No Friend of Mine

by Ann Turnbull

  “Haven’t you got a coat?” he asked. “Or are you too poor?”

  Lennie was indignant. “No,” he said. “I just forgot it.”

  Ralph was strange, he thought. None of the Culverton boys wore coats; it was considered unmanly. Not that Ralph was wearing his; he was using it more like an umbrella, and trying to include Lennie under its cover. And Lennie liked the oilskin; he liked its sticky waxed surface and the way the water formed into droplets and rolled off it.

  By the time they had slithered down the steep track to the house, Lennie’s shoes felt heavy with mud. He looked at them apprehensively as they approached the red-tiled back doorstep.

  “Better leave our shoes in the scullery,” said Ralph. He stepped out of his boots just inside the door, and hung up the oilskin.

  Lennie took off his shoes and followed Ralph, leaving damp footprints on the tiles. He felt conscious of the holes in his socks.

  The scullery led into a huge kitchen with a table in the centre and rows of pots hung on the walls. A woman was mixing pastry at the table while behind her a girl was washing up with a great deal of splashing.

  Ralph went in ahead of Lennie, and Lennie saw the woman look up. She had blonde curls and a warm smile.

  “I thought you’d soon be back,” she said. “Do you want —”

  She paused, seeing Lennie.

  “I’ve brought my friend,” said Ralph. He introduced them mock formally: “Mrs Martin – Lennie. Lennie – Mrs Martin.”

  “Hello, Lennie.”

  The smile was no longer warm. The mouth had tightened, and Lennie sensed hostility behind the greeting. He felt Mrs Martin’s quick glance taking in his thinness, his darned jumper, the holes in his socks. She knew he had no right here.

  The girl at the sink had stopped splashing and turned round. She was about fourteen, but she stared at Lennie open-mouthed like a small child. Lennie saw that she was simple. He felt a shrinking inside. There was a boy lived near Aunty Elsie who was like that. The other children often jeered at him; Lennie wouldn’t do that, but he always kept his distance.

  “Stella, dear, don’t stare,” said Mrs Martin.

  She offered hot chocolate and buns, saying to Lennie, as she handed him his plate, “You look as if you could do with building up, Lennie.”

  The bun was fresh, brown and sticky, lavishly buttered. The hot chocolate filled Lennie with warmth, but Mrs Martin’s eyes didn’t. He imagined her, this evening, going to Ralph’s mother and saying, “I don’t know if I ought to mention this, madam, but did you know that Ralph is associating with boys of a common sort…”

  If Ralph noticed the atmosphere he didn’t show it. He wiped crumbs from his face with the back of his hand, smiled at Mrs Martin and said, “Super. Lennie, come on up to my room.”

  Reluctant under Mrs Martin’s gaze, Lennie followed.

  The kitchen led to a passage with tiles patterned in red, blue and brown, and then to blue-carpeted stairs. Lennie’s feet sank into softness. He had never seen so much carpet. The stairs were wide and shallow with mahogany banisters, and a broad sweeping curve as different from the twist in the stairs at home as it was possible to imagine. The carpet continued across an expanse of landing surrounded by dark panelled doors. Ralph opened one of the doors and led Lennie into a big airy room overlooking the tennis court and the wooded hillside beyond.

  There was lino on the floor, but it was new, not cracked and patched like the lino at home. The room was cluttered with books, pictures, games. Model aeroplanes hung on strings from the ceiling. There was a cricket bat in a corner, there was a stack of boxed games: Ludo, Snakes and Ladders, Monopoly, Chinese Chequers. And books! A whole shelf of them, all Ralph’s. Robinson Crusoe, Tales of King Arthur, The Children of the New Forest, The Boy’s Book of Heroes…

  “Can I look at your books?” Lennie asked.

  He liked the King Arthur best, with its detailed drawings of forests and castles, wild boar, horses and falcons.

  “You can borrow it if you like,” said Ralph.

  But Lennie wouldn’t dare; it looked too precious.

  They spent the morning playing Monopoly. Lennie had never played before, and Ralph won, collecting all the houses, all the rents, all the money. Lennie liked the “chance” cards; they seemed his only hope, but they didn’t save him.

  At around one o’clock Ralph said, “I’m hungry.”

