‘It’s TB,’ said Johnny, glad to have inside information, and hoping it would earn him some credit with Taylor. ‘The doctor told me.’
‘And what’s that, then?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Johnny. ‘But Olwen told me her family were ill.’
Taylor sneered, ‘Yes. You were talking to The Owl last night, weren’t you, Quacky?’ He pulled his sister away from Johnny. ‘Better keep away from you. You might have it too. We all might catch it.’
‘But the doctor says I’m all right,’ said Johnny as the crowd of children ran off.
Mr Wilson approached. He was trying in vain to catch Albert Taylor before he dodged his punishment for trying to cheat in the scripture test. Johnny plucked up the courage to ask him what TB was.
Mr Wilson shook his head. ‘It’s a very grave disease. A very grave disease indeed. It attacks the lungs. It can be deadly. We’ve had it here once before – a bad outbreak during the war. Several families were affected. We lost some pupils. That’s why they built the big sanatorium at Emberley. But there hasn’t been a case in this school since. Let’s hope this is just a false alarm.’
Johnny ran to pick up his bag of newspapers at the shop. He took a detour through the graveyard towards the end of his paper round. This time he looked at the dates on some of the gravestones. There were a lot from 1916. He noticed some family groups. Three of the Roberts family were buried in one plot, and there were four Dangerfields, all children, who had died within months of each other. Could they be relatives of Miss Dangerfield up on the hill?
A voice started shouting: ‘Hey! You boy! You boy. Get out of there!’
Johnny spun round. Through the branches of a holly bush he could see a black hat on the other side of the graveyard wall. A netting veil covered the face of the short, dumpy woman who was wearing it, but he knew at once that it was Miss Dangerfield herself. She was angry. ‘Get away from those graves,’ she cried. ‘What do you think you are doing?’
‘I was only looking,’ said Johnny. ‘I was just wondering if they were your family – if it was TB.’
‘That’s none of your business,’ snapped Miss Dangerfield, raising her walking stick.
‘But I just wanted to ask—’
‘How dare you? You nasty little squirt. They were worth a hundred of you. Be off with you.’
Johnny ran away to finish his deliveries, wanting to know more about the bodies under the slabs, but too frightened to ask again.
Chapter 5
LETTERS
Johnny asked his mother about Miss Dangerfield and the TB, but Winnie had not lived in Stambleton in 1916, and knew less about the epidemic than Johnny did. She reassured him about the disease. If Dr Langford said Johnny was healthy, she was sure he was right. But other children had been told more lurid stories, and for the next few days the talk in the playground was all about TB, with graphic descriptions of victims gasping for breath, coughing up blood, and wasting away or just dropping down dead. Everyone was watching their wrists for signs of a reaction to the test. Dr Langford had said he’d be looking for a red bump at the point where a tiny trace of bacteria had been introduced. In art class, Ernest Roberts dabbed on some paint to make it look as if his scratch had flared up into a livid inflammation, but in fact everyone was boringly clear.
Johnny was still worried about Olwen. But when he asked at school whether anyone had heard anything about her they just teased him, so he kept quiet. He wondered in secret what had happened to Olwen’s family. This disease was so bad that she had been sent away, and yet everyone said there was no cause for concern. Johnny was confused. But he was excited as well, hoping every day that he would get a reply from Box 23 containing the Secret of Instant Height. He met the postman in the street, and asked if he had seen an envelope addressed to John Swanson Esq. No, said the postman, there hadn’t been any letters for Johnny’s house that week. Even Hutch was concerned. He could see that Johnny was unusually anxious.
‘Have you heard from that aunt of yours yet?’ he asked.
‘No. Nothing,’ said Johnny. ‘I hope she’s all right.’
‘Is she your mother’s sister?’ Hutch paused for thought. ‘I suppose she must be. I knew your father all his life, and he never had a sister. Does she live where your mother comes from? Nottingham, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Johnny, feeling he should at least tell the truth about his mother’s origins, even if everything else was a lie. He was saved from further questions when a customer came in, but he realized that he would have to sort out this Auntie Ada business pretty soon. Maybe he should say that she had died. But then Hutch might send condolences to his mother. And Hutch might mention Ada to her anyway, dead or alive. It would be only natural if Winnie went into the shop. Johnny would have to keep Hutch and his mother apart. He needed yet another plan.
