Henry had to wait until Molly was settled in bed and his mother had returned to the kitchen before he could tell her. It nearly drove him to screaming point, what with everyone taking turns to have a bath in the tub and the hanging of towels in front of the range and him making more excuses to stay downstairs in his pyjamas waiting for the right moment.
‘I have to stay down here,’ he said firmly at one point, looking directly at Uncle Bill.
Uncle Bill gave a small nod to indicate that he guessed Henry needed to say something important. His mother returned from the scullery and put a kettle on the range. Uncle Bill told her to sit down. She looked at him in alarm.
‘Henry needs to tell us something. Am I right?’
Henry nodded. His mother drew up a chair and he told her about the meetings and the offer of a job in London, but not what kind of job. That was Henry and his dad’s secret. His mother shook her head vigorously. ‘No!’ she whispered. ‘I won’t allow it.’
She stumbled from her chair making gagging noises and ran towards the scullery. Uncle Bill sprang after her. From the scullery Henry could hear sounds of vomiting.
Numb and angry, he listened to the swishing of water from the tap in the sink. Uncle Bill reappeared, took one of the towels from the clothes horse and disappeared again into the scullery. Eventually his mother returned, looking ashen. She lowered herself slowly into a chair and gazed steadily at him.
‘I’m sorry, love, but that’s my final word.’
‘But I can look for somewhere for us to live. I can earn some money for you.’
‘I’m looking after your mother,’ Uncle Bill said firmly. ‘And you. You finish your schooling.’
‘You can’t tell me what to do,’ Henry said bitterly. ‘Or where to live.’
‘But I can,’ said his mother.
‘So can Dad,’ said Henry.
‘And what am I supposed to say to your headmaster?’
‘You can tell him I’ve been offered a job.’
‘You already have a good job waiting for you.’
‘But I’ve got this chance in London.’
‘To do what?’
‘It’s private.’
‘I bet it is,’ muttered his stepfather.
‘Don’t you say anything about my father. He’s a hero. He saved . . . ’ And then he stopped as he realised what he was about to say.
‘We don’t even know where he lives. And what about your friends? Are you just going to turn your back on them?’
‘Pip’s busy. Jeffries is always reading. Grace doesn’t speak to me any more.’
‘Oh? Why is that?’
He shrugged.
His mother and Uncle Bill exchanged glances.
‘She doesn’t know, does she?’ asked his mother.
Henry didn’t answer.
‘This is not good,’ said his mother, ‘this is not good at all.’
‘She won’t squeal.’
‘I’m not thinking about that. Has he seen her?’
‘He was very polite and friendly,’ said Henry.
To his surprise, Uncle Bill sank his head into the palms of his hands.
There was a tense silence.
‘We’ve got to tell Gran,’ said Henry quietly. ‘Tonight.’
Uncle Bill gave a sigh. ‘He’s right, Maureen. I’ll nip upstairs and keep an eye on Molly. Henry, you’d best ask your gran to come out to the kitchen.’
Henry waited till Uncle Bill was on the landing before he knocked on Gran’s door. As soon as she opened it her face fell.
‘What is it? I can see something’s wrong from your face.’
‘Can you come into the kitchen, Gran? Mum wants to talk to you.’
7. A few home truths
GRAN STARTED TO SCREAM SO LOUDLY THAT HENRY WAS convinced she could have been heard at the Plaza. Through the window he spotted Mrs Henson striding into the yard and the next thing he knew she was in the kitchen, standing legs astride in front of her.
‘It’s the rat!’ Henry said quickly. ‘She’s seen the rat.’
Before he or his mother could stop her, Mrs Henson gave his grandmother one almighty slap across the face. Henry’s mother looked shocked but it stopped Gran screaming.
‘Sorry, Maureen,’ said Mrs Henson, ‘but that’s what they do in films when someone’s hysterical.’
‘Henry, get the brandy,’ said his mother.
Henry glanced at Mrs Henson as he crossed over to a small bottle on a high shelf in the alcove by the range. There was a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth as though she was suppressing a smile. He suspected Mrs Henson had been dying for an excuse to slap his grandmother for months.
