‘But why did you leave?’ Jeffries asked eagerly.
‘Because the Germans were invading. And people kept insisting I go for my own safety. That was in 1940.’
‘So you remained there all during the Great War?’ asked Mrs Beaumont.
‘Yes. But I had lots of happy times there too, mixing with artists and film-makers, actors and cabaret artists, writers and dancers. In the summer my friends and I would eat and drink wine round a large wooden table in a garden high on a hill in a place called Montmartre, with the rest of Paris spread out below us, and we’d just talk and laugh and philosophise. I hated leaving there and I’m sorry to say I’ve been homesick ever since.’
‘You’re like Grace,’ said Pip suddenly.
She laughed.
He was spot on, thought Henry. The way she waved her arms about and smiled was almost identical. And she was nowhere as frosty as they had first thought.
‘That’s probably why I’m the last of the aunts to have Grace stay with me. I’m a bad influence, you see,’ she said with a wicked smile. ‘Even at the ripe old age of eighty-three I’m still the black sheep of the family.’
‘Like me,’ said Grace. ‘But why didn’t you let me know that before?’
‘I thought I might make things worse for you. And I must admit it has been a strain behaving in a proper manner.’
‘Oh, please stop, then,’ Grace begged.
‘Did you ever meet the Lumière brothers?’ asked Jeffries.
‘No, but I saw them in the basement of the Grand Café where they used to give film shows. It was all very exciting. And I met the director Jean Renoir. That was much later of course. He had just made a film which caused a bit of a stir, La Règle du Jeu.’
‘Can you remember any of the Lumière brothers’ films?’ asked Jeffries.
‘Oh, yes. The one that startled everyone was a train entering a station. And there was one of a baby being fed and men playing cards.’
‘We’ve seen those,’ Henry blurted out. And then he stopped, feeling he had been rude to interrupt. But she was smiling.
‘Then you’re very, very lucky.’ She sighed. ‘I also remember the many famous singers I heard in the cafés and bars. I carried some of their records with me in a wooden case when I escaped from Paris, but alas I don’t have a gramophone player.’
‘I have,’ said Mrs Beaumont. ‘And you’re quite welcome to come here and listen to them.’
‘Oh, my dear!’ she said happily. ‘I would so love to hear them again. But for now I shall continue to enjoy this thoroughly splendid tea you’ve all prepared for me. And throw the severe maiden aunt out of the window. Metaphorically speaking, of course.’
After tea, Mrs Beaumont took Miss Forbes-Ellis into the sitting room while the boys cleared the table, folded it down, put it up by the wall and set out the chairs. When Henry walked into the sitting room to tell Mrs Beaumont that everything was ready, he found his sister standing beside the seated Miss Forbes-Ellis, gazing at her and stroking the side of her face. I could hug you, Molly, he thought.
The long red velvet curtains at the end of the study were now drawn, hiding the conservatory. Two tall lamp stands were standing in front of them, one by the piano and the other a little off to the side. They were both switched on.
‘Where’s Grace?’ Henry asked Mrs Beaumont.
‘Changing,’ she whispered.
There was a slight movement from behind the curtains and Pip appeared in his tails, bowed and sat down at the piano.
Pip didn’t play the Twenties’ and Thirties’ music he played at the Plaza. It was classical music, the kind that made you feel as though you were walking past a river but were slowed down by a sudden movement in the water so that you had to stop at the bank to stare into it. He glanced across at Miss Forbes-Ellis. She was smiling sadly as though she knew the music already.
And then it was over.
‘Pip will now play the medley he will be playing this evening at the Plaza,’ announced Mrs Beaumont.
Henry wondered if Miss Forbes-Ellis would approve of this kind of music. He needn’t have worried. She looked as though she was about to laugh. They applauded and Mrs Beaumont drew aside the curtain.
Grace stepped into the room wearing the outfit that had been made for her for the jazz club, her hair billowing out in colossal waves. She stepped forward, glanced at Pip and sang It’s Magic, only this time she had the proper piano accompaniment. After this she sang some swing numbers and ended with the song called Black Coffee. They both bowed to applause and Mrs Beaumont stood up.
