Just Henry

by Michelle Magorian

  As he turned to face Henry, he could see that he was shocked too.

  ‘Henry, this is terrible for your mother and it’s terrible for me.’ He paused. ‘You already know he’s not following Mrs Beaumont.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Henry, he’s been following someone else.’

  ‘Mum?’ he said, alarmed.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Me?’ said Henry, astounded. ‘Why would he follow me?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Henry was now completely baffled.

  ‘You think he’s following me but you don’t know why?’

  Uncle Bill nodded.

  ‘How can you be sure he’s following me, then?’

  ‘Because he’s your dad.’

  PART THREE

  Dodge

  1. In shock

  ‘HE’S DEAD,’ HENRY SAID SLOWLY, AS IF SPEAKING TO A MAD man. ‘We went to his funeral.’

  ‘It’s him,’ said Uncle Bill. ‘Your mother’s absolutely sure. No doubt.’

  ‘But it can’t be.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Henry, bewildered.

  ‘Neither do I. I’ve heard of people coming back from prison camps after the war, years after they’ve been reported missing, but your father was never taken prisoner. When he died . . . ’ He stopped. ‘When he disappeared, he was in this country.’

  Henry couldn’t take it in.

  ‘Uncle Bill,’ he said slowly, ‘if he’s alive, then Mum’s married to both of you.’

  ‘Not exactly. It means she went through a marriage ceremony twice.’

  ‘That’s the same thing,’ he said, trying not to show his irritation. Why did he have to make things so complicated?

  ‘It’s not. The second marriage doesn’t count. If you go through a second marriage while you’re still married to another person, it’s a criminal offence. It’s called bigamy.’

  Henry suddenly felt sick.

  ‘Could Mum be arrested?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He hardly dared ask the next question.

  ‘Could she go to prison?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But she didn’t know!’

  ‘That’ll go in her favour.’

  ‘So you and Mum aren’t married, then?’

  ‘No.’ He looked down at the floor and clasped his hands together. ‘So you see,’ he said hoarsely, ‘I’ll have to sleep separately from your mother until we can sort this all out.’

  Henry turned away. It was a miracle. Uncle Bill was no longer his stepfather. He would have to leave the house and his real father could move back in. They would be a family again.

  ‘And there’s Molly and the baby,’ Uncle Bill continued. ‘In the eyes of the law your mother has been unfaithful to her husband and has had a child by another man.’

  Henry was shocked. No wonder his mother had looked so terrible. Even now he could imagine people in the street avoiding her and talking about her behind her back the way they did about the divorcee Lily Bridges and Pip and Mrs Morgan.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ he whispered.

  ‘Keep quiet for the moment. One of the photographs was by the Plaza. I imagine he’s found out where we live. We also have no idea of his state of mind. Have you seen him since that visit to the cinema before Christmas?’

  ‘No. P’raps he’s gone away,’ said Henry anxiously.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said his stepfather in a tone that sounded almost bitter.

  He stood up and turned off the light.

  ‘We’ll keep those photographs to ourselves for the moment,’ he said in the dark. ‘It’s a good job you’ve only shown them to Mrs Beaumont.’

  As Henry listened to him getting into the camp bed, he thought of Private Jeffries. It couldn’t have been his father who had saved his life. It must have been the man who had been buried. His father hadn’t been a hero after all.

  ‘Isn’t a hero,’ he whispered.

  He stayed awake till he could hear the sound of steady breathing, slipped out of bed and crept over to the window. People were coming out of the Plaza, talking in low voices. He thought back to the previous summer when he used to get out of bed on a Saturday night to watch the usherettes leaving the cinema after the last film, glamorous in their pretty dresses and heeled shoes, picking their way through the rubble on their way to a dance hall at the end of Hatton Road.

  He stared down at the pavement, expecting to see a lone figure gazing up at his window, but the street was deserted.

  This time when he woke, the screaming continued. He flung the covers back and ran towards the landing. It was coming from downstairs. He stood paralysed, feeling small and helpless. There was a crash like furniture being broken and he could hear his mother crying out, begging for whatever was happening to stop. To his horror something warm and wet flooded into his pyjama trousers.

