A Coin for the Hangman

Home > Other > A Coin for the Hangman > Page 19
A Coin for the Hangman Page 19

by Spurrier, Ralph


  “OK, love.”

  “I’ve got to be off soon, anyway, Mavis.” George chipped in. “My pass only lasts until six o’clock and it’ll take a train and a bus to get back to camp. One more week of tidying up affairs and then I’m out for good.” He turned to Henry. “Good to meet you, son.” He thrust out his hand. “I’m sure we’ll meet again, eh?”

  With little enthusiasm and a faint smile Henry took George’s hand.

  After half an hour or so in his room, Henry heard farewells being said downstairs and the front door of the shop opening. He stood close by one side of the window, watching as George strode off down the street, and quickly ducked back out of sight when George turned for the last time to wave to Mavis who, Henry guessed, was still standing by the shop door.

  He wasn’t quite sure what to make of George. He seemed amiable enough if, in Henry’s opinion, a little cocky. There was something else though, something he felt George was hiding. Sitting in the shop and watching customers come and go, listening to their conversations and studying their habits had finely tuned Henry to the subtle nuances in people’s behaviour. “That Henry’s a quiet one,” they would say and the less observant would put it down to dim-wittedness. However, those who had even the briefest of conversations with Henry came away feeling that perhaps their first impressions were false. Years later – and certainly following on from the furore after his execution – there were quite a few who, though noticeably absent from his defence at trial, admitted that perhaps Henry was deeper, much deeper, than any of them had imagined.

  Moving back to his bed, Henry picked up the novel he had been reading. Death of a Train was one of a long line of detective stories by the same author he had borrowed on a number of occasions from the Boots Library. Invariably the plot hinged on discrepancies in a railway timetable that the murderer had overlooked, despite very careful planning on all other aspects. The dénouement was explained at the end through pages and pages of intricate detail by the series character, Inspector French. Henry had become somewhat weary of the author’s plodding style, guessing that he was working to a tried and tested – and somewhat old-fashioned – formula.

  There was a tap at his door. His mother came in without waiting for an answer.

  “Alright, dear?”

  “Yes, OK.”

  “Enjoy the pork? Nice to have that for a change, wasn’t it? Must be years since we had it. Got plenty left for putting through the mincer tomorrow.” Mavis sat down on Henry’s bed, pushing his legs to one side to give her a bit more space. “So what’d you think of George, then?”

  “Seems OK.” Henry was careful. “What’s his plans after he finally gets demobbed?”

  Mavis, her arms folded across her chest, stared towards the window as if she was mentally following George down the road to the station. “He says he’s not sure yet. Says he’s probably got a few weeks to sort out lodgings and the like but hopefully settled by Christmas.”

  Henry looked down at his book, running his finger around the design of the train wheel that dominated the front of the jacket. “Where’s his home?”

  Mavis shrugged. “Sounds as if he hasn’t really got one. His parents are dead now and the girlfriend he had – well, that was almost ten years ago now – he lost touch with her at the beginning of the war, he says. She’s probably married with kids now. The army seems to have been his whole life ever since 1938.”

  “He could stay in and make a career of it. Like Mr Bassett from up the road. He’s done pretty well for himself, hasn’t he? Captain now, isn’t it?”

  Mavis nodded, distracted by thoughts Henry couldn’t imagine. “Yes. Yes. Although I did see his wife in church the other week and she didn’t look too happy. I heard they were going to be posted to somewhere in Germany. She did tell me where but I can’t remember the name now. Her mother’s not too well either and the children are just coming up to their teens. Says she’ll miss Bradford terribly. Apparently we’re now over there to stop the Russians coming too far this way.” She sighed. “One thing after another.”

  Mavis fell silent.

  “Mum, I was talking to Mr Watson. You know, the cinema manager?”

  Mavis brought her head up sharply. “Oh, yes? What’s he been saying?”

