by Ann Turnbull
He wondered why a boy from those big houses would need a den. No, not a den. What had Ralph called it? A hide-out. Lennie liked that word. It sounded as if they were in danger, like outlaws. Perhaps he was, in a way. But not Ralph – surely no one bullied Ralph?
“What do you do here?” asked Ralph.
“I haven’t done anything yet. I thought I could light a fire, and… and that…”
It was hard to explain what he wanted to do.
At the cinema he had seen films about cowboys and Indians. Lennie liked the Indians best; he liked the way they blended into the forest, the way they moved without sound, the signs and secret calls they made. He wanted to be an Indian.
“Look,” said Ralph.
A squirrel had darted into view on a nearby tree. It ran down the trunk, stopped, feet splayed, and launched itself lightly to land on the broken cottage wall. Ralph and Lennie both became still. The squirrel flicked its tail up and over in a tense curl, then sprang away again, up into the tree, leaping from branch to branch, and disappearing among the leaves.
Lennie said, “The boys at school throw stones at them.”
“That’s cruel,” said Ralph. “I used to watch them here, last summer. And birds. They come quite close if you keep still.”
Lennie scuffed at the hearthstones with his shoe. “Shall we light a fire?”
They went out to search for twigs and branches and came back laden; but the wood they had gathered was damp. They couldn’t get it to light, and Lennie had to sacrifice some of his precious paper, which flared up briefly. They threw on holly leaves and were rewarded with a brisk crackle.
“It was easier in the summer,” Ralph said. “No one ever came here. I explored all around. I know lots of places in the woods – I can show you, if you like. There’s a hollow tree you can get inside, and a mine shaft. I made signs to show the way.” He demonstrated, breaking twigs to make an arrow shape.
Lennie said, tentatively, “We could, you know, be people… Indians…”
Ralph understood at once. “Yes. Indian braves. We could make up names… we could make up a code with pictures – a wavy line for water, an exclamation mark for danger…”
Lennie realized the possibilities that sharing the den might bring. You could play better games with two. And Ralph didn’t go to the chapel school, so he didn’t know that Lennie got picked on and was never chosen for teams. Lennie could start again with him and be a different person, the sort of person he felt like inside.
Ralph said, “Look: you stay here and I’ll go and lay a trail. I’ll call when it’s done – ” he made an owl-like sound – “and then you must come and find me. Agreed?”
“OK.”
Ralph disappeared into the woods, more noisily than a real Indian brave would have done, but after a while there was silence.
Lennie took out a piece of paper and drew a picture of Indians creeping through a forest. It wasn’t very good. He scribbled it out. Instead he began to make up codes as Ralph had suggested. An apple meant “food”; a teepee meant you were “home” – he liked that.
There was no sound from Ralph. Lennie began to think it might all be a trick. Ralph was hiding; or he had gone home; or, perhaps, when he did call, he’d lie in wait and ambush Lennie and make him feel a fool.
Then he heard the call, an unconvincing daytime owl. He put down the paper and pencil and went off in the direction he had heard Ralph take, alert not only for signs but for shaking undergrowth and muffled laughter.
He found the first pointer, a stick arrow. Then a pile of pebbles, then a leaf with a thorn stuck through it, and a log with a newly gouged-out area of soft yellow wood. Further on, a stick arrow led him into brambles that scratched his knees. He blundered about, snapping more twigs than an Indian would have snapped in a lifetime. He couldn’t find anything. The unlikely owl-call came again, luring him further in.
He found three sticks freshly broken lying at the bottom of a tree. They didn’t seem to point anywhere. He looked up, and saw a foot in a black shoe and navy-blue sock.
Ralph dropped down.
“That sign collapsed,” he apologized. “It was meant to be pointing up the tree.” Then he added approvingly, “You were quick.”
Lennie felt great relief: Ralph wasn’t going to play tricks on him.
They walked back to the ruined cottage and threw more branches on the fire. Lennie showed Ralph his ideas for a picture code and they worked on it together.
Ralph fished in his pocket and drew out a tobacco tin. Inside were three cigarettes. He offered the tin to Lennie, who hesitated, taken aback.
