No Friend of Mine (5 page)

“He’s not a bit like his father!” Lennie retorted. “He can’t help it if he’s George Wilding’s son, can he?”

“No, of course he can’t,” said Mum. “And there’s good and bad in everyone. Even you’ve said, Tom, that Wilding’s fair in his dealings.”

“Aye, he’s fair. What he says he’ll do, he’ll do. Stickler for the letter. But he’s a hard man. Expects everyone to come up to his standards.” He laughed, shortly. “I wouldn’t like to be his son. His only son. Wilding must take some living up to.”

Mum said, “How’s he going to feel about Lennie going round there? He’s got no time for you, has he?”

Lennie knew Mum was thinking of Dad’s Union activities and his claim for compensation for the dust disease. The colliery were denying liability and saying Dad had bronchitis.

“Oh, he wouldn’t take it out on the child,” Dad assured her.

“But he won’t like it…”

She regarded Lennie anxiously.

Lennie felt angry and miserable. He said, “Well, it doesn’t matter, any road, because Ralph has gone back to school now and he won’t be home till Christmas and that’s ages and ages away.”

And on Monday, he was thinking,
he’d
be back at school too. And Bert Haines would be waiting for him.

“Where did you get these?” Ken Forton demanded. “You never won them, did you?”

The row of cigarette cards propped along the ledge outside the boy’s toilets contained unfamiliar cards, not part of the well-known pack that circulated amongst the Culverton boys.

“I did,” asserted Lennie. “I won them.”

“Who off?”

“My friend.”

Lennie became aware that Bert, Alan and Reggie were on the edge of the group listening. He longed to grab his cards quickly, and get away. But he couldn’t; that would be cheating. They were in the middle of a game – himself, Ken Forton, Martin Reid and Peter Jones. He had to see it through.

“What friend’s that?” asked Ken.

The enemy were standing close to Lennie now – Bert in front, Alan and Reggie a step or two behind. Lennie was reminded of a photo he’d seen in the newspaper the other day. It had been of Oswald Mosley, the British fascists’ leader, walking in a London street with two of his followers looming behind him. Bert was like that, Lennie thought. A fascist.

Bert said, “It’s that posh twit you were with in the woods last week, isn’t it? He’s your friend.”

“Yes!” crowed Alan. “He was with this posh twit, Ken. We heard him talk,”

“Who’s that, then?” Ken asked.

“No one,” said Lennie.

“Posh twit was a ghost!” spluttered Alan, laughing and staggering against Reggie.

“Who was it?” Ken persisted. “What’s his name?”

“Ralph,” muttered Lennie.

“Ralph!” exclaimed Bert in delight. “Walf! Lennie’s posh fwend is called Walf!” Cries of “Walf! Walf!” came from Reggie and Alan, degenerating to “Woof! Woof!”

“Leave him alone,” Martin said wearily. And Ken said, “Clear off, Haines. We’re trying to have a game here.”

The three faced him. Bert strutted. “Who are you telling to clear off?”

But Ken wasn’t intimidated and Lennie could see that it was only a gesture, a show of strength before they drifted away.

The bell clanged for the end of break.

“You don’t want to let Bert Haines push you around,” said Ken, sorting the cards and handing Lennie’s back to him.

But how do I stop him? thought Lennie. How is it that Ken can tell Bert Haines to clear off when I can’t even look at him without getting a fist in my face?

By dinner time everyone knew about Lennie’s friend, and there was speculation about who he was. The girls, normally a species apart who despised anything of concern to boys, picked up on the mystery and gave it their full attention. They whispered together during the handwriting lesson; suspicions were exchanged, gossip passed on. “I’ve
seen
him with Lennie. It’s him, honest.” “Never!” “It is.” A rumour began to circulate: he’s old Wilding’s son.

Lennie kept his head low. How did they know? Why did girls always know things like that?

By home time Lennie had scarcely a friend in the school yard. Nearly all the children at the chapel school were from miners’ families. “Stuck-up,” the girls said, tossing their hair. “Thinks he’s better than us.” The boys were more imaginative: “Toad.” “Creep.” “Arse-licker.” And, not the most appropriate word but the worst they knew, “Scab.”

Scab. Lennie was mortified. No one in his family had ever been called that before. A feeling of disaster overwhelmed him. What had he done? He’d just met Ralph by accident. It was all an accident. It had been bad enough at home, everyone talking about it. Even Mary had said, “You don’t want to get mixed up with that sort.” Mary, who usually took his part.