‘There is another reason why we have invited you here today, Miss Forbes-Ellis.’
To Henry’s surprise, Mrs Beaumont appeared nervous. Perhaps she should have asked permission before taking Grace to be auditioned. Slowly she told Miss Forbes-Ellis the whole story. And then she paused.
‘This week I received a letter from the school. They would not only be delighted to have Grace as a pupil but have also offered her a scholarship.’
‘You mean she would be a singer?’ breathed her aunt.
‘Yes. But the school would give her acting and dance lessons too.’
‘But that’s wonderful!’
‘Oh, Aunt Florence!’ Grace yelled. ‘You really mean it?’
‘Of course I do. Oh, it’s such a relief not being sensible any more.’
‘For me too,’ and she flung her arms around her great-aunt’s neck.
Her aunt held on to her tightly.
‘I always knew you were special. You should have come and stayed with me in the first place. Your other aunts are nice enough but they’re a little bit, how shall I put it . . . dusty.’ She turned to Mrs Beaumont. ‘But you say this school is in London?’
‘Where my home is,’ answered Mrs Beaumont. ‘I would be more than happy to have Grace stay with me there.’
‘I’ll miss you,’ said Miss Forbes-Ellis, turning to Grace. ‘That’s why I kept badgering you to do your homework. I was afraid you’d be expelled again and I’d lose you.’
‘Until I sell this house we can come and visit you, and afterwards you must come and visit me in London,’ said Mrs Beaumont.
‘And you must visit me in Paris,’ she said. ‘This afternoon I’ve realised I don’t want to spend my remaining years here. After ten years I still feel like a foreigner,’ and she laughed. ‘I’ll wait until I know Grace is settled and then I’ll be off.’
‘I’ve written to Grace’s parents to tell them the news.’
‘Ah. The parents.’ Grace’s great-aunt fell silent for a moment and then gave a determined smile. ‘I’m sure they’ll be delighted,’ she added firmly.
That evening, Mrs Jeffries, Jeffries, Grace and Henry were allowed to stand upstairs at the back of the Plaza during the interval. The manager said that he was letting them in free because it was Pip’s debut.
Henry watched the long queue of people in the aisles wanting ice creams and then the usherette’s spotlight moved up to the stage area. The manager moved into the light and strode over to a microphone next to the piano. Henry could feel his mouth growing drier by the second. He prayed the audience wouldn’t talk all the way through Pip’s playing or jeer at him.
The manager raised his hand for silence.
‘Tonight is the first time we will be presenting one of our local lads,’ he announced solemnly, ‘a talented boy and a pupil at Hatton Road Secondary Modern School . . . ’
‘They’re taking all the credit,’ muttered Henry.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present, for the first time at the Plaza cinema, Master Philip Hart.’
As soon as the manager had left the stage and Pip appeared in his tails, the audience laughed. Henry crossed his fingers.
‘Don’t he look sweet,’ he heard a woman in front of him say.
And then Pip’s fingers touched the keyboard and within seconds the laughter stopped.
They cheered when he had finished. Nearly two thousand people yelled and stamped and a
pplauded for him to come back and take more bows.
As the titles came on to the screen for the next film, Henry heard the same woman say, ‘He should be on the wireless. He’ll be a star, that one. You wait and see.’
12. A lucky escape
HENRY STOOD IN THE RAIN OBSERVING HIS FATHER LEAVE THE station. He struggled to prevent the gusts of wind from dragging him and his umbrella across the road. As soon as his father had begun to walk up the steps towards the railway bridge, he stepped off the kerb. The wind sucked his umbrella inside out and pulled him sharply forward. Luckily there were no cars. He closed it. Better to be wet than run over.
Once he reached the pavement on the other side he stood still for a moment, almost paralysed with dread. Looking back on how excited and happy he had felt on those first meetings with his father, he was shocked at how, after such a short time, it had all gone sour. He took a deep breath and dragged himself slowly through the puddles.