  Henry caught the faintest touch of panic in her voice and momentarily wondered what had caused it. “Oh, nothing really. Well, he’s offered me a job.” He looked at his mother’s profile as she sat on the edge of his bed, watching carefully for her reaction.

  “Oh, but…” she tailed off. “What kind of job?”

  “Assistant to the projectionist – the rewind boy to start with. It’ll only be evenings and perhaps Saturday matinee.” The more Henry had thought about it, the more he felt it would suit him and he carried on with an eagerness that had grown over the few hours since he had the conversation and drink with Victor. “I’ll have to learn the workings of the projector, of course, but he says it shouldn’t take long. What do you think? I could still help in the shop during the day.”

  Mavis was surprised. Not so much that Henry was obviously keen to take up a new job away from the shop, but it was just the strange serendipity of it all. Her meeting with George the day Henry was away at the dentist, George’s imminent demob and what George had told her downstairs when Henry had gone up to his room after dinner. He had reached out over the dining-room table and put his hand over hers.

  “You know, Mavis, you’ve got a lovely little set-up here. You should be making more of it than you are. I’ve had a quick shufti round the town and as far as I can see there’s only one other sweet shop: and a pretty pokey one at that. There’s a run-down newsagent that needs a squib up their backside and a couple of tobacconists out on the Trowbridge road. And that’s it. You could be coining it here, Mavis.”

  She explained the difficulties around the rationing and how the shop was always half empty.

  “You don’t want to worry about rationing. There’s ways and means.” He winked. “Anyway, it isn’t going to last forever, is it? When rationing comes off you could be streets ahead of the game. Here’s a few ideas for you to think about.”

  The conversation had continued with George explaining how she could add newspapers and magazines to the range of cigarettes. “A rag and a fag,” he had laughed, “perfect match!” His infectious enthusiasm gave Mavis an optimism she had thought long gone and now she began to imagine a new, brighter future for herself. But Henry? Henry. She had said nothing to George but she knew she would face problems with Henry who seemed fairly stuck in his ways.

  “Look,” George had said just before he left, “I’m away for a month or so, sorting out a few things and then, fingers crossed, I’ll be footloose and fancy-free.” He had stood with his back to the unlit fire, hands in pockets. “Why don’t I drop by and see how things are then? See how things go. See what we can do?” He added. “Could be a good film on down at the flicks!” He winked and Mavis, remembering the strength of his arm around her and the warmth of his kiss the night before, had involuntarily blushed.

  So when Henry had given his mother the news about the job at the cinema, Mavis took this as a definite sign that certain things were meant to be and that perhaps things could change for the better after all.

  1946–7

  Henry, Mavis, George & Victor

  The change was imperceptible to Mavis but for those who knew her, especially Henry, there was a noticeable lightening in her face and a smoothing of the lines that had creased her complexion during the war years. Running the shop became easier as George showed her that rationing shortages could be circumvented with a little imagination. Mavis spent more time in the shop, moving things around, cleaning and dusting, rearranging the window display at least three times a week and ensuring that whatever stocks she could obtain were always face out on show.

  Mavis’s new found optimism rubbed off on Henry – to begin with. He worked at the cinema in the evenings, learning how to set up the reels and ensure that the film n
ever got caught up in the gate. Soon, for the afternoon showings, he was allowed to handle the projection equipment under supervision. Eventually Victor was satisfied that he could be left to run the films himself. From his room close to the ceiling of the cinema, Henry would peer through the square observation window at the cinema screen to ensure that the film was centred and running smoothly. At first he had watched the films avidly but the repetition soon began to bore and he would read while keeping half an eye on the aperture. He became acquainted with the whirr of the projection and his ear quickly attuned to the sound of the negative running through the gate. Any variation on the mechanical noise would bring his head up off the page to run his eye over the equipment and ensure all was well.

