‘I wish my mother was a dancer,’ sighed Grace.
‘Didn’t she miss it?’ asked Mrs Beaumont.
‘Yes. But she was tired of touring, so she didn’t miss that. She used to teach at dance schools.’
‘Why did she stop?’
Jeffries reddened.
‘Because someone kept telling the parents of the children in her classes that she was married to a deserter and then they’d stop their children from going back. That’s when she started to work at the corset factory until they found out there and she lost that job as well. That’s why she had to turn down my place at the grammar school. She couldn’t afford the uniform.’
Henry almost dropped his spoon.
‘I didn’t know you got into the grammar school,’ he said.
Jeffries gave a shrug.
‘I don’t mind. If I’d gone there I would have had so much homework I wouldn’t have had time to read books.’
‘You’re right,’ said Pip, scraping his bowl.
‘They let her back later but only so long as she worked from home. That way no one at the factory sees her.’
‘Don’t you have any relatives who could help you?’ asked Mrs Beaumont, tipping more soup into Pip’s bowl.
‘They wouldn’t have anything more to do with us when my mother refused to change her surname.’
‘Why doesn’t she move?’ said Grace.
‘We have to stay here so that my father has a chance of finding us if he comes back.’
Henry carried on eating, too stunned to speak. Gran always said that Mrs Jeffries had sent her son to Hatton School out of spite, but she was wrong. Suddenly he realised that by following his gran’s advice and failing the eleven plus test for the grammar school, he and Jeffries had ended up together. The very person who had wanted to separate them had actually caused them to be in the same class.
Just then there was a knock at the front door.
‘Will someone get that for me?’ said Mrs Beaumont. ‘Tell them I’ll be there in a jiffy.’
Henry and Jeffries went up to the hall and opened the door. It took Henry a few seconds to recognise the distraught-looking woman standing in the porch.
‘Mother!’ cried Jeffries.
Her face was ashen.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she began, ‘I should have waited till you got home.’
‘Mrs Jeffries?’ It was Mrs Beaumont. She must have followed them. She took hold of her hands. ‘You’re frozen.’
By now Mrs Jeffries had begun to shake.
‘Mother, what is it?’ Jeffries asked.
‘Oh, Roger,’ and her eyes welled up.
Mrs Beaumont put an arm round her and led her down to the kitchen, Henry and Jeffries behind them. ‘Fill the kettle, boys. The cups are in the dresser.’ She stoked the range, sat Mrs Jeffries by its warmth, poured some brandy into a small, elegant glass and pressed it into her hands. ‘Drink that up,’ she commanded.
Once Mrs Jeffries had taken a sip, she buried her face in her hands.
‘Mother,’ said Jeffries alarmed, ‘are you ill?’
She raised her head slowly.
‘We’ve got to leave,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve had the military police questioning me, asking me where your father is hiding. The landlady appeared and said she had no idea I was the wife of a deserter and she’s given me a week’s notice. If I don’t find somewhere within a week . . . ’ She wrung her hands.
‘Look no further,’ said Mrs Beaumont, ‘you can move in here. There’s a room upstairs with two single beds if you want to share, and one with a double bed if you want to split up and sleep in separate rooms. Take your pick.’
Henry was astonished. Not only had Mrs Beaumont not blinked an eyelid when Mrs Jeffries had mentioned the police, but she was inviting her into her own home, even when she knew that Private Jeffries was a deserter.
‘But Mrs Beaumont,’ stammered Mrs Jeffries.
‘And that’s another thing, you must call me Hettie.’
‘But you don’t know me.’
‘I know enough. I suggest you move in here tomorrow. I’ll order a taxi to bring your belongings.’
‘Thank you, but the taxi driver will refuse to take us once the lodgers have told him . . . ’ Her voice trailed away.
‘I’ve got a wheelbarrow,’ said Mrs Beaumont.
‘We’ve got one too,’ Henry heard himself saying.
‘But someone from the factory is coming tomorrow morning to pick up the corsets,’ Mrs Jeffries said, anxiously.
