn’t mine. Not yet anyway. Since my father died there’s been trouble finding the deeds and a lot of bureaucratic red tape, which I won’t bore you with. So I sit in it to avoid squatters moving in. Anyway,’ she said, ‘enough of that. Come and see Joan of Arc next Saturday afternoon and afterwards we’ll go back to the house and we can look for the cameras.’

  ‘Can I come too?’ said a voice.

  Henry swung round. It was the girl with the black plaits.

  ‘How long have you been there?’ asked the woman.

  ‘Long enough,’ said the girl cheekily. ‘If there was a certificate in eavesdropping . . . ’

  ‘You’d get a distinction,’ the woman finished off for her.

  She smiled.

  ‘So can I?’

  ‘Can you what? See Joan of Arc?’

  ‘No. I mean, yes. I mean can I come back to your house too?’

  ‘On one condition, that you both let me pay for you to see Joan of Arc, as I know neither of you is too keen. What about it?’

  ‘I earn my money,’ Henry said firmly.

  ‘And I’ve been told by my great-aunt never to take money from strangers.’

  ‘That’s easily sorted. You do a job for me,’ Mrs Beaumont said, turning to Henry. ‘And I’ll come and speak to your great-aunt. Agreed?’