  “I didn’t bring any food,” said Lennie. “Mum wouldn’t let me come out.”

  He described his escape, exaggerating it, making it sound like an adventure.

  They went back to the kitchen. As they passed through the hall Ralph picked up a gold cigarette case from the polished table and looked inside. He took a cigarette from the six there and slid it up the sleeve of his jersey. He grinned at Lennie. “Finders keepers.”

  Mrs Martin gave them slices of pie, apples, and lemonade made with sherbert powder stirred in a jug. Stella ate with them. Lennie was uncomfortable with her, but Ralph talked to her and cracked jokes, making her laugh.

  Back in Ralph’s room, Lennie said, “That girl – Stella—”

  “She’s Mrs Martin’s daughter. They live in.”

  “She’s mental.”

  “Does she scare you?”

  “Not scare exactly…”

  “She can’t help it.”

  “Oh, I know. I didn’t mean.” Lennie felt guilty.

  “Look, it’s stopped raining,” said Ralph. “Come and view the estate.”

  “What?”

  “See the garden, dope. We can play cricket if you like.”

  Lennie wished they could go back to the woods, but it seemed rude to say so. He followed Ralph down the stairs, and as they reached the bottom the front door opened and a woman came in.

  Ralph’s mother.

  Lennie knew at once that it was her. The grey tweed coat, heavy and expensive-looking; the quick, appraising glance at Lennie. He tensed. She wouldn’t want him here; he’d be in trouble now.

  But Mrs Wilding merely took off her hat and exclaimed, “Goodness, what a change in the weather!”

  She moved towards them, pulling leather gloves from her smooth white hands. “And who’s your friend, Ralph?”

  None of Mrs Martin’s coldness. If she disapproved, she hid it.

  “Hello, Lennie,” she said. Her smile was like Ralph’s.

  And it was only as she moved to go upstairs and Ralph and Lennie headed for the scullery, that Lennie, glancing back, saw her catch Ralph’s eye and raise her eyebrows.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Thought I’d take a look at the birds today,” Dad said the next morning. “Check the moult. Start thinking about culling and pairing. Do you want to help, Lennie?”

  Lennie didn’t know what to say. Mary was the one who usually helped Dad. She’d always been interested; “pigeon-mad”, Mum would say. And no doubt as soon as Mary got home this afternoon she’d join Lennie and Dad in the loft. He ought to jump at the chance. But—

  “I’m going out,” he said. “I promised this friend.”

  “Who’s that, then?”

  To Lennie’s relief, Dad seemed pleased, not offended; perhaps he had guessed that Lennie didn’t often have friends to meet.

  “I met him down the woods. His name’s Ralph. He doesn’t go to our school.”

  “Oh?” Dad looked up. “C. of., is he?”

  Lennie knew Dad was thinking of Victoria Road School, where the churchgoers’ children went. He didn’t feel able to explain about – where was it? – Cheltenham. Not yet. When he asked for a pigeon he’d have to; and Ralph had reminded him again yesterday; but still he put it off.

  “He’s clever,” said Lennie. “Knows a lot of things, like.” He thought of the Latin swear words Ralph had taught him.

  Dad seemed pleased. “Well, if you get on together. Some of the lads round here.” He shook his head. Dad was clever, read books, studied politics, could out-talk anyone at political meetings. The bosses hated him. “It’
s education.” He began wheezing. “Education’s our weapon against the ruling classes, Lennie.” He pointed to the stack of leaflets on the dresser. “That little lot’ll get old Wilding’s back up.”

  Lennie felt a small shock explode in his mind.

  Wilding. George Wilding. The villain. Owner of Springhill, Old Hall, and several other pits in the area. George Wilding, Unionbasher, stinking rich, with a car, and a big house – and probably fancy chimney-pots and a tennis court too.

  It couldn’t be. George Wilding was the enemy. He was mean, but Ralph—

  He said, aloud, “Ralph’s always giving me things. He gave me all his old comics. He gets The Dandy and The Beano.”

  “Does he? Lucky lad.”

  Dad’s attention went back to the pigeons. He started talking about last summer’s races, and which birds he thought he’d pair up for next season. Lennie half listened. At the back of his mind all the time was the thought: Ralph can’t be George Wilding’s son. He can’t be.

