‘Me neither,’ she said with a smile, ‘but then you know that already.’
‘It’s a good job we bumped into each other, ain’t it?’ he said. ‘Want to walk up to Joan of Arc together this afternoon?’
She nodded.
‘Gotta go now,’ he said awkwardly. ‘See you later.’ And he walked quickly away, annoyed with himself for not having been able to think of something he could have said to make her feel better. But what? When she sang, she did sound like a man.
‘It was a bit silly taking you to see it,’ said Mrs Beaumont. They grabbed the three seats at the front of the bus upstairs. ‘Far too violent.’
‘Don’t worry, I didn’t watch it when it got nasty,’ said Grace reassuringly.
‘Did you see any of it?’ Henry asked.
‘Of course,’ said Grace. ‘But there weren’t many funny bits in it, were there?’
‘Henry and I are going to see the Sherlock Holmes film at the Rex tomorrow,’ said Mrs Beaumont.
‘You are lucky. I shall be doing homework all day. I don’t know why I bother. I’ve already had a detention this week.’
‘What on earth did you do? Smash a window?’
‘No. Usual thing.’
‘Which is?’
‘Mrs Beaumont, I can’t read.’
‘I don’t like reading either,’ said Henry. ‘Gran says reading books is a waste of time.’ And then he suddenly remembered that Mrs Beaumont wrote stories and he reddened.
‘I didn’t say I didn’t want to. I’d love to be able to read books. It’s just that I can’t. I look at the page and all the letters are jumbled up and I can never make sense of them.’
‘Is that why you’ve been expelled so many times?’ asked Mrs Beaumont.
‘Yes. Everyone thinks I’m doing it on purpose, that I’m rebellious, that I’m stubborn and disobedient, a wilful and ungrateful child, and so on and so on.’
‘You can’t read?’ asked Henry, staggered.
‘No. I can’t write either. I don’t even know how to spell my own name. I know there’s an R in Grace but I can never remember where to put it.’
‘But you wanted to be in the choir,’ said Henry, puzzled.
‘Yes.’
‘But you’d need to be able to read the words of the songs.’
‘I wouldn’t. I’d learn them off by heart by listening.’
‘Like the song you sang.’
‘What song is this?’ said Mrs Beaumont.
‘I tried to get into the Plaza choir,’ said Grace despondently. ‘And I sang It’s Magic from the Doris Day film.’
‘And?’
‘They didn’t want me. I may like singing, but other people don’t like me doing it. At my other schools I had to mouth the words instead of singing them.’
‘Will you sing for me? I’d love to hear you.’
‘You don’t know what you’d be letting yourself in for.’
‘I’m sure I can handle it.’
Grace burst out laughing. Henry was pleased to see her so happy, though not being able to read, she didn’t have much to laugh about. And her so posh!
‘You go upstairs and have a look in the trunks, Henry,’ said Mrs Beaumont. ‘I’m going to hear Grace sing her song and then I’ll light the fire and we can have toast and jam.’
Henry walked up to the first landing but as soon as the sitting room door was closed he crept back down to eavesdrop. And then he heard it, that strange low voice of hers. After she had finished there was silence.
‘You have a remarkable voice,’ he heard Mrs Beaumont say, quietly.
‘But they laughed at me,’ Grace protested.
‘Sometimes people laugh at what’s unfamiliar.’
‘But the choirmaster, why didn’t he choose me?’
‘Your voice doesn’t belong in a cinema choir. You know who you remind me of? Sarah Vaughan.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘A very well known singer in the jazz world.’
‘What’s jazz?’
‘Something I’m going to introduce you to. Now let’s put a match to this fire.’
Henry moved quickly up the stairs. He thought it was kind of Mrs Beaumont to pretend Grace had a nice singing voice. He turned the door handle of the room where the cameras were stored and stepped into the photographic world of Mrs Beaumont’s brother.
7. Winding on
THE CAMERA LAY IN ITS CASE. OCCASIONALLY HENRY TOOK IT OUT TO press the side button and watch the lens concertina outwards, but its beauty made him feel clumsy and stupid. The following week he finally plucked up enough courage to ask Mr Finch if he could show him how to use it.