  He woke up with a violent jolt and was relieved to find that his pyjamas were dry. It had only been another bad dream. Some instinct made him roll over and glance down at the camp bed to make sure Molly was safe, only to find Uncle Bill sleeping there. It was still dark and the house was silent. Exhausted, he closed his eyes and was flung back into the nightmare. This time he could hear a repetitive thudding sound. And still his mother screamed. He decided to stay awake. Listening to the silence was better than listening to his mother screaming in his dreams.

  The next time he opened his eyes, the room was empty. He dressed quickly, grabbed his boots and ran barefoot along the floorboards, shivering with the cold. There was no one in the kitchen but the range had been lit. He sat in front of it, savouring its warmth, pulling on a pair of well-darned socks. As he tied his laces he heard the wireless. Irritated, he headed for the hall and knocked on his gran’s door.

  ‘Yes,’ said a martyred voice. ‘Come in.’

  She was still in bed.

  ‘Are you ill, Gran?’ he asked.

  ‘I soon will be if that fire isn’t lit. I’m too cold to get up.’

  But not too cold to get out of bed and turn the wireless on, he thought.

  ‘What are you listening to?’

  ‘Dunno. I just have it on for company.’

  ‘Well, I’m up now so you don’t need it on,’ and he leaned over and switched it off. ‘I’ll bring you a cup of tea and make up your fire.’

  Some time later he was finally sitting down to some toast and a mug of tea when he heard the yard door open and Molly’s high-pitched chatter. Through the window he spotted her sitting on her father’s shoulders. She was holding his upraised hands oblivious to the sadness in his eyes. Without thinking, Henry put the kettle back on the range.

  It was the first thing Uncle Bill spotted when he lowered himself under the doorway.

  ‘I saw you coming,’ said Henry gruffly. ‘I’ve done Gran’s fire.’

  He gave a nod of thanks.

  ‘I had to get little’un out,’ he said. ‘When did you wake up?’

  ‘About an hour ago. I don’t even know what time it is.’

  ‘Midday.’

  Henry was annoyed.

  ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’

  ‘Looked like you needed the sleep. It’ll soon be time for queuing for the matinee. You’d best take your umbrella. Looks like rain. What are you going to see, or don’t you want to tell me?’ he added wearily.

  Out of habit Henry was about to snap at him, but for some reason he stopped himself.

  ‘It’s Pip’s choice really,’ he said.

  ‘Can you nip upstairs and get your mum’s stone bottle? It probably needs reheating.’

  Henry nodded.

  Upstairs, his mother still looked exhausted. He lifted the covers and glanced at her feet, now encased in bed socks.

  ‘Uncle Bill told me about the talk you had last night,’ she said quietly. She looked as though she was struggling not to cry. ‘You know it means I’m still Mrs Dodge?�
�

  ‘Yeah,’ he murmured. ‘Is Molly called Molly Dodge?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Mrs Beaumont has a solicitor. I’m going to ask her if she can get some information from him for me. I’ll pretend I’m asking for a friend.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Henry asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Your father might not want to stay married to me.’

  ‘You mean he might want to divorce you?’

  ‘If he can afford it. Yes.’

  Henry knew that his mother would never be able to look anyone in the eye if she ended up being a divorced woman.

  ‘I’m sure he won’t,’ he said reassuringly.

  His mother looked alarmed.

  ‘Is Uncle Bill looking after Molly?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re going out with your friends this afternoon. It’ll be good for you to get away from here.’ And with that her face began to crumple.

  He couldn’t bear to see her cry.

  ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ he said.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ she said, tears running down her face.

  Henry didn’t notice much of the journey to the Gaiety. He walked beside his friends in a fog, half listening to them, half remembering the revelation from the previous night. Luckily they didn’t seem to notice. Pip spent most of the time chatting to Grace, recounting the plots of the two films he and his mother had watched from the projectionist’s box at the Plaza.

