Just Henry

by Michelle Magorian

  ‘No.’

  ‘If I hadn’t met her at Mrs Beaumont’s, I would never have realised what a lovely person she is. I’m really proud of what you did for her. She told me all about it.’

  ‘You’re right about Gran, by the way,’ said Henry. ‘She doesn’t know.’

  ‘Oh dear, it’s difficult, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘There’s something else I wanted to mention. Mrs Beaumont asked me if she could take you up to London again next weekend, and Uncle Bill and I have agreed to let you go. She’s taking someone called Grace with her too. She said she’s a friend of yours.’

  The day before he was due to leave for London, Henry went to see a film on his own. Mrs Beaumont had gone with the others to see a visiting ballet company at the Kings Theatre. It had been a while since he had had to ask a stranger to take him into an A film. He looked up and down the queue hoping to find a familiar face. And then he spotted a man he saw every week. He hesitated.

  ‘Mr Finch?’

  Mr Finch swung round and looked him straight in the eye.

  But instead of asking him, Henry heard himself saying, ‘I’m going to London tomorrow and I’m going to finish my roll of film there, and I wondered, sir, if I could use the darkroom when I come back?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Mr Finch. ‘And yes, I will take you in.’ And he gave Henry a broad smile.

  13. Liza

  ‘A LITTLE PRINCESS IS A LOVELY STORY,’ SAID MRS BEAUMONT, ‘I’ll begin reading that to you when I’ve finished Five Go to Smuggler’s Top.’

  ‘Great-Aunt Florence still thinks I should finish my homework before coming round for another chapter,’ said Grace.

  ‘But that would mean never.’

  ‘That’s what I told her.’

  ‘And after a day of horrors at school, a generous helping of a story will give you a much-needed boost before facing the homework horrors.’

  Grace laughed.

  ‘If Pip were here he’d say, “You’re right.”’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mrs Beaumont.

  They were on the train journey to Waterloo. Henry couldn’t remember ever not being able to read. Secretly he believed it was Grace’s way of getting out of it, like he did. While she and Mrs Beaumont chatted, he took out the camera and peered through the viewfinder. Mrs Beaumont began reading a novel and Grace looked at photographs of a ballet company in a Penguin paperback.

  ‘Could you read that bit for me?’ she asked him.

  She was pointing to some writing under a film still. Henry shook his head.

  ‘I don’t like reading aloud,’ he explained.

  ‘Please!’ she begged.

  ‘I’m sure if you try a bit harder, you can do it yourself.’

  She gave a sharp nod.

  ‘Yes,’ she said brightly, ‘I just need to try harder.’ And she turned away.

  Henry looked out of the window and caught sight of her reflection in the glass. She was crying. She was so silent that even Mrs Beaumont hadn’t noticed. He had made a girl cry, and not any girl. He had made Grace cry.

  He wanted to apologise, but he suspected she didn’t want anyone to know she was upset. And there was one thing which shamed him even more. When he saw her reflection in the window, he was thinking what a good photograph it would make.

  ‘Grace?’ he heard Mrs Beaumont ask softly. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ve got some beastly smut in my eye,’ she said, attempting to make light of it.

  ‘Here,’ said Mrs Beaumont, pulling a handkerchief from her bag. ‘If you hold out your eyelid until your eye starts watering, that should wash it out.’

  Within minutes she was blowing her nose.

  ‘Would you like me to read to you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please!’

  When the train drew into Waterloo, Henry leapt out of the carriage so that he could take a photograph of them stepping down on to the platform. To his annoyance Grace stepped off too quickly for him to catch her. He stood with the viewfinder level with where he thought Mrs Beaumont’s face would be. And then there she was, looking down at the bag she was carrying. As soon as she turned to look at him, he snapped her.

  ‘I should have expected that,’ she laughed. ‘How much film do you have left now?’

  ‘Enough for one more photograph. Mr Finch said I can use the darkroom on Monday. He’s going to show me what to do.’

  ‘That’s exciting. I’ll be able to see the photograph my brother took before he died.’