‘We’ll be fine now, Vera,’ said Henry’s mother, ‘won’t we, Mrs Dodge?’
Gran nodded, stunned.
‘I should get on to the Plaza if I were you,’ said Mrs Henson, ‘they’re probably leaving their rubbish out somewhere and that’s what’s attracting the rats.’
As soon as Mrs Henson had left, his mother poured the brandy into a chipped cup and pressed it into his grandmother’s hands.
‘Drink that,’ she said gently.
As Gran drew the cup shakily to her mouth a trickle of brandy ran down her chin.
‘Why didn’t he come ’ere? Why didn’t he come and see me first?’
‘He was afraid of scaring you,’ Henry explained.
‘Is he in trouble? Is that what it is?’
‘No. But Mum is.’
And then Henry saw his gran’s expression change from shock to horror.
‘Bigamy!’ she gasped. ‘Adultery!’
His mother let out a sob.
‘He wants us to go to London,’ said Henry. ‘No one knows us there.’
‘He’s right. The neighbours must never find out,’ Gran said vehemently, ‘especially her next door. You should never have married that man, Maureen. I told you Alfred wouldn’t have wanted you to marry again. But would you listen?’
‘Not in front of Henry,’ begged his mother.
‘Now I know why. I must have guessed something was wrong inside me head.’ She swung round and looked at Henry. ‘But how come you didn’t know it was him when you saw the photographs? You’ve seen his pictures on my mantelpiece hundreds of times.’
‘He’s got a moustache now and his hair’s longer.’
‘You should have told me.’
‘He said I had to keep it a secret.’
‘From me?’
‘From everyone. Till he gets everything sorted out. He’s got a job for me in London. He says I could help him find a place for us and then we could all move up there.’ He looked at his mother. ‘He didn’t know about the baby.’
‘It’ll have to be adopted,’ said Gran. ‘And Molly.’
‘No!’ cried his mother.
‘It’s all right. Dad says he doesn’t mind. He’ll take care of them, Gran.’
‘Then he’s a ruddy saint. You go, Henry. Get away from that Mr Finch and his funny ideas. If your dad says you’re to leave, then you do as he says. He always wore the trousers when he were alive.’ She stopped. ‘When he were . . . ’ She faltered. ‘Anyway, what he says, you do.’
‘Not if Mum says I can’t,’ Henry grumbled. ‘No one knows Dad’s alive so Mum’s still in charge.’
‘We’re staying together as a family till he’s eighteen,’ his mother said, her voice trembling. ‘He’s got his National Service to do after that. Come July he’ll start his job at the railway and there’s an end to it.’
‘We’ll see about that, my girl,’ said his grandmother. ‘My life has been a living hell since that man moved in.’
‘He moved in? You moved in.’
‘Mum!’ cried Henry. ‘That’s not true!’
‘Oh, yes it is.’
‘I don’t think a woman like you can afford to be so high and mighty.’
‘What do you mean, a woman like me?’
‘I’m not going to say the words in front of my grandson.’
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‘You’ve said them already.’
Gran turned and grabbed Henry’s hand.
‘When are you next seeing him?’
‘Next week.’
‘You tell him. You tell him, yes.’
‘I can’t, Gran.’
‘Tell him I want to see him. You will, won’t you?’ she begged.
He nodded.
That night the screaming nightmares returned. He must have cried out in his sleep because when he woke, he heard Uncle Bill whisper, ‘Are you all right, lad?’
When he drifted back to sleep he had the strangest sensation that his mother was in the room, kissing him on the cheek.
Henry didn’t know how he would get through a week of school, but once he was there he was swept up into the comforting routine of lessons, and because no one knew of the dramas at home, there was no one who could ask him awkward questions except Mr Finch.
‘Anything bothering you, Dodge?’ he asked Henry one break time when they were in the darkroom.
‘My mum’s still ill,’ he said.