“Don’t you smoke?”
“Yes, of course,” Lennie said hastily, although the couple of times he’d tried it he’d felt sick and couldn’t imagine why adults chose to do it. “Yes… it’s just… I mean, we usually collect stubs, you know, that people leave.” He looked at Ralph with awe. Three cigarettes. Three whole brand-new ones. “Did you buy them?”
Ralph laughed. “No. I acquired them.” He lit one, inhaled, blew out a smooth stream of smoke, and passed the cigarette to Lennie.
Lennie inhaled tentatively and felt himself turning paler. He tried not to cough. Ralph continued: “Susan, my sister, when she’s at home, she’ll get me to post letters or whatever, and pay me with a ciggy. And sometimes–” he grinned – “I find the odd one or two.”
The autumn chill had begun to penetrate Lennie’s thin jumper. “Let’s move,” he said.
They left the fire to die out and went exploring. Ralph showed Lennie an old mine shaft, uncapped, but clogged with earth and leaves. They jumped on the leaves, tempting danger; imagined falling in, discussed how long you could survive. Lennie found a chance to show off with his stories of mining disasters.
They came to the top of the steep hillside above the dale, and Ralph pointed out the chimneys and gables of his house – solid, red brick, with fancy twisted chimney-pots – rising from the trees below them.
Lennie caught a glimpse of smooth lawn, and a net. “You’ve got a tennis court,” he said.
“Oh, yes,” said Ralph. “Susan’s mad on tennis. Croquet, too.”
Lennie didn’t know what croquet was, but he nodded as if he did.
In the afternoon they parted, promising to bring things – marbles, cigarette cards – tomorrow. Lennie ran home happy. Ralph was his friend. He was a bit strange, and he talked funny, but he understood the sort of games that Lennie liked. The boys at school didn’t seem to matter any more, and in any case the whole half-term holiday was still to come.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lennie propped a row of cigarette cards against the wall of the cottage.
“You go first,” he said.
Ralph flicked his card at the row, trying to knock one down. He got one of Lennie’s: a film star – Gary Cooper. Lennie tried, and missed. But it didn’t matter. He’d won some already. And Ralph had missed on several turns. They were more or less equal. He was glad Ralph wasn’t completely superior like the boys at school.
“I’m collecting film stars,” said Ralph. “I’ve got lots of sets: cars, aviators, kings and queens. Oh – and birds. You can have that one if you like. I’ll bring it tomorrow. There’s an eagle, and gulls and things.”
They stayed in the cottage for a while, sharing a cigarette and swapping cards and marbles.
“Can you come back this afternoon?” Lennie asked.
Yesterday, Sunday, they had only met for an hour or so in the middle of the day. Ralph had to go to church on Sunday mornings. Lennie no longer went to chapel with Mum and Doreen, but every Sunday afternoon the whole family went to Aunty Elsie’s for tea.
Today Ralph said, “I can stay all day. They won’t miss me till dinner time.”
“It must be nearly dinner time now,” said Lennie. He’d only had a piece of bread and jam and a drink of water for breakfast.
Ralph looked puzzled. Then, “Oh, you mean lunch,” he said. “I brought something.” He produced a paper
bag containing a large slice of pork pie, a piece of cake and an apple. “Cook supplied me. You can share it if you like.”
“I’d better go home for dinner – lunch,” said Lennie. “I’ll come back, though.”
And he did. They explored the woodland, went down to the dale, crossed over and watched the goods trucks on the railway line on the other side, found a badger’s sett in the woods. They saw a few children from Lennie’s school but no one from his class. Lennie deliberately avoided the field where the boys played football, the riverside paths, the woods down Waters Lane.
It was Tuesday before they encountered Bert Haines.
“Hiya,” said Bert. He and Alan were on a bridge over a deep forested gully.
“Hiya,” said Lennie, without catching Bert’s eye. He knew Ralph was a protection. Bert didn’t know who he was, or what to make of him.
Lennie had intended to cross the bridge and go up the other side, but his courage failed him, even with Ralph there.
