No Friend of Mine by Ann Turnbull Read Free Book Online

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