No Friend of Mine by Ann Turnbull Read Free Book Online Page A

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.

CHAPTER TEN
    Lennie wrote Ralph a long letter. He told him about Guy Fawkes Night, the bonfire and the fireworks, and how someone had posted a banger through Mrs Lloyd’s letter box and she had called the police. He told him about the preparations for the pantomime, but nothing else about school; he didn’t want Ralph to know about the gang picking on him and how scared he felt going in every morning.
    He waited eagerly for Ralph’s reply, but when it came he was disappointed. Ralph had enjoyed Lennie’s letter – he urged him to write again soon – but his own letter was brief, breezy, somehow unsatisfying.
    A fortnight later Mary came out on strike. On the Friday night Mum told Lennie and Doreen, “We’ll go down and support the pickets tomorrow. Take some hot food.”
    They went on the bus. As it neared the factory Mum began organizing parcels: “Lennie, you take the apple pies. I’ve got the soup. Doreen! Don’t go skipping off, miss. You can carry the bread.”
    “Can I ring the bell?”
    “Yes. Ring it now.”
    Doreen reached up and pressed the bell. The bus slowed to a halt.
    “Lang’s Tile Works,” the conductor called. He winked at Mum. “They’re in good voice.”
    Even from inside the bus you could hear the shouting and see banners and placards jigging about.
    Mum said proudly, “My daughter’s on the picket line.”
    They clambered down the steps with their packages.
    The shouting became more distinct as they walked along the road. It was lunch time, and some part-timers who wouldn’t join the strike were going in.
    “Scab!” “Blackleg!” the pickets yelled, and the offenders had to push their way through the crowd, using their bicycles as protection.
    The pickets set up a chant: “No cuts for Christmas! No cuts for Christmas!”
    The chanting became a cheer as Mum, Lennie and Doreen arrived.
    Mary came forward. Her lips were blue, but Lennie could feel the excitement radiating from her; she loved a fight.
    “You’re cold, Mary.” Mum made an accusation of it.
    “I’m all right. What have you brought?”
    “Apple pies,” said Doreen. “Aunty Elsie made them.”
    “And soup and bread,” said Mum.
    “Two flasks! I’ll call the girls.”
    Mary’s workmates from the press shop propped their banners against the fence and crowded round – Alice, Kath, Edna, Big Joan and Little Joan. “Soup! Oh, you’re wonderful, Mrs Dyer!”
    “Just practice