‘Good. We’ll be there before he arrives and you can tell him your new address.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘You’ll stay the night here, of course. You can wear a pair of my brother’s pyjamas.’
‘Oh, Mrs Beaumont,’ laughed Mrs Jeffries.
‘Hettie!’
‘Hettie,’ Mrs Jeffries repeated. ‘And my name is Natasha. It’s my stage name, but I’ve had it so long I’m used to it. Although come to think of it . . . ’ She broke off, almost near to tears. ‘It must be ten years since anyone called me by my Christian name.’
Henry didn’t get back home till nine o’clock. Uncle Bill was sitting at the kitchen table with another book.
‘You’re late for a Saturday,’ he remarked.
‘I was helping Mrs Beaumont. I need to borrow the wheelbarrow tomorrow. Someone’s moving out of their lodgings. Is that all right?’
His stepfather closed the book and gazed at him.
‘Of course it’s all right.’
And then Henry realised that if his mother went round to Mrs Beaumont’s house to do some typing, she was bound to meet Mrs Jeffries. He was going to have to warn her. And he knew that would upset her.
‘Henry, what is it?’
‘Uncle Bill,’ he said slowly, ‘there’s something I’ve got to tell you.’
It was a bitter cold morning with a wind that penetrated his eardrums. Henry had arranged to go to Mrs Beaumont’s house early. When he arrived, he found Jeffries and his mother in the kitchen clearing up after breakfast. Mrs Jeffries looked shattered.
Mrs Beaumont appeared at the door armed with hats and scarves.
No one spoke as they pushed the two wheelbarrows up towards the police station. They crossed the road just before they reached it and took a right turn, heading for Number 25. Manoeuvring the wheelbarrows into a scrub of a garden, they propped them against the front wall. A group of children was playing nearby. They stared at them.
‘Mrs Beaumont,’ said Henry, quietly, ‘I’d like to help but I don’t want to leave these wheelbarrows unguarded.’
She gave the children a quick glance.
‘I see what you mean,’ she said. ‘We’ll take turns to keep an eye on them.’
She accompanied Jeffries and his mother into the house and within seconds three of the children strolled up to Henry.
‘Watcha got them for?’ said a boy Henry recognised from Form I.
‘Putting stuff in,’ said Henry casually.
‘What stuff?’
‘Dunno,’ said Henry, shrugging.
A van from the corset factory drew up and a man in overalls walked up to the front door. Five minutes later he came out again, looking very flustered, carrying large bulging cotton bags.
‘Your factory should be ashamed!’ shouted the landlady after him. She waved a fist at him and stumped back inside.
Jeffries appeared looking angry.
‘Go away!’ he yelled at the children.
Henry had never seen this side of him before.
‘The lodgers got into our room last night,’ Jeffries said shakily. ‘They found a photo of my father, smashed the frame and tore the photo up into little pieces.’ At this he stifled a cry and looked away. ‘They have no proof,’ he choked out. ‘A man is innocent until proved guilty. That’s what they say, isn’t it?’
Henry said nothing. Everyone knew Private Jeffries was a deserter. Why else wouldn’t he have returned to his unit
and not come home to Jeffries and his mum? Yet Henry could see how shocked and hurt Jeffries was by what had happened and he felt sorry for him.
‘They ripped all the corsets my mother put together,’ he croaked. ‘Why did they do that? Luckily she’d put the sewing machine in its wooden case and locked it.’
Mrs Jeffries appeared, struggling with the sewing machine, a string bag with clothing in it hanging from her wrist. Mrs Beaumont followed, carrying a suitcase. Henry took the sewing machine from Mrs Jeffries and placed it in his wheelbarrow.
‘Thank you, Henry.’
She walked over to her son, put her arms round him and they hung on to one another. Mrs Beaumont nudged Henry, indicating that they should be left alone. Back in the house the landlady was standing in the hallway, legs astride, her arms folded.
‘I expect all that mess to be cleared up,’ she stated firmly.
‘I’m afraid we’ll need to leave that there for evidence,’ said Mrs Beaumont. ‘The police might want to take fingerprints.’