  ‘How did you manage to get up there without being seen by the usherettes?’ Grace asked.

  ‘They never go up there,’ Pip explained. ‘It’s like another world.’

  ‘A forbidden world,’ added Jeffries melodramatically.

  As they queued outside the cinema, Henry kept looking around.

  ‘There’s no need to look for the man who’s following Mrs Beaumont because she isn’t here,’ said Grace, noticing.

  ‘And anyway,’ said Jeffries, ‘he isn’t following her, is he?’

  ‘Who is he following, then?’ asked Pip.

  Grace and Jeffries laughed.

  ‘No one,’ they chorused.

  Henry felt his shoulders drop. So far so good, he thought. They didn’t have a clue he was following him.

  The film was a comic romp for children. Grace and Pip lapped it up while Henry and Jeffries exchanged weary glances over their heads, but it meant they were surrounded by a thousand or more children and it made Henry feel strangely protected.

  When they stepped out of the cinema into the dark, they were greeted by rain. As they huddled under his umbrella, Henry felt as though someone was tugging at his guts. It made him feel so lonely that it hurt. To his surprise he felt Grace’s arm slip into his.

  ‘Is your mother very ill?’ she asked quietly. ‘Is that why you’re so quiet?’

  He nodded. It was easier than inventing an explanation.

  He ran with them to Mrs Beaumont’s house, where they had bread and jam and tea. When he dragged himself from the table to go home, Mrs Beaumont followed him into the porch.

  ‘Try and persuade your mother to come here tomorrow. If she’s ill, we can look after her. She’d have more rest. And I can look after Molly. Will you do that for me?’

  ‘Yeah, ‘course,’ he muttered.

  When Henry arrived home, he found Gran in a very bad mood. Her fire had gone out. Molly was with Mrs Henson next door and Uncle Bill was at work. She had tried to force his mother to get out of bed but for once she had refused. Henry slipped upstairs to pass on Mrs Beaumont’s message.

  ‘She’s right,’ his mother said. ‘And I must think of Molly. She’s playing up because she knows I’m upset.’

  ‘But you’re pleased that Dad’s alive, aren’t you, Mum?’

  ‘It’s a little more complicated than that,’ she said slowly.

  2. Becoming an outcast

  ‘I WON’T BE NEEDING YOU TODAY, DODGE,’ SAID MR JENKINS firmly, when Henry pushed open the shop door, ‘or the rest of the week.’

  ‘I’ll come in next Monday afternoon shall I, Mr Jenkins?’

  ‘I shouldn’t bother if I were you.’

  Henry caught sight of Frank out of the corner of his eye. He was grinning.

  ‘Frank here has been telling me about the company you keep.’

  Henry stared at him, uncomprehending.

  ‘Master Jeffries?’ Mr Jenkins added.

  ‘Yes?’ Henry answered, still no wiser.

  ‘No need to play the innocent with me, young sir. Frank saw you with him at the cinema the other day.’

  Frank, by now, was looking triumphant.

  ‘Jeffries?’ repeated Henry.

  ‘That is correct. The son of a deserter.’

  ‘Jeffries isn’t a deserter,’ he began.

  ‘Like father, like son.’

  ‘Who says?’ said Henry.

  ‘It’s a fact of life. And I’ll thank you not to answer me back, young man. At least you’re not denying it. Does your mother approve of you mixing with this boy?’

  ‘Mum’s ill,’ he said, avoiding answering the question.

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘The district nurse had to be called on Friday night. You can check if you like.’

  ‘There’s no need for that. Your mother will continue to be welcome here, but while you keep company with that scum, I’ll thank you to stay away from here.’

  As Henry left the shop he overheard Mr Jenkins say, ‘His father must be turning over in his grave.’

  ‘Oh, good, I’m glad you’ve come,’ said Grace, beaming. ‘We’re discussing Mrs Beaumont’s birthday,’ and she dragged him downstairs.

  Henry willingly let her boss him. He was still feeling too stunned to think, let alone protest. From downstairs he could hear laughter. To be somewhere where he felt welcome after the scene at the shop already began to make him feel less wounded.

