‘But I didn’t like them,’ finished Henry for her.
‘Why do you say that? You loved them.’
‘Gran said.’
‘Oh. Anyway,’ she said hurriedly, ‘every now and then, me and the cook would go to the Pictures. I must have been about your age then.’
‘So what date would that have been?’
‘About 1928. They were all silent films of course. But about a year after that came the talkies. They were building lots of new picture houses then.’
She looked happier now, Henry thought, reminiscing about her days in service. Her father had been killed in the Great War when she was Molly’s age. After the war, both she and her mother went down with Spanish flu. Her mother didn’t survive and she was put in an orphanage.
‘That’s when I learned how to mend, cook and clean,’ she had told him one day, ‘but I learned little about love.’
‘I carried on going to the Pictures till I married your father and we moved down here. I didn’t go again till you were six, a year after he died. We went every week from then. Do you remember?’
‘Yeah. And we stopped when Uncle Bill moved in,’ he muttered.
‘No, love. We stopped when your gran moved in.’
‘But she said . . . ’
‘She says a lot of things. She gets a bit muddled.’
‘So why did we stop?’
His mother looked away for a moment.
‘I thought she might be a bit lonely on her own and, anyway, you were ten by then. I thought you’d want to be with your friends.’
Henry had a feeling it was only half the truth.
They heard the click of the yard door. His mother’s face lit up and she whirled round to look out of the window.
‘It’s your stepdad!’ And then she turned back to face him. ‘Uncle Bill, I mean.’ And the tiny flicker of happiness Henry had seen in her eyes was now extinguished.
The darkroom became Henry’s sanctuary at school, although it reminded him that he hadn’t used the camera for some time. It took him a while to realise why. He was frightened. It was as if it was the camera’s fault for discovering the truth about his father and his mother’s bigamy. What else might it discover? Instead he volunteered to help Mr Finch develop other people’s negatives.
‘Anything troubling you, Dodge?’ Mr Finch asked one break time as Henry quietly watched images emerging in the tray.
‘My mother’s ill,’ he muttered.
Once he was on his own again, he found himself asking the same questions over and over again. What had his father been doing for nine years? Why had he appeared now? When were they going to tell Gran? And what was his mum going to do now that she loved two men?
‘Every time I see that film,’ said Mrs Beaumont, as Henry and his friends left the cinema after seeing Whisky Galore, ‘I feel as though I’ve taken a brief holiday.’
It was the second time Henry had seen it. And he had to agree with her. Sadly he knew he wouldn’t be able to have many more of those ‘brief holidays’. He only had enough saved for two more visits to the Pictures and then it would be down to once a week using his pocket money. But Mrs Beaumont came to his rescue.
‘I need a word with you, Henry,’ she said. ‘You three go on ahead and get the kettle on.’
She waited till they were out of earshot.
‘Is it about Mum?’ Henry asked quickly.
‘No, I need chopped wood for my fire, which naturally I will pay for. Can you help me?’
He nodded, grinning.
Over the weekend and after school the following week, he scoured the bombsites and the seafront for driftwood, carrying the wood to his backyard in an old sack. The damp wood he put in the air-raid shelter to dry, the rest he sawed and chopped. As he toiled he realised that this was his diamond in the dungheap. Working in the grocery shop would have been terrible. He couldn’t have faced being near so many people. Through helping Mrs Beaumont, he could be on his own and have time to think.
The following Saturday she offered him more work.
‘I need help to prepare a studio,’ she said and she took him into her back garden to the strange building that looked like a miniature house with its two windows. Even the door was like an ordinary front door with two frosted windows at the top and a letterbox.
She unlocked the door and switched on the light. It was an enormous room with a wooden floor. Heavy dark Victorian furniture was piled up to the ceiling: trunks, boxes and stacks of old framed paintings. At one end was a huge chest-high cupboard.
