Just Henry

by Michelle Magorian

  ‘That’s just it, I can’t remember. It was a name like Cedric, like that actor in The Man in Black.’

  ‘Valentine Dyall?’

  ‘No. His second name is like a first name, John or James. It was the one who pretended he’d died and disguised himself as a drunk boatkeeper so he could catch those people plotting against his daughter. He was in The Small Back Room, too,’ he said, turning to Jeffries, ’remember? He was the barkeeper.’

  ‘Well, while you’re chewing that over there’s something Uncle Bill picked up from your school,’ said Mrs Beaumont, pointing to his mother.

  ‘Mum’s birthday present!’

  ‘Made by you.’ And she lifted it up from behind the settee.

  It was a small low table.

  ‘Oh, Henry!’ his mother cried.

  ‘It’s a coffee table.’

  ‘It’s the latest thing,’ said Jane. ‘I saw a picture of one in Woman.’

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘It’s made of oak,’ said Henry. ‘The woodwork teacher had some left over.’

  ‘John Cedric?’ Jeffries interrupted, still thinking about the previous conversation. ‘James Cedric?’

  ‘Other way round. Cedric John or Cedric James,’ and then Henry remembered. ‘Sid James!’

  ‘They were meeting the actor Sid James?’ said Grace.

  ‘No, the name of the man they were meeting was Sidney.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s not where they were going?’ asked Margaret.

  ‘Going to Sidney?’

  ‘Sydney, Australia!’ chorused the girls.

  ‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Mrs Beaumont. ‘I’ll phone the police.’

  She had hardly reached the door when the telephone rang.

  ‘That’s probably them now.’

  From the sitting room they could hear her talking in the hallway.

  ‘Certainly,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and get him.’

  She poked her head round the door.

  ‘It’s for you, Henry.’

  ‘Is it the police?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Come and find out.’

  Mystified, Henry headed for the hall and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello,’ said a man’s voice, ‘I take it you’re Henry.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The man had a slight country accent.

  ‘I’m Max’s friend, Jim MacTavish. I developed your roll of film.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr MacTavish!’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind but I made some copies and showed them to a friend of mine who’s a camera operator. He’s just about to start a job on a new film in London but his clapper boy’s got his call-up papers for National Service. It’s a responsible job. Clapping the clapperboard is the easiest part, that and making sure the crew have gallons of tea. What I’m saying is, the job’s yours if you want it. Interested?’

  The headmaster stood solemnly on stage in front of a table which was covered with cups, books and shields. He was wearing a black gown and looking very pleased with himself.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, ‘as you know, this is the second year we have had a fourth form. And what a year it has been for our boys and girls! Those of you who have seen what they have achieved, from needlework to woodwork, from pottery to cookery, cannot but be impressed by their endeavours, and for this I must also thank my staff for their hard work.’

  Henry sat with his friends on the right side of the hall. The parents were sitting to the left of the aisle. All the women were wearing hats and gloves and the men were in suits. Henry glanced at the walls where his photographs were on display. He turned round and saw Mrs Beaumont and Grace sitting in the back row. They waved to him.

  ‘You’ve seen our gymnasts, heard our pupils sing English folk songs, listened to them speak French and heard one of them play the pianoforte.’

  This was greeted with a murmur of appreciation. Henry spotted one of the women waking her husband.

  ‘In the first term of this, their final year, we introduced some new educational experiments to the fourth formers. The boys can now clean and cook and the girls can put up a shelf.

  ‘And now to the History presentations. This has been an enormous success and has shown that although we may not have the academic accolades of the grammar school, we have some remarkably resourceful pupils, and who knows, perhaps one or two may go on to take up further studies.’

  Nervously Henry listened to him call each group to come up on stage to receive a cup or book.

  ‘And now for our last trio,’ he announced. ‘Philip Hart, Roger Jeffries and Henry . . . ’ He paused, looking awkward for a moment and then he smiled. ‘Just Henry.’

  They headed for the steps at the side and walked up on to the stage.