He muttered to Ralph, “I’ll show you the old pit shaft,” and led him away, up some rough steps and onto a woodland path.
“Friends of yours?” Ralph asked.
“Not really,” said Lennie. He wondered if Ralph had guessed about Bert and Alan.
On the edge of town, where there was an old mine shaft beside the road, they met some more boys. One of them was Peter Jones, from Lennie’s class. Peter was a quiet sort, not very bright; he’d never bothered Lennie. He was with his brother and some older boys. They had slid under the wires and were throwing stones down the shaft. Lennie and Ralph joined them. The other boys looked at Ralph but didn’t question him.
Lennie stared down the shaft. He threw a stone in and listened to the soft far-down plop as it hit water. One of the older boys heaved a brick over the edge. It fell with a satisfying rush, and Lennie saw spray fly up.
“Hey, you lads, away from there!”
The postman, cycling past, was gesturing to them.
Lennie, Peter and Ralph scrambled out. After a moment’s silent defiance, the older ones followed.
“Let’s go to the canal tunnel,” someone said, and they were off, up New Road into the woods at the top and across the Rough. Ralph was asked as they ran, “What’s your name?” and “Where do you live?” “The Dale,” he answered vaguely to this last, and they were satisfied, though Lennie knew they must have realized that Ralph was “one of the nobs”.
Peter, breathing hard as he ran, said, “My cousin saw a ghost in the tunnel.”
“He never!”
“He did. It had its head off.”
“A man was killed in there. A cart crushed him,” one of the older boys confirmed.
“Never had his head off, though, did he?”
“He might have.”
“No. If you get crushed it squeezes your chest, like, and breaks your ribs…”
“And there’s all blood,” added Peter with enthusiasm.
“But it wouldn’t take your head off.”
“It was a ghost,” Peter said, as if that explained it.
His brother made ghostly noises and they rolled about, mock fighting. The others joined in.
Lennie grew bored. He tugged at Ralph’s sleeve. “Let’s go back.”
“Can’t we see the tunnel?”
“It’s nothing. Just an old tunnel. A dead end. Come on.”
They ran off.
“You don’t know any of these places, do you?” Lennie asked.
“I’m not here much. Only in the holidays. My school’s in Gloucestershire.”
“Gloucester! That’s fifty-seven miles away!”
“Is it?” Ralph looked surprised. “Exactly fifty-seven?”
“Yes. Dad races the pigeons from there.”
“They fly there?”
“No, stupid. They fly home. Dad sends them to Gloucester on the train. At the other end they’re all released, and then they fly home. Don’t you know anything about pigeon racing?”
“Not much,” admitted Ralph. “Does your father win?”
“Quite often. He won with Blue Bar this summer. From France, that was. Rennes.”
Ralph stopped still. His eyes shone. “Lennie! If I took a pigeon with me when I go back to school on Saturday, it could fly home to you, couldn’t it?”
“Yes… If Dad didn’t mind. I don’t see why he should. It’s not too late in the year, although we’re not training them now because racing’s over till next spring. Shall I ask him?”
“Yes. Please. I’d love to do that.”
They passed Bert and Alan on their way back to the cottage, but this time Lennie walked by without feeling scared of them. He was thinking about Ralph’s school, puzzling over it.
“Why do they send you there?” he asked. “All the way to Gloucester?”
“Gloucestershire, not Gloucester. The school’s near Cheltenham. It’s supposed to be a good school, that’s why.”
“Supposed to be?”
“Well – I daresay it is.”
“Don’t you like it, then?”
“It’s not too bad. I get by. Do you like yours?”
Lennie shrugged.
Back at the hide-out they shared lunch: Lennie’s fish paste sandwiches and Ralph’s beef patties – “I persuaded Mrs Martin to give me extra rations for you,” Ralph said.
“I like her lemonade,” said Lennie.
“Good. I’ll tell her.”