‘A tailor used to store all his materials in this cupboard,’ she said, resting her hand on it, ‘and this room was filled with rows of sewing machines and tables.’ She pointed to the end of the room. ‘Beyond that door is a tiny cloakroom, lavatory and basin. As you can see, after the tailor left, my parents used it for storing other people’s unwanted furniture. I want this to be a dance studio for Mrs Jeffries by the spring. But don’t tell her. It’s to be a surprise. I need the furniture here to be taken into the house.’
‘Just for Grace, Jeffries and Pip to have lessons?’ he said, astonished.
‘Not exactly. You see I have a feeling that once we begin a class here, word will get out, Mrs Jeffries will have more pupils, and she will never ever have to make corsets again. Jeffries will be helping so you won’t be on your own.’
Henry couldn’t stop smiling. He would be away from the horrible atmosphere at home and he would be able to go to the cinema more than once a week and he could buy film for the camera.
‘You look like the cat that’s got the cream,’ she remarked, ‘so I take it you’re willing.’
When they returned to her kitchen, his friends were waiting impatiently for him round the table, the newspaper open.
At the Troxy there were two U films, the major feature was Fire Over England and starred an actor called Laurence Olivier. Henry remembered him playing Hamlet.
‘Flora Robson, Raymond Massey and Vivien Leigh!’ exclaimed Mrs Beaumont. ‘I know you don’t need me to get you in but if you don’t mind I’ll come too. I love them.’
Pip meanwhile looked as if he was about to burst.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ asked Henry.
Pip nodded, beaming.
‘He’s been like this for hours,’ said Jeffries. ‘You’re going to have to tell us.’
‘It’s about Mr Hart,’ he blurted out.
‘He’s going to let you draw the entire innards of his projectors?’ guessed Jeffries.
Pip shook his head wildly.
‘He’s going to take Mum to a dance on his night off. And Mrs Jeffries is making her a dress!’
‘Oh, how romantic,’ sighed Grace.
‘That’s very interesting,’ said Jeffries, ‘but could we get back to business. A very important film is showing at all three Odeons. But it’s an A,’ he said, glancing at Mrs Beaumont. ‘It’s called The Rocking Horse Winner. And Valerie Hobson, who stars in it, will be making personal appearances at each Odeon on Monday.’
‘Oh, can’t we go and see her, Mrs Beaumont?’ pleaded Grace.
‘John Mills is in it too,’ continued Jeffries, ‘he’s the actor who played Pip in Great Expectations and Scott in Scott of the Antarctic, last year. You like him, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Can I have a look?’ Mrs Beaumont gazed thoughtfully at the newspaper.
‘Sternsea Odeon, seven o’clock. Grace, if you come here after tea, we could see the supporting film and The Rocking Horse Winner afterwards. Then I can take you back to your great-aunt’s flat after we’ve seen Valerie Hobson, and you boys can then do what you like,’ she added, winking at them. ‘Now I’ve been meaning to talk to you about an American film I’d like you to see, Little Women.’
Henry shuddered.
‘Little Women!’ he muttered. It was bound to be a sickly romance.
‘And I’ll pay for the tickets,’ she said. ‘It’s based on a lovely book and I’ve heard good things about the film.’ She s
miled at Henry. ‘Henry, you look as though I’ve tied you to a torturer’s rack!’
When Henry walked home he mulled over the three trips to the cinema he would make over the following week. He could pay for The Rocking Horse Winner and Fire Over England out of his pocket money and savings, and on Saturday afternoon he would be seeing Little Women for nothing. That would leave him with enough money for one film programme plus the film his pocket money would cover, for the week after next. By then he would be clearing out the strange little building at the back of Mrs Beaumont’s house.
He broke into a joyful run. It wasn’t till he entered the kitchen at home and caught sight of his distraught mother battling with Molly that he remembered that his family were sitting on an unexploded bomb.
3. First contact
‘SHE’LL BE HERE ANY MINUTE!’ WHISPERED TWO WOMEN IN THE row behind Henry.
The closing credits for The Rocking Horse Winner were rolling down the screen. Grace was half standing, peering over the heads of the row in front of her. The lights came on and the manager strode on stage in bow tie and black jacket.
