No Friend of Mine

by Ann Turnbull

  “That one should be on the stage,” said Mum. “Now, look after her, won’t you, Lennie? And keep your coats on – it’s bitter out. Look, put this scarf round—”

  “No!” protested Lennie, twisting away.

  “Oh, between the two of you – now here’s Phyl wanting her tea.”

  Phyl came in pink from the cold. She was warming her hands at the fire when Doreen reappeared, in fawn socks, and began explaining her troubles.

  Phyl comforted her. “They won’t show in the dark.”

  She gave Lennie and Doreen another sixpence each. Lennie glowed. They could go on several rides now – the dodgems, the ghost train – and have sweets. They might even be able to afford the big wheel if Doreen didn’t want to go on too many of the baby roundabouts…

  Outside, it was dark. Frost sparkled on the pavement. Doreen skipped and twirled, practising her fairy dance. Lennie saw some older children coming. “Leave off,” he hissed.

  He held on to her hand as they entered the fair. He didn’t want to, but he knew he’d get hell from Mum if he lost her, and Doreen was such a little devil for getting her own way.

  People pressed around them, dark, anonymous in their winter coats. Red and gold bulbs flicked on and off around the booths, jangling music came from the roundabouts; screams, laughter, music called them this way and that.

  “I want to go on the bus one,” Doreen said, pulling Lennie’s hand. “Lennie, I want—”

  “In a minute.”

  What Lennie wanted first was to wander around, looking and listening, feeling the atmosphere. He didn’t want to be rushed onto Doreen’s choice of roundabout. He wanted to take it slowly, plan what to spend his shilling on.

  There were booths with rifles and targets; a clairvoyant; a Ferris wheel turning slowly against the night sky; a stall where you threw hoops and could win teddy bears, purses, key rings.

  “Lennie, do this one. Lennie, I want a teddy. Lennie…”

  So insistent was Doreen’s that at first Lennie didn’t hear the other voice behind him. “Lennie! Lennie!”

  Then he turned round and saw Ralph.

  Ralph said, “I managed to give everyone the slip. Have to be back for dinner, though.”

  Dinner. Lennie could smell hot pies, and his tea had worn off already. But the pies were expensive; they didn’t come into his financial planning.

  He said, apologetically, “I had to bring Doreen.”

  “That’s all right. Hello, Doreen.”

  Doreen sparkled. She was not used to being acknowledged by Lennie’s friends.

  Ralph turned to Lennie. “Guess what I’ve got?”

  “What?”

  Ralph put his hand in his pocket and pulled out coins. Not sixpences. Big, heavy coins. Four half-crowns.

  Lennie stared. “That’s ten shillings! Ten shillings for the fair? But you said your father wouldn’t let you go?”

  Ralph looked away.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “It’s mine. Pocket money, saved up.” He gave two half-crowns to Lennie. “Two each.”

  “Pocket money?” said Lennie.

  He wasn’t sure he believed Ralph. But who cared? With five shillings each they could go on everything. They could have their fortune told and go on the ghost train and buy candyfloss for Doreen. Phyl’s hard-earned sixpences seemed irrelevant now.

  As they made their way to the dodgems, Lennie felt a twinge of regret for the loss of the need to consider and choose, but it soon passed, and they climbed into the cars, Ralph in one, Lennie and Doreen in another. The power came on, the contacts sparked on the roof and Lennie felt his car jerk and move. Doreen squealed as they were rammed from behind and Lennie spun the steering wheel to weave a way between the other cars and crash sideways into Ralph.

  Ralph was struggling. He obviously hadn’t had much practice – probably none, knowing old Wilding. Lennie felt superior as he boxed him in and rammed him repeatedly from side, front and rear.

  They stayed in the cars for another go, although Doreen was talking hopefully about roundabouts. This time Ralph steered better, and they got out into the mainstream and were separated. Lennie felt a sudden violent bump from behind, turned, and saw Bert and Alan leering at him. They rammed him again.

  “I don’t like it, Lennie,” said Doreen.

  She cringed as another violent collision sent them into the car in front.