That night, Johnny got home first. There were two letters on the doormat, one addressed to him in his own handwriting, the other an official-looking brown envelope, with his mother’s full name, ‘Mrs Winifred May Swanson’, typed boldly across it. As Johnny picked them up, he heard his mother coming. He just had time to stuff his own envelope into his pocket before she reached the front door.
‘What have you got there?’ she asked.
‘It’s a letter. For you,’ he said. ‘It looks important.’
Johnny was desperate to get away to read his own letter, but he stayed and watched while Winnie opened hers. She was still wearing her hat and coat, standing by the dim oil lamp in the kitchen. If you’d been looking through the window, you might have thought she was Johnny’s sister. Like him she was short and slight. From a distance it was hard to believe that she was thirty. But close up, her puffy hands, raw with housework, and the worry-lines on her brow told a different story. The wrinkles grew more pronounced than usual as she took a single typed sheet out of the envelope. Then she flopped down onto a chair.
‘What is it, Mum?’ asked Johnny, still grasping the letter in his pocket. ‘Is it bad news?’
He could see that she was trying to compose herself, to reassure him that there was nothing to be concerned about. Then she looked him straight in the eye. ‘Johnny,’ she said, ‘I think you’re old enough to know. It’s from the landlord. The rent’s going up after Christmas. We’re going to have to find an extra three shillings a week.’
‘But that’s more than I make from the paper round in a fortnight,’ said Johnny.
‘Oh, darling, I wouldn’t ask you to pay it. I’ll just have to try to find an extra job.’ She started mumbling to herself: ‘But there’s not much work around. Maybe I could take in some washing. But how would I pay for the soap, and the fuel to heat the water?’
Johnny couldn’t help it. His eyes went to the Peace Mug on the high shelf.
‘No,’ said his mother. ‘We’re not touching the Christmas money. I’d sooner go without breakfast than use that. Anyway, it would only last a few weeks. It’s staying up there. I’m not even going to count it till December.’
Johnny was half relieved that his mother was unlikely to find out he had taken money from the mug, and half ashamed at what he had done. But at least he had his own letter, almost throbbing in his pocket, begging him to open it. At least Box 23 had replied. The money from the Peace Mug hadn’t been wasted.
Winnie pulled herself up from the chair, took off her hat and started slowly unbuttoning her coat. Johnny knew he should find some words of comfort, or come up with an idea for raising money, but he couldn’t wait to open his letter.
‘I’m just going to the lav,’ he said, striding out to the yard, where a tiny, damp shed housed the lavatory. It was getting dark, and he could only just make out the writing on the envelope. He tore it open. Inside was a piece of paper that looked as if it had been ripped from a notebook. It was folded into four, with The Secret of Instant Height is … written in heavy black ink on the outside. Now Johnny was scared. What would it be? Would he have to take medicine, or mix some chemicals? Where would he get them f
rom? How would he pay for them? He couldn’t bear to open the note. But he had to know the secret. He had to find out how to grow taller. Maybe then he would be able to do jobs that brought in more money. Then he could help his mother with the rent. The lavatory seat didn’t have a cover, but he sat down without lowering his shorts and looked again. The Secret of Instant Height is … He unfolded the paper. There were just four words written inside: Stand on a box.
He couldn’t believe it. That was all it said. He had been tricked. He could feel the blood pumping round his ears as he blushed with shame. Two shillings and sixpence had been wasted – plus the cost of the envelopes and the stamps. He had stolen his mother’s money, and thrown it away just when she needed it most. And that wasn’t all. At any time Hutch might ask Winnie about ‘Auntie Ada’, and Johnny would have a lot of explaining to do. Everything would come out. He would be shown up as a fool, a liar and a thief. And now there was another thing. He had wet himself.