  After a light supper at Mrs Beaumont’s London house, Henry was eager to be back in the room with the boxes. It was bitterly cold, but when he touched the camp bed it felt warm. He pulled aside the covers and found a hot brick wrapped up in a tea towel. There was a crackling sound from Daniel’s room like a needle being put on a gramophone record. He slipped out on to the landing and sat at the top of the stairs. Violin music spilled out from under Daniel’s door. As he listened to it he felt an intense sadness. It was as though a hand had moved into his chest and was squeezing his heart. But it was impossible to move away and so he stayed, growing colder and more miserable.

  And then the music changed. The grief lifted and he felt happy, as if the joy had been lying hidden inside him and had surfaced. Once the music had ended and he rose to creep back to his room something caught his eye. Sitting huddled in a green school coat and nightdress on the next flight of stairs was someone else who had been listening. It was Grace.

  After breakfast the next day they caught a 38 bus to Shaftesbury Avenue. They followed Mrs Beaumont down Charing Cross Road past a huge, ornate building, the Prince’s Theatre. Pictures and posters outside advertised King’s Rhapsody. Grace ran over to look at them. Women in long dresses and white gloves, tiaras on their heads, stood under a massive chandelier, a hundred or more lamps lit in its twisting ornate ironwork. In front of them a handsome man in a dark uniform with a sash across his chest stood next to a young woman.

  ‘Is it a play?’ asked Grace.

  ‘A musical,’ said Mrs Beaumont, ‘by a man called Ivor Novello.’

  ‘What beautiful costumes.’

  They crossed the road.

  ‘This is Charing Cross Road. It will probably give you a heart attack, Henry. It’s full of bookshops, mostly second-hand.’

  ‘But why are we here?’ asked Grace, a note of anxiety creeping into her voice.

  ‘Christmas presents,’ she said. ‘Also, I want you to choose some books I can read to you. I’m a bit out of touch. There are children’s books in paperback now. Puffins, I think they’re called.’ She pointed to a tall building on a corner. ‘That’s where I’m taking you. There’s a whole floor there which has children’s books.’

  As they approached it, Grace tugged at Henry’s arm.

  ‘Look!’

  In the front window, displayed on white net, were twenty or more green paperback books. On the covers were two girls in tutus balanced on pointed shoes in a pale yellow cloud.

  ‘This book has a whole window all to itself,’ she said.

  ‘It’s called Ballet Shoes,’ said Henry quietly, before she needed to ask. ‘It’s by some bloke called Noel Streatfeild. It’s a Puffin story book and it’s one and sixpence.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Grace.

  He had hated reading the information out and especially in public, but it was worth it to see her smile.

  As soon as they entered the shop, Mrs Beaumont marched up to an assistant.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’d like to buy Ballet Shoes by Mr Streatfeild. Could you direct me?’

  ‘Upstairs on the children’s floor. There are lots more of her books on display there, including her latest one, The Painted Garden.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘Yes, Madam. Noel Streatfeild is a woman.’

  As they walked away from the cashier upstairs, the new book clasped in Grace’s hands, she whispered, ‘Are you sure I don’t have to read it myself?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Bea
umont firmly, ‘I am going to read it to you. I’m off to browse through the little one’s section now. I want to find something for Molly. You two go off on your own.’

  After a while Mrs Beaumont joined them with some paperback picture books for Molly.

  ‘Now let’s go elsewhere to find books for Pip and Jeffries,’ she said. ‘What do you think they’ll like, Henry?’

  ‘Pip will like anything with machinery in it and Jeffries would like something about directors and films.’

  They looked in the second-hand bookshops and left Charing Cross Road with a book on cinema projectors and equipment for Pip and some second-hand film annuals for Jeffries.

  They were following Mrs Beaumont down a lane off Oxford Street when Grace gave a sudden cry. On the opposite side of the road, painted on the wall, was a large picture of a ballerina in a tutu. She was balanced on the toes of one foot, her other leg folded outwards, her arms curved above her head.

  ‘There’s a shop window filled with ballet shoes,’ and she pointed to a window underneath.

