‘Uncle Bill says his marriage to Mum don’t count.’
‘No,’ said his father quickly, ‘but I don’t suppose, now she’s met someone else, I mean, I shouldn’t think . . . ’ his voice trailed away.
‘You mean she might want a divorce?’
‘That’s right, son.’
Henry almost jumped at the word son.
‘She’d never want a divorce. You know Mum. She’d rather die.’
‘Does yer gran know?’
‘No.’
‘It took me a while to find out where she was.’
‘She moved in. And then Uncle Bill did.’
‘You don’t sound too happy about that.’
‘I’m not. Gran can’t stand him. But he can move out now and you can move back in, can’t you?’
‘We can’t rush things. I got a place of me own in London. And work.’
‘You can live in two places.’
He smiled.
‘I’ve told you quite a lot about meself. How about you? You’ll soon be leaving school now, won’t you?’
Henry nodded.
‘Got any work lined up?’
‘I want to be a camera operator.’
There, it was out. Easy. And it was such a relief to say it.
‘Camera operator? Like in a photograph shop?’
‘No. What people call a cameraman. A film cameraman.’
His father smiled.
‘You and me, we’ve met at the right time. London’s the place for you. And I got contacts.’
‘Really?’
‘I sometimes work for film people as a driver. I’ll keep me eyes open.’
‘Thanks!’ He was about to add Dad, but it felt too awkward.
‘So,’ he said, ‘d’you remember much about me?’
‘Gran’s always talking about you. She tells me what sort of things we did together when I was little. She keeps photographs of you on the mantelpiece. She didn’t want Mum to marry Uncle Bill. She thinks he’s stuck-up.’
‘Yeah. I saw he got that Higher Certificate.’
‘He wants to be a teacher.’
‘Does he now? How does yer mum feel about that?’
‘She’s all for it.’
‘And you?’
‘I don’t care. He tried to make me go to the grammar school but I didn’t answer any of the exam questions. He was so angry with me. Gran was pleased, though.’
There was another silence.
‘I have to catch a train back to London tonight,’ said the man. ‘I’ll be back again next Sunday. It might be wise if we keep my sudden appearance in the family. Know what I mean?’
‘Because Mum might end up having the baby in prison.’
‘Baby?’
‘Oh,’ said Henry awkwardly. ‘Of course, you don’t know about the baby.’ And then Henry had a terrible thought. ‘If the Army know, won’t they tell the police?’
‘Not yet. They know her as Mrs Dodge, not Mrs Carpenter. That’ll give us a bit of time, won’t it?’
He gave a broad smile and Henry felt in an instant that somehow his father would make everything work out fine.
‘Best we say goodbye ’ere, son.’
Henry nodded, suddenly feeling very shy.
‘See you next Sunday. On this bridge. About this time.’
‘Yeah.’
His father walked away. Henry stayed on the bridge and waited so that he could see him step on to one of the platforms. It was strange to think that his father might have been on a train that was being driven by Uncle Bill. He watched his train pull in and then he lost sight of him.
That night he didn’t dream about his mother screaming. He dreamt he was standing in a graveyard in Vienna, surrounded by police, and then suddenly he was running, looking for his father down dark alleyways, past shadowy porches and doors, aware that he was in some kind of danger.
‘What’s asthma? What does it do to you?’
Mrs Beaumont was going through a pile of old papers at the kitchen table, Pip and Jeffries were messing around with a new crystal set that Pip had been given as a birthday present from Mr Hart, and Grace was leaning against the dresser listening to an American jazz record on the gramophone.
‘Difficulty in breathing. These awful pea-souper fogs we sometimes get can kill people suffering from asthma. That’s how badly it affects them.’
‘So if someone with it was called up, they’d fail the medical test.’
‘Probably. Asthma can also be brought on by stress and there’s nothing more stressful than being in battle. Why?’