  ‘Philip Hart is to receive the music cup. Philip begins work as a rewind boy at the Plaza cinema where he can be heard playing the pianoforte on Saturday nights during the Intermission.’

  The headmaster presented the cup to Pip and shook his hand among tumultuous applause.

  ‘Roger Jeffries is to receive the English cup for his wonderful H. G. Wells-inspired stories. He will be leaving us to begin work in London at a publishers and to help form a film archive.’

  Henry watched Jeffries shake hands and walk down the steps to more applause.

  ‘And now for the third member of the film group. Most people will know him as Henry Dodge but he is about to be adopted by his stepfather, Mr William Carpenter.’ He paused. ‘I think many pupils and parents will have heard of the recent exploits of this young man. Finding himself kidnapped with his young sister, he managed to save her life by using his wits and, through his photographic skills, which many of you will have had the pleasure of seeing here on the walls, he has helped to put away two very unpleasant characters.’

  Someone began to clap. The head put up his hand for silence and picked up the last cup.

  ‘Henry is to receive the photography cup and I am delighted to announce that after leaving Hatton Secondary Modern School, this young man is to begin an apprenticeship in the moving picture industry as a clapper boy.’

  And he held his hand out for Henry to shake.

  There was a gasp from the hall and above the applause came cheers. Henry looked down and saw Uncle Bill and his mother clapping vigorously. When he returned to his chair he noticed Jane smiling.

  ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,’ announced the headmaster grandly, ‘will you all now rise for our new school song, Let us stride forth and let our young hearts sing.’ And with that he made a flamboyant gesture towards the piano. ‘Take it away, Miss Plimsoll!’

  And everyone rose to a crescendo of crashing chords.

  Postscript: London

  HENRY AND JEFFRIES GRINNED AT ONE ANOTHER OVER THE TABLE in the basement kitchen, Jeffries in his pyjamas, Henry wearing a jacket, flannels, shirt and tie. Through the back windows the dawn light had only just begun to stream into the scrubby back garden. For both of them it was their first day at work. Jeffries would be leaving later than Henry. Work for Henry at the studio began early.

  ‘Imagine being picked up by a car!’ said Grace. She was sitting at the end of the table in her nightdress, watching Henry eat his breakfast. ‘Now don’t forget, you both have to tell me every single detail when you get back so that I can tell Pip when I phone him.’

  ‘We can tell him ourselves,’ said Jeffries.

  ‘No, you can’t. He’ll be busy rewinding films in the projection box when you get back. And you’ll be at work when he’s at home.’

  Jeffries caught Henry’s eye. It was obvious that Grace wanted to be the first to tell him.

  They had all been living in Mrs Beaumont’s London house for a week now, Jeffries and Henry sharing one of the two attic bedrooms.

  ‘You’ve got to eat more than that,’ exclaimed Henry’s mother, looking at the half-eaten piece of toast on Henry’s pla
te. ‘You’ve a long day ahead of you.’

  ‘What time is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Five minutes later than the last time you asked,’ answered Mrs Beaumont, popping her head round the door.

  The waiting was unbearable. Once Henry knew he had the job of clapper boy, he wanted to start work the very next day. Now it was the actual day and he still had to wait.

  The doorbell rang. Henry jumped, almost spilling tea over his clean shirt. He pushed back his chair and sprang to his feet. His mother flung her arms round him.

  ‘Have a lovely day,’ she said proudly.

  Upstairs Henry could hear footsteps. His mother let go of him and Henry shot up the stairs towards the ground floor. He met Uncle Bill in the hall.

  ‘It’s here,’ he said, smiling.

  Through the open door Henry saw the car waiting outside.

  By now Jeffries and Grace had run into the dance studio and were peering out of the window, with Mrs Jeffries.

  ‘It’s like being a film star,’ said Grace excitedly.

  Henry ran down the steps. He didn’t look behind him. He knew that by now his mother and Mrs Beaumont would have joined his friends and Uncle Bill at the front window. The driver, who was wearing a tweed cap at an angle, leaned towards the open car window.