His father was waiting for him at the usual place, staring into the distance, the collar of his mackintosh up, the brim of his hat pulled down. Henry placed his elbows on the wall a few paces away.
‘Good film, was it?’ his father asked.
Henry shrugged.
‘I didn’t go tonight. The ones I wanted to see are at the Savoy. I wouldn’t have had time to see them and get here. It’s too far away.’
‘The Troxy’s close.’
‘I don’t want to see Jolson Sings Again.’
‘Why not? A film’s a film.’
‘I think it’s stupid having someone white pretending to be black. There are plenty of good black performers,’ he said, remembering the black musicians in the jazz club.
‘Oh, yeah? Who?’
‘Lena Horne. Sarah Vaughan.’
‘Never heard of ‘em.’ There was an uncomfortable silence. ‘Not long now. End of school this week, eh?’
Henry nodded. By now he was soaked.
‘Everyone all right, then? That friend of yours, Grace?’
So that was it. Gran had been talking to him. He shrugged nonchalantly.
‘She ever talk about our meeting?’
‘No,’ said Henry.
‘Clever girl.’
A crowd of cinema-goers passed them, chatting and laughing. Henry envied them their happiness.
‘Bring yer bag next Sunday,’ his father said suddenly. ‘Work starts Monday.’
‘Mum wants the information about the job before then.’
‘She can wait,’ he snapped, and then he switched on the smile and threw his cigarette butt on the ground. ‘Pick you up next week.’ Before Henry could say goodbye he had already turned on his heel and walked away. He gave Henry a casual wave over his shoulder.
The cigarette butt was still alight. Henry stamped on it with his boot, twisting and turning it until the cigarette was nothing but crumbled remains. As he walked down the steps clutching his umbrella, his head bent against the wind, he wished he had never set eyes on him.
‘Time to turn the old tailor’s room in the bottom of the garden into a dance studio for Mrs Jeffries,’ announced Mrs Beaumont. ‘I’ve had the all clear from the solicitors so we’ll clear the room upstairs at the same time. All the furniture is to go to the auctioneers and the WVS’s furniture storage depot. So it’s all hands on deck and not a word to Mrs Jeffries.’
With extra help from Uncle Bill and Max Beaumont it still took several days for the building at the bottom of the garden to be emptied. Henry found a narrow wooden handrail from a damaged staircase among his salvage collection.
‘That can be the barre,’ said Jeffries.
Henry screwed it into the wood panelled wall opposite the windows and sanded it down until it was smooth and pale. They scrubbed the filthy wooden floors while Mrs Beaumont cleaned the lavatory and little cloakroom area with its basin. After the floorboards had dried, they sanded them. During the week, Uncle Bill and Max returned with a collection of battered tins containing the remains of wood seal, and while Mrs Jeffries was busy working her way through piles of corsets in the study, they sneaked unseen round the back and put two coats on.
On Saturday morning Mrs Beaumont placed the gramophone and some records on top of the cupboard in the new dance studio. The windows were cleaned and the brass door handle polished. As soon as Mrs Jeffries returned from shopping, Mrs Beaumont snatched her bag from her.
‘We have a little surprise for you, Natasha,’ she said.
Mrs Morgan had raced back from her morning’s cleaning at the Plaza, eager to see how she would react.
‘What’s going on?’ Mrs Jeffries asked. ‘It’s not my birthday.’
She was blindfolded and Jeffries guided her through the overgrown garden.
‘Is it a plant?’ she said, smiling,
‘No,’ said Jeffries.
Henry was looking through the viewfinder of the camera. He took a photo of her.
‘Henry!’ she exclaimed. ‘I heard that.’
‘Keep walking,’ urged Jeffries.
Pip was jumping up and down by the door. His mother laughed.
‘You’re almost there,’ said Mrs Beaumont encouragingly.
‘The path, I’m on the path,’ said Mrs Jeffries.
‘Correct,’ said Jeffries.
‘Careful,’ said Mrs Beaumont as she approached the step.
She took hold of Mrs Jeffries’ free hand and guided it to the door handle.
‘It’s the conservatory door. It is a plant, isn’t it?’