‘Oh, something I heard,’ Henry said casually, and he flicked over the page of the Picture Post he was browsing through.
When he stood up to go home, Grace insisted on seeing him to the door.
‘You’ve seen your father again, haven’t you?’ she whispered to him in the porch.
He nodded and tried to walk down the steps but she tugged at his sleeve.
‘You’ve spoken to him too.’
Henry said nothing.
‘I knew it,’ she said.
‘I haven’t said I have.’
‘You haven’t said you haven’t.’
‘All right, I have.’
‘What’s he like?’
At that Henry couldn’t help smiling.
‘Nice. He really wants to get to know me. He listens to me. Not like Uncle Bill.’
‘I like your Uncle Bill.’
‘You don’t know him.’
‘So where’s he been all these years?’
‘Walking around with amnesia, like John Mills in The October Man. He’s only been remembering things over the last year. He thought he was someone else.’
Henry told her his story.
‘What about the third man?’ asked Grace puzzled.
‘How did you know I was dreaming about that film last night?’
‘Not the film. I meant the man who was buried as your father. Oh. Perhaps that’s why you’re dreaming about The Third Man, because the man who was buried was the third man, wasn’t he?’
‘No. The third man in the film was alive. But you’re right about there being a third man. His name was Walter Briggs. He wasn’t missed by the Army because he wasn’t in it. He suffered from asthma and he doesn’t have a family.’
‘There must have been someone who missed him.’
‘His street was blitzed.’
‘But couldn’t you find out if any of his friends survived and were evacuated somewhere?’
‘Why should I do that?’
‘They’d want to know, wouldn’t they?’
‘I’ll ask my dad when I next see him.’ It sounded good saying my dad.
‘So is your father still in the Army, then?’
‘No. But he’s seeing some Army doctor because of all these bits of memory coming back. He wants me to go to London. He’s going to help me get a job.’
‘When?’
‘He didn’t say. When I finish school I s’pose.’
‘I wonder where I’ll go,’ she said quietly.
‘It’d be good if you could stay with Mrs Beaumont.’
‘You don’t know my parents. If they suspect I’m happy, they’ll stop me.’
‘Why?’
‘I have to be punished.’
‘For what?’
‘For deliberately not reading and writing.’
‘But you can’t help it.’
‘They don’t believe that.’
‘Then they should.’
‘You didn’t.’
They fell silent for a moment.
‘Have you told Jeffries?’ she asked.
‘No!’
‘You should.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because my mother could go to prison. No one must find out.’
‘They’re going to find out some time, aren’t they?’
‘I know, but I think my mother wants to wait until after she’s had the baby.�
��
‘But what if the baby’s taken away from her when she goes to prison?’
‘Uncle Bill can look after it till she gets out.’
Even as he said the words, the horror of his mother going to prison made him feel sick.
‘But if she’s not really married to your Uncle Bill . . . ’
She was right. He wouldn’t be able to look after the baby. It would be his gran. And his gran would have to look after Molly as well. And she hated Molly.
‘You promised not to say anything, Grace.’
‘I won’t.’
‘I’d like to see Boys in Brown at the Plaza,’ said Mrs Beaumont. ‘On Sunday. Jeffries?’
‘No, thanks. I’m saving up for London.’
‘And I’ll be watching it with Mr Hart upstairs,’ said Pip.
‘Henry?’
‘Yeah, I’d like to see it too.’ And the Plaza, like the Troxy, was near the station, where he would be meeting his father.
‘Me too,’ said Grace.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Henry, surprised. It wasn’t really the sort of film she usually liked. It was set in a Borstal institution.
‘What kind of school is this?’ Grace whispered to him on Sunday night in the darkened cinema.
‘It’s a boarding school you go to when you’re too young to go to prison.’
As Boys in Brown began, Henry was conscious that he would be meeting his father again in a couple of hours, and he felt a tightening in his throat.
Once the programme ended, Henry stood up, pulling his sodden umbrella out of the way so Mrs Beaumont and Grace could pass.
