‘Now go on with you,’ said Mr Jenkins brusquely. ‘And you can make room in that raincoat pocket for this tin of pineapples,’ he added when they were in the yard. He placed a finger on his lips. ‘Keep mum, and give it to Mum. And there’s a little something for you towards the Pictures.’
Henry saw at a glance that he had given him enough to get into the cheap seats for two programmes.
‘Thank you, Mr Jenkins!’
‘Keep that to yourself. I don’t want Frank upset. He’s a good lad. And I doubt he’ll finish deliveries today much before midnight.’
‘Yes, Mr Jenkins. Merry Christmas, sir.’
Henry shoved the tinned pineapples into his tight-fitting raincoat and made his way past the queue of shoppers. As he walked out on to the pavement, Frank was hopping off his delivery bike, his basket empty. He glared angrily at Henry.
‘Are you still ’ere? There’s no gettin’ rid of you, is there? You keep turning up like a bad penny, you do. If you think you’re havin’ this bike, you’ve got another think comin’. I’ve worked hard all year for Christmas tips and I’m not havin’ you takin’ . . . ’
‘I’ve finished,’ Henry interrupted. ‘I’m off.’
‘Oh,’ he said scowling. ‘That’s all right, then.’
‘Happy Christmas.’
‘Don’t push yer luck!’
As Henry stepped into Mrs Beaumont’s hall, he noticed a small suitcase propped by the wall.
‘It’s mine,’ said Grace. ‘Great-Aunt Florence left this morning. Why are you carrying that box?’
‘It’s going to be a cot for Molly’s doll. I can’t leave it at home and I have to go shopping.’
‘Hello, there!’
Mrs Beaumont poked her head out of the sitting room.
‘I heard,’ she said. ‘And yes, you can leave it here. It’s a beauty. Need any paint?’
‘Yeah! Got any?’
‘White or pink is what we need,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Whitewash. We must have some left over somewhere. And you’ll need a pillow and a mattress.’
‘That’s what I was going to buy at the shops.’
‘Get her something else. I have all sorts of scraps here. I’m sure we can make them. Mrs Jeffries is the person to talk to. She’s a genius on the sewing machine. Would you like me to ask her advice?’
‘Yeah. Thanks.’
‘Hand it over. And now you’d better dash. You don’t have much time left.’
Although Henry was excited about buying a present for his half-sister, his excitement diminished rapidly once he had visited one tiny store after another. The noise of small yelling children around him was deafening, and it was torture standing among girls’ toys. There were dolls’ dresses but not only were they too expensive but he had no idea if Molly’s doll was going to be big or small. Then to his horror he heard someone calling out his name. He swung round ready to bite their head off if they made fun of him. It was a girl from his class called Jane Taylor.
‘You look a bit lost,’ she remarked. ‘Are you trying to find a Christmas present for a girl?’
‘Yeah,’ Henry mumbled.
‘How old is she?’
‘Two. Nearly three.’ Embarrassed, Henry wished that she would go away.
‘Is it a doll you’re looking for?’
‘No. Something to go with a doll. I’ve got a box for a cot.’
‘That’s good. Follow me. The stuff here is too expensive.’
Henry stared at her.
‘Come on,’ she said, turning.
Disgruntled, he shambled after her, keeping his distance in case anyone spotted them together and teased him in school for ‘going out’ with a girl in his form. She led him down an alley to a tiny ramshackle building filled with old and new toys, grabbed him by the hand and dragged him through the door.
‘Dolls,’ she said, pointing to an untidy pile of boxes in the corner.
‘I don’t want . . . ’ But it was pointless saying anything. Jane was already heading for the pile.
Behind a dusty glass counter filled with puppets and second-hand Hornby trains stood an ancient couple. They beamed at him. Henry gave them an awkward nod and hurried to join Jane.
‘There!’ Jane squealed, pointing at some satin material. It was hanging from underneath one of the crumpled boxes. As she tugged at it, the boxes began to topple. By now her enthusiasm had started to filter through to him. He grabbed them and shifted them to one side.