They spent the rest of the day reading comics and writing each other messages in their secret code. When they parted, Ralph reminded Lennie, “You will ask your father, won’t you, about the pigeon?” And Lennie said yes, he would, but he felt a reluctance. After his initial enthusiasm, he had had second thoughts. What would Dad think about him having a friend who went to school in Gloucestershire? A bosses’ school?
CHAPTER FIVE
Lennie put off asking Dad about the pigeon. Dad was poorly, and bad-tempered because he couldn’t get about; he’d hoped to be back at his job in the lamp room at Springhill Pit this week.
I’ll ask him tomorrow, Lennie thought. There’s plenty of time; it’s only Tuesday.
On Wednesday they woke to rain. Lennie stared out at the blurry silhouette of the pithead against the sky, desperate to detect a gleam of blue. How could it rain when he’d planned to go to the hide-out? But the sky was solid grey and the rain battered the window-panes, heavy and relentless.
He decided to ignore it.
“Mum, can I make some sandwiches?” he asked, rummaging in the larder for the jar of bloater paste.
“You’re not going out in this!”
“It’ll soon stop.”
“Don’t be daft. It’s set for the day, this is.”
“But my friend will be waiting down the woods.”
“Surely not? Not in the pouring rain.”
Lennie had begun spreading margarine on bread. Mum took the bread away from him and put it back on the larder shelf.
“Mum!” he protested.
“What’s got into you, Lennie? I’ve told you: you’re not going out in this – not with your chest.”
“I’m not ill!”
Lennie was shouting. When would she ever understand that he wasn’t ill?
“You will be if you get soaked through.”
There was no arguing with her. He stomped upstairs.
Lennie’s favourite place for sulking was the tiny landing between the two bedroom doors. It was dark, and uncomfortable, and no one could see you there because the stairs curved just before the top. But today the space was occupied by Doreen, three dolls and a knitted rabbit. Doreen had chalked sums on a slate and was brandishing a ruler.
“You can’t come in my school,” she said; then looked up, hopeful: “Unless you’re the headmaster?”
“You’re in the way,” growled Lennie.
Doreen whacked one of the dolls with the ruler. “Sit up straight, Gladys.”
Lennie ran downstairs again and darted to the back door.
“Where are you going?” Mum demanded.
“See the pigeons.”
“Well, put your coat on.”
“It’s only down the garden.
“Put it on!”
It was easier to give in. Lennie grabbed his coat from the hook on the door and went out, tossing the coat over his shoulders as he ran down the path to the loft.
The loft was a haven. Dad’s hide-out. (Everyone needs a hide-out, Lennie thought.) But Dad wouldn’t be there at this time of day.
A contented cooing came from the tiered nest boxes inside. Bright eyes – red, dark brown, dark grey – regarded him with interest but no criticism. There was some shuffling and fluttering as he moved down the length of the loft, but the birds were used to him and didn’t panic. He spoke softly, greeting the ones he knew: Blue Bar, Amelia, Queenie, Boomerang, Speedwell.
Which one could he ask for to lend to Ralph? The more he thought about it the more he felt Dad wouldn’t like the idea. After all, Ralph might not take care of the bird properly, he might let other boys get hold of it. And yet. Lennie wanted to have something to show Ralph, something that was important to him.
He went to the door. Surely the rain was lighter now? He willed it to be. Leaving his coat in the loft he slipped out, closed the door carefully, and sprinted through the back gateway and down the lane.
Ralph was there, at the cottage. He’d brought a coat, but it wasn’t a droopy gaberdine mac like Lennie’s; it was a dark green oilskin, waxed, with a drawstring hood– the sort of thing you saw lifeboatmen wearing in pictures. Ralph had arranged it into a makeshift tent in the most sheltered corner of the cottage.
Lennie squelched across the muddy floor. The soles of his shoes had holes in and his socks felt oozy. He noticed that Ralph was wearing Wellington boots.
“It’s still pretty wet in here,” said Ralph, as Lennie squeezed in beside him. He smelt of wet wool. “We could go to my house if you like.”
Lennie wasn’t sure. That big house with the fancy chimney-pots – how could he go in there?
And yet he was curious.
“All right,” he said.
Ralph led the way.