  ‘Henry?’ he asked. ‘Pinewood?’

  ‘Yeah. Please,’ said Henry, suddenly feeling a lump in his throat.

  It was only when the car drew away that he looked up at the window and waved.

  ‘This way.’

  A tall youth with thick black hair and glasses was waiting for him at the entrance to the studio. He was the clapper boy who was leaving.

  ‘I’ll take you to the camera room,’ he said.

  Henry followed him down a long corridor.

  ‘I’m Alan. I’ll be showing you the ropes over the next fortnight,’ he explained. ‘In here.’

  They walked into a room where black boxes of varying sizes were stored.

  ‘We need to carry these into the studio and unpack them.’

  Henry stared at the largest of the boxes. It was the size of three coffins stacked on top of one another. How are we going to carry that? he thought.

  ‘Don’t panic,’ laughed Alan. ‘The grip usually helps us with that.’

  They lifted up a heavy rectangular box and took it out of the room and along a corridor towards a studio.

  ‘This has film magazines in it,’ Alan said. ‘And they’re not the kind you read.’

  Entering the studio, Henry noticed a set which resembled a down-at-heel newspaper office. They hurried back to the camera room and picked up another black box.

  ‘What’s in here?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Put it down. I’ll show you.’ Alan unclipped the lid and raised it. The box was lined with red velvet and sectioned off into separate velvet compartments. Inside the compartments were different-sized lenses. ‘There’s a lot to learn but you’ll soon pick it up. It’ll probably be a couple of months, though, before they let you loose in the darkroom. Sid will have to do it until then.’

  ‘Who’s Sid?’

  ‘Focus puller. Also known as assistant cameraman. He makes sure the actors and actresses stay in focus.’

  ‘I didn’t know clapper boys had to develop the film.’

  ‘They don’t. The laboratories do that. They pick up the cans of exposed film at the end of the day.’

  ‘So why will I have to go into the darkroom?’

  ‘To unload the exposed film from the magazine at the back of the camera, put it in a can for the laboratory and seal it up. Tricky in the dark, I can tell you. If you mess it up, hours of film and lots of money will be lost and you’ll be out of a job!’

  ‘Hurry up, you two!’ said a voice behind them. ‘We have to be up and running by eight thirty!’

  A young stocky man with a mass of sandy hair was heading for the gargantuan black box.

  ‘Sid,’ whispered Alan. Henry watched Alan clip the lid of the box down. ‘Never, never, never leave this unclipped. You could get fired for that. The lenses in here are so expensive. If someone knocked the box over and the lid flew open . . . ’ He gave a dramatic pause. ‘ . . . Too horrible to think about.’ He lifted the end of the box. ‘Come on, we need to get a move on.’

  Carrying it into the studio, Henry noticed a man on the set smoking a cigarette. A woman was sitting on the edge of the desk reading a newspaper.

  ‘They’re stand-ins,’ Alan explained as they lowered the box. ‘They’ll do the actor’s and actress’s moves so the scene can be lit while they’re being made up. It means all the lighting will be sorted out when they’re called on set. The boss man decides how that’s done.’

  Boss man? He couldn’t remember reading about him in the bookshop.

  ‘Director of photography, otherwise known as lighting cameraman. Sir, to you.’

  ‘Is he the man who gave me my job?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ asked Alan, surprised. ‘I thought it was your father. That’s how I got mine. He put in a good word for me with the camera operator. He’s the one who chooses the crew. Is he a relative of yours?’

  ‘No. I don’t know anyone here.’

  ‘So how did you get this job?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  On their way back to the camera room, Henry could hear voices. There was something familiar about one of them. When he walked into the room, standing beside the last box in jacket and tie, was Mrs Beaumont’s youngest son.

  ‘Max!’

  ‘He’s the camera operator,’ said Alan. ‘I thought you said you didn’t know anyone.’

  ‘He’s the son of a lady I know.’

  ‘Not such a long story, then,’ said Alan drily.