‘Here she comes!’ squealed one of the women so loudly that Henry had a strong urge to laugh. He was about to give Jeffries a dig in the ribs when he noticed that he was looking as stage-struck as Grace and Pip.
‘Miss Valerie Hobson!’ announced the manager.
Coming up the steps at the side was a young woman in a long flared red skirt, little matching jacket, hat and gloves.
‘Oh, isn’t she lovely!’ chorused the duo behind Henry.
‘Oh, yes,’ Henry heard Jeffries whisper in agreement. ‘Isn’t she?’
As Valerie Hobson stepped on to the stage there was a gasp, followed by thunderous applause. A little girl in a frilly pink party frock appeared on the opposite side, half hidden behind a large bouquet. She walked up to the actress, curtsied and presented it to her. The actress clasped it and waved to the audience, smiling. Lights popped from two newspaper photographers standing at the front. A large microphone was placed in the centre of the stage, and as she walked up to it Henry slid the camera out of its case.
‘It’ll never work in this light,’ said Jeffries.
‘I know,’ said Henry, ‘but it’s worth trying.’
What Henry didn’t mention was that he was more interested in the audience. He noticed a group of people standing on the far side of the stalls. And that’s when he saw the man he had been told was his dad, leaning against one of the pillars.
He gave an involuntary start. With shaking fingers, he peered into the viewfinder and aimed the lens at Valerie Hobson. Slowly he swung it round towards the pillar but there was no sign of him now. And it was time to leave.
‘Aren’t you staying to watch it again?’ asked Jeffries, when Henry stood up with Mrs Beaumont and Grace. ‘Pip’s staying.’
‘No, I’ve got to help back home.’
Outside, he and Mrs Beaumont and Grace struggled down the steps through the excited crowd. Henry said his goodbyes and headed towards his street. He walked past the Plaza and turned the corner, looking uneasily over his shoulder.
He decided to go to bed early so that his mother wouldn’t suspect he was keeping something from her. Later he heard Uncle Bill returning from work, and after what seemed like hours, while he washed and had something to eat, Henry heard his footsteps on the stairs.
As soon as he had closed the door Henry said, ‘I’ve seen him again.’
Uncle Bill looked alarmed.
‘Did he notice you looking at him?’
‘I don’t think so, although he disappeared soon after I tried to take a photograph.’
‘That’s interesting. Perhaps he knows he’s been caught before.’
The word caught startled Henry.
‘Is there something else you want to tell me?’ asked Uncle Bill, picking it up.
Henry shook his head.
Later, lying in the dark, he mulled over the word, caught. Why should it unsettle him?
On Friday night the district nurse called again.
‘Your wife,’ she said to Uncle Bill, ‘is losing too much weight. Is she eating properly? And are you doing anything to alleviate the rat problem?’
Uncle Bill nodded but Henry noticed he looked worried.
‘I have concerns for the baby if she continues to lose weight this rapidly. I’ve ordered her to stay in bed. I noticed your daughter was already asleep there. I presume that’s to make life easier for her should Molly need her in the night.’
Uncle Bill nodded awkwardly.
‘Now about your wife’s first mother-in-law, she needs to roll up her sleeves . . . ’
‘There’s a neighbour helping,’ interrupted Henry quickly.
‘That would be Mrs Henson, I presume.’ The nurse gave Uncle Bill a piercing look. ‘Is there anything else worrying her?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Uncle Bill quietly.
‘I suggest that from now on someone else takes the accumulator to be recharged. Mrs Henson told me that she spotted her taking it to the wireless shop today.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Uncle Bill.
‘Me too,’ added Henry.
‘I’ll pop in again next week and if I don’t see an improvement she’ll have to go into a nursing home where people can keep an eye on her.’
After she had left, Henry and Uncle Bill sat quietly at the table. If his mother couldn’t have the baby at home, Molly would play up even more.
The following morning, Henry rose early. He laid Gran’s fire while she slept, made Molly some toast and looked at some picture books with her. She was exhausting. She knew something was up and it made her want to get at everything and take it apart, including the books. When Mrs Henson popped round he was happy to hand her over. He left Uncle Bill to look after his mother and fled to Mrs Beaumont’s house. He felt ashamed of himself for wanting to escape, but the neighbours were going to help out after Uncle Bill had gone to work, and they would be able to do a much better job of keeping an eye on his mother than he could.