‘The police!’ she snorted. ‘What have the police got to do with it?’
‘Somebody has broken into Mrs Jeffries’ room. And by the way, how do you know there’s a mess in there?’
The woman pursed her lips.
‘I was waitin’ for her to come home last night and when she didn’t, I went upstairs to check up. She must have left her door unlocked. I can’t watch who goes into whose rooms, can I?’
‘It appears not,’ said Mrs Beaumont.
She carried on up the stairs, Henry behind her.
‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself mixing with the likes of her,’ the landlady yelled after them.
As soon as they entered the room, Henry froze. Bits of clothing, ripped bed sheets and pages torn out of books were strewn across the floor. Photos of film stars from Jeffries’ precious annuals were scattered among them.
‘There’s not much worth taking,’ said Mrs Beaumont quietly. ‘It looks like it’s been destroyed by a mob.’
Painstakingly, Henry began to pick up the scraps from the two Picture Goer’s Annuals.
‘His mother gave him these as Christmas presents. He practically knows them by heart.’
‘How could they be so cruel?’ said Mrs Beaumont angrily. ‘Do you know they tore up all the corsets? Undid all her hard work?’
Henry nodded.
‘Hopefully the factory will report it to the police. I gave my address to the man who came to collect them.’
‘Do you think they’ll take fingerprints?’
Mrs Beaumont shook her head.
‘I just said that to worry her.’
Henry glanced at the tiny fireplace. Remains of kindling were lying on the stone square in front of the iron bars among broken glass. It looked as if they had helped themselves to coal as well.
‘Private Jeffries must have known this would happen,’ said Henry angrily. ‘He should have given himself up.’
‘Yes. A prison sentence and the slate would have been wiped clean.’
‘Why does she wait for him?’
‘She’s convinced he hasn’t deserted. She says he’s not that kind of man. She thinks he’s wandering round somewhere in a confused state.’
‘How can she believe that?’
‘Henry, she knows him. We don’t. Now, let’s look for anything worth keeping.’
A creak on the landing made them swing round. Standing in the doorway was Mrs Jeffries. She gazed stupefied at the room.
‘They were so friendly to us here. Nothing’s changed. We’re still the same people. We’re not monsters.’
‘But they are,’ muttered Henry. To his alarm he found himself thinking of Gran. Was she a monster? And then he was ashamed of himself for even thinking of her in that way.
Mrs Jeffries gave a sad smile.
‘Thank you.’ She spotted the remains of the film annuals in his arms. ‘Oh, that is kind,’ she exclaimed and she hurriedly turned her face away.
The landlady was still waiting for them down in the hall, grim-faced.
Mrs Jeffries headed swiftly for the porch.
‘Your key, I believe,’ Mrs Beaumont said, holding it out to the landlady, ‘or one of them.’
‘And what do you mean by that?’
‘Oh, I think you know,’ said Mrs Beaumont, walking away. ‘Mrs Jeffries told me that she is always very careful to lock her door and yesterday was no exception.’
‘Good riddance!’
‘My sentiments exactly,’ retorted Mrs Beaumont over her shoulder as the door slammed behind her.
Henry carried the bundle of paper over to Jeffries. He looked near to tears.
‘I thought we could stick some of the pages together,’ said Henry.
‘Or you could put them on your bedroom wall,’ said Mrs Beaumont. ‘They could hide the ghastly wallpaper.’
‘Really?’ said Jeffries, suddenly smiling. ‘Can I really?’
‘Of course you can. And now,’ said Mrs Beaumont, smiling, ‘I can go up to London more often, without worrying about squatters.’
‘You mean I’ll be helping you by staying in your house?’ said Mrs Jeffries.
‘Yes. You’re my diamond in the dungheap.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When life is more than somewhat rough, I call those times the dungheap and I look for the diamond in it. Sometimes it’s easy to find. It just glitters among the mess and you can pick it out easily. Sometimes you have to dig deep to find it. Other times you have to wait awhile till it rises to the surface.’