‘Ah,’ said Mrs Beaumont quietly, ‘you’re staying to watch both films through again, then?’
Henry nodded. Grace didn’t move.
‘I’d like to do that too,’ she said. ‘Just for the one they’re showing now. It was so romantic.’
Henry was puzzled and alarmed. He wouldn’t be able to see his father if she stayed.
‘Soppy more like,’ said Henry, hoping to put her off.
‘I’d best get you back home,’ said Mrs Beaumont.
He waited a good fifteen minutes after they had left before leaving the auditorium. A strong wind had blown up. It tugged at his umbrella as he tried to push it open in the rain on the steps outside. He held it high above his head as he manoeuvred his way between the two queues. Stepping quickly on to the road, he thought he heard footsteps behind him, but he put it down to the wind. It wasn’t until he caught sight of his father standing by the steps to the bridge and noticed him glancing to one side that he discovered that Grace had been following him. Her flat woollen tartan hat lay sodden on her head and her plaits were dripping. He held the umbrella over her head.
‘Who’s the girl?’ his father asked.
‘A friend,’ said Henry, ‘she won’t say anything.’
‘Why did you bring her?’
‘I didn’t. She must have been waiting outside the cinema and followed me.’
His father glanced at her.
‘Why?’ he said abruptly.
‘I’m nosy,’ she said.
He stared at her for a moment.
‘I won’t blab or anything,’ she said, ‘because I wouldn’t want to upset Mrs Carpenter.’
‘Posh, ain’t she?’ he commented.
‘I promise,’ she added.
At that moment, the sky gave a loud rumble and the rain turned into hail. Henry watched the tiny white balls bouncing off the pavement.
‘And I’ve no umbrella.’
His father gave a nod and they headed for the steps to the bridge, Henry and Grace following. The three of them stood by the wall.
‘Thought any more about what we were talking about?’ his father said at last.
‘About moving to London?’
‘Yeah.’
His father took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one under the shelter of Henry’s umbrella while the rain dribbled off his black trilby.
‘Have you spoken to anyone who’s in a film unit yet?’ Henry asked awkwardly, aware that Grace didn’t know that he wanted to be a cameraman and was listening.
To his relief, she kept silent.
‘I been askin’ around. But it takes time. I’ll sort something out. I always do.’
‘There’s Mum, I’m a bit worried about people finding out what she’s done.’
‘If we moved up to London, no one would know, would they?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Here everyone knows her as Mrs Carpenter. A new neighbourhood and we could be Mr and Mrs Dodge. And you wouldn’t be at school any more, so no one would find out there. No one would know anything about us.’
‘What about Molly and the baby?’
‘I’d see them right,’ and he smiled. ‘Course it would be better if she joined us later, after she’d had the baby, while we look for a bigger place. And that might take a bit of time.’
Henry felt torn. He couldn’t have wished for anything better than to work for a film unit and be with his real father, but he hated the idea of leaving his mother.
‘Couldn’t we wait till we could all move together?’
‘If a job comes up for you, you can’t say you’ve got to wait till there’s a place big enough for yer mum, can you?’ he said gently. ‘They’d give the job to someone else who’d jump at the chance.’
‘But I can’t work for five months anyway. Couldn’t you find a place by then?’
‘Five months? I was thinking sooner than that. I’ve heard of a job coming up in April.’
‘We break up in March. I can do it in the holidays.’
‘Why go back?’ he said, smiling. ‘You’re fifteen.’
For some reason Henry felt a sense of panic. Everything seemed to be happening too quickly. He glanced at Grace. She was staring intently at his father and frowning.
‘Uncle Bill wouldn’t let me,’ he remembered.
‘Uncle Bill ain’t yer father. He has no rights. I have.’