  When the cars stopped, Lennie got Doreen out quickly and looked round for Ralph. “Can we go on the roundabout now – the bus one?” Doreen asked. She took Lennie’s hand and clung tightly. He could feel her fear.

  “All right.”

  Ralph joined them as they moved towards the roundabout. Lennie saw with relief that Bert and Alan were still on the dodgems. But they were watching him; they had recognized Ralph.

  Lennie put Doreen on the ride and went with Ralph to a nearby booth and threw plastic hoops for prizes. Ralph won a ring with a green stone in it. When Doreen came off the roundabout he gave it to her. Doreen was enthralled. She wore it on her thumb all evening, turning it often to admire the way it caught the light.

  Ralph and Lennie bought hot pies. Doreen was in an agony of indecision over whether to have a pie or candyfloss.

  “Have both,” Ralph suggested.

  Doreen did, and felt sick.

  They saw Phyl and her fiancé, Jim; and Mary and some friends from work, all screaming on the big dipper. Everyone from school was there; everyone saw Lennie with Ralph, going on ride after ride, eating pies, playing the rifle range and the hoop-la.

  And then Ralph asked someone the time, and exclaimed, “I’ll have to go. Lennie, come to my house tomorrow afternoon. It’s too cold in the woods.”

  “Your parents—” Lennie began.

  “They’re going out. If you’re worried about Mrs Martin, just come to the back garden gate. I’ll look out for you. Agreed?”

  “All right.”

  “Good. About two? See you!”

  Ralph ran off through the crowd, leaving Lennie still with change from his five shillings and Doreen saying, “I might feel not so sick if I had some sweets. Lennie, Mum said we could have sweets…”

  They went home, sucking sherbet through liquorice straws.

  Mum was ironing when they got in, and Dad was in his chair by the fire, reading a newspaper.

  “I’ve got a ring! Look!” said Doreen. And before Lennie could stop her she had told them about Ralph having ten shillings to spend and giving five to Lennie.

  “Ten shillings!” exclaimed Dad, frowning. And Mum said, “They must have money to burn, those people. You didn’t need the money I gave you, then?”

  She was hurt, as Lennie had known she would be. When she had gone upstairs to put a hot-water bottle in Doreen’s bed, he turned on Doreen and said, “You’re so stupid.”

  Doreen didn’t understand. Her eyes filled with tears, and Lennie felt mean.

  Later, when Doreen had gone to bed, Lennie counted up the coins he had left. He found his mother folding clothes in her bedroom. She looked unhappy. He put the money on the dressing table.

  “What’s that?”

  “Change. Two and eight.”

  “That’s yours. Keep it.”

  “I’m giving it to you.”

  She hesitated, then swept the coins into her hand.

  He turned to go.

  “Lennie!”

  He looked back.

  “Come in and shut the door. Now Doreen’s out of the way, you’ve got some explaining to do.”

  Lennie felt a flutter of guilt. What had he done?

  She opened the drawer and took out a pair of gloves – the gloves he had hidden under the settee.

  “I was cleaning the front room,” she said.

  Lennie’s dismay was mingled with a release of tension. It had been preying on his mind – what he should do with the gloves.

  “They were a secret – ” he began, stammering. “Christmas—”

  “Where di
d you get them?”

  “Ralph—”

  “Ralph gave them to you?” Her face cleared, and he realized that she had been afraid he had stolen them. He flushed with indignation.

  “What did you think?” he demanded.

  “I didn’t know what to think.” She rounded on him again. “So what have you been saying to Ralph? Do those people think we can’t afford gloves? You know I’m knitting some – nearly finished. What have you said?”

  “Nothing. I – I don’t know. I might have – Ralph says he asked his mother; she said you could have them. I think Ralph meant to help…”

  Mum’s face softened. “I’m sure he did. But they’re much too good, Lennie. Look at them.”

  She drew one on, and held out her hand, wistfully. The glove was black, made of fine soft leather, with decorative tucks along the back and fingers and a tiny button loop at the wrist.

  “It suits you,” said Lennie.

  “They look so new,” she said. “Not stretched or wrinkled. Did Mrs Wilding really say Ralph could give them to you?”