  As if by instinct, Henry had already pulled out the camera. He watched her dash across the road and ran after her. As soon as she turned round to say something, he took her photograph. He was aware that there was a man standing nearby.

  ‘Drat!’ he muttered. ‘Fingers crossed you’re not in my picture.’

  Someone hooted at him from a car and he realised he was standing in the middle of the road. He stepped quickly up on to the pavement.

  ‘Henry!’ Mrs Beaumont exclaimed. ‘You nearly got run over.’

  ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘I’ve used up all the film.’

  He felt bereft. Once the film was removed, he would have to hand the camera back.

  ‘Cheer up,’ she said. ‘You can get the film developed now.’

  He nodded, overwhelmed with sadness.

  ‘Then you’ll be ready for a new roll.’

  ‘You mean I can still use the camera?’ he said, unable to stop himself grinning.

  ‘Of course. Now come on. I need to get to the club.’

  ‘What club?’ asked Grace.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  A man wearing a massive jumper with a colourful scarf and wide-brimmed hat opened a basement door. He looked as though he had been up all night. He nodded to Mrs Beaumont as if expecting her. They walked down a dimly lit corridor.

  ‘Do you think this is a gangsters’ dive?’ whispered Grace to Henry.

  Along the walls were photographs of black and white singers and musicians. In the background Henry could hear a saxophone and a piano and the faint swish of a cymbal.

  ‘It’s a jazz club,’ Mrs Beaumont explained.

  They entered a basement, which had tables and chairs and old sofas pushed up against the walls. Three black musicians, a tubby pianist, a tall saxophonist and a cheeky-faced drummer were sitting on a small platform. A dark-haired man greeted Mrs Beaumont with a broad smile and strode across the room towards them. He flung his arms round Mrs Beaumont and hugged her.

  ‘This is my elder son, Oscar, and that’s how he likes to be addressed. No Misters, please.’

  ‘Hello,’ he said, beaming, ‘you must be Henry and Grace.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace and immediately added, ‘Grace, Grace, the family disgrace.’

  ‘Grace, do you have any other names?’ asked Mrs Beaumont.

  ‘My second name is Elizabeth, after one of the princesses.’

  ‘Elizabeth,’ she murmured.

  The musicians on stage broke into a number. Grace moved towards them as if in a dream.

  ‘What’s that you’re playing?’ she asked when they had finished. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Liza,’ said the pianist. Henry noticed he had an American accent. ‘Short for Elizabeth.’

  ‘Liza!’ repeated Mrs Beaumont and her son in unison.

  Henry stared at them, baffled. Why were they getting so excited about a name?

  ‘Grace, would you like to sing with them?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’d love to,’ she said sadly and she gave a resigned sigh.

  ‘I mean now, Grace.’

  Her face reddened.

  ‘Now?’ she repeated in disbelief.

  ‘Up you come, young lady,’ said the pianist.

  As soon as Grace had clambered on to the platform in her baggy woollen stockings, jumper and kilt, he beckoned her over. Grace flung back her plaits and almost danced towards him. She beamed at them and then to Henry’s dismay he saw the pianist point to the music.

  ‘Shall we try this? Tell me if you need more light to read the words.’

  Grace’s face fell.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t read,’ she stammered, her head down.

  Henry wanted to rescue her. He wanted to grab her and take her out of the building but the pianist just nodded towards the saxophonist and said, ‘Ah, you’re like Joseph over there.’

  ‘Letters all floatin’ about?’ Joseph remarked.

  Grace stared at him in astonishment. Then she nodded.

  ‘I got that too. So’s a clarinet player I know. Can’t make sense of anything that’s written down.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it!’ cried Grace.

  ‘He was always gettin’ beatings at school, but once he left, that’s when he began to learn. Oh, yes. And he’s a mean player,’ he added with warmth.

  ‘You mean there are other people like me?’

  ‘Sure is honey. I bet you’ve a terrific memory.’

  ‘She has,’ said Mrs Beaumont.

