Just Henry

by Michelle Magorian

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘well, I s’pose that’s all right, but it does seem an awful lot of bother.’

  Henry was looking forward to telling Mr Finch in the History lesson, but when Henry raised his arm Mr Finch still ignored him, and instead listened to Jeffries and Pip talk about the Lumière brothers.

  At break time, the western three stopped him on his way to see the caretaker.

  ‘He don’t want to know you, does he?’ said Roberts. ‘Does he know your dad’s a hero?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And he treats you like that?’ said Kemp.

  ‘You done something wrong?’ added Davis.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You must’ve done. He don’t want to give you the time of day.’

  ‘Don’t matter to me,’ said Henry, shrugging, and he stared at the ground. He didn’t want them to see how upset he was feeling. ‘I got things to do,’ and he strolled away, still stinging from their remarks.

  He found the caretaker in the little room, standing on a chair by the small window holding some black material over the glass.

  ‘Good job I saved this,’ he commented.

  ‘I might be able to get some black paint over the half-term,’ said Henry.

  ‘Oh, yes? On the black market?’ and he laughed at his own joke.

  ‘You look browned off,’ said his mother. ‘The films weren’t that bad, were they?’

  Henry had just returned from the cinema. One of the films he had seen had left him feeling a bit low.

  ‘There was this James Mason film called Caught and it was supposed to have a happy ending. And it sort of did.’ And he paused. ‘And it didn’t.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It was about a woman who was married to a man who didn’t love her, only she didn’t find out till after she’d married him. And he treated her like he owned her. Then she found out that she was goin’ to have a baby, so she was sort of trapped, ‘cos he said that if she divorced him, he’d pay people to say terrible things about her so he could take the baby away from her and then she’d never see it again. And he was really nasty to her. He wouldn’t let her sleep when she wanted. And he made her cook meals for him and his friends in the middle of the night. He was a bully.’

  She sat down quickly and flung a hand across her face.

  ‘What a horrible story,’ she said shakily. ‘Why do they want to make films like that?’ and she burst into tears.

  ‘Mum!’ He was shocked. ‘It was all right, Mum. She lost the baby and ended up with this nice doctor.’

  ‘So if she hadn’t lost the baby, she would have had to stay with the nasty one?’

  ‘Yeah. He was a very powerful man. That’s what I meant about the ending. It was good because she ended up with the nice doctor, but it was bad because she lost the baby.’

  ‘What made you go and see a film like that?’

  ‘I didn’t know that’s how it was going to be. I went for the western.’ He stared at her, feeling helpless. ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

  She gave a brief wave as if trying to shrug it off, but he could see that she was finding it difficult to speak.

  ‘Silly me,’ she said, attempting to smile, ‘I get so caught up in stories. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all. I’d best get to bed.’

  After his mother had kissed him goodnight, Henry knocked on Gran’s door.

  ‘Come in, Henry.’

  She was in bed.

  ‘Switch off the wireless, there’s a dear. Now,’ she said, tapping the eiderdown with her hand, ‘come and tell me all about the films.’

  But Henry found it difficult to speak. He was still feeling bad at upsetting his mother.

  ‘What’s up? There’s something bothering you, ain’t there? I can see it in yer face. Come on, tell yer gran.’

  ‘I was telling Mum about one of the films I saw and she burst into tears.’

  ‘You mustn’t take any notice of that, not now she’s in her condition.’

  ‘What condition?’

  ‘She’s been caught again, ain’t she?’

  ‘Caught?’ repeated Henry, remembering the name of the film.

  ‘She’s in the family way, if you know what I mean.’

  Henry didn’t.

  ‘She’s goin’ to have another little nipper, God help us!’

  Henry felt as though he had been struck across the face.

  ‘A baby?’

  ‘All women get very tearful when they’re, you know, like that.’

  Shocked, Henry said nothing. He was still attempting to let this news sink in.

  ‘I used to get tearful when I was carrying your dad. The only person who upsets your mum is that stepfather of yours.’

  ‘He’s letting me go to London, Gran.’

