Just Henry

by Michelle Magorian

  ‘We could do that, Jane.’

  ‘Of course we could,’ said Jane vehemently. ‘That’ll show her.’

  ‘I want to be a teacher,’ said Margaret. ‘But not like Miss Plimsoll. Like Mr Finch. His lessons are interesting.’

  Henry was about to add, And I want to be a camera operator, but changed his mind. He didn’t want them to laugh at him or think he was being cocky. There was an awkward silence.

  ‘Molly liked the quilt,’ he said eventually.

  At that Jane smiled. ‘Did she? Did she really?’

  As they gazed at him Henry felt tongue-tied again.

  ‘I’ve gotta go,’ he said, and ran off to find his friends.

  On the way to the boys’ toilets, he was stopped by Jack Riddell. He was looking secretive.

  ‘I want to ask you something on the quiet,’ he said.

  ‘All right,’ said Henry, puzzled.

  ‘In private,’ he added.

  They headed in the direction of the prefab.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Henry.

  ‘When you start your job, can you sneak me in sometimes and let me help?’

  ‘I dunno,’ said Henry, feeling that this was not the time to tell him that he was never going to work on the railways.

  ‘Oh.’ He looked devastated. ‘You’re lucky. My dad wrote to Hatton Station and Sternsea Station and the Harbour Station askin’ if there were any vacancies in the Foot Plate Grade as a boy cleaner. But they all said no. See, I don’t have anyone workin’ in the railways like you do. And this man we just seen in the hall . . . ’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘He’s got some funny name. Careers something or other. He had all this information about joining the Navy and getting apprenticeships at the aircraft factory, and taking exams for the dockyard, that sort of thing.’

  Henry wondered why the boys Mr Finch had taken to the darkroom hadn’t been sent to see him.

  During the afternoon break, when he had returned to the darkroom to watch Mr Finch pegging up wet photographs on the line, he asked him.

  ‘You already have apprenticeships or jobs waiting for you,’ he said.

  ‘Sir, Morgan and Jeffries don’t.’

  Mr Finch was visibly ruffled.

  ‘If you have any complaints, Dodge, I suggest you speak to the headmaster, but I wouldn’t recommend it.’

  Henry could see that he was angry. He didn’t need to ask what he meant. ‘I understand, sir,’ said Henry quietly.

  ‘Which is more than I do,’ muttered Mr Finch. ‘This is another of those conversations which never happened, Dodge. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Outside, Henry looked for Jane and Margaret in the playground. As soon as he spotted them he headed briskly towards them. ‘What I’m telling you is a secret,’ he said hurriedly as he reached them. ‘While you were having your chats with Miss Plimsoll, the boys were seeing a Careers Officer.’

  ‘A Careers Officer! What on earth is that?’ said Jane.

  Henry urged her to keep her voice down. He then repeated what Riddell had told him but left out the conversation he had just had with Mr Finch.

  ‘So that’s how it is,’ said Jane. ‘Miss Plimsoll for the girls and the Careers Officer for the boys.’

  ‘Don’t say anything.’

  The girls shook their heads.

  ‘The other girls aren’t bothered anyway,’ said Jane. ‘They think we’re making a lot of fuss over nothing. But thanks for telling us, Henry. And don’t worry, we’ll keep mum, won’t we, Margaret?’

  It was during woodwork the next day that Henry found himself glancing at Riddell. He felt guilty at having a job lined up that he didn’t want but which was like gold dust to Riddell. Was that what growing up was all about? Having to do work you didn’t want to do?

  The headmaster, Mr Barratt, ushered Henry into his study. Henry stood in front of his desk, his hands behind his back, ready to take what was coming to him. He was still mystified as to why he had been asked to report to Mr Barratt. He had enjoyed his first week back at school. He was sure he had done nothing wrong. Out of the corner of his eye he took in the selection of canes fanned out against the wall. The headmaster sat behind his desk and surveyed him.

  ‘I’ve summoned you here, Dodge, because it was brought to my attention at the end of last term that you were put in a group with Roger Jeffries and Edward Morgan.’