Now, in the school yard, he turned to his accusers. “I just met him. I didn’t know who he was.”

“Thought he was a miner, did you?” sneered Bert. “Sounds like one, doesn’t he?”

And Reggie said, “We’ll get you, Dyer.”

Margaret Palmer mentioned last Sunday’s sermon, when the Reverend Sinclair had preached the brotherhood of man and spoken out against Hitler and the fascists in Britain who were stirring up trouble against the Jews.

“Dyer’s not a Jew, he’s a scab,” yelled Bert.

But a few others, who didn’t know what a Jew was, latched eagerly on to the new word and shouted, “Jew! Jew!” at Lennie.

“I’m telling Miss,” said Margaret Palmer.

And Lennie knew she would. So tomorrow would be worse than today.

Mum was at the sink, peeling carrots.

Lennie hung up his coat without a word.

“What’s up with you?”

“Nothing.” Lennie kept his head down.

She turned round. “Are those boys picking on you again?”

“No!” said Lennie, too loudly.

He went into the front room and got out his tin from behind the settee. Inside was the message he had taken yesterday from under Blue Cloud’s ring. He scuttled upstairs to his space on the landing to read it again.

Ralph’s note was on a torn-off piece of school’s headed notepaper. Lennie smoothed it out. It gave the address in fine black copperplate:
Glaydon Manor School, Burwood, near Cheltenham, Glos. Headmaster: Mr J. A. H. Rolleson, BA, MA, Ph.D
. And underneath, a pencilled message: “Released Blue Cloud 10.23 a.m. 31.10.37. Write to me. Ralph.”

Write to me. Yesterday had been such a good day, helping Dad tidy the loft, feeding and tending the birds, and every so often stopping to watch the sky for Blue Cloud.

By midday he had been getting anxious. But then, from nowhere it seemed, a whirr of wings, a dark shape dropping down, wings folded, and she was home. He had gone into the loft, caught and calmed her, pulled the twist of paper from under her ring.

Write to me. Lennie had been full of enthusiasm. He’d wanted to write straight away: “Received Blue Cloud.” But there was no writing paper in the house, only opened-out backs of envelopes. He couldn’t write to Glaydon Manor School on one of those. There were no stamps either. He’d have to wait till Monday.

And now Monday had come and he didn’t want to write. Ralph was no good for him. It had made things worse having Ralph for a friend. Mary was right. He should have stuck to his own.

Lennie woke up next morning with a pain in his stomach like an iron ball. He didn’t want any breakfast.

“You must eat before you go to school,” said Mum.

“I don’t want to go to school. I don’t feel well.”

Dad spoke sharply. “You look all right to me.”

Lennie knew that Dad thought Mum fussed over him too much. He thought so too but sometimes he wanted her to fuss. He considered his symptoms and felt vague nausea.

“I feel sick as well,” he said.

“He does look pale.” Mum felt Lennie’s forehead. “No fever though. You’re not worrying about school, are you? Those boys that bully you?”

“Who’s been bullying him?” Dad demanded.

“No one,” said Lennie.

“I know they have,” said Mum. “Doreen said. Bert Haines and his mates.”

“That idiot!” said Dad scornfully. “You don’t want to be scared of him, Lennie.”

“I’m not,” insisted Lennie. “I just don’t feel well. I think I might have food poisoning.”

“Food poisoning!”

Mum looked offended and Lennie realized he’d said the wrong thing.

“Well, it might be dysentery.” He’d read about dysentery somewhere.

Dad burst out laughing. “It’s anxiety you’ve got, Lennie. And you’ll only get over it by going in and confronting those bullies.”

Lennie toyed with his cereal.

“Maybe he should have a day off,” Mum wavered. “He’s not strong.”

“You let him stay off and it’ll be worse for him when he goes back,” said Dad. “You know I’m right, Lina. If there’s anything really wrong with him they’ll send him home.”

So Lennie was dispatched, breakfast-less. His mother called out anxiously, “Don’t forget your coat.”

Lennie walked slowly. The pain dragged at his stomach.

Two doors along, Mrs Richards had a thick privet hedge bordering her garden. Lennie took off his coat and dropped it down between the hedge and the wall. He’d collect it on the way home.

The way home – half past three. It felt like the other side of a mountain he had to climb.