‘Sorry to hear that. But you’re still working with Morgan and Jeffries on the presentation, aren’t you? Only you seem to be hiding in the darkroom rather a lot this week.’
‘Me and Jeffries saw Daniel again at half-term.’ He told Mr Finch about the visit and how Mr Hart had agreed to be the projectionist and had got permission to have the films shown at the Plaza.
‘That’s excellent. How old is the Plaza, by the way?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I’ll find out.’
‘Good lad.’
But he didn’t bother. Once he walked out of the school gates, an overwhelming lethargy left him feeling exhausted.
On Sunday afternoon, after he and his friends had seen a couple of films at the Troxy, Henry made his usual walk with them up to the Plaza before nipping back across the road towards the station. His father was in his usual place, leaning on the wall, cigarette in his hand. Henry strode towards him and then stopped, hovering behind him.
‘She won’t let me,’ he said bitterly.
‘Don’t you worry, son,’ he said, giving his ash a forceful flick. ‘You leave it to me.’
For the next five nights the nightmares continued, and the bouts of interrupted sleep left Henry feeling irritable and short-tempered. He felt helpless and angry, and guilty for hating his mother.
On Saturday afternoon the house was empty, but to avoid being home when Gran and his mother returned from the shops, he hurled himself out of the front door only to collide with a soldier on the pavement.
‘’Ere, where’s the fire?’ cried the private.
It was Charlie.
‘Sorry,’ said Henry, flustered. To his dismay he could see that Charlie wanted a chat.
‘I didn’t get to be a driver,’ Charlie began.
‘Oh,’ said Henry politely. ‘That’s a shame.’
‘Yeah. They got me sittin’ behind a desk messin’ around with hundreds of frigging forms. It’s so boring it makes covering lumps of coal with whitewash look like an assault course.’ He gave him a slap round the shoulders and to Henry’s relief strode on towards his house at the end of the road. ‘Be seeing you,’ he yelled over his shoulder.
‘Yeah,’ Henry yelled back, and he broke into a sprint in the opposite direction and headed for Mrs Beaumont’s house.
‘The others told me you were off taking photographs,’ said Mrs Beaumont in the porch.
‘I am. I was just wondering if you’d like to come with me down to the harbour.’
Suddenly he didn’t want to be on his own.
‘Oh, Henry, I’m about to leave for The Forsyte Saga at the Apollo. Otherwise I’d love to. But you’re going to need the camera.’
Henry looked at his chest. There was no camera case hanging there. He had bolted out of the house in such a rush he had left it behind.
Gran’s door was open, which meant she had either got back already or was in the toilet in the yard. He leapt up the stairs to his room and grabbed the camera case from the shelf in the wardrobe. He had just stepped out on to the landing when he heard raised voices coming from the kitchen. He quickly retreated and hovered by the doorway. He recognised Uncle Bill’s voice, but not the owner of the second one. Puzzled, he crept towards the banisters. And then he knew. It was his dad. He had come to fight for him to go to London.
‘He doesn’t know you,’ Uncle Bill was saying. ‘You’re a stranger. He hasn’t seen you for ten years.’
‘Think I don’t know that? This is my chance to pick up where I left off.’
‘He doesn’t have to leave home and live with you.’
Henry was incensed. How dare Uncle Bill speak to his father like that!
‘Looks like I come back ’ere in the nick of time. He needs a firm hand to get his feet back on the ground. He lives with his head in the clouds. Always off to the Pictures.’
Henry froze. His father had never said anything about him seeing too many films.
‘He’s earned money to pay for most of the tickets,’ he heard Uncle Bill say, ‘and it’s better for him to be there than hanging around the streets getting up to mischief.’
‘I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about all this airy-fairy nonsense you’ve been shovelling into his brain.’
‘I’ve never forced him to read books. I gave that up a long time ago.’
‘Not books. I’m talking about this daft business of him wanting to be a cameraman.’
Henry gasped. It was as if he had been punched in the stomach. He gripped the banister, fighting for breath.
‘Cameraman?’ said Uncle Bill.