Chapter 6
CLEARING UP
Johnny stood with a blanket round his middle while his mother filled a tin bath with warm water, to wash him, and then his clothes. Winnie was sympathetic. She thought Johnny’s ‘accident’ must have been brought on by worry about the rent, and she blamed herself for telling him about it. He said nothing of how he had been tricked over the advertisement, and covered his embarrassment by babbling on with ideas for raising more cash.
‘I could do more work at the shop,’ he said. ‘Hutch is always complaining that he’s too busy. I’ll ask him tomorrow.’ As he spoke, Johnny thought of another advantage. He could keep his mother away from Hutch, so she wouldn’t find out about ‘Auntie Ada’. ‘And if I’m working there,’ he added, ‘I can bring our groceries home with me. You won’t have to go shopping at all. That will give you more time to take on extra work, if you can find it.’
Winnie was wringing out Johnny’s sopping shorts. ‘I don’t know how we’ll get these dry in time for school tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll have to light the fire again.’
So Johnny felt even more guilty, seeing money go up in smoke because of him.
He didn’t sleep much that night. For the first time in years, he took his old toy rabbit to bed with him, clutching its floppy body for comfort as he worried about the rent, the Peace Mug money, and his new friend Olwen, somewhere in Wales, possibly facing death. Every time he felt close to sleep a new anxiety arrived and he was wide awake again, imagining homelessness, shame and disease. At one a.m. he was weeping, trying to think of ways to get back at the people at Box 23. Should he tell the Stambleton Echo about the Secret of Instant Height? Shouldn’t they know that a scam was being run from their own paper? He might not be the only one who had been tricked into sending a postal order. The person who put in the advert might be making a fortune …
And that’s when the idea came to him: so clear and exciting that he sat bolt upright in bed. If they can do it, so can I, he thought. If I could fall for a trick like that, surely plenty of other people would too!
He spent the rest of the night thinking out his plan. At first he was full of enthusiasm. He got out of bed and paced the room, muttering to his toy rabbit. He would have to find out how the advertising pages worked, but that wouldn’t be difficult. After all, he had plenty of papers in his delivery bag every day. There must be something printed in them to tell you how to place an advert. He’d put one in as soon as possible, and sit back to wait for the replies.
The replies! How would he get them? He couldn’t have them sent to his house, or his mother would find out what he was doing. He knew she wouldn’t approve. He’d need a box number, like the Instant Height people. But then he’d have to find a way to slip over to the newspaper offices to collect them. And he’d need to work out how to cash postal orders without arousing Hutch’s suspicion.
By half past one it all seemed too complicated. Johnny got back into bed. How could he hope to organize such an intricate scheme when he already faced the problem of disposing of ‘Auntie Ada’ in a way that would stop Hutch mentioning her to his mother? Surely he should see to that first …
He nuzzled up to the rabbit’s threadbare fur, breathing in its familiar dusty smell as he tried to work out what to do. Maybe he should just own up and tell Hutch that ‘Auntie Ada’ had never existed … Or maybe … Maybe … He yawned, and felt himself drifting off to sleep at last, only to be jolted awake again by the sound of the town hall clock striking two, and the arrival of another idea.
Maybe ‘Auntie Ada’ should stay in his life. Perhaps she could be part of his advertising plan. Johnny would explain to Hutch that his mother couldn’t do her own shopping any more because she was busy looking after her invalid sister. And he would account for the postal orders by saying that he was cashing them on behalf of his aunt.
It was brilliant. But Johnny knew it was wrong. At a quarter to three he resolved to abandon the whole thing, deciding it would be simpler to admit what he had already done, and to face his mother’s anger and (worse) her disappointment. He wiped his tears on the rabbit’s ears, envisaging the scene as he confessed to stealing the money. Then he imagined what would happen if the advertising scheme worked. He pictured himself cashing postal orders, replacing the money in the Peace Mug, and even contributing to the rent. That felt better. At three o’clock he changed his mind one last time. He would risk it after all.