  Henry had to fight down a smile. It sounded strange hearing Pip’s Christian name.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Mr Finch has informed me that you will be continuing this History presentation business and finding out how things were between 1925 and 1935, and that you have been put in the same groups. Naturally you must obey your form master. Nevertheless, you may join one of the other groups and your present team members can work as a pair.’

  ‘Please, sir, I don’t want to join another group.’

  ‘I beg your pardon! Since when do you make decisions in this school?’

  ‘I’d like to stay with Jeffries and Morgan, sir. We’re a good team.’

  ‘It would not be in your best interests if you remained in their company. I’m thinking of the future. Fraternising with them would make you seem tarred with the same brush.’

  ‘What brush would that be, sir?’

  ‘You will not be in their group. There is no discussion, Dodge.’

  ‘Jeffries and Morgan are my friends, sir.’

  The headmaster took a quick intake of breath.

  ‘Then I will have to break some very unpleasant news. I thought, boys being boys, you would have picked it up.’ He indicated a chair. ‘I think you’d better sit down.’

  As Henry sat, Mr Barratt stood up, turned towards the window and gazed awkwardly out on to the playground. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Morgan is illegitimate. That means he was born out of wedlock. To be more precise . . . ’

  ‘He’s a bastard, sir.’

  The headmaster whirled round.

  ‘I will not have that language used in this school. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘However, it appears that you know already.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Everyone does. I used to believe people like him being treated badly was how things were, but now I don’t. I think it’s wrong.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your opinion, Master Dodge. Morgan is extremely lucky to be in a school at all.’

  ‘I think the school is lucky to have him, sir.’

  ‘What did you say?’ he roared.

  ‘He’s friendly. He’s got brains and he’s a good piano player.’

  ‘I have never heard anything so ridiculous. Aside from which I am not in the least bit interested in your opinion.’

  ‘And no one is interested in him, sir. Even the Careers Officer.’

  ‘What do you know about that?’

  ‘I know that he and Jeffries weren’t asked to see him.’

  ‘People like them are not going to be offered apprenticeships. They must make their own way in the world.’

  Henry said nothing. He was determined not to be separated from his friends. He watched the headmaster eyeing him up and down.

  ‘I suppose you know about Jeffries as well?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He reads more books than anyone in the school and he’s written a novel. He got into the grammar school but his mother couldn’t afford the uniform.’

  ‘He’s the son of a deserter,’ Mr Barratt said, as if there was a nasty taste in his mouth. ‘Do you know what that means?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He’s taking the rap for his father.’

  ‘I won’t have that American gangster talk here.’

  ‘The blame, sir. He’s taking the blame for something he didn’t do.’

  ‘Your father was a hero, Dodge.’

  ‘Yes, sir. He died saving Private Jeffries’ life.’

  There was a stunned silence.

  ‘A
re you telling me that Roger Jeffries’ father was the man whose life was saved by your father?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The headmaster looked embarrassed.

  ‘I had no idea. For goodness sake, why wasn’t I told?’

  ‘I thought you knew, sir.’

  ‘If I had known, I would have had him removed posthaste, which I will do now.’

  ‘If he leaves, I go with him, sir.’

  ‘This isn’t making sense, Dodge.’

  ‘Sir, we fought against bullies in the war. Now we’re bullying innocent people, like Jeffries and his mother, for something they never did.’

  ‘You know Mrs Jeffries?’ he asked, astounded.

  ‘Yes, sir. She’s a friend of my mum’s.’

  The headmaster shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘Go back to your form,’ he ordered. ‘I wash my hands of you.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Barratt. Thank you, Mr Barratt.’

  As soon as Henry was outside and had closed the door behind him, he grinned. At long last he was no longer letting his father down. He was beginning to follow in his footsteps. He felt like a hero.

  That evening Henry went to the Plaza with Grace, Pip and Jeffries to see Abbott and Costello Meet the Killer and a comedy-western called The Gal Who Took the West. After it was over and they had started to walk up the aisle, Pip suddenly dashed back to the ice cream girl’s spotlight and waved up at the projectionist’s box.

  ‘I was waving to Mum and Mr Hart,’ he explained when he rejoined them. ‘It’s the Chief’s day off.’