  His mind brimmed with questions as he ran down Love Lane and into the woods. He had to ask Ralph at once, had to find out if it was true.

  But Ralph wasn’t there.

  Lennie felt foreboding. Ralph had always been the first to arrive. Still, it was early. He gathered sticks for a fire, walked several times out of sight of the cottage and back again, each time hoping to find Ralph there on his return, each time disappointed.

  He decided to light the fire, but the wood was damp and it wouldn’t catch. He got out his paper and pencils and tried to invent some more code symbols, but he was too restless. He put them away and paced around the cottage.

  It was obvious Ralph wasn’t coming. Lennie was sure it was something to do with yesterday. Mrs Wilding must have told Ralph he wasn’t to meet Lennie. Or she’d told his father, and George Wilding, who hated miners, had told him to stay in. But would that keep Ralph in? It wouldn’t keep me in, Lennie thought. He felt slighted.

  He looked around the cottage. When he’d first found it, he’d thought of it as a secret place where he could be alone. Now, that idea held no charm for him. He slouched home.

  Dad was in the pigeon loft.

  “What’s up, Lennie?”

  “My friend didn’t come.”

  Dad gave him a sympathetic look. “Never mind. Give me a hand with these birds.”

  Ralph wasn’t at the cottage on Friday either. Lennie waited, increasingly hopeless. What could have happened? Perhaps he couldn’t get away. But Ralph didn’t seem the sort to let anyone stop him. He’d sneak out somehow. Perhaps he simply didn’t want to come.

  Lennie left the cottage and wandered towards the dale until he was in sight of the chimney-pots of Ralph’s house. On an impulse he scrambled down the slope, went in through the back garden gate and up to the back door. In the distance a gardener turned and looked at him.

  Lennie knocked on the door. His heart thumped.

  Mrs Martin opened the door.

  “Oh, Lennie,” she said. She didn’t smile.

  Lennie refused to be intimidated. “Is Ralph in?” he asked.

  “Master Ralph,” said Mrs Martin, lightly emphasizing the first word, “is spending the day with his father at work; he’ll be going into the family business when he has finished his education.”

  Lennie wasn’t interested in Ralph’s future, only in today. “When will he be back?”

  “He’ll be there all day, and tomorrow he’s going back to school. You won’t be seeing him again, I’m afraid.”

  The sympathetic words were belied by the satisfaction in her voice. Lennie fumbled for the right thing to say. “Well – tell him – tell him…”

  “I’m not a messenger,” said Mrs Martin. “You’d better run along now, Lennie. I can’t help you.”

  Lennie turned away. A gulf seemed to have opened between him and Ralph. He heard Mrs Martin shut the door. The gardener was still staring.

  I hate these people, Lennie thought; they think I’m nothing.

  He ran to the gate and out into the woods. Back at the cottage he kicked the remains of the fire. It was boring without Ralph. He picked up his mug and tin and took them home.

  Mum was in the back garden, pegging out washing.

  “What’s got into you, then?”

  “Nothing.”

  He went indoors, and sat on the stairs reading comics.

  Mum came in, cleared the table, and spread a thick cloth on it for ironing. Lennie noticed her hands – red and roughened, with splits around the nails. He remembered Ralph’s mother pulling the gloves from her white hands.

  I don’t belong there, he thought.

  “You’re a funny one,” said Mum. “One minute you can’t wait to dash out in the pouring rain, and now it’s fine you’re mooching indoors.” She folded a pillowcase. “You could help your dad with the pigeons.”

  “I helped yesterday.”

  The pigeons no longer interested him. Nothing did.

  The next morning he woke to the sound of pounding feet overhead and raised voices. Mary and Phyl were arguing again.

  He got up, and packed away his bed.

  Upstairs a door slammed and footsteps thundered down the stairs. Phyl’s voice was a shriek, Mum’s – in the kitchen – placating.

  “…creased all down the front!” Lennie heard Phyl say. “I laid it that careful on the chair and in she comes and throws her things down anyhow—”

  “It’ll iron out, Phyl,” Mum said.

  From upstairs came a bellow from Mary. As Lennie stepped into the kitchen a pair of shoes came flying down accompanied by Mary’s voice: “And those, as well. She’s taking over the whole room!”

  Mum shook her head, and turned to Lennie. “The sooner Phyl’s married and out of this place the better. The house is bursting at the seams.”