  ‘Righty,’ said the pianist, ‘let’s try this.’

  He played a few bars and sang some words in a gravelly sort of voice.

  ‘Now you try,’ he said.

  Henry listened to her sing in that embarrassingly odd way of hers, keeping an eye on the musicians. If they thought she was terrible they weren’t showing it.

  ‘I think we can take that down a notch or two, don’t you?’

  Grace nodded happily.

  ‘Grace, I’m taking Henry off to meet someone,’ said Mrs Beaumont. ‘Would you like to stay here this afternoon?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she breathed.

  As Henry walked down the corridor with the framed photographs, he glanced aside at Mrs Beaumont.

  ‘Are there really other people who can’t read?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. I’d come across it before but I had no idea that one of the musicians would have the same difficulties as her. That was pure luck.’

  Henry hoped the luck would last. He didn’t want Grace to be humiliated again.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked, as they headed up the steps into daylight.

  ‘To find a Victorian camera.’

  As they were waiting at a bus stop Henry suddenly remembered the conversation he had had with his mother.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell Mum about Mrs Jeffries moving in.’

  ‘Yes. She did look rather shocked. But I’m glad you didn’t. I might never have seen her again.’

  ‘Was it terrible when they met?’

  ‘Somewhat. The world stopped on its axis and all that.’

  ‘Mum said you made tea.’

  ‘Yes. It was rather like pretending not to notice there was an elephant in the kitchen.’ She gave him a searching look. ‘But they discovered that sometimes facing your prejudices helps them evaporate. Do you agree?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Henry happily and he laughed at what an idiot he had been.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s rather a mess,’ said the elderly man who answered the door and invited them in. ‘I could do with an assistant.’ And he gave a tired smile.

  As they stepped into a colossal hall, Henry could see, through the open doors, three massive rooms, filled with old furniture. The house seemed like a museum.

  ‘I hire out all sorts of artefacts to film companies as properties,’ the man explained.

  One room was filled to the ceiling with old velvet curtains, twisting in and out of cameras on tripods and Victorian fu
rniture.

  ‘This is Jeffries’ kind of place,’ Henry murmured.

  ‘It’s very good of you to allow us to visit,’ said Mrs Beaumont.

  ‘Not at all. I’d like more people to see what’s here.’

  ‘How much did Daniel tell you?’

  ‘Something about a presentation about life in Victorian times. I’ve selected three Victorian movie cameras for you to look at.’

  ‘Daniel’s taking old films down to Henry’s school,’ explained Mrs Beaumont.

  ‘Ah. And he’d like to take one or two of these with him?’

  ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘He’ll need a hand carrying them. They’re quite a weight.’

  ‘One of my sons and a young friend have offered to help.’

  ‘Just tell me when you need to borrow them,’ said the man. ‘I’m sure we can work something out.’

  Henry was staring at the large lenses of the cameras. They looked magnificent.

  ‘People really used these?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said the man, beaming.

  ‘I wish the others could see them.’

  ‘Hopefully they will,’ Mrs Beaumont said.

  When they were back on the bus again, Mrs Beaumont had another surprise for him.

  ‘Before we pick up Grace, I’m taking you to see two more foreign films at cinemas which specialise in silent films.’

  ‘Italian?’ asked Henry.

  ‘No. The first one is German. It’s called Metropolis.’

  ‘Is it a Victorian film?’

  ‘No. It was made in 1926. Shades of things to come. Science fiction.’

  Henry found himself thinking of Jeffries again.

  ‘Mrs Beaumont, Jeffries lost one of his favourite books when those lodgers ransacked their room. It was the same book your son Max liked, War of the Worlds, and I was wondering . . . ’

  ‘A Christmas present?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘A splendid idea. We should have time to nip back to Charing Cross Road later.’

  After Metropolis, Henry sat silently upstairs in another bus, his mind filled with images of workers in their identical overalls swaying in time in underground tunnels like sleepwalking robots. He was so absorbed in thinking about the mass riots and the evil inventor in the film that he nearly didn’t notice Mrs Beaumont getting off.