  ‘I thought it was supposed to be a secret,’ said Jeffries.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘It won’t be for much longer if you wave up at them in a spotlight,’ said Henry.

  Pip slapped his forehead with his hands.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said.

  ‘Why is your mother with Mr Hart?’ Henry asked when they reached the crowded foyer.

  ‘They like to chat. She’s taken him a thermos of tea.’

  ‘You’d better keep quiet about that too,’ said Jeffries. ‘If the Chief or the manager found out about that, she might lose her job.’

  While they were talking, Henry spotted Frank from Mr Jenkins’ shop. He was standing motionless, staring at them while the cinemagoers milled around him. Henry waved at him but he didn’t wave back. Instead he smiled to himself and walked off, as though he were pretending he didn’t know him. Henry had never understood why Frank was always so unfriendly towards him. He couldn’t really believe he was after his job, could he?

  Outside, it was freezing. Henry had given his old raincoat to Pip and had left his new one in the wardrobe. He had grown tired of people pointing at him when he wore it in the queues. And twice he had been stopped by a policeman who had been convinced he had nicked it. Instead, he wore the thickest jersey his mother had knitted for him and wound his Christmas scarf round his neck.

  They said their goodbyes and Henry turned into his road, his head lowered to counteract the bitter wind. As he approached his house he noticed that Gran’s curtains had not been drawn. He suspected she would call out to him as soon as she heard the front door open and bombard him with questions about Pip and Jeffries, and he was wise to the fact now that any information she got out of him she would use. He lowered himself on to his hands and knees, crawled under her window and sprinted towards the alley further down the road.

  Uncle Bill was in the kitchen hanging a small damp cardigan on the wooden clothes horse in front of the range.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Upstairs, getting Molly settled.’

  The sound of the wireless was coming through from Gran’s room and it annoyed him. It wasn’t her who had to keep getting the accumulator recharged. He heard the door in the yard open and close.

  ‘Mrs Henson, I expect,’ said his stepfather, catching his eye, and he stepped into the scullery to open the back door.

  ‘Oh, hello!’ Henry heard him exclaim.

  To his surprise, Mrs Beaumont walked into the kitchen. She pressed a finger to her lips, glancing at the wall. Henry gave a nod to show that he understood that she wanted to keep her visit a secret from Gran. Behind her stood a short stocky man in a long tweedy-looking overcoat. He had thick white hair and as he beamed, the lines surrounding his eyes seemed to shoot upwards.

  ‘This is my publisher,’ she whispered, ‘Mr Hale.’

  ‘Sit down,’ said Uncle Bill.

  ‘We can’t stay long,’ she said, taking the chair Mr Hale had pulled out for her. ‘Mr Hale is catching the next train back to London.’ Mr Hale sat opposite her, never taking his eyes off her, still smiling. ‘I felt I had to tell Henry as soon as possible.’

  To Henry’s annoyance, Uncle Bill sat down with them.

  ‘The man you thought is following me is not a private detective hired by the publishers or the Inland Revenue,’ she said. ‘However, we’re still no wiser as to his identity. But it’s a good job I had the appointment with Mr Hale, because the publishing company have been sending mail to my brother’s address and the letters have been returned to them with address unknown on them. Consequently there is not only a pile of unanswered letters but also some uncashed cheques.’

  ‘But what about . . . ’ began Henry impatiently and then he hesitated.

  ‘Mrs Beaumont has told me about her male pseudonym,’ said Mr Hale. ‘And we’re more than happy to live with it.’

  ‘What’s all this about a man following you?’ asked Uncle Bill.

  Mind your own business, thought Henry.

  ‘Hasn’t Henry told you?’ asked Mrs Beaumont.

  Henry shook his head.

  ‘Ah.’

  Henry gave her a pleading look in an effort to stop her from telling Uncle Bill, but she didn’t seem to notice and she divulged the whole story about the man in the photographs.

  ‘But I’ve found my diamond in the dungheap,’ she said, beaming at Mr Hale.

  ‘Do you mean me?’ he said, looking delighted.