  ‘Course he is. He wants to get shot of you. Once this new baby’s born, he’ll be eyeing up your room, mark my words. He’d like to get shot of me and all.’ She sighed. ‘If only we could find somewhere nice where the two of us could live together. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Then you could look after me.’

  For some reason Henry felt uneasy. He loved his gran, but he didn’t like the thought of leaving his mum to live alone with her.

  ‘Uncle Bill’s got a job waiting for me at Hatton Station after I finish school,’ he reminded her hurriedly. ‘I have to stay here.’

  ‘You missed the big shoot-out when he blasted his way to safety,’ Henry said as he came out of Chicago Deadline with Grace and Mrs Beaumont.

  ‘It was too scary to watch,’ they chorused.

  Outside the Apollo it was tipping down with rain.

  ‘It’s far too wet to go home yet,’ said Mrs Beaumont. ‘I’m taking you to the café upstairs.’

  Henry and Grace had never been on this floor before. As soon as Henry saw the huge room with chandeliers, he backed away.

  ‘Mrs Beaumont, I can’t go in there. I’ve got my old trousers on and I’m wearing boots.’

  ‘You’re not going to eat with them, are you? All you need are good manners and you have those in abundance. In you go,’ she said, nudging him through the door.

  A girl in a black dress and starched white apron and cap politely showed them to a table.

  ‘This is wonderful,’ said Grace, gazing around at the paintings of gardens on the walls.

  Up on a small raised platform a trio of ladies, wearing afternoon dresses and necklaces, were sitting playing classical music on a violin, viola and cello.

  ‘I’ll bring you back here on your birthday if you like,’ said Mrs Beaumont.

  ‘Too late. I had my thirteenth birthday the day after I auditioned for the choir,’ said Grace.

  ‘When are you fifteen, Henry?’

  ‘Next month.’

  ‘That’s settled, then. We shall have an un-birthday tea today, which will be a late one for you, Grace, and an early one for you, Henry.’

  The waitress wheeled a silver trolley up to their table with the most extraordinary array of cakes Henry had ever seen.

  ‘So, Grace,’ said Mrs Beaumont, sliding a tiny fork into an oozing, creamy apple strudel, ‘do you have any plans for half-term?’

  ‘No,’ she said dismally. ‘I’ve been given extra work to do so that I can catch up.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘When is your half-term?’ Grace asked Henry.

  ‘This Friday and Monday.’

  ‘Is that all? We have Tuesday off as well.’

  ‘Henry’s coming up to London with me,’ said Mrs Beaumont.

  ‘Lucky thing!’

  ‘I plan to go again in December. Would you . . . ’

  ‘Yes, please!’

  ‘I’ll try and persuade your great-aunt to let me take you.’

  ‘Oh, thank you. I’d love that.’

  ‘Now, eat your cake.’

  ‘I’d like a word with you, Dodge,’ said Mr Finch. ‘Remain here during the morning break.’

  It was the Thursday before half-term and this sudden attention s
urprised Henry. When everyone had left the classroom, Henry sat at his desk watching Mr Finch as he glanced out of the window above the door to check that no one was eavesdropping. He turned sharply.

  ‘The caretaker has brought to my attention the hard work you’ve put into the darkroom. I’d be delighted, if I didn’t suspect it was an avoidance tactic on your part.’

  ‘But I’m doing research, sir!’ Henry protested.

  ‘With Jeffries and Morgan?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Henry murmured. ‘But I’ve met this lady and . . . ’

  But he could see he wasn’t interested.

  Mr Finch took a brown envelope from his pocket and placed it on Henry’s desk.

  ‘When you return from half-term, I expect to see a change in your behaviour. If there is not, you will be banned from the presentation. Do I make myself clear?’

  Henry nodded numbly.

  ‘Now put that in your pocket and make use of it.’ He strode over to the door and held it open for him, indicating that Henry could leave. ‘It’ll all be clear once you open it,’ he said abruptly.

  As soon as Henry hit the playground, he was pounced on by the western three.

  ‘Why did he want to talk to you?’ Kemp asked.

