Johnny Swanson (7 page)

Johnny had meant to be a little more honest, and to say ‘miniature portrait’, but he wasn’t sure how to spell ‘miniature’, and anyway, it was always good to save a word in an advert. There were no complaints, even though the suckers had at least ended up with a
stamp (worth anything from one penny to sixpence) to put on their angry letters. No doubt they agreed with Johnny that they would have looked pretty daft if they’d admitted falling for that trick. But it was a good one. Johnny worked out that once his costs were covered, he was making a profit of anything from 100 to 1100 per cent, depending on the value of the stamps he sent to his patriotic customers. True, the actual amounts that reached the Peace Mug were very small, but he was beginning to dream of bigger projects, with mighty returns.

And there was one unexpected side effect of all the effort. Winnie ran into Johnny’s form teacher, Mrs Stiles, in the street one Saturday morning.

‘Oh, Mrs Swanson,’ said Mrs Stiles. ‘I’m so very pleased with Johnny this term. His work has improved immensely. It’s very neat indeed.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it.’

‘Yes, and it’s not just his presentation. His maths is coming along in leaps and bounds. He’s especially good at money sums.’

Later that day, when Winnie told Johnny what his teacher had said, she thought he was blushing out of proud embarrassment. She knew nothing of the guilty secret that was burning his cheeks.

J
ust before half-term, Dr Langford came to school again, to check that everyone was still clear of TB. He got Johnny’s class off Geography this time. He was becoming rather popular. Then, during the week of holiday, Hutch gave Johnny jobs in the shop every day. Johnny saw Hutch at work in the stockroom, behind the counter, and in the post office. They had time to chat, and got to know each other better.

The store was always busy, with customers wanting everything from groceries to knitting patterns. There was a wooden booth near the door with a bench and a telephone inside. People came from all over town to use it. Some stayed inside for ages, and it smelled strongly of stale cigarette smoke. Johnny tried not to listen to the muffled, one-sided conversations seeping out through the sliding door, but sometimes he just couldn’t help it. So he knew all about the deputy headmaster’s attempt to get another job, and the vicar’s daughter’s entanglement with someone called
Michael, who appeared to be married. One day he heard Mrs Slack on the phone to some distant relative, droning on about her health and how she couldn’t cope at home. At first he was appalled to find the old lady virtually begging for money, but he felt better about her when she continued:

‘I don’t know what I’d do without Mrs Swanson. She comes in every day to see that I’m all right and never asks for a penny. She’s a marvellous woman. Sometimes I think she’s all that’s keeping me alive.’

He never told his mother what he had heard. He thought she would be angry with him for listening in. In the weeks to come, he was to wish that he
had
said something. But by then it was too late.

When it was quiet in the shop, Johnny had the chance to study the newspapers, looking at the advertisements for ideas. He knew the best adverts were in the Sunday papers, but he could never get a good look at them on the day, because the shop was shut; he just saw the headlines as he posted each copy through a letter box. To read them properly he had to wait till Hutch threw his own copies away; so when Johnny fished
Reynolds’s News
out of the bin on the Monday of half-term, it was covered in brown circles from the bottom of Hutch’s teacup.

Johnny opened out the huge newspaper. It took up almost the whole counter. He had to move aside the charity collection tin and a jar of Liquorice Allsorts to make room for it. He turned the pages, leafing through news and fashion tips, the sheet music for a popular song, a short story, cartoons, theatre reviews, and display adverts for cars and London department stores. Among the small ads, one entry caught his eye immediately. It was headed: CHEST DISEASES, and it went on:

Johnny read the advert through several times, trying to get his tongue round the strange word ‘Umckaloabo’. It sounded like something from Africa. With his practised eye, he couldn’t help calculating the price of such a wordy advertisement in a high-circulation paper. With all the special layout to make it look like a news story, you wouldn’t get much change from three pounds. Chas. H. Stevens of Wimbledon must have great faith in what he was selling, particularly as he wasn’t asking his customers for any money up front.