‘Mrs Beaumont’s gone shopping,’ said Grace, ‘but she’s left a note with instructions. She says it’ll explain where to put it all.’
It was the day Mrs Beaumont was taking them to see Little Women and Henry had agreed to help Jeffries carry furniture from the building in her garden into the house.
‘In a spare bedroom upstairs,’ added Jeffries.
‘Grace and me will be your door openers,’ said Pip.
It took an hour for Henry and Jeffries to manoeuvre a wardrobe up three flights of stairs to a large room, which was now going to be Mrs Beaumont’s alternative storeroom.
‘At this rate, it’s going to take us weeks,’ puffed Henry.
‘More like years,’ Jeffries gasped.
By the time Mrs Beaumont returned from shopping, the ‘storeroom’ upstairs was full and there was still more furniture to move from the building in the garden.
‘This isn’t going to work,’ Mrs Beaumont said gloomily. ‘I really need to get rid of it, but my hands are tied. I shall just have to come up with another idea.’ She smiled. ‘Never mind. Let’s forget about it, have something to eat and head for the Apollo.’
As the Technicolor swept across the Apollo screen, Henry watched the opening of Little Women with its snow, tinkling music, church bells ringing and candles being put on a Christmas tree.
‘Too bright,’ he muttered. ‘It’s like a Christmas card.’
It wasn’t that he didn’t like the actresses who played the four little women, but it was difficult to take the girls’ talk about how poor they were seriously.
‘Their sitting room is bigger than our house,’ he whispered to Jeffries in the dark, ‘and they have a servant.’
‘But it’s an old servant,’ Jeffries pointed out.
‘They’re beautiful,’ said Pip, ignoring them.
And they were, thought Henry, if you liked that sort of thing.
I like the tomboy one, Jo,
he thought.
Unfortunately the Jo character had to go and spoil it all by going all dreamy-eyed too.
‘Oh, no!’ he moaned as she walked into her home with the man who had asked her to marry him and the music rose to a crescendo, as did the camera, to a rainbow above the rooftop.
‘Treacle,’ he murmured.
Grace sat wiping her eyes.
‘Well, I thought it was lovely,’ said Mrs Beaumont. ‘And you must admit there were some funny moments.’
‘I liked those bits,’ said Henry slowly.
‘It was so sad!’ said Grace.
It was when they were outside walking past the queues for the next showing that Henry spotted the man again, darting into a café opposite. They stopped outside the Kings Theatre. The others were so busy talking they hadn’t noticed him.
‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears is still being performed twice daily and Peter Pan is coming shortly,’ read Pip to Grace.
‘Are you interested?’ said Mrs Beaumont.
‘I’ve never seen Peter Pan,’ said Grace. ‘I could ask Great-Aunt Florence . . . ’
Henry knew he had to do something quickly.
‘Blast,’ he said, pushing his hand in his trouser pockets, ‘I must have dropped my handkerchief in the cinema. I’ll just run back and tell someone, in case one of the cleaning ladies picks it up. I’ll catch you up.’
He sprinted back until he was standing on the pavement opposite the café. As he crossed the road his throat seemed to constrict and he found himself struggling to swallow. Once outside the café window, he forced himself to look inside. The man was sitting, his hat placed to one side on his table. His black hair, which was longer than someone in the Army would have had, was sleeked backwards. He was staring into his cup, completely unaware that for once he was the one being observed. And then he lifted his head. It took all of Henry’s nerve to stay there. The man gazed down at his cup again. A moment later he appeared to freeze.
‘He knows,’ Henry murmured to himself.
Slowly the man turned his head and looked towards the window. Henry willed himself to look him in the eye. He wanted him to know that he knew he was being followed. What was odd was that the man didn’t appear to be surprised. It was as though he had been waiting for this moment. Henry gave him a brief nod and then broke away to join the others.
Just Henry Page 25