  Among much laughing and joking, Henry, Max, Sid and a wiry middle-aged man called Fred, who Henry discovered was the grip, hauled the massive box out of the room, down the corridor and into the studio, where they unclipped it. Inside was an enormous movie camera, the kind you had to sit up high behind. Henry had seen ones like it in opening shots of newsreels in the cinema, like Pathé News. He stared up at it in awe. One day that’s where I’m going to be, he thought.

  ‘I’ve got to show you the negative report sheet now,’ said Alan. He walked over to a table where Henry saw a large paperback book, the pages of which were the same size as the ones his mother put into a typewriter.

  ‘On this top page,’ Alan said, opening the book, ‘you write all the details of which scenes are filmed each day and how many takes there were for each scene. When the director tells you which ones he wants the lab to print, you draw a circle round them. OK?’

  Henry nodded.

  ‘Each top sheet needs to be torn off,’ Alan said, lifting it up, ‘because it has to be sent off to the laboratory with the cans of exposed film.’

  ‘Exposed. That means the film which has been used.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that carbon paper?’ Henry asked, spotting the shiny dark blue paper underneath.

  ‘Yes. You’ve seen this before?’

  ‘My mum types. She uses it when she wants to make copies.’

  ‘That’s why it’s here,’ said Alan. ‘Under it are four other sheets of paper. You’ll have to press really hard with the pencil for your writing to go through to the bottom copy. The camera crew get that one. Sometimes it comes out so faint you can hardly read it.’ He tucked a round metal container under his arm. ‘I need to load some film in the darkroom. If you want to help, you can get those boxes out of the way.’

  Henry checked that the lids were clipped down and pushed the boxes to the side of the studio. Eventually Alan reappeared from the darkroom and Henry watched him fix a loaded magazine above the camera at the front.

  ‘Will I have to do that too?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Yes. Hang on a bit while I put film into two more magazines,’ and he disappeared back into the darkroom.

  Henry was trembling with adrenalin. He wanted to leap into th
e air with joy, yet he felt solid too because even though he knew there were a lot of new things to take in, he felt completely at home. He was watching Sid checking the camera when Alan returned with a loaded magazine under each arm.

  ‘It’s always a good idea to have them ready for later,’ he explained, placing them on the table.

  ‘How long are the reels inside?’

  ‘A thousand feet. That’s about ten minutes of filming. We usually get through about six reels a day.’

  ‘Sixty minutes!’

  ‘Yes, but only about a sixteenth of that will be used.’ He stuck his pencil behind his ear and walked over to the camera. ‘Come and take a look,’ he said over his shoulder.

  Eagerly Henry watched the loaded magazine at the front move slowly round as Sid threaded the film from it down through the mechanism of the camera and up towards the empty magazine at the back. He noticed Sid glancing over at Fred, who was listening to a man with a beard. Fred caught Sid’s eye, gave him a nod and he walked over to construct what appeared to be a small railway track on the floor in front of the camera. It led to a table with a telephone on it.

  ‘That’s so Max can get a closer shot of the scene by the telephone later on,’ explained Alan. ‘Fred will push him along the track.’

  A tall man with curly red hair appeared behind the camera holding a long pole with a microphone attached to it.

  ‘Is that the boom?’ asked Henry.

  ‘Yes. It picks up the sound.’

  ‘I’ve read a bit about it in this book and seen photographs, but I never knew you could see inside the camera.’

  ‘That’s because it’s not covered by the blimp.’

  ‘What’s a blimp?’

  ‘The curved metal case above the magazines. It’s only shut when everything is ready to shoot. The film makes a hell of a racket when it’s moving round. The blimp muffles the sound. Look.’ Sid was pulling down the metal case tightly round the camera, hiding the mechanisms. ‘That means Sid’s finished checking the magazines.’ Alan grabbed the clapperboard from the table. This will be your next job.’

  Henry watched him chalk up the name of the studio, the director, the cameraman, the date and the name of the film, Deadline Dues, Scene 8, Take 1.