No Friend of Mine (2 page)

“Well, Lennie, how’s school?”

“All right.”

“Miss Neale pleased with you?”

“She likes my drawings.”

“Oh.” Lennie could tell Dad wasn’t interested in drawings. No one they knew made a living by drawing.

“She says I could get a job in a drawing office. In Birmingham, she says.”

“As long as you keep out of that pit,” said Mum.

Dad agreed, but Lennie knew it was for different reasons. Mum was worried about Lennie’s health – the coal dust on his lungs – but Dad wanted him to get on, get a well-paid job.

Lennie didn’t think much about jobs; few people did in Culverton. Boys went down the mine, girls went to the tile or china works – or served in a shop, like Phyl.

Dad had begun wheezing again. Lennie seized his opportunity and fled to the front room.

“Don’t go making a mess in there,” Mum called.

Doreen followed him in.

“Want to play Ludo?”

“No.”

“Snakes and Ladders?”

Lennie liked playing with Doreen, but tonight he had decided to punish her for telling Mum about the gang.

“I’m busy,” he said, rummaging behind the settee for his things. “Go away.”

Doreen sat on the floor and picked up a red-and-white swirled marble, turning it in the light. “I’ve got no one to play with.”

“Go and play with Rosie Lloyd.”

“I don’t like her. She smells of wee.”

“That’s rude.”

“It’s true. Anyway, she never understands things properly.”

Lennie knew what Doreen meant; Rosie was slow-witted, couldn’t be much fun to play with.

But he hadn’t time for Doreen now. He was thinking about the ruined cottage, how he’d go there tomorrow, what he’d need. Matches were important; he must have a fire. And the tin mug that Dad used to take to work; no one would miss that…

Someone was there.

He knew as soon as he entered the cottage, even before he saw the jersey – dark blue, unfamiliar – lying on the broken wall.

He felt wary, like a cat trespassing on another’s territory. He glanced around. Someone had rearranged the stones of the hearth and dropped a cigarette stub nearby.

He turned back to the door – and found the entrance blocked.

A boy: taller and bigger than Lennie, but about the same age. He had dark hair, and although he was pale-skinned it was not the frail undernourished pallor of some of the children at Lennie’s school. There was something different about him. Lennie couldn’t think what it was. He looked ordinary enough, and yet. Was it his stance, his expression? Confidence. As if he belonged here and Lennie didn’t.

He came in, and Lennie stepped back.

“This is my hide-out,” the boy said.

Not aggressively. A statement of fact. His accent was strange: posh.

And that was what was different about his clothes, Lennie realized. They were plain but there were no darns or patches. They fitted, too, as if they had been bought for him.

“I found this place,” said Lennie. “I found it yesterday.”

“I found it last summer.”

Lennie thought of the piled dead leaves, the ashes in the hearth. “You haven’t been back, though, not for a long time.”

“I’ve been at school.”

The boy spoke as if this were an obvious reason for his not having been back. It wasn’t obvious to Lennie. He’d been at school too.

The boy shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. No one owns it, do they?”

Lennie felt a surge of relief; he’d been tensing for a confrontation. And he knew he wouldn’t have won. Not just because this boy was bigger, but because of the way he talked, because of everything about him.

“I brought my stuff,” Lennie said, setting down a battered tin and Dad’s enamel mug.

The boy squatted next to him. “What’s in the tin?”

“Oh – just things.”

The tin contained marbles, conkers, matches and a pencil, but on top of these Lennie had laid his bits of paper, some with drawings on them.

“Let’s see,” the boy urged.

Reluctantly Lennie took off the lid. He tried to push the drawings aside, but the boy seized them.

“Did you do these?”

“Yes.”

“Awfully good. Especially the bird.”

Lennie felt pleased. The drawing was of one of Dad’s pigeons, Speedwell. He’d sketched her when he was in the loft with Mary. Speedwell was preening, one wing extended, the long feathers fanned out. He had drawn her quickly, catching the essence of her form.

“My dad races pigeons,” he said. “I draw them a lot.”

“Is your father a miner?”

“Yes. But he doesn’t work underground any more. He’s got the dust.”

“The dust?”

“You know. The coal dust. It’s in his lungs. He wheezes all the time.”

“Oh. Where do you live?”

“Forty-seven Lion Street.”

“What’s your name?”

This felt like an interrogation. Why couldn’t
he
ask a question?

“Lennie Dyer.” He added quickly, “What’s yours?”

“Ralph Wilding. I live back there.” He gestured towards the other side of the woods.

Lennie understood. “Above the dale? The gentry houses?”

Ralph half smiled. Lennie was not sure whether he was amused or embarrassed by the description.

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.

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.