‘Bring it to the photography club I run for the first and second formers,’ he said, after a tense silence.
When Henry turned up at the club, Mr Finch ignored him at first. Henry stood awkwardly by the teacher’s desk, while Mr Finch talked to two girls. Eventually he walked in Henry’s direction, stopped and glanced at the camera case. Nervously, Henry slid the camera out and within seconds the black bellows unfolded. There were gasps from the class. Mr Finch’s eyebrows lifted.
‘A Zeiss Ikon,’ he remarked. ‘Expensive.’
‘A lady’s lent it to me,’ Henry began to explain.
Mr Finch gave a brief nod, showing little interest.
‘Distance and light,’ he said abruptly, taking it from Henry’s hands. He turned the silver dial surrounding the front of the lens. ‘I’ll line it up to four.’
‘What does that mean, sir?’ asked Henry.
‘Four feet. Go and stand by the door.’
Henry did so.
‘Now I’m about four feet from you. If you were taking a photograph of me from there, you’d turn the silver dial till the four lay behind the dot. If I were further away you’d put it on five foot or eight or fifteen. The furthest it will go is called infinity. Come back and look at this.’
Henry returned to the desk.
‘Notice the black dial behind it. That’s the aperture, what’s called the iris. If the area surrounding your subject is in poor light you’ll need to let in as much light as possible, and less when you’re in bright sunshine. If you took a photograph in here you’d probably need to put it on 6.3. That’s the widest it can go.’ He touched a metal square at the side of the camera. ‘This is the viewfinder.’ He pushed a tiny hidden lever under the edge of the square. Two miniature windows sprang up, one behind the other. The back window had a porthole in the centre surrounded by a black frame. ‘When you peer through these, they magnify what you’re looking at and adjust the image so that what you see through the viewfinder would be what you’d see through the camera lens if you could.’
He slid a tiny black door upwards at the back of the camera. Underneath was a window with red glass. Henry could see the number two underneath it.
‘She’s obviously taken one and wound it on to two. That means you can take seven photographs. When you’ve taken your first photograph, wind the film on till you see the number three.’
He handed the camera back, but before Henry could thank him he walked over to a small boy who was looking inside a box camera. Henry was hurt by his brusque manner, especially when he could see how friendly he was to everyone else. He closed the camera, slid it back into the camera case and made for the door.
‘Get out of it,’ yelled a small grubby boy, ‘me first!’ And he gave the boy who had pushed his way to the front of the crowd surrounding Henry an almighty shove.
It was the following Saturday morning. Henry had taken the camera out into his street to peer through the viewfinder at the children.
‘I told you, no one’s having a go,’ Henry repeated firmly. ‘This is a proper camera. And it don’t belong to me. So hands off!’ and he held it high above his head, out of the reach of a dozen determined hands.
‘Aw, go on,’ they pleaded.
‘No!’
‘’Ere he is!’ yelled a girl at the back, pointing at someone behind him.
Henry whirled round. A rag and bone man had just turned into their street with his horse and cart. The children fled towards the man, holding their empty jam jars up to him.
‘Wait yer turn!’ he yelled hoarsely. ‘If you keep shovin’ each other, you’ll break ’em.’
The price the man gave for two jam jars got them into the Saturday Morning Pictures. Henry had been unable to exchange jars for money ever since his mother had started making jam.
By now the children had lost interest in him. This meant he could observe them unnoticed through the viewfinder again. He spotted young Lily Bridges in her usherette’s uniform walking along the pavement, her hair tucked neatly under her pill-box hat. She glanced quickly in his direction and then looked hastily down at the pavement. Henry remembered overhearing his mum say that ever since she had returned to live with her family after her divorce she still couldn’t look anyone in the face.
‘Cinema Club,’ yelled a woman at the door of one of the houses. ‘Get yer skates on!’