  She looked at him searchingly, and Lennie felt himself blushing. He thought of the ten shillings Ralph had brought to the fair, and remembered him taking cigarettes from the hall table and saying, “Finders keepers.”

  I don’t trust Ralph, he thought. He didn’t like to admit it, but it was true.

  “You must take them back,” said Mum.

  Lennie exclaimed, “I can’t! And if she did say—”

  “Even if she did. You must tell them we can’t accept them. They’re too good. It’s not right.”

  Lennie stared miserably at a crack in the lino.

  “We’ve got our pride, you know,” Mum said, gently. “And besides, we’re not that poor. Dad’s back at work now, and the strike’s over at Lang’s; Mary says they’re going back Monday.”

  Lennie saw a chance to change the subject.

  “Did they win?”

  “Of course not. They’ve compromised. Not such a big cut, and a review promised in the spring. Dad says that’s the best they could expect.”

  “Oh.”

  “When are you seeing Ralph?” Mum asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Take them back tomorrow, then?”

  He shuffled his feet. “All right.”

  “Promise?”

  Lennie looked up. He said angrily, “I promise! I’m not a liar. Only – Ralph will feel—”

  “Offended? Not if you’re tactful.”

  Tactful. Only grown-ups knew about being tactful, Lennie thought.

  “There’s another thing,” Mum said.

  He looked up, surly. “What?”

  She smiled. “That squashed frog behind the settee. Get rid of it before Elsie comes at Christmas. Please.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Lennie stood halfway down the wooded slope above the Wildings’ house, looking through bare branches at the twisted chimney-pots, the tennis court and the lawn with a layer of frost on it. The gloves were stuffed into his right-hand trouser pocket.

  Wait by the garden gate, Ralph had said.

  Lennie scrambled down, unwillingly. He wanted to see Ralph, but he didn’t want to give the gloves back. He dreaded explaining, being tactful. Mum had told him what to say: “It’s very kind of you; she appreciates the thought.” But he still wished the gloves would disappear of their own accord, relieving him of the need to say anything at all.

  Ralph’s window was blank, a net curtain across the lower half. In a moment Ralph would see him through the net; perhaps he was already on his way downstairs.

  But the back door stayed shut.

  Lennie stamped his feet impatiently. He was cold.

  He stared at Ralph’s window. It must be gone two o’clock, he thought. He had left home at half past one, and it was a fair walk to Love Lane. Perhaps Ralph was in the kitchen, having his dinner – no, lunch.

  He paced up and down beside the fence, willing Ralph to come out, get it over with, so that things could be back to normal between them.

  Perhaps Ralph had forgotten? Or didn’t know the time? That house was full of clocks, but perhaps there wasn’t one in Ralph’s room. Or it had stopped.

  Lennie swung his arms about and stamped. Surely Ralph should have seen him by now if he was looking out?

  He tried calling, “Ralph!” but he was too far away to be heard.

  He stared at the house, and the house seemed to stare back indifferently, with blank windows and closed doors.

  I’ll go and knock, Lennie thought. After all, he’d been invited. There was no need to be afraid of Mrs Martin.

  And yet, as he opened the gate, his heart began to beat faster.

  His shoes left prints on the frosty grass. There were other prints, he noticed, but not Ralph’s – bigger ones; and a wheelbarrow full of leaves and dead branches near the back door. He glanced about, but there was no other sign of the gardener; perhaps he was round at the front.

  Lennie reached the back door and knocked tentatively. His knock caused the door to swing open; it had been left unlatched. From behind an inner door he could hear Mrs Martin humming along to music on the wireless. The humming continued unbroken; she hadn’t heard him.

  He’d have to knock on the inner door. He braced himself to confront her, and stepped into the scullery. On the opposite wall was a row of coats hanging on hooks. One of them, a woman’s, had big patch pockets gaping open. Lennie stared at the pockets. An idea came to him.

  He could get rid of the gloves, quickly, now, before he saw Ralph. Put them in a coat pocket and fulfil his promise to Mum without needing to say anything to Ralph. And Mrs Wilding would find them eventually.

  Hastily he pulled the gloves out of his own pocket and reached for the coat.