Mrs Jeffries smiled. ‘I’ve never been called a diamond before!’
Henry decided to go for a walk to clear his head after the morning’s events. It seemed as if his brain was shifting. Whatever was happening inside him was making him look outwards in a different way and he needed to be alone to take it in. He headed immediately for the seafront. Striding down the streets, he was aware of wanting to move more quickly. It was as though he was carrying a volcano inside him and if he didn’t physically push some of it out of his body, he would explode. He drove himself on, pushing against the bitter wind. Once he reached the stretch of common, an extraordinary sense of exhilaration swept over him. It didn’t make sense. He had seen his friend treated like a common criminal. How could he feel so happy? He paused for a moment and then made for the road which led to the esplanade, with its splintered pavements and potholes.
And then he was on the beach, stumbling haphazardly and clumsily along the shingle to the grey-green expanse of sea. It bubbled towards him with a great rushing sound like an exhalation of breath. His hands planted solidly on his hips, he threw his head back and breathed it in, letting the sound of the waves soak into him. His shoulders felt lighter and he took in great gulps of air. He was letting go of something old and putrid, and in the letting go he felt a rush of pure adrenalin rising up through his throat. He now knew the cause of his happiness. All the hatred he had carried around inside him for years had been like a hard stone in the pit of his stomach, weighing down every bone in his body. Now that it had dissolved and left him, he felt light, so light, he wanted to leap into the sky.
He took out the camera. It was too dark to take a photograph, but he didn’t care. Through the viewfinder he framed the lights from the island and a ferry approaching.
‘Henry,’ his mother said quietly, ‘come into the scullery for a moment, will you?’
A week had already flown by at breakneck speed. Early that morning he had been round at Mr Jenkins’ shop, cleaning the yard and running messages for him, returning home with enough money to see Humphrey Bogart in Tokyo Joe. And that was in addition to his pocket money, which he had planned to use to see The Big Fight. Knowing he would be able to see two good films put him in a good mood, so he was completely unprepared for the serious expression on his mother’s face.
He noticed his stepfather giving his mother a quick glance. Henry followed her nervously, racking his brains as to what he might have done wro
ng. She closed the door behind them.
‘What’s all the secrecy?’ he asked.
‘That’s what I should be asking you.’
And then Henry remembered the conversation he had had with his stepfather about Mrs Jeffries moving into Mrs Beaumont’s house and how Uncle Bill had suggested that Henry should break the news to his mother about it. He felt his face grow hot.
‘I think you have something to tell me, don’t you?’
Henry looked down at his feet, mortified. How could he have forgotten to warn her?
‘I knew you were working with Morgan and Jeffries on the presentation,’ she said, ‘because Gran let it slip. She thought I’d be shocked, but I wasn’t because I didn’t think you’d disobey Mr Finch. But she obviously doesn’t know about Mrs Jeffries moving out of her lodgings and into Mrs Beaumont’s house.’
‘Did Uncle Bill tell you?’
‘No. But he did tell me you were going to tell me before I went round there. Why didn’t you?’
‘I forgot.’
‘Is that the truth?’
‘Sort of. I didn’t want to upset you.’
‘Did you think I might not go round there to type for her if I knew?’
‘Would you have?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Does that mean you won’t be going there again?’
She looked embarrassed.
‘Funnily enough, we got on really well, once we’d recovered from bumping into each other in the kitchen. Mrs Beaumont was in her element, of course, chatting away as if nothing was wrong and making tea. It’s strange. All these years, I’ve dreaded meeting her again. And there was really no need.’
‘I like Jeffries too, Mum.’
‘It’s a relief, isn’t it?’
Henry nodded.
‘Mum, what do you mean, again?’
‘Since your father’s funeral.’
‘But they weren’t there.’
She looked at him, puzzled.
‘Yes, they were, love. It was her husband who didn’t turn up. She and her son did.’
‘I thought none of the Jeffries turned up.’
‘Oh,’ she said, surprised. ‘I suppose you were too young to remember. But I thought Gran would have said.’
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