Johnny’s heart quickened. Maybe this advertisement was indeed the ‘wonderful news’ it claimed to be. Perhaps Mr Stevens really had found a cure for TB. If that was so, shouldn’t Dr Langford be told? Perhaps he could use Umckaloabo to help Olwen’s family. Johnny knew the Langfords didn’t take
Reynolds’s News
. They wouldn’t have seen the advertisement themselves. He took out some scissors from the drawer under the counter and carefully cut it out.

*

After work, Johnny went straight up the hill to Dr Langford’s house to tell him about Umckaloabo. Mrs Langford opened the door. She was tall and slim, like her husband, but while his limbs tended to flail
around in an ungainly way, hers moved with an effortless grace, even though she sometimes put her hand to her back, as if it hurt to bend. Her steel-grey hair was twisted up at the back in a chignon. Johnny knew that was what it was called because he’d seen a diagram showing how to do it in the paper only that morning. Winnie had often admired Mrs Langford’s clothes, saying how well-made they were, and how well co-ordinated. Johnny had no opinion on how Mrs Langford’s skirt and blouse were constructed, but he could see that they matched. Both were a deep shade of blue.

‘Hello, Johnny,’ said Mrs Langford. ‘Are you looking for your mother? She went home hours ago.’

‘No. I’ve brought something for Dr Langford,’ said Johnny, pulling the crumpled cutting from his pocket. ‘It’s important. I think Dr Langford ought to know. Someone’s found a cure for TB.’

‘Well, if they really have, he’ll be fascinated. Not to say amazed. Let me have a look at that. You’d better come in.’ She took the cutting and showed Johnny into the drawing room. ‘You sit by the fire and get warm. Now, where are my glasses?’

Johnny watched her search the room, which had more places to lose things than in his entire home.
She ran her hand along the bookshelves, shook out plump cushions, dug down the back of the soft sofa and shuffled through piles of newspapers and magazines. ‘I don’t know where they get to. I must have had them just before I came to answer the door. Now, let’s see. What was I doing when you arrived?’ She paused and thought back. ‘That’s it. I was sewing. I was sitting just where you are now.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Johnny, jumping up. ‘I didn’t know this was your chair.’

‘Don’t be silly. You’re my guest. You can sit where you like. Just forgive me a moment.’ Johnny heard her knees click as she bent down and scrabbled on the floor behind his feet. She pulled out a work basket. An old sock dangled from under the lid. ‘I remember now. I slid it there when the bell rang – just in case it was the vicar or someone like that. I wouldn’t want him to catch me darning holes!’

Johnny held the basket while Mrs Langford, sighing, hauled herself back up again. Then she took it back, and lifted out her spectacles. ‘If I had sixpence for every time I’ve lost these, I’d be a very rich woman,’ she joked. ‘I’ve seen people with their glasses on special strings round their necks. Rather an ageing effect, I’ve always thought. But
perhaps the time has come for me.’

Johnny was already mentally composing a new advert:
Never Lose Your Glasses Again
. He was wondering whether to send people real string, or just the suggestion that they could tie up their glasses themselves. Maybe he could charge more if he used coloured ribbon …

Mrs Langford straightened out Johnny’s cutting, and looked at it through her spectacles. ‘Oh, Umckaloabo. I’ve heard of this. There was a big row about it a few years ago. This Charles Stevens was struck off because of it.’

‘Struck off?’

Mrs Langford explained: ‘Struck off the Medical Register. It means the authorities took away his right to practise medicine. He’s not allowed to call himself a doctor any more. He was making wild claims about an unproven drug. He’s what we call a quack.’

‘A what?’

‘A quack. A fake doctor.’

‘They call me Quacky at school,’ said Johnny. ‘But it’s nothing to do with doctors. It’s because of my name: Swanson. It makes them think of ducks.’

‘That’s not very nice of them,’ said Mrs Langford. ‘But boys will be boys, I suppose. They called my
husband Longfeet when he was at school, because he was so tall.’