  “Got you!”

  A hand seized his shoulder and swung him round. Lennie thought his legs would give way with fright. He looked up into the unfriendly whiskered face of the gardener.

  “I – I – was calling for Ralph—” he stammered.

  But the gardener had seized the gloves from his hands.

  “You little devil! I knew you was up to no good when I seen you sneaking in.”

  “I didn’t – I wasn’t—”

  The realization of how things must look dawned on Lennie as he was propelled by the shoulders into the kitchen. Mrs Martin was jointing a chicken. She looked up, startled, as the gardener announced, with satisfaction, “You’d better get on the telephone to the police, Mrs M. I’ve just catched this lad stealing a pair of gloves.”

  Mrs Martin’s face hardened. She washed her hands and switched off the wireless. The gardener handed her the gloves.

  “Those are Mrs Wilding’s,” she said.

  “I didn’t take them,” Lennie protested. “I was bringing them back. I—”

  “You were bringing them back but you didn’t take them?” Mrs Martin repeated sarcastically.

  “No. I mean – Ralph took them – gave them to me. But I thought – I mean my mum said…” Lennie knew he could never explain. “Ask Ralph,” he said. “It wasn’t me…”

  “The family aren’t here,” said Mrs Martin, “as I’ve no doubt you knew—”

  “I didn’t!” Lennie protested. “Ralph told me—”

  “Which is why,” she continued smoothly, “you took the opportunity to come sneaking round to see what you could lay your hands on. Taking advantage, like all your sort. I knew all along Master Ralph shouldn’t be associating with you.”

  She glanced up at the gardener, and Lennie could see that she had no time for him either. “Leave the boy with me, Reynolds.”

  The gardener said again, “You ought to ring the police.”

  “It’s not my place to call the police,” said Mrs Martin, and Lennie felt a wash of relief go through him. “Mr Wilding will decide whether the police should be called.”

  The gardener’s fingers dug into Lennie’s shoulder. He was not to be easily shifted. “You know what I’m think
ing, Mrs M?” – Lennie saw her wince at the familiarity – “That ten shillin’ that went missing, that was left out to pay the handyman. We was all under suspicion for that – me, and John, and your Stella.” He looked darkly at Lennie.

  Lennie stared, appalled. What had he walked into? And where was Ralph?

  “I never—” he began.

  “Thank you, Reynolds,” said Mrs Martin. “Leave the boy with me.”

  The grip on Lennie’s shoulder eased and, without thinking, with the instinct of a trapped animal, he broke free and ran, in a hopeless dash for the back door. He collided with the man, who pushed him back into the kitchen, saying, “The police’ll deal with you, my lad,” and went out, shutting the door.

  Mrs Martin went into the scullery, locked the back door behind Reynolds and pocketed the key. She came back and closed the door into the passage.

  Lennie began to cry. “I didn’t take them,” he wept. “I just wanted to put them back.”

  “Sit down,” said Mrs Martin. She glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s three o’clock. Mr Wilding should be back in an hour or so. You can wait.”

  Lennie sat down trembling. Mrs Martin continued with her work, coldly oblivious to his snuffles. Stella came in and stared at him. She came closer, touched his wet cheek, and said, “Don’t cry.” Lennie cringed, hating himself for it.

  Mrs Martin drew Stella gently away, found her some washing-up to do and told her not to talk to Lennie.

  Lennie stood up and shouted, “I’ve got to go home! My mum’s expecting me.”

  Stella jumped in fright.

  “Your mother will have to wait,” said Mrs Martin calmly.

  “Where’s Ralph?” Lennie demanded. “He told me to meet him here at two o’clock. He told me.”

  He ran to the door into the passage and shouted, “Ralph! Ralph!”

  Mrs Martin seized him by the shoulders and sat him down.

  “Master Ralph is out,” she said.

  “Where is he?”

  “With his father.”

  Mrs Martin put the chicken in the oven and began scraping carrots. Stella finished the washing-up and was told to peel potatoes. Lennie listened to Stella’s splashings at the sink, the scrape of Mrs Martin’s knife, the steady tick tick of the clock.