Henry followed the children as they began running towards the corner of the street to queue up at the Plaza. He had just reached the steps when he saw Grace standing alone, gazing vacantly over the heads of a group of little ones. He framed her face. She must have sensed him, for she immediately turned round and broke away from the queue. As she drew nearer he moved the silver dial back from infinity to four. She was smiling.
‘Is that the camera Mrs Beaumont lent you?’
‘Yeah,’ said Henry.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘Are you going to the Pictures?’
‘No, I want to go off somewhere and take some snaps.’
‘Can I come with you?’
‘It’s the first time . . . ’ he began awkwardly.
‘And you don’t want someone looking over your shoulder?’
Henry shook his head.
‘I’d best get back in the queue,’ she said, and returned to fight her way back to where she had been standing.
After leaving the cinema, he headed towards the centre of town but he found nothing he wanted to photograph. He was nearly tempted to take one of a small elderly woman hunting for flowers among the rubble. He had watched her standing alone, clutching a straggly bunch of blue petals and green stalks among the grey, windswept, broken houses. Instead he decided to have one last try at the children. He returned to the pavement opposite the Plaza to wait. As soon as the foyer doors were flung open, they came running down the steps like a living waterfall. He clicked the shutter and wound it on to three, almost laughing with exhilaration.
‘I’ve taken my first photograph!’ he whispered.
After dinner he hung around at the top of the steps, knowing that Grace and Mrs Beaumont would be arriving for the matinee. He hid behind a queue by the wall.
‘There you are,’ he murmured. They were on the other side of the road, deep in conversation. He ducked down, lens and iris set. A man with a moustache in a raincoat and trilby hat was hovering nearby. Blast! He’d just have to risk him being in the picture.
He rose slowly and photographed them crossing the road.
‘You naughty boy,’ laughed Mrs Beaumont. ‘But I shouldn’t complain. It’s nice to see you using it.’
Henry grinned, pleased with himself. He pressed the slim metal side rods and snapped the camera shut.
On Wednesday night he carried kindling in an old sack round to Mrs Beaumont’s house. She was delighted to see him.
‘I’ve got another job for you,’ she said. ‘In London.’
‘London!’ Henry exclaimed.
‘I need someone sensible to travel with me. And stay overnight. You could meet my friend, Daniel. I’ve a feeling he could help you with your history presentation. He’s quite an expert when it comes to film history.’
Henry had pushed all thoughts of the presentation to one side. Again on Friday, Jeffries and Pip had answered all Mr Finch’s questions enthusiastically, and again Mr Finch had ignored him.
‘Where would I sleep?’
‘At my house.’
‘You got a house in London?’
‘Yes. I want to fill a trunk with a few things and then have it delivered here. That’s where you come in. I need someone to help me carry the trunk down the stairs to a taxi. My lodgers might be there but I can’t take that chance. When do you break up for half-term?’
‘This Thursday,’ said Henry. ‘We have Friday and Monday off.’
‘Splendid. We could go on Friday and come back Saturday. What do you say?’
He grinned.
‘I’ll take that as a yes. I’ll need to speak to your parents, of course.’
‘Yeah,’ said Henry awkwardly.
‘Ah. I take it they don’t know about me?’
‘No.’
‘Have they seen you sawing wood?’
‘Yes. I just said I was helping someone out.’
‘There you are, then. I’ll ask if you can help me out some more.’ She stood up. ‘Come on, let’s take the bull by the horns. I’ll ask them this evening.’
‘Do you mind if we go round the back? If we knock on the front door we might wake Molly.’
And have Gran calling out to me, he thought.
‘Round the back it is,’ said Mrs Beaumont.
He asked her to wait in the scullery so that he could warn his mother. She was in the kitchen, draping damp clothing over the clothes horse he had made for her in woodwork.
‘Mum,’ he began awkwardly, ‘there’s this lady wants to meet you.’ He beckoned Mrs Beaumont into the kitchen. Henry’s mother whipped off her apron.
‘Are you from the school?’ she asked, flustered.
‘No. I’m so sorry to pop in like this without warning, Mrs Dodge. I’m Mrs Beaumont, a friend of your son’s. But please call me Hettie.’