‘Gently,’ said Jane to herself, pulling it out.
It was a tiny eiderdown, covered in dust and cobwebs, pale blue on one side, pale pink on the other.
‘One side for a boy, one side for a girl,’ she exclaimed.
‘It looks just the right size,’ he said, grinning.
‘It’ll need a good brushing down,’ said the shopkeeper, smiling. ‘I take it you want it.’
It cost Henry a visit to a cinema.
As they left the shop, Jane said, ‘We’re quits now.’
Henry stared at her, puzzled.
‘You stuck up for me and Margaret in Maths and got caned for it, remember? When Mr David kept ignoring us. The teachers think us girls are only good for getting married and having babies. Well, we’re not.’
Henry had never heard a girl speak so vehemently before. He gazed at her, silenced by this sudden outburst of anger.
‘Well, anyway, that’s what I think,’ she said, ‘so do you need any more help? I know boys hate to be anywhere near a shop.’
Henry smiled.
‘There’s my gran,’ he said.
She looked thoughtful for a moment.
‘An embroidery set. How about that? I know where you can get some really cheap ones.’
In a run-down haberdasher’s shop she found a small tablecloth with outlines of flowers in the corners and centre. It came with two packs of pale coloured silk thread, sewing needles and instructions.
‘I have to go now,’ she said. ‘I haven’t bought my sister’s presents yet.’
Before he could thank her, she was halfway down the road, weaving her way in and out of the Christmas shoppers. And then he remembered one other person he had yet to buy a present for.
‘Uncle Bill!’ he moaned.
He didn’t want to give him anything but he knew his mother would be upset if he didn’t. He walked miserably along the streets, racking his brains for an idea. He was just crossing a road when he remembered that the second-hand bookshop Jeffries and Pip visited was in the street which ran alongside it.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘A second-hand book! Perfect!’
His stepfather would be pleased to receive any book and his gran would be pleased because it wasn’t new. But would he get there in time? He started running. As he drew nearer he could see a single light bulb swinging at the back of the shop. Relieved, he pushed open the jangling door.
‘Can I help you?’ said a voice in the semi-darkness.
A thin pale man with a tangle of grey hair was peering with interest at him over his spectacles. Henry caught sight of the ceiling-high corridors of bookcases. It looked like a maze. Without a map, he reckoned his skeleton would be discovered in the shop the following Christmas.
‘Yeah. Please.’
‘Are you looking for a book for a girl or a boy?’
‘A man,’ said Henry.
‘What does he like to read?’
Henry’s mind went blank. He could feel himself reddening and then he remembered.
‘Short stories. Penguin New Writing. Graham Greene.’
‘Graham Greene,’ said the man thoughtfully. ‘I think you’ll find a hardback copy of Brighton Rock over there. It’s almost new.’ He pointed to a pile of books in a dingy corner. ‘I did have an anglepoise lamp you could have plugged in over there, but the other day a woman bought it as a Christmas present for her husband, so I’m afraid you’ll have to squint, but you have young eyes,’ he added with humour.
Henry nodded his thanks politely and headed t
owards his doom. The books in the corner were stacked up so high they reached his knees. He wondered how on earth the man ever found anything. And then he saw the word Rock staring out at him, almost as though the book was waiting for him to collect it. He eased it out and was about to take it to the counter by the front window when he spotted what looked like a schoolboy annual. Above a large picture of a boy in a helmet sitting in a racing car was the title, So You Want To Be . . .
He opened it and began to look through the Contents page.
‘Chapter Three,’ he murmured. ‘So you want to be a train driver.’
Not really, thought Henry, but that’s what Uncle Bill wants me to do. Uncle Bill had told him that if he worked in an area where railwaymen stayed in the same job year after year, it could take as long as twenty years. The thought of spending twenty years working on the railways made Henry feel desperate, unlike Jack Riddell, one of the boys in the Victorian railway group. Jack was down by the railways every moment he could find. He would have given his right arm to have Henry’s job waiting for him, but he didn’t come from a railway family. It had been easy for Henry. Uncle Bill was a third generation railwayman.