‘What’s all this?’ said Dr Langford, who had just entered the room. ‘Oh, hello, Johnny. I wasn’t expecting to see you. Nothing wrong, I hope?’

‘No,’ said Johnny miserably, unable to disguise his disappointment at finding that the advertisement was a trick.

Mrs Langford passed the cutting to her husband. ‘It’s Umckaloabo again,’ she said.

Dr Langford patted his pockets. ‘Can I borrow your glasses a minute?’ he asked. His wife passed them over, with a wink to Johnny. The doctor sighed. ‘So he’s still making money out of it. It’s a disgrace, giving false hope to worried people and pocketing the proceeds. I thought we’d seen the back of this Stevens character.’ Dr Langford was still reading the advertisement. ‘He lives a long way away. Wimbledon.’ He looked up at Johnny, grinning. ‘You know what Wimbledon is famous for, don’t you, son?’

Johnny shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me.’

‘Tennis.’ There was an awkward pause. The doctor seemed to be waiting for something. ‘Do you see? Do you get it? Has the penny dropped?’

‘I’m sorry?’ said Johnny, embarrassed and confused.

‘It’s just that … well … you know … this Umckaloabo stuff. It’s a Wimbledon racket.’ The doctor paused again. Eventually Johnny got the joke, and mustered a half-hearted laugh.

Mrs Langford threw the cutting on the fire.

‘I bet hundreds of people will answer that advertisement and pay good money for rubbish,’ said Dr Langford. ‘It’s not right.’

‘Why don’t you put your vaccine in the paper then?’ asked Johnny.

The room fell silent, and Mrs Langford gave her husband a stern look. The doctor, shamefaced, put a finger to his lips. ‘I shouldn’t have told you about that, Johnny. It’s absolutely secret. I could get into a great deal of trouble if anyone finds out what I’m doing.’

‘You mustn’t mention it to anyone,’ said Mrs Langford, trying to sound kind, but looking more agitated than Johnny had ever seen her. She turned to her husband, muttering something under her breath.

Johnny felt embarrassed, and cross with himself for getting the doctor into trouble with his wife. He interrupted. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. But I still don’t understand. Why is it all right for this man
Stevens to advertise something that doesn’t work, and against the law for you to sell something that does?’

‘Because real medicines have to be controlled, Johnny. Powerful drugs can do harm as well as good. You can bet your life that almost everything you see advertised in the paper is useless. You’d be astounded at what people will fall for in the small ads.’

Johnny didn’t say that he knew only too well. He could feel himself blushing as his mind flashed back to that moment by the canal, when he had last thought of his customers as real people who were being tricked. Dr Langford had put that feeling into words:
It’s a disgrace, giving false hope to worried people and pocketing the proceeds
.

Johnny wanted to get away from the awkward atmosphere. It wasn’t just his hidden shame over the adverts. He didn’t want to get trapped in between two quarrelling adults, and he felt guilty that he had made such nice old people angry with each other. ‘I think I’d better go home now,’ he said, as politely as he could. ‘I’m sorry to have troubled you.’

‘That’s quite all right, Johnny,’ said Dr Langford, showing him to the door. ‘I know you were only trying to help.’

‘I was thinking of Olwen,’ said Johnny. ‘I know it’s too late for your vaccine to work on her, but it sounded as if this Umb … Umber … whatever it’s called, might help. But if that’s no good, what will happen to her?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t say. I don’t even know exactly where she is. She’s not my patient. She’s probably not even ill at the moment. All I know is that she’s with relatives in Wales.’ The doctor lowered his voice. ‘Now remember, son. Mum’s the word. Don’t tell anyone about the vaccine. Understand?’

The door closed behind him, and Johnny could hear raised voices. He crept round to the drawing-room window, hoping to be able to make out what the Langfords were saying, but he could only catch fragments of the argument.

Mrs Langford was furious: ‘… couldn’t resist it … totally unnecessary risk.’

The doctor was trying to reassure her: ‘He won’t tell anyone … Who’s going to listen to a boy? … doesn’t know where the laboratory is.’