Henry’s mother looked bewildered. They stood and stared at one another, the only sound in the room coming from the wireless next door.
‘Take a seat, will you,’ said his mother at last. ‘Will you have some tea?’
‘No, thank you. We’ve just had some.’
‘Oh,’ said his mother, glancing at Henry. ‘Have you?’
‘Henry has been helping me.’
‘With kindling,’ he added.
‘I live in the next road,’ explained Mrs Beaumont. ‘And I’ve come to ask you if you would allow Henry to give me some more help.’
‘Well, I’m sure that’s fine . . . ’ began his mother.
‘Naturally you’ll want to talk it over with his father.’
‘Stepfather,’ muttered Henry.
‘You see, I want him to come to London with me.’
‘London!’
‘And he’d need to stay overnight. I’m a stranger and obviously you need to know more about me before you make a decision.’
‘Why London?’
As Mrs Beaumont explained, Henry watched his mother’s face closely, his fingers crossed behind his back. At the moment she looked too taken by surprise for him to guess if she would agree.
‘But how on earth do you know one another?’ asked Henry’s mother.
‘I took your son into an A film and it’s got to be a habit.’
‘And you want him to help you carry a trunk of clothing and books . . . ’
‘And stories. Mrs Beaumont is a writer,’ said Henry.
‘I have several of them in exercise books and I need to get them typed up,’ added Mrs Beaumont. ‘Which is going to take some time as I’m not much of a typist.’
‘I could do that for you,’ said Henry’s mother simply.
‘You can type?’ said Mrs Beaumont.
‘Yes. I have secretarial qualifications.’
‘But this is wonderful!’ exclaimed Mrs Beaumont.
‘Haven’t you forgotten someone, Mum?’ said Henry. ‘Molly.’
‘I can type them when she takes her nap. It’s Gran who’s the problem. If she sees me at it, she’ll want me to do something for her. She doesn’t li
ke to feel ignored.’
Henry was shocked. He had never heard her talk that way about Gran.
‘Not that I mind, Henry,’ she said quickly. ‘There is one other problem, though. I don’t have a typewriter. I had to sell mine.’
‘I’ve my brother’s one here. You can use that,’ said Mrs Beaumont. ‘Now about Molly. Would she take a nap in a strange place? If so, while she snoozes in the sitting room on the settee, you could tap away on my kitchen table. And of course I’ll pay you.’
Henry’s mother was almost laughing. ‘Oh, Mrs Beaumont.’ She turned hurriedly to Henry. ‘Don’t breathe a word of this to your grandmother.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t want her to know that I’m earning money.’
Henry remembered Gran saying that his father wouldn’t dream of letting his wife earn any wages.
‘What about Uncle Bill?’
‘Uncle Bill will be fine about it.’
Of course he will, he thought. Mr Miser himself.
‘Please,’ she begged in a whisper.
Henry nodded. She leaned across and kissed his cheek.
‘Thanks, love. You don’t know what this means to me.’
Just then they heard Gran’s door open. His mother looked up in alarm. Mrs Beaumont pressed a finger to her lips and bolted into the scullery. As the scullery door closed, the kitchen door was flung open to reveal Gran.
‘Hello, Mrs Dodge,’ said his mum brightly.
‘I was wondering where my tea was,’ Gran complained.
‘I was just about to put the kettle on, wasn’t I, Henry?’
It was all Henry could do not to laugh.
8. A sudden change
UNCLE BILL GAVE HIS PERMISSION FOR HENRY TO TRAVEL WITH Mrs Beaumont to London.
‘Make the most of it,’ he had said. ‘London is like another country.’
Henry couldn’t imagine him in London. He knew he worked on the Waterloo line but he assumed that he only ever saw the inside of a train cab. Gran wasn’t so happy.
‘Who is she?’ she demanded. ‘I don’t think you should be going off to London with a stranger.’
‘She’s the lady I told you about. The one who’s helping me with the History presentation. She wants me to meet this man in London. She thinks he can help me.’
Just Henry Page 7
