No Friend of Mine (8 page)

“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.”

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 thinking, 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.

Four o’clock passed. Half past four.

Mrs Martin produced a piece of paper and a pencil and put them in front of Lennie.

“You’d better write down your name and address.”

Lennie wrote it.

“I want to go home,” he said, but she ignored him, except to take the paper and put it in her pocket.

“I
have
to go home,” Lennie repeated.

He began to shake at the prospect of an interview with Mr Wilding. But at least Ralph would be there. Ralph would explain everything. It would all be sorted out in the end, and Mrs Martin would be proved wrong, and serve her right. He looked with loathing at her neat blonde head bent over the colander. You wait, he thought, you’ll look such an idiot when Ralph gets back.

At five o’clock they heard a door slam and voices in the hall. The Wildings were home. Mrs Martin washed her hands and dried them briskly. Lennie sensed her satisfaction. He felt his heart beating so hard that he could scarcely breathe.

“Keep an eye on him,” Mrs Martin told Stella, and went out of the room.

Lennie heard her light, accusing voice, and a man’s voice answering her. He didn’t hear Ralph; perhaps he’d gone upstairs. Then the man said clearly, “Send John. And bring the boy to me.” Five minutes later Mrs Martin was back. “Come this way,” she ordered Lennie.

Lennie followed her along the passage, through the hall, and into a room he had not entered before – a formal sitting room full of upholstered chairs and gleaming mirrors, with a thick maroon carpet underfoot. The gloves lay on a low table.

Ralph was not there. Only Mr Wilding, standing with his back to the door.

Mrs Martin said, “The boy, sir.” She stayed in the room, arms folded and lips pursed.

Mr Wilding turned round.

Lennie saw, with a shock, that he looked like Ralph. Like Ralph, and yet different – this was a hard, stern, uncompromising face. Lennie remembered what Dad and the other men had said about him, how he was fair, but a stickler for the rule book; he worked long hours himself and would grind every last pennyworth of time out of those who worked for him.

Fear made Lennie gabble: “It’s not true!” He glanced back at Mrs Martin. “It’s not true what she says. You must believe me.” And before Mr Wilding could accuse him of anything he launched into a confused explanation of what had happened.

George Wilding listened, unsmiling. He said, “It’s bad enough to steal, without inventing stories to cover up your crime. Especially when they implicate others.”

The cold legality of his words frightened Lennie. He began to shake.

“Don’t call the police,” he begged. “Ask Ralph. Ralph knows I didn’t take them. Ask Ralph. Please. Ask Ralph.”

“Are you trying to suggest that my son stole the gloves—”

“He didn’t
steal
them,” said Lennie. “He told me his mother said I could have them, for
my
mother, but I – I didn’t…” Lennie faltered. He couldn’t say, “I didn’t believe him.” Oh, if only Ralph were here! “Please,” he begged, “ask Ralph.”

Abruptly George Wilding turned to Mrs Martin. “Fetch my son,” he ordered.

Lennie relaxed a little, brushing away tears.

When he heard Ralph’s voice outside, his heart leapt and relief flooded through him.

“Ralph!” he exclaimed, as his friend came into the room. “Tell him it wasn’t me! Tell him.”

“Be quiet,” said George Wilding. “Come here, Ralph.”

Ralph glanced sidelong at Lennie, then at the gloves on the table. He went obediently to his father’s side.

“Ralph, you seem to know this boy.”

“Yes, sir.” Ralph’s voice was a whisper, and Lennie saw that he was afraid of his father.

“How did you come to know him?”

“He plays in the woods, behind the house. I’ve met him sometimes.”

“I see. And did you give your mother’s gloves to this boy?”

Ralph mumbled something.

“Look up, and speak up,” ordered his father.

Ralph looked up. He looked at his father, not at Lennie.

“No,” he said. “I never gave them to him.”

Lennie didn’t care about anything after that. Ralph, passing him as he went out of the room, looked sorry. Lennie glared with brimming eyes.

The door shut behind Ralph. Lennie supposed the police would be called, he’d go to prison, or appear in court in handcuffs, or whatever happened to criminals, but he didn’t care. Nothing seemed to matter now.

Mr Wilding said, “You’d better sit down,” and sent for a glass of water. Lennie sat gingerly on the edge of one of the big squashy chairs. Mrs Martin handed him the water and he drank it quickly, gasping.

As he put down the glass he heard voices in the hall – several women all speaking at once – and the next moment the door burst open and he saw with amazement his slightly-built mother elbow the larger Mrs Martin out of the way and explode into the room, demanding, “What’s this you’re saying my Lennie’s done?” Behind her came Mary and Phyl, straight from work, Mary shedding clay dust and Phyl with her Woolworths overall showing under her coat.

Lennie gave a sob and ran to his mother.

Mrs Martin turned on Mary: “Coming in here, dropping dust everywhere!”

“You’re lucky I haven’t come from the pit,” retorted Mary. “I’d chuck a ton of soot over this place if I had the chance.”

Mum was demanding an explanation from George Wilding. “Who are you to make accusations against my son? What proof have you got?”

“He was caught red-handed,” George Wilding replied crisply.

Lennie let go of Mum and began, once again, his complicated explanation. His mother listened, picking up points and turning them on George Wilding like missiles: “He gave them to
me
.” “
I
told him to bring them back.”

Phyl joined in. “And what about her? Your missus? Have you asked her?”

“My wife is not at home, and in any case I will not have her involved in this affair.”

“Oh, listen to him! Seems to me she is involved, like.”

“Mrs Dyer,” said George Wilding, looking harassed, “I sent for your husband to fetch the boy home. I didn’t expect a crowd of unruly women. If you and your daughters don’t leave immediately I shall be obliged to call the police.”

“Don’t worry, we’re going,” said Mum, pulling Lennie towards her. “And you’ll be hearing from my husband, Mr Wilding. He wasn’t fit enough to come out here, with his chest being so bad, as you should know, being responsible for it; but you’ll be hearing from him, never fear.”

“I think the boy has learnt his lesson,” said George Wilding mildly. “I’m prepared to overlook this incident on the understanding that he breaks off the association with my son.”