‘But the school doesn’t know you’re alive and if I don’t turn up for the summer term, they’ll go to him and ask him what’s going on. Mum won’t want me to leave earlier either.’ Henry avoided saying that since Mr Finch had come to the school, he liked the lessons and he wanted to finish the term with the rest of his form. And then he realised that all his excuses made him sound feeble. Some hero he was. ‘I’ll ask them,’ he said quietly.
‘That’s my boy. It’ll give us more time to get to know one another, won’t it?’
Henry nodded.
‘Dad,’ he began slowly, glancing at Grace, ‘when you thought you were Walter Briggs, and you found his street bombed, did you try and find his family?’
‘First thing I did,’ he said, gazing down at the railway track. ‘They was all killed. Direct hit. I tried to trace other relatives but there was no one. I was alone in the world. Or so I thought.’
He gave another drag on his cigarette.
‘And you really don’t mind about Molly and the baby?’
‘I’ll have a ready-made family, won’t I? I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but after what I’ve been through, it’s worth a try.’ He gave Henry a pat on the shoulder. ‘In April you could start a new life. Think about it.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’d better get a move on. I got a train to catch.’
‘We could meet earlier next time,’ Henry suggested.
‘It’s better by night. Less chance of being spotted. We have to think of yer mum.’ He indicated Grace. ‘And your lady friend will keep quiet, won’t she?’
Grace pressed a finger to her closed lips. Henry realised that for a chatterbox, it must have taken a lot of effort to stay silent.
His father drew up the collar of his soaked raincoat and pulled down his hat. It was a wonder his cigarette was still alight, thought Henry. As he watched him walk away he felt an intense sadness. He didn’t want him to go.
‘Same time next week,’ said his father over his shoulder. ‘On yer own.�
�� He gave a friendly wave and turned the corner to go down the steps. Henry listened to his footsteps fade and then leaned over the wall.
‘What a liar!’ Grace burst out.
Henry swung round. For a moment, he was too stunned to speak. They stared at each other under the umbrella, the rain pouring off it like a waterfall.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked, outraged.
‘Didn’t you see how he kept turning away when you asked him questions?’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘And rubbing his nose?’
‘So.’
‘And fiddling with his cigarette?’
‘It’s raining. He was trying to keep it alight.’
‘And when you asked him a question about that Walter man, he couldn’t even look you in the eye.’
‘You don’t have to look at people’s eyes all the time, you know.’
‘I may be no good at reading books but I can read faces, and he’s a liar.’
‘Don’t you call my father a liar! You’re just jealous.’
‘Why should I be?’
‘Because he’s searched for me and followed me and wants me to join him and live with him as soon as possible, and your father doesn’t want you at all.’
‘At least my father’s honest about it. At least he tells me to my face that the sooner I’m married and off his hands the better. But your father is a liar.’
‘You’re the one that’s a liar!’
‘Wait and see.’
‘I was going to walk you back to your great-aunt’s flat under my umbrella, but you can go on your own.’
‘Good. I like the rain.’
‘I’m never going to speak to you again.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘I suppose you’re going to break your word now and tell everyone about him after you’ve promised not to.’
‘Why should I?’ she said angrily. ‘If I make a promise, I keep it. I’m not a liar!’
And with that she stomped off, the pavement splashing under her feet, her wet plaits swinging angrily from side to side. Henry felt like smashing his umbrella against the wall. He felt betrayed.
He ran home with his head bowed. The rain was hammering down now. As he stumbled into the yard, he saw his mother in the kitchen. She was standing motionless, staring into space, looking so small and lost that it alarmed him. He could see that she had become thinner. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t her fault that everything was such a mess. She hadn’t known she was doing anything wrong. She glanced down to where her hands were resting on her stomach. Her fingers twitched and he realised that the baby was kicking. He had heard her talk about it but he had never seen it happening. He wished he had the camera. He wanted this image of his mother framed in the window with her unborn baby. And then it dawned on him. That baby was his half-brother or half-sister.
Just Henry Page 27