  ‘I’ve been helping Sergeant at break times, with the darkroom,’ said Henry casually. ‘He just wanted to let me know that he’d noticed my hard work, that’s all.’

  ‘Teacher’s pet,’ said Davis.

  Whatever I do, I can’t win, he thought.

  The bell rang. He was glad of an excuse not to open the envelope. Whatever was in it could wait until he was in his bedroom. He could be private there.

  After school he sprinted to the grocers to tell Mr Jenkins that he would be away the next day. There was a long queue of people waiting outside the shop. He spotted his mother with Molly. She looked shattered. Molly was lying on the pavement, screaming, while his mother was struggling to hold her hand.

  ‘I’ve been here for two hours,’ she said. ‘Can you take her home, love? I don’t know how much longer I can hold her. If she dashes off, I’ll have to run after her and I’ll lose my place.’

  Henry glanced behind her. The queue was so long it disappeared round the corner into the next street.

  ‘Can you tell Mr Jenkins that I can’t help again until Tuesday?’

  She nodded. ‘Thanks, love.’

  Henry gazed down at his red-faced, squalling heap of a half-sister.

  ‘Give her some bread and jam. That’ll keep her going till I get back.’

  She let go of her hand and Molly swiftly rolled over on to her stomach, clambered to her feet and ran across the road.

  ‘Molly!’ screamed his mother.

  Henry dashed after her and grabbed her by the back of her dress. He scooped up her wriggling, fighting body and slung her under his arm. He marched to the other side of the road and turned to face his mother.

  ‘I’ve got her!’ he yelled.

  He thrust Molly down on to the pavement and squatted down in front of her.

  ‘Want a piggyback, Molly?’

  ‘Piggyback, piggyback!’ she chanted.

  She scrambled excitedly on to his back and he stood up, gripping her firmly. She clung to his neck and began to bounce up and down. He struggled to hold her legs.

  ‘Gallopy horse!’ she cried.

  Henry began galloping towards the railway station. By the time he reached the bombsite opposite their house, he was worn out. He wondered how his mother kept up with her. Five minutes with Molly and he was done in. As soon as he reached their house and shut the front door, she darted into the kitchen, slid happily on to a chair and spread her arms across the table.

  ‘Firsty,’ she stated.

  ‘Come with me, then,’ and he led her into the scullery, where he poured water into a small enamel mug. She carried it carefully into the kitchen, sat down and began gulping it noisily.

  The bread was kept in a large clay pot with a lid. He put the remains of a loaf on the breadboard and cut a misshapen slice for her.

  ‘Would you like it toasted, Molly?’

  ‘Yes,’ she breathed between loud gulps.

  The fire in the range was almost out. He added a few small pieces of coal and had just finished toasting the bread on the end of the toasting fork when there was a loud banging on the wall. He whirled round.

  ‘Auntie cross,’ Molly stated matter of factly.

  ‘Why d’you think that, Molly?’ asked Henry puzzled.

  ‘Tea!’ yelled a voice. ‘Where’s my tea?’

  The banging started again. Bang! Bang! Bang! Henry stood stunned for a moment.

  And then he heard the front door opening. Within seconds his mother was hauling the shopping basket into the kitchen.

  ‘I’m so sorry, love, I should have told you – Gran has a cup of tea when I come back from the shops. She must have heard you come in with Molly and thought it was me.’

  ‘I expect it’s difficult with her legs, not being able to do much.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her legs?’ asked his mother. ‘Has she hurt them?’

  ‘No, I mean, I thought she had bad legs.’

  ‘Oh, no, she doesn’t use them, that’s all.’

  By now Molly was yelling, ‘Bang, bang, bang!’ and thumping the table with her hands.

  ‘Can you fill the kettle, love, while I go and sort her out?’

  Henry listened as his mother opened the door to the front room.

  ‘Where’s my tea?’ his grandmother screamed. ‘Didn’t you hear me banging?’

  ‘I’ve only just come in, Mother.’

  ‘Liar! I heard you come in ages ago with that noisy girl.’