  Phyl was at the foot of the stairs now, yelling abuse at her sister. Mary yelled back.

  A loud knocking made everyone jump.

  Mum clutched at her heart. “Lord, is that the front door? Who’d come knocking at the front door, for heaven’s sake?”

  The front door was never used, being blocked by a table and a thick curtain to keep out draughts. Everyone used the back door, and nobody knocked. The neighbours called, “Coo-ee!” and the better sort – the doctor or the minister – just walked in.

  Lennie ran to the front room window and looked out. On the doorstep stood Ralph. Lennie felt instantly alive again. He banged on the window, pointing towards the passage.

  “It’s my friend!” he exclaimed, bounding across the kitchen and out of the back door.

  He met Ralph halfway down the passage. Their voices rang under the brick arch. Ralph said, “I’m going back to school today. I had to come. I’ve been with my father—”

  “Mrs Martin told me,” said Lennie.

  “Two whole days at Old Hall, in the offices,” said Ralph. “Absolutely dire. I brought you this.”

  He handed Lennie the King Arthur book.

  Lennie stepped back. “I can’t!”

  “Just to borrow,” said Ralph. “It’ll only sit in my room till Christmas. Go on.”

  Lennie took it. He looked around. Should he ask Ralph in? Mum would fuss. She’d show Ralph into the front room. It would be awful.

  He gestured to the back garden, where Dad was already pottering in the loft.

  “The pigeons?” said Ralph. “Did you ask your father?”

  “Not yet,” confessed Lennie. He felt a spurt of anger. “Didn’t think I’d see you again, did I? You never left a message.”

  “I couldn’t. He took me off so early. Can we ask your father now?”

  “All right,” said Lennie. “Dad!” he called. “Here’s my friend – Ralph.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ralph stepped forward and held out his hand. “Good morning, Mr Dyer.”

  He’s just like an adult, Lennie thought, impressed. Dad, by contrast, seemed unusually awkward. He wiped his hand on his trousers before taking Ralph’s.<
br />
  “Pleased to meet you, Ralph.”

  “Can Ralph see the pigeons?” Lennie asked.

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” said Dad.

  He led the way into the loft.

  Ralph gazed around at the tiers of cooing pigeons.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve been in a pigeon loft before, young man?” Dad asked. His voice sounded odd, Lennie thought, falsely jocular; he had never seen his father so ill at ease.

  “No, I haven’t.” Ralph began to ask questions: how far the birds flew, what they ate, what they were called, how the race system worked. Soon Dad had relaxed and began talking animatedly. He let Ralph hold a pigeon, showing him how to contain its fluttering. Lennie was glad he hadn’t asked Dad before about lending one to Ralph. He suspected that Dad wouldn’t have liked the idea. But now Ralph’s enthusiasm would surely win him over.

  Ralph had already caught Lennie’s eye a couple of times.

  “Dad,” said Lennie, “Ralph’s going back to school this morning, over Cheltenham way. Could he take a pigeon with him and send it back?”

  “Cheltenham?” said Dad. He paused; looked at Ralph. Ralph smiled eagerly.

  “Oh, no,” said Dad. “No, I’m afraid not. These are racing pigeons; worth a bit of money. Can’t just send odd ones off on a whim.” He frowned at Lennie. “You should know that.”

  “Just this once,” pleaded Lennie. He couldn’t explain to Dad how important it felt. “They’re not training now. It wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Some haven’t finished moulting.”

  “Only one or two.” Lennie was glad he’d helped out in the loft the other day. “There’s Blue Cloud. She’s in good feather.”

  Dad sighed. “Well – if you’re careful of her, Ralph…”

  “Oh, I would be!” exclaimed Ralph. “And I’d send her straight back. I wouldn’t let the masters see her. Just the boys in the dorm – a quick look—”

  A slight, anxious frown crossed Dad’s face.

  Ralph added hastily, “Most of the boys won’t be there till Sunday night. I’ll send her back today. I promise.”

  “Tomorrow morning,” said Dad. “That’s a better time. I’ll give you some feed for tonight. Give her a drink just before you release her, but no food, mind, else you’ll never get rid of her. And no handling. She’s not one of my best birds, but if any harm was to come to her…”