No Friend of Mine (3 page)

“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?

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.

“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.