Margaret Palmer must have told the headmaster about Lennie’s problems because Mr Walters made a warning speech in assembly about bullying. He didn’t mention Lennie by name, and he wrapped it all up in a lot of stuff about tolerance and fair play and the things that were going on in Nazi Germany because bullies had got the upper hand; but everyone knew it was a warning to Bert and his mates to behave themselves – at least in school.

At break time Mr Walters patrolled the yard, and at home time he stood by the gate, staring down the road towards the Red Lion, giving Lennie time to run past.

Lennie was safe. But he didn’t feel safe. He felt singled out, different, and he wanted to be the same as everyone else. The pain in his stomach persisted all week.

Miss Neale made things worse, noticing him. When they had Art she showed the class his painting and pinned it on the wall. All through his time at school Lennie had never let on that he knew the answer to anything, never put his hand up or looked keen. But Miss Neale would try to draw him out. “Lennie, now I’m sure
you
know.”

Sometimes he longed for the return of Miss Lidiard, who had found him irritating and had constantly snapped at him to sit up and pay attention.

On Friday a letter came from Ralph: “Did Blue Cloud get home safely? I’ve been waiting for you to write…”

Lennie felt guilty. Ralph was his friend; he should have written to him. And yet… he wanted so much to be one of the crowd at school.

He went off reluctantly that morning, but it turned out to be a better day. For one thing, it was Guy Fawkes Night and everyone was talking about the bonfire that had been built on the Rough; there would be fireworks, and potatoes baked in the embers. And then there was talk of the pantomime. The headmaster made the announcement in assembly. The school would be putting on a performance of
Cinderella
in January. Miss Quimby was in charge. Everyone was to have a part; the little children would be fairies or mice; the older ones would have the leading parts. There was too much to talk about for anyone to have time to torment Lennie. He ran home unscathed.

Doreen was there, pirouetting on the hearthrug; she had already decided that she wanted to be a fairy.

“Daft,” said Lennie, and retreated to the front room. When he emerged at tea time Phyl was washing her hair in the sink and Mary had gone for fish and chips. Dad was writing, papers spread out over the table.

“You’d better get all this cleared away now, Tom,” Mum was saying, a mixture of pride and irritation in her voice. “Pit-head baths,” she explained to Lennie. “A bit late for us. We could do with a bath here, though.”

“We’ve got one,” said Dad. “Hanging on the wall out back.”

“No. I mean a bathroom. A proper bath where the water drains away. Where Phyl could wash her hair without dripping all over the kitchen. And an inside privy. Mrs Miller, that I take in sewing for, she’s having a bathroom put in. I’d like that, if we had the money. Mary says that if there’s a war there’ll be jobs for married women. Real jobs, in factories and that.”

Dad looked up. “You don’t want to work in a factory, Lina? Making weapons. You don’t want a war?”

Mum looked shamefaced. “I suppose not. But it’d be a change, wouldn’t it, from taking in mending?”

“Will there be a war, Dad?” Lennie asked.

There was always talk of war these days, on the radio, in the papers, even at home. And they’d had a gas mask drill at school last term.

Before Dad could reply, the back door opened and in came Mary, carrying a bag full of warm fragrant newspaper packages which she unloaded on the table.

“Make the most of it,” she said, as the family crowded around. “We might be coming out soon.”

“What? Oh, Mary! Not a strike!” Mum protested. “Not with your dad off sick.”

“It isn’t up to me. It’s the Union. Management won’t back down. They’re planning to cut wages all round – just before Christmas, too.”

“And my birthday, next week.” Doreen’s voice was strident. She wanted roller skates.

“Don’t worry about your birthday, love,” said Phyl. “I’m still in work, Mum. We won’t starve.”

“I’m not taking your wages.”

Mum always refused to take money from Phyl. Phyl was engaged and supposed to be saving for her future.

“You might have to,” said Phyl.

Doreen was wriggling on her chair, eager to regain her parents’ attention. She jumped in as soon as Phyl stopped talking. “Me and Lennie, we need our pocket money. So we can buy some fireworks to take to the Rough.”

Mum smiled and went to get her purse. “Here you are.” She put down fourpence for Lennie and twopence halfpenny for Doreen. Doreen pocketed her share quickly and began chattering about fireworks. Lennie didn’t listen. He was mentally dividing up his fourpence. He wouldn’t buy a comic this week; that way he could buy more fireworks. So there was a halfpenny for sweets, twopence for fireworks – and a penny halfpenny for a stamp. Because when they came home after the bonfire he was going to write to Ralph.