‘Turn the handle,’ said Jeffries.
She opened the door and Henry slipped inside the building. He wanted to be able to see her face. He crept over to the nearest window and leaned up against it.
‘You can take the blindfold off now,’ said Mrs Beaumont.
As soon as it was off Mrs Jeffries gazed at the bare room and then spotted the barre.
‘Your own dance studio, Natasha.’
Mrs Jeffries reddened and flung her hands over her face.
‘It’s beautiful. It’s absolutely beautiful! All this wonderful space!’ And she burst into tears. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she blurted out. ‘I’m crying because it’s so lovely.’
‘Try it out, Mother,’ said Jeffries.
She stood motionless for a moment as if taking it all in, and then slowly and gracefully she glided into the centre of the room, her arms outstretched. Henry was mesmerised. He had never seen a human being move with such elegance and strength. She slid her feet along the smooth floorboards as if she was moving on ice and then she began to twirl across the floor.
‘Oh, I forgot,’ exclaimed Mrs Beaumont, and she picked up the arm from its cradle on the gramophone and placed the needle on the record that was waiting there.
Jeffries began to leap around the room and Grace and Pip joined in. Henry snapped away, taking more photographs. And then he caught sight of Mrs Beaumont’s face. She was leaning in the doorway observing Mrs Jeffries.
He quickly took one of her and she didn’t notice. The music concealed the sound of the camera clicking.
The following evening Henry made for the bridge. It was deserted. His mother didn’t know that this was the day he was supposed to leave for London with his father. But Uncle Bill did.
‘I’m not happy about you meeting him again, let alone on your own,’ he had said.
But Henry had pleaded with him. He didn’t want to be treated like a child. It was important to him that he should be the one to tell his dad that he was staying in Sternsea. Man to man. Reluctantly Uncle Bill agreed to let him go. Uncle Bill couldn’t have gone with Henry anyway, since he was working.
Henry leaned on the wall praying that his father wouldn’t turn up. He was about to give up and go home when he heard a match being struck behind him. He swung round to find him standing in the shadows. He realised he must have been watching him for some time and it made him shiver. Neither of them spoke although Henry knew what was coming.
‘Where’s yer bag?’ his father asked even
tually.
Henry swallowed.
‘At home.’
‘You’d best go back and get it, then. I’ll wait for you ’ere.’
‘I haven’t packed it.’
‘What do you mean you haven’t packed it?’ his father whispered angrily.
‘I don’t want to leave here yet. I want to finish my last term at school and be around when the baby’s born.’
‘I’ve a job waiting for you. No arguments. I’ve given my word. And my word is my bond.’
‘In the summer,’ Henry began, ‘when I’ve finished . . . ’
‘You have finished,’ his father interrupted. ‘You’re fifteen. Old enough to work. You won’t get an opportunity like this again.’
‘I know and I should have told you earlier.’
‘Told? No one tells me anything. If I decide something it’s as good as done.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Henry and he walked swiftly towards the steps.
He felt his father’s hand grip him at the back of his neck. The fingers dug so hard into his skin that he was unable to move. He tried to reach up behind his shoulders to prise them off, but it was as though they had trapped a nerve in his body, making it impossible for him to struggle.
‘You’re coming on the train with me tonight, bag or no bag,’ his father snapped. ‘I should have done this weeks ago, instead of all this pussyfooting around.’
Henry tried to cry out but no sound emerged.
Suddenly he heard someone calling up to him.
‘Hello there! Henry Dodge, isn’t it?’
Looking up at them was a short dumpy man in an old raincoat with cropped sandy hair.
‘Friend of Mr Finch’s remember?’ he said cheerily. ‘I saw you at the Rex. Open City?’
His father released him. What friend? thought Henry. Mr Finch had been on his own. Henry stared at the man, speechless. Out of the corner of his eye he watched his father fly down the steps and on to the pavement.
‘He pointed you out to me in the queue. Good at photography, aren’t you?’ he said, almost shouting.
His father turned the corner and was now out of sight.
‘I like taking photographs, yes,’ Henry heard himself croak.
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