‘Yeah.’
‘First I’ve heard about it.’
‘Don’t give me that.’
Henry cringed. He sank on to one of the steps, his forehead in his hands.
‘How stupid of me. It’s been staring me in the face,’ he heard Uncle Bill exclaim. ‘The way he is when he holds that camera . . . ’
‘Cut the flowery lingo,’ snapped his father impatiently.
‘But I can’t understood why he never told me.’
‘Because I’m his father, that’s why. Of course I let him have his say.’
‘Wait a minute, does Henry think you’ve gone along with it?’
‘Course he does.’
‘Is that why he wants to go to London?’ There was a silence. Henry raised his head. ‘Are you telling me you’ve lied to him?’
‘Once in London, he’ll come round to my way of thinking. I’ll introduce him to the real world.’
‘And what might that be? As some useful face that the police don’t know?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
Henry sprang to his feet, his fists clenched.
‘Oh, I think you do. You had it all planned. You wanted him to spot you following him, didn’t you?’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘Maureen doesn’t want him to go to London.’
‘Maureen doesn’t have a choice, does she?’
‘Meaning?’
‘She’s committed bigamy.’
Henry heard a match being struck.
‘No one smokes in this house. If you light that cigarette she’ll smell it as soon as she walks in the door and know someone’s been here.’
‘All right, all right.’
Henry took another step down the stairs.
‘If he comes to London with me, no one need ever know. I won’t tell anyone. You don’t need to tell anyone.’
‘Henry is family.’
‘You’re not his dad.’
‘I’ve been his dad for the last four years.’
‘He doesn’t like you.’
Henry began to shake.
‘I know, and I’m sad about that. It doesn’t help having your mother spoiling everything good that happens in this house.’
‘Problem solved. I can take her as well. Then you and Maureen and your kiddies can play happy families.’
�
��Maureen couldn’t live with me as my wife knowing that she’s still married to you.’
‘She won’t divorce me. She’d rather die than appear in a court and say she’s been living with another man.’
‘What about desertion?’
‘What are you accusing me of?’ his father snapped. ‘You’d better watch what you say.’
‘I mean, you’ve been living separately from Maureen for ten years.’
‘So? Why would I agree to a divorce because of that?’
‘You don’t love her.’
Henry waited for his father to deny it, but all he heard was a short staccato laugh which chilled him.
‘Maybe I’m not explaining myself clearly enough,’ he said. ‘If I don’t have Henry, then I will move in ’ere and be her husband again and I’ll put your daughter and your other little bastard up for adoption.’ Henry shook his head in disbelief. ‘You’d hardly expect me to feed and clothe another man’s nippers, would you?’
‘You evil . . .! What about your mother? I’ve fed and clothed her for years! Maureen and I have been getting her out of debt regularly. Maureen had to hand over a typewriter and a gramophone that had taken her two years to save up for, to bailiffs demanding money for your mother’s debts – mostly spent on hats. After Christmas, we had to return the Christmas presents we gave each other to pay for a raincoat your mother bought Henry on tick. We’re still paying for it now.’
Henry was stunned. How could he not have seen what was going on?
‘Maureen hates going into the front room because of all the photographs of you on your mother’s mantelpiece. They remind her of what life was like living with you. She’s told me everything.’
‘Have you been saying things about me to Henry?’
‘No. We don’t talk about you at all. We leave it all to your mother. She paints a very rosy picture of you. Henry thought you were a hero.’
‘That’s not my fault. I didn’t know where I was for a long time.’
‘It’s convenient you got your memory back now, isn’t it?’
‘I ain’t following you.’
‘When Henry’s reached school-leaving age and can earn some money for you.’
Henry steadied himself on the banister and took another step down.
‘I heard you’re going to train to be a teacher,’ his father said. His voice was cold. ‘I don’t think they’d want to train someone who’s married to a bigamist, do you? I expect your morals have to be as white as the driven snow. Know what I mean? Can’t have you corrupting the pupils, eh?’
Just Henry Page 29