  ‘I’m just about to put the kettle on.’

  ‘And about time. Don’t think you’re getting away with it, though. I’ll bang on the wall till it arrives.’

  ‘You’ll only make Molly excitable and that’ll make you angry.’

  ‘Lock ’er in ’er room, then. She needs locking away anyway.’

  ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  ‘You’d better be.’

  As soon as Henry heard his mother close the door he quickly dashed into the scullery to fill the kettle. By the time he returned, not only was Gran banging the poker against the wall but the wireless was now up to full volume.

  ‘Can you take Molly out into the yard?’ asked his mother above the din.

  ‘Has she done this before, Mum?’

  His mother looked hesitantly at him for a moment. And then nodded. ‘She’s not the saint you think she is.’

  Molly was now shouting in an effort to beat the wireless.

  ‘Please take her outside,’ his mother begged.

  ‘Piggyback, Molly?’ he asked.

  She laughed and stretched up her arms.

  ‘You’re a bit quiet, Henry,’ said Gran over tea.

  ‘He’s just tired,’ said his mum. ‘You’d best get upstairs, Henry. You’ve an early start tomorrow. You don’t want to miss the train.’

  He nodded. All during tea he couldn’t look at his grandmother. He was glad of an excuse to escape.

  Upstairs he lay awake, waiting until Molly was asleep. As soon as he heard her breathing become steady, he reached down to the foot of the bed where he had slung his trousers, and pulled the envelope out. To make doubly sure he wouldn’t wake her, he opened it under his bedclothes and switched on his torch.

  Inside the envelope was a small piece of paper. Written on it in neat handwriting were two addresses, one under R. Jeffries and one under E. Morgan. Underneath were the phone numbers of their landladies.

  9. Another country

  HENRY STARED OUT OF THE TRAIN WINDOW. SINCE LEAVING Hatton Station, he and Mrs Beaumont had had a carriage to themselves. Mrs Beaumont was buried in a huge novel called The Good Companions and for once Henry was glad to see a book. He didn’t want to talk. He needed time to think.

  Four incidents had troubled him over the last few days. First ther
e was the threat from Mr Finch. Then there had been his mother’s reaction to his account of Caught, followed by the unexpected news that she was going to have a baby.

  He was hurt that his mother hadn’t told him. He had tried to find a way of asking her if it were true, but he hadn’t been able to get her on her own. He suspected that Uncle Bill had told her to keep quiet about it and had been treating his mother in the same way as the cruel husband in the film. He wondered if she would have divorced him if she hadn’t been about to have a baby.

  But he knew the answer to that. Divorce brought shame on a woman. His mother would rather cross a road than risk coming face to face with a divorcee like Lily Bridges or an unmarried woman like Pip’s mother. So maybe she was trapped like the woman in the film.

  Then there was the fourth incident and it was the most disturbing of them all – his grandmother screaming and banging the walls. How was it possible that he had never seen that side of her before?

  ‘Penny for them?’ said Mrs Beaumont. ‘You look as if you’re carrying the world on your shoulders. Anything worrying you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘How are you enjoying the camera?’

  ‘A lot,’ he said, relaxing. ‘Most of the time I pretend to take photos so I don’t use the film up too quickly. I look through the viewfinder at people till they ignore me. I want to take them by surprise.’

  She gave a wry smile.

  ‘I seem to remember being on the receiving end of that method outside the Plaza.’

  He thought about what he would really like to be able to do. He wanted to take photographs that looked like scenes in The Third Man, people in shafts of light by a window or under a street lamp at night in the rain, so that the wet pavement reflected the light. ‘I wish I could get the light to do what I want.’

  ‘You want to take photographs for their own sake, don’t you? Not family snaps.’

  ‘Yeah! Gran doesn’t understand that.’ He stopped for a moment, conscious that he was criticising his grandmother, something he had never done before. ‘I don’t want ones of people putting on a smile. I want to photograph them doing things or thinking.’ He wondered if he was making a fool of himself. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I like it. Even when I’m just carrying the camera, I notice things more.’