He snuggled under the blanket and started thinking up adverts that might trick the readers of the Stambleton Echo. He wanted to find things people were embarrassed or ashamed about so that, like him, they wouldn’t want to tell the world how they had been swindled.
His own experience that day gave him his first idea: Stop your baby wetting the bed.
He wouldn’t be too greedy. Perhaps he’d only ask one shilling for the answer to that. And the answer would be: Make him sleep in a chair.
Johnny was desperate for morning to come. He couldn’t wait to get started. His legs wriggled uncontrollably every time he thought about the money that stupid people would send him. Somehow, soon after half past three, he finally slipped off to sleep with a smile.
But success didn’t seem quite so certain in the chilly morning mist when, almost too tired to walk, he set off for the shop with his damp shorts chafing against his skin.
Chapter 7
THE LANDLORD
Johnny was glad to see that Hutch was in a good mood, whistling as he unpacked a delivery and stacked cans of tinned peaches into a pyramid on the shelf behind the counter.
‘Hutch?’ said Johnny. ‘Is there any chance you could find me some more work here? I could come on Saturdays if you like, and in the holidays too.’
‘So you’ve had the letter then,’ said Hutch, without looking up.
‘What letter?’ asked Johnny, panicking for a moment at the thought that Hutch might somehow know he’d been fooled into buying the Secret of Instant Height.
‘The rent letter. There were some folk in the pub last night complaining about it. It looks as if he’s gunning for all of you.’
‘Who? Who’s gunning for us?’
‘Young Mr Bennett, up at the big house on the hill. I never liked the boy. Though he’s a man now, of course. Just back from Cambridge University, so they say. He’s inherited everything from his father. The factory, the farm, the whole estate. He owns your house now.’
‘And he’s the one who’s putting up the rent?’
‘Yes. Yours and everyone else’s. He owns an awful lot of property round here. His family always have. But you people on Dagmouth Lane will get the worst of it.’
‘Why us?’
‘Because his father – old Mr Bennett, God rest his soul – kept all your rents specially low. He built those little houses just before the war. He did it to make money, of course. Dagmouth Lane was just a bit of old wasteland then, and he saw a chance to make a profit out of it – renting out homes to factory workers and getting back the wages he paid them. But when the war came, and so man
y husbands and fathers were killed, he had a change of heart. He made sure Dagmouth Lane went to people like your mother. People who were suffering.’ Hutch took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. Johnny hadn’t noticed that he’d got a cold. ‘Poor Winnie was only a girl then. She and Harry had been married just a few months, and I doubt whether your dad even knew she was expecting you when he went off to fight. After he was killed, Winnie needed a roof over her head, but with you on the way she couldn’t get enough work to pay much rent – so old Mr Bennett let her have the house you live in now. She still had to pay, but much less than that house could have fetched. He did the same for lots of other families. He was a good man.’
‘I know,’ said Johnny. ‘Mum talked about him when he died. But she didn’t expect the rent to go up.’
‘Well, she knew the father, but she doesn’t know the son. He was only a lad in the war. He didn’t have to fight, and he’s not interested in the sacrifice people like your father made. He can only see those houses as a drain on his income. And to be fair, some people could pay a bit more now. Look at Mrs Roberts – she’s married again. Her Alf’s got a good job.’
‘But my mother hasn’t. She has to look after me, and the house, and go out to work. She works all the time. She can’t afford to pay more.’
‘I understand, son,’ said Hutch, more warmly than he had ever spoken to Johnny before. ‘And now she’s got that sister of hers to worry about too.’ Johnny flinched at the reminder of Auntie Ada.
Hutch continued, ‘I’ll see what I can do for you. I won’t be able to pay you much, mind. But it might be enough to help a bit. And I’ll expect you to work hard.’
‘Don’t worry, I will.’
‘You can stay on after your evening paper round every day and sweep up. And you can help me unpack some of the deliveries.’ As he said that, Hutch’s hand slipped, and the pyramid of tins fell to the floor. Johnny collected them up and started rebuilding the display.
Johnny Swanson Page 3