‘Found what you were looking for?’ asked the bookshop man. Henry dropped the book, startled. ‘Ah, still looking,’ he said, and left Henry to it.
As Henry went to pick it up, his eye fell on another of the chapter headings, the title of which shook him. Trembling, he flicked over the pages until he found himself reading a step-by-step description of all the different jobs one had to do before becoming a camera operator in a film studio. It was much like the road to being a train driver, in that it took years. He already knew that to make a film you needed a film crew, but what he hadn’t known was that within each film crew there were smaller crews. His finger stopped at one sentence. The job of everyone who has a hand in helping make a film is to tell a story.
‘That’s what I want to do,’ he whispered.
Like Jeffries, he wanted to tell stories, but with pictures, not words. Reading that sentence made him realise that not only were there people who thought like him but there were people who made a living out of it. He now understood Grace when she had said in the jazz club, ‘You mean there are other people like me?’
He returned to the book, hungry to learn more. He discovered that the director of photography concentrated on lighting the scenes for the camera operator, and it was the artistry of the camera operator which helped tell the story.
‘But how do I start?’ whispered Henry impatiently.
He traced a finger down the page until he found what he was looking for.
‘Boys can join a camera crew straight from school to start their training. Their first job is only a tiny link in the film-making process but it is a job that is vital.’ Henry closed the book.
‘Clapper boy!’ And he was thrown back to the day when Mr Finch had asked them what they would want if they could wave a magic wand. And Henry had seen himself closing a clapperboard. It was like a premonition.
Suddenly he felt so excited that he wanted to yell at the top of his voice, because at long last he now knew what he really wanted to do when he left school. He also knew that Uncle Bill would do everything in his power to stop him. As he sat among the dust and debris of hundreds of books, it dawned on him that he was about to begin the most important fight of his life.
5. Christmas
‘COME IN QUICKLY OUT OF THE COLD,’ MRS BEAUMONT SAID, ‘and see what we’ve done.’
She thrust open the door into the kitchen with a flourish. Immediately Henry spotted the box with its slatted sides on the table. It had been painted white.
‘I put it in here so it would dry quickly near the range,’ she said.
‘It’s like a real cot,’ he exclaimed. Beside the box were a small pillow, sheets and a cream-coloured woollen blanket. ‘Where did you find the little bedclothes?’
‘Mrs Jeffries made them.’
‘Thanks, Mrs Jeffries!’ he said.
‘I enjoyed it,’ she said, glancing up from rolling pastry. ‘It made a nice change from corsets and Molly is such a lovely little girl.’
‘I’ll make up the rest of the bed,’ said Mrs Beaumont.
‘I’ve bought something to go in it,’ he said, putting the bags on the table. ‘It’s a bit dusty though.’ He pulled out the tiny eiderdown.
‘Oh, Henry, that will finish it off beautifully.’
Within seconds the door burst open.
‘I told you he was here,’ said Grace triumphantly. Pip and Jeffries were behind her.
‘Come upstairs,’ said Pip.
‘Hurry up,’ added Jeffries.
In the sitting room, the enormous tree was now festooned with glass animals. Small candles in metal candleholders were clipped to the branches. The walls of the room were hung with greenery and paper chains, and freshly chopped wood was banked up beside a fire. A shovel filled with chestnuts was propped on top of the glowing coals.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ said Grace.
Henry nodded enviously. He imagined them round the tree opening presents together, and later sitting around the table he and Mrs Beaumont had carried down the stairs. He remembered her remark that night: ‘I wonder which seven people will join me round it?’ Now with her two sons, Mrs Jeffries and Jeffries, Pip and Mrs Morgan, Grace and her, eight people would be sitting round it for Christmas dinner.