  ‘I think Grace’s idea is the best one,’ said Mrs Beaumont, ‘and what about Jeffries coming with us to London? I’ll pay his fare.’

  ‘No,’ protested his mother.

  ‘Please!’ begged Jeffries.

  ‘You can make something for me in exchange,’ Mrs Beaumont suggested.

  ‘Like what?’ Mrs Jeffries asked suspiciously.

  ‘I don’t know. An overcoat from a blanket?’ She turned to Henry. ‘I’d like you to come too, but I suppose that depends on how well your mother is.’

  Up until that moment Henry had sat silently listening to her. Now everyone was staring at him.

  ‘What is it, Henry? You look shattered. Is it your mother?’ interrupted Grace. ‘Has she got worse?’

  ‘I dunno. I haven’t been home yet. I went straight from school to Mr Jenkins’ shop but he didn’t have any jobs going. He doesn’t think he’ll have any more for me now.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ said Mrs Beaumont.

  Grace gave him a penetrating look.

  ‘How old will you be, Mrs Beaumont?’ she asked suddenly.

  Henry could see she was trying to change the subject to take the attention away from him. She must have guessed how upset he was feeling.

  ‘Grace!’ exclaimed Mrs Jeffries. ‘That’s not very polite.’

  ‘I’ll be sixty,’ said Mrs Beaumont. ‘Now how about me having a word with Daniel about British films between 1925 and 1935? That’s the next period Mr Finch wants you to look at, isn’t it? There’s Grierson, of course. But that’s documentary. And Hitchcock.’

  ‘And cinemas. Does he know anyone who built cinemas then?’ asked Jeffries.

  ‘Mr Hart might,’ said Mrs Morgan and she blushed.

  ‘He knows everything,’ said Pip happily.

  It was when he was hauling a bucket of coal into Gran’s room that Henry decided to ask the same question Grace had asked Mrs Beaumont, but he wanted to find out about Gran’s age in a more roundabout way. He glanced at the photo of his young grandfather in his Army uniform on the mantelpiece. It was next to the one of h
is father. Now that he looked more closely, he could see that his mother was right. The man following him was his dad.

  ‘It was 1917 when Grandad was killed, wasn’t it?’ he said casually, kneeling in front of the fire.

  ‘That’s right, dear.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Only twenty,’ she sighed. ‘No more than a girl really.’

  As Henry thrust the poker among the glowing coals he made a quick calculation. His grandmother was only fifty-three. He had always assumed that she was in her seventies. It was a shock to discover that she was seven years younger than Mrs Beaumont, who looked and behaved like someone twenty years younger.

  He grabbed the tongs and lifted coal from the bucket to the fire, taking a good look at Gran’s legs in their thick brown stockings. There’s nothing wrong with her legs, he heard his mother’s voice say inside his head.

  Leaving her room, he met his mother coming down the stairs. She put a finger to her lips and beckoned him into the kitchen. It was good to see her up and dressed again, though her face still seemed colourless.

  ‘I don’t want Gran to know I’m out of bed,’ she whispered.

  In the kitchen she made him a spam sandwich and a mug of tea.

  ‘Been helping Mr Jenkins?’ she asked.

  He wanted to tell her everything but he knew she had enough on her plate without having to worry about Mr Jenkins. He just hoped she would keep her friendship with Mrs Jeffries to herself.

  ‘Yeah. But he didn’t have any work for me today. I went round to Mrs Beaumont’s instead to talk about old films.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Would you help me?’

  She drew up a chair and sat opposite him.

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Mr Finch wants us to look at films from 1925 to 1935.’

  ‘Let me see,’ she said. ‘I started going to the Pictures when I first started working.’

  ‘Was that when you were a maid?’

  ‘That’s right. I worked for this lovely lady who had all these children’s books on her shelves. She let me borrow them and I used to read them in bed. She even had me read ones for little ‘uns, those Beatrix Potter books. I read them to you when you were little . . . ’