Just Henry

by Michelle Magorian

  ‘You can come to the cinema with us,’ said Henry, hoping she wouldn’t.

  ‘You don’t want to see Holiday Inn,’ she said. ‘It’s not your sort of film, is it?’

  ‘There’s a western with it. And Mum’s looking forward to it.’

  ‘It’s a wonder she has the time.’

  ‘And Uncle Bill will be with Molly at the Kings Theatre so you’ll have the place all to yourself. You’re always saying you want a bit of peace and quiet.’

  ‘Dinner’s ready!’ he heard his mother call out.

  The silence round the table was unbearable. Molly tugged at her father’s arm while he yawned and ate, having only had a few hours sleep after coming off his shift at six a.m. Gran picked at her food and his mother hardly sat at all, popping up and down to check the washing and hang it on the line in the yard. By the time the meal was over, Henry decided to make his escape. As soon as Gran had returned to her room and his mother was carrying crockery into the scullery, he said, ‘I’m going out to start queuing. See you there!’

  ‘Henry!’ began his mother. ‘Wait!’

  ‘Had a accident,’ he heard Molly state matter-of-factly.

  Henry raced upstairs. He grabbed his new raincoat from the wardrobe, ran down the stairs and slipped out of the front door.

  Walking briskly towards the railway station, he felt inches taller. He could imagine people looking at him with admiring glances. It was a good half-hour’s walk to the cinema and the biting wind was bringing with it a flurry of light snow. He glanced at his reflection in the shop windows. The raincoat made him look mysterious, like a secret agent or an undercover reporter for a Chicago newspaper.

  But when he reached the cinema queue half an hour later, he began to feel self-conscious. He approached it casually, looking for Mrs Beaumont, but to his alarm there was no sign of her.

  Someone called out his name from behind. He whirled round. Max and Oscar were waving to him near the top of the queue. He ran up the steps to join them.

  ‘We didn’t recognise you at first in that raincoat,’ said Oscar.

  ‘Very Scotland Yard,’ said Max.

  ‘A Christmas present?’ added Oscar.

  Henry nodded.

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘You were expecting to see our mother,’ said Max.

  ‘Yeah. She’s not ill, is she?’

  ‘No. Just tired. We suggested the others catch up on sleep. We can have a nap on the train.’

  ‘Aren’t you staying, then?’

  ‘No, we have to get back to London.’

  ‘So you were all up very late?’ asked Henry, feeling a little jealous.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Oscar slowly. ‘Up a little early, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You mean you got up early and they went back to bed?’

  ‘In a nutshell. Yes.’

  Henry noticed they were giving each other strange looks.

  ‘We’d better tell him,’ said Max. ‘He’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘Find out what?’ asked Henry, puzzled.

  ‘We didn’t exactly choose to get up,’ Oscar said. ‘We were woken up well before dawn.’

  ‘By what?’

  ‘The military police.’

  Henry suddenly felt cold.

  Oscar laughed.

  ‘They tried to arrest me. They thought I was Private Jeffries. When they realised I wasn’t, they searched every room.’

  ‘Once they’d gone and we’d got over the shock,’ said Max, ‘the others had hot drinks and went back to bed. What gave them the idea Mother was harbouring a deserter, I don’t know.’

  ‘Apparently,’ said Oscar, ‘she has her suspicions.’

  Henry nodded, not daring to speak. He had his suspicions too.

  6. Spilling the beans

  ‘ YOU’D THINK THEY’D HAVE ENOUGH TO DO WITHOUT TAKING notice of an old lady,’ said Oscar.

  ‘She must have seen one of us going into the house and assumed he was Private Jeffries,’ Max added.

  ‘You don’t think Ma’s slept through all those alarm clocks, do you?’ Oscar remarked.

  ‘Well, if she has, she’s sleepwalking,’ said Max, over his shoulder.

  Henry turned to see Mrs Beaumont coming up the steps with Grace and the others. He felt his face growing hot. Grace ran up to him, gaping at the raincoat.

  ‘You look like somebody in a film,’ she said admiringly. ‘Have you heard? We were all woken up in the dark.’