‘Wrapping paper,’ said a voice behind him.
Mrs Beaumont was holding sheets of red and green paper. ‘You’d better wrap up your presents here. You’ll never be able to do it in secret in your house while Molly’s around.’
Downstairs she gave the tiny eiderdown a good beating and placed it over the sheet and blanket inside the box. It fitted perfectly.
‘It’s so sweet!’ cried Grace. ‘Molly will love it.’
Henry sat at the table listening to their chatter. He still hadn’t been able to find a moment to talk to Jeffries about the man in the cinema. It would have to wait till after Christmas.
His mother was standing outside the front door with Molly. Guiltily Henry remembered her having asked him to help with the decorations.
‘Don’t go in,’ she said excitedly.
‘Are you waiting for Uncle Bill?’
‘No. It said in the Sternsea Evening News that the cathedral bells would be rung this Christmas Eve. I thought we might be able to hear them from here. Shush!’ she said suddenly. And faintly in the distance Henry could hear them slowly chiming. ‘They’re wishing us a very merry Christmas and a happy new year, Molly. In eight days time it will be 1950. Come on, let’s get into the warm.’
Henry followed them in with his parcels. As they passed Gran’s room, he noticed the wireless was on again. It didn’t sound like the kind of programme Gran would be interested in at all. He wondered if she just put it on out of habit. He suddenly remembered seeing his mother carrying the wireless accumulator into the scullery – she was worn out and soaked from the rain after her walk back from having it recharged. His gran must realise it was a waste of power, surely?
‘Mum, when you take Gran’s accumulators to be recharged, how long does it take you to get there and back?’
‘With Molly, anything from half an hour to an hour there, and half an hour or more back. I have to concentrate on not spilling any acid on my clothes, which can be a bit tricky if Molly is in one of her excitable moods. And then of course I often have to queue as well.’ She looked puzzled. ‘Why this sudden interest?’
‘Gran has it on a lot, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes. But it keeps her happy.’
His mother had placed a silver Christmas tree on a box in the corner of the kitchen. It was the same one they had used the year before. After having seen Mrs Beaumont’s tree, it suddenly seemed very small.
‘By the way,’ she added quietly, ‘Mrs Beaumont has invited us round to her place after Holiday Inn.’
Suddenly Molly stiffened. The front door had been op
ened and Henry heard footsteps rapidly moving up the stairs. ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ Molly yelled. Henry’s mother held her arm.
‘Daddy will be down in a minute.’
Henry guessed Uncle Bill was on his way to the bedroom to hide presents.
‘Want Daddy!’ she shouted.
Through the wall they heard the wireless being turned up.
‘That’s all I need,’ muttered his mother.
‘Auntie, cross,’ said Molly.
The footsteps were now thundering down towards the kitchen. The door was flung open and Uncle Bill strode into the kitchen in his grimy overalls and cap. From the state of him, Henry knew he must have been on one of the goods trains that day. Molly charged at him and flung her arms around his legs. He laughed and picked her up.
‘Mission accomplished,’ he said, giving Henry’s mother a wink.
‘Bill, you never went to the shops looking like that?’
‘No time to change. Quick wash of the hands and I hared out of the station. I was quite a conversation stopper, I can tell you. Are those mince pies I can see?’ He leaned over the table and grabbed one. ‘And then I must start decorating the tree.’
‘Not till you’ve got out of those filthy overalls and had a cup of tea and a bite to eat.’
He sat down on a chair with Molly on his knee.
‘Did you hear the cathedral bells?’ asked Henry’s mother.
‘Yes. Just as I’d made a decision.’
His mother held the teapot, not moving.
‘And?’
‘I agree with you.’
‘Oh, Bill.’
Henry looked from one to the other, not knowing what was going on. His mother glanced at him.
‘I think we should tell Henry.’
Henry could feel his fists clenching. He was still upset that they had left it to Gran to tell him about the baby.
Just Henry Page 19