  Occasionally he would take the opportunity to view the audience from his high window. The flickering light of the screen would give him a bird’s-eye view of the seats and if he put his face close enough to the window and peered down to the right he was just able to see the knees of those in the back row. The first time he had seen a male hand creeping up the skirt of the girl in the next seat he had stood back from the window, slightly shocked at this semi-public show, but it didn’t stop him returning to the window to indulge in a surreptitious voyeurism that excited him more than he had expected. Friday and Saturday nights were best, when the lads of the town and their girlfriends jostled to get into the back row of the cinema. Sometimes Henry wondered if any of them actually watched the film.

  By the time Henry got home at night, Mavis would be in bed asleep and by the time he woke in the morning she would already be in the shop and the ting of the front doorbell would be sounding in his bedroom. Meals began to be taken separately and at odd times, plates left covered in the oven, gravy congealed in a saucepan. Their lives which had been knotted together by the vagaries of the war, slowly and imperceptibly unravelled into disconnected strands. The only day they were both at home was Sunday and even then, with Henry sorting out the allotment in the back garden and Mavis cleaning the house, there was very little time – other than Sunday dinner – that they were sitting down together. When George Tanner returned to Bradford on Avon in November, even that became an infrequent event.

  George’s arrival heralded a new start for Mavis. Henry recognized that the inexplicable unease he had felt had, somehow, taken shape in the form of this cuckoo in the nest. Although George had acquired digs out of town, some of his day and, to Henry’s increasing annoyance, a good part of the evening was spent with his mother. Mavis, for her part, was careful to avoid tongues wagging by not letting him spend any time behind the shop counter, but the more perceptive customers noticed the spring in her step and the nosier neighbours soon noticed George becoming a regular visitor in the evening for meals after the shop was closed. Henry rarely crossed paths with George, not in those early days, but he couldn’t avoid the folk who pumped him for information. Not least of these was Victor Watson, the cinema manager.

  “Hello, big boy. What’s occurring?” Victor had cornered Henry one day as he mounted the stairs heading towards the projectionist room ready for the afternoon performance. Henry disliked the epithet “big boy” intensely but had said nothing.

  “Mr Watson?” Henry came to a halt half-way up the stairs and leant over the banister, looking down on Victor who stood in the foyer, legs apart, one hand in a pocket and the other cradling a lit cigarette. He had a smirk on his face that Henry had quickly come to recognize as a preface to some kind of smutty remark.

  “You know, Henry, your ma and our canoodling friend George?” He flicked ash from the end of the cigarette into one of the wall ashtrays that dotted the foyer entrance. “Advancing from the rear is he, our soldier lad?”

  Henry flushed. “I don’t know.”

  Victor turned towards his office. “Keep an eye on him, Henry. These old soldiers can be dirty blighters. Never know where they’ve been, especially those who spent extra time out in Germany. Those fräuleins can be pretty attractive when you’ve been without a bit of skirt for long enough. Would hate to see your ma upset or hurt. I’ve known her a long time.” He left Henry paused on the stairs as he went into his office and closed the door behind him.

  As much as Henry disliked Victor’s smutty remarks, he had had similar thoughts about the relationship he could see growing between his mother and George. Sometimes Henry dropped into the New Bear for a drink when there was a break between showings, and he invariably found George in the main bar talking to the locals. The first time he had encountered him George bought him a drink and quizzed him about his future.

  “Well, Henry, how’s it going down the flea pit, then?” He leant forward on the bar, his legs stretched out behind him. Henry supped at his half of mild, the froth of the newly pulled beer resting on his upper lip. He wiped it off with the back of his hand. George always referred to the cinema as the “flea pit” and it never failed to annoy Henry.

  “It’s very good. A lot of people in this week, almost full house every day.”

  George pursed his lips and nodded his head but said nothing. Henry continued in defence of the cinema. “In fact, Mr Watson says we’re doing so well these days that we might be able to afford a refurbishment soon.”

  George raised an eyebrow. “That’s good news then, eh, son? Looks like your job could become permanent then.” He pulled on his cigarette and let out a faint whistle of smoke. “Your ma will be happy.” The door to the pub opened and three men came in that Henry recognized as regular customers at the shop although he didn’t know their names.