  ‘I mean,’ she said, smothering a laugh, ‘a commission.’ She turned to Henry. ‘I’ve been asked to write stories set in girls’ schools under my own name as well as ones for boys. Now all I have to do is find out about them. I was home tutored, you see.’

  ‘You won’t have to look very far, then, will you?’ said Henry.

  Mrs Beaumont looked at him, puzzled.

  ‘Grace,’ said Henry.

  ‘Of course!’ She turned to Mr Hale. ‘I have a young friend who has been to thirteen girls’ schools, boarding and day. She will be a mine of information.’

  ‘Can I see the photographs?’ asked Uncle Bill.

  ‘Why?’ Henry muttered. Why couldn’t he keep his nose out of it?

  ‘Certainly,’ said Mrs Beaumont, ignoring Henry, and she spread them out on the table.

  ‘I see what you mean.’ Henry’s stepfather looked thoughtful. ‘Do you know, I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere.’ He shook his head. ‘No, I can’t place him.’

  Mrs Beaumont slid them back in the envelope. She and Mr Hale said their goodbyes and crept out to the scullery. There was a creak on the stairs and the door handle moved slowly. His mother peered round the door. She was smiling.

  ‘Molly’s fast asleep,’ she whispered with relief, ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  ‘No, you won’t. You sit down, love,’ said Uncle Bill.

  She eased herself into a chair. She looks done in, thought Henry.

  ‘Was that Mrs Henson popping in for sugar again?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Mrs Beaumont with a man from the publishers.’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be Mr Hale. But why were they here? Does she want me to do some more typing?’

  ‘No.’ Uncle Bill glanced at Henry. ‘Does your mother know?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she interrupted. ‘Is she in trouble for using her brother’s name?’

  ‘No, it’s all turned out for the best,’ said Uncle Bill. ‘But the man in the photogr
aphs is still a mystery.’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘Mum doesn’t know that bit,’ said Henry.

  ‘Henry thinks a man has been following Mrs Beaumont. She thought the publishers had hired a private detective, but they don’t know anything about him.’

  ‘Really? Why do you think he’s following her, Henry?’

  ‘He kept turning up all over the place. Here and in London and at the cinema.’

  ‘Perhaps he likes going to the pictures. Lots of people do.’

  ‘But he turned up in this small road in London when she was visiting there.’

  ‘I expect it was just a coincidence. You’ve seen too many gangster films.’

  ‘Funnily enough, he looked familiar,’ said Uncle Bill.

  ‘You’ve seen the photos?’

  ‘They’re in that envelope.’ He pointed to it on the other side of the table.

  ‘Can I see them?’

  ‘Henry?’ asked his stepfather.

  Henry shrugged, pulled the photographs out and spread them in front of her.

  She rested her hands on the table and examined them. Suddenly, she gave a sharp intake of breath as though someone had punched her violently in the stomach. With a look of terror she let out a frightened scream and collapsed to the floor, the photographs tumbling over her like dead leaves.

  8. The stranger is identified

  ‘FANCY MAKING SUCH A FUSS OVER SEEING A RAT!’ SCOFFED GRAN.

  It was nearly midnight. Henry’s mother was upstairs in bed and Mrs Henson was still with her. Henry was sitting at the kitchen table with his grandmother and Uncle Bill.

  ‘It was the suddenness of it,’ said Uncle Bill, and he gave Henry a warning glance.

  After his mother had fainted, Henry had been sent upstairs to see to Molly, who had been woken by the scream. He had hurried out of the kitchen, aware of Uncle Bill swiftly picking up the photographs and slipping them back into the envelope. His mother had sat slumped in a chair, speechless, the expression on her face vacant and dazed, as though she had been slapped, and from Gran’s room the wireless had boomed even more loudly.

  When he reached his bedroom, he had found Molly sitting bolt upright and sobbing. All he could think of saying was, ‘Mummy fell over.’ He knelt down beside her and she shot out of bed and flung her arms round him. He wrapped himself round her small shuddering frame and held her tightly, glad to be comforting her. Like her, he needed to hug someone. The scream had shaken him too, like a forgotten terror.