  Mrs Beaumont had now almost reached him.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, reddening.

  ‘Where’s your mother?’ asked Mrs Beaumont. ‘Isn’t she coming?’

  ‘Yes. I came early to keep you company.’

  ‘You’ve heard about our dawn raid I expect.’

  Henry nodded. He scrutinised her face to see if she had guessed the identity of the informer.

  ‘I don’t think they’ll be back. Our informer may have attempted to spoil our Christmas but she didn’t succeed.’

  ‘Is Mrs Jeffries . . .?’ he began.

  ‘She’s fine. Pip is the one who’s taken it badly. He thought they were coming to take him away from his mother.’

  She looked over her shoulder. Henry followed her gaze. He could see Jeffries chatting quite happily with his mother but the normally cheerful Pip was clinging nervously to Mrs Morgan’s arm, like a drowning man hangs on to the wreckage of a ship.

  ‘That’s some raincoat,’ said Jeffries, as he and Pip drew nearer.

  ‘You’re right,’ added Pip quietly.

  Henry could see he was forcing himself to smile and he had a strong desire to hug him fiercely.

  ‘Henry!’ It was his mother. She was running breathlessly up the steps to join them and was staring, horrified, at the raincoat. ‘Oh, no! Why did you wear it? What if you get marks on it? Gran won’t be able to take it back.’

  ‘Why would she want to take it back?’

  ‘In case it doesn’t fit you properly,’ she said hurriedly.

  ‘But it does,’ he said, puzzled.

  Just then the doors were opened and the queue began to move.

  Pip sat between Grace and Mrs Morgan. Henry saw Grace take hold of Pip’s hand and squeeze it. Mrs Morgan spread her jacket on the seat next to her by the aisle and whenever anyone tried to sit there she told them it was taken, which was strange because there was no one there. Soon the cinema was plunged into a swelling musical score and Holiday Inn.

  Henry had hoped that the film would blot out the pain gnawing away inside him, but it was so jolly it seemed to jar every bone in his body. He glanced at Jeffries and Mrs Jeffries. They were smiling up at the screen, as was Mrs Beaumont, while his mother sat next to him, clasping his raincoat on her lap, frowning and biting her lip. She was still upset because he had worn his new raincoat. A whispering from his right caused him to swing round. Mrs Morgan was removing her jacket from the seat and a tall, smartly dressed man sat down beside her. Grace turned to Henry and touched his arm.

  ‘It’s Mr Hart, one of the projectionists from the Plaza,’ she whispered.

  Henry returned to the film. But he couldn’t enjoy it, not even when half the audience sang I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas with Bing Crosby.

  As he gazed up at Fred Astaire, dancing on New Year’s Eve, he remembered the last time he had seen Pip look so terrified. It was in the darkroom after he and his mother had been thrown out of their lodgings. Sitting there thinking about the way people like Pip were treated, he was suddenly filled with rage. And yet before Mr Finch came to the school he had been no better. Now he despised his grandmother’s attitude, and for the first time he didn’t feel an ounce of guilt for disagreeing with her.

  The Technicolor from the screen finally pulled him in, and as Fred Astaire danced around exploding firecrackers, his mother reached out and squeezed his hand.

  ‘Happy Christmas, love,’ she whispered.

  ‘But you mustn’t tell anyone,’ said Pip.

  ‘We won’t,’ s
aid Grace impatiently. ‘Go on.’

  They had gathered on the bombsite to listen to Pip’s secret away from prying ears.

  ‘Mr Hart is going to sneak me and Mum into the projectionist’s room this week while the Chief’s away and he’s going to let us watch a whole programme.’

  ‘You do remember what’s on at the Plaza, don’t you?’ Jeffries said.

  ‘The Romantic Age and The Story of Molly X.’

  ‘And you still want to see them?’ Henry exclaimed.

  Pip nodded excitedly.

  ‘She was willing to kill for love,’ quoted Jeffries dramatically, ‘and ready to give ten years of her life to hide it.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Pip, ‘I just want to see what he does.’

  ‘When will this be happening?’ asked Henry.

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  Henry immediately saw a chance for him to be alone with Jeffries and tell him about the man who was following Mrs Beaumont.

  ‘Jeffries, do you want to see Fighter Squadron at the Troxy with me?’

  ‘Can I come?’ said Grace.

  ‘I don’t think you’d like it,’ said Henry swiftly.

  ‘I like a bit of excitement too. Unless of course you’re trying to get rid of me.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Jeffries, ‘are we?’

  Henry was so frustrated, he couldn’t speak. He gave a shrug.

  The Troxy was only a five-minute walk from Mrs Beaumont’s house. Henry met them opposite the Plaza.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ commented Jeffries as they passed the railway station road. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Are you cross because I’ve come with you?’ said Grace.

  ‘Not really,’ he grunted.

  ‘Oh,’ said Grace, sounding hurt.

  ‘It’s just that I wanted to tell Jeffries something in private.’

  ‘And you think I can’t keep a secret?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘My great-aunt doesn’t know I’m with you. Is that proof enough for you?’

  Henry glanced at Jeffries. He nodded.

  ‘The railway bridge,’ said Jeffries.

  They turned back. The bridge was deserted. They leaned over the wall and gazed down at the track.

  ‘There’s Jack Riddell,’ Jeffries exclaimed. ‘On the platform.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ Grace asked.

  ‘A boy in our form who’s mad about trains.’

  He was sitting on a bench with a sketch-pad, drawing.

  ‘So then, what is it?’ asked Jeffries.

  Henry told him about seeing the man at the Apollo.

  ‘And you haven’t said anything for a week?’ stormed Jeffries. ‘Why?’

  ‘I didn’t want Pip to know. He’d have given the game away. You know how excited he gets. And I couldn’t get you on your own.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Grace. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I think we ought to tell her,’ said Jeffries.

  ‘The Lady Vanishes,’ said Grace quietly when they had finished.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Henry.

  ‘Don’t you remember? We saw it together. An ordinary-looking woman vanishes because she’s a spy or secret agent or something. I’m not saying that’s what Mrs Beaumont is but . . . ’

  ‘No. You’re right,’ interrupted Henry excitedly. ‘When we first met her she looked like an old lady in tweeds. Now she looks completely different.’

  ‘Even her hair,’ added Grace.

  ‘And when I first went up to London with her, one of the first things Daniel said to her was, “Are you in disguise?”’

  ‘Really?’ Jeffries exclaimed.

  ‘Yeah. And Max laughed at her when he saw what she looked like.’

  ‘This is serious,’ said Grace. ‘I think we should tell her as soon as possible.’

  ‘What about the film?’ Jeffries asked.

  ‘Blow the film. She could be in danger. The woman in The Lady Vanishes was kidnapped and drugged. We have to warn her.’

  ‘I’ll go back home and get the other photographs,’ said Henry.

  Mrs Jeffries was in the study busy making up corsets. They could hear the whirr of her sewing machine as they crept into the hall and down into the kitchen. Mrs Beaumont was sitting at the table, a pile of exercise books beside her.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, surprised. ‘Come in. I could do with a breather. So could your mother, I expect. I’ll put the kettle on and give her a call.’

  ‘Can we talk to you alone first?’ Henry said quickly.

  She gazed at them for a moment.

  ‘I take it this is about Pip, since he’s not here.’

  ‘No,’ said Henry, ‘it’s just we were afraid he might spill the beans.’

  ‘Is it about the informer?’

  ‘No,’ interrupted Henry hurriedly.

  ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘It’s about the photographs I took.’ He pulled out the ones from his rucksack and spread them out on the table. ‘I didn’t show you these.’

  She looked at them and smiled.

  ‘Why not? They’re very good, Henry.’

  ‘Look more closely,’ said Jeffries.

  Mrs Beaumont frowned and peered at them again.

  ‘Oh, my goodness!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s the man, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Henry. ‘I thought it was a coincidence at first, but last Thursday he sat in the row behind you at the cinema.’

  She nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘I suppose it had to happen one day,’ she murmured. She gave a tense smile. ‘I’ve been found out, it seems.’

  ‘Are you a spy?’ asked Grace.

  ‘Nothing so exciting, I’m afraid. I think this is all about tax. Though I have paid my dues. Even though I haven’t been quite honest about my identity.’

  Henry glanced quickly at Mrs Beaumont.

  ‘Are you really Mrs Beaumont?’ Jeffries asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. But I’ve been writing under my late brother’s name. He was badly gassed during the First World War and suffered a nervous breakdown. He couldn’t cope with going out to work, but as I told you, Henry, he could type. The money for my stories was sent to him and we split it in half after putting a bit aside for tax. I suspect this man has something to do with the Inland Revenue. All very boring really. Unless of course I have to pay a fine. That would not be boring.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Grace.

  ‘What I should have done when my brother died. Tell the publishers that it was I who wrote the stories, not my brother. I’ll write to them this weekend.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell them before?’ asked Jeffries, puzzled.

  ‘Because most of my stories are set in boys’ boarding schools. I thought they might not accept them if they saw a woman’s name.’

  ‘But how did you know what to write?’ asked Grace. ‘You haven’t been to a boys’ boarding school.’

  ‘The same way Pip, Roger and Henry wrote their talk for their presentation.’

  ‘Research,’ said Jeffries.

  ‘That’s right, and my brother was sent to one so I used to badger him for information. It was a nicer subject for him to think about than memories of his time in the trenches.’

  ‘Does my mother know?’ asked Henry.

  ‘She had to. She’s been typing his name at the end of the stories. But she was sworn to secrecy.’ She glanced at the photographs again. ‘Do you mind if I hold on to these for a while?’

  ‘No,’ said Henry.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ she sighed. ‘What a start to the new year.’

  ‘Remember what you keep telling me,’ said Grace, ‘you have to look for the diamond in the dungheap.’

  ‘Quite right.’ Mrs Beaumont smiled. ‘And now that you’ve got that off your chests, I suggest you sprint back to the Troxy.’

  7. Selecting the worthy

  ‘THE FIRST GROUP OF BOYS ARE TO GO INTO THE HALL AND THE girls to the needlework room. The sec
ond group of boys are coming with me to the darkroom,’ said Mr Finch.

  Henry, Pip and Jeffries were in the second group. They grinned at one another. Being in the darkroom with Mr Finch would seem more like a holiday than a lesson.

  Nine of them squeezed into the tiny room and stood under the red light.

  ‘I’ve developed a roll of film and it’s ready for printing,’ Mr Finch said. ‘The two trays you can see on the dry side are filled with developing fluid and hypo. If you can learn to develop your own photos, you can save quite a bit of money.’

  ‘But once we leave school, where will we find a darkroom?’ asked a voice from the back.

  ‘Look out for evening classes,’ Mr Finch began. He was interrupted by a groan. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. It’s not like school. You can choose what you want to learn.’

  They left the darkroom at break time. Jeffries and Pip ran off to join the queue for the boys’ toilets and Henry caught sight of Jane Taylor, the girl who had helped him to find Molly’s Christmas present. She was with her friend Margaret. She looked upset and angry. Before he had time to think he found himself strolling in her direction. She whirled round. At first he thought she was going to shout at him, but then she caught his eye and relaxed.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s Miss Plimsoll! All us girls had to go and speak to her separately in the needlework room about what shops we’d like to work in when we leave school and who’d like to work in the corset factory. That sort of thing. And I told her I wanted to be a nurse and do you know what she said?’

  Henry shook his head.

  ‘“Girls from secondary modern schools don’t become nurses.” She just brushed it aside as if I was stupid or something. So I said, “That’s what I want to do.” And she said in that hoity-toity voice of hers, “Don’t talk foolish-ness, my girl. Only grammar-school girls become nurses. You be grateful if you can find a nice shop to work in before you get married and have children.”’

  ‘My mother got her school certificate,’ Henry said. ‘And she left school at fourteen.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘How did she do that?’ said Margaret.

  ‘Evening classes.’