  “Hello George! Getting them in then?” The leading man laughed and slapped George on the back.

  “I think not, old chum.” George stood up straight. “If anything you should be getting one for me, the things I do for you, Andy.” He winked. “Missus like the chicken, did she?”

  “Oooh, lovely stuff. Lovely. Still picking at it after three days. Jean’s going to boil up the carcass and we could get a couple of day’s soup out of it as well.”

  The barman had come out of the back room and hovered expectantly, waiting for the orders.

  “Three pints, Harry, and whatever George’s having. Gotta keep him sweet, haven’t we?” Henry had moved back when the others arrived and now found himself outside the circle, the men’s backs towards him. He quickly finished his drink and placed the glass back on the bar.

  The barman nodded to him. “Same again, Henry?”

  “Oh no, thanks. Must get back to the cinema.” Henry turned and headed for the door.

  “See you later, Henry.” George’s voice called out.

  As Henry stepped out the door and closed it behind him he heard a bellow of laughter from the group at the bar.

  Afterwards, Henry always chose the snug of the New Bear to drink in. It was hidden from view from the rest of the bar and he could sit and read without being disturbed. He guessed Harry probably tipped the wink to George that he was in the snug but George never bothered to invite him round to the main bar – for which he was grateful. Henry finally abandoned the New Bear completely one evening in February 1947 after he heard George recount one of his war-time experiences; a story that shocked Henry by its seemingly casual attitude to violence. Kind Hearts and Coronets was showing that week and there was an hour’s gap between the afternoon and evening showing. Henry had got himself tucked away in the snug as usual with a book and a beer to while away the time when he heard George’s familiar laugh and cough coming from the public bar.

  “We’d just crossed the Rhine and suddenly we came up against a rearguard action from a bunch of Jerries. We’d outflanked them on both sides so they had nowhere to go but those bastards just wouldn’t give up. I knew from the sound of machine gun tucked away in a nest somewhere. It doesn’t take long to know the sound of almost every gun out on the battlefield, especially those aimed at trying to take your head off. That fucker spewed out 700 bullets a minute.”

  Henry imagined him moving beer glasses around the bar top to show the positions and
those “lads”, those gawkers, standing around listening, enthralled by his every word.

  “We knew it took three Krauts to man the MG34 but we didn’t know how much ammo or how many replacement barrels they had. Great machines they were, but those barrels overheated quickly and had to be replaced. Easily done, but we always knew when they were changing barrels. After five minutes’ spraying all and sundry, the bastards would overheat and they’d have to stop. We reckoned they were on a change-over and stuck our heads up over the bank. Bam! A bullet got my oppo in the throat and he went down like a stone. The bastards must have had two on the go. My mate, Corporal Potter, we’d been together since we landed on the beaches. We’d call him Pansy.” Henry heard George laugh and someone asked, “Nancy boy, was he then, George? Surprised he didn’t get it in the arse!”

  “No, no. It was just a nickname. He was a good lad – straight up and down. I put my hand across the wound but it had taken half of his neck out. I couldn’t stop the blood squirting through my fingers. Had to kneel there and watch him die with bullets flying over our heads.”

  There was a pause where Henry assumed George took a sup of his beer. He continued, lowering his voice a little. Henry bent forward, putting his ear close to the frosted snug window.

  “We called in an artillery strike and for once, thank fuck, they missed us and got the Jerry nest bang in the centre. When we finally cleared through we got to the bodies, well, what was left of them anyway, and let me tell you something: there wasn’t one whole, complete body left – arms and legs all over the place. Heads without bodies, chests – just chests – with guts hanging out of them, it was a regular meat market. And guess what?” There was a hesitation and he could imagine George scanning the faces of those grouped around him, pausing for effect. “One of my men undid his flies, got out his old man and pissed into the open mouth of one of those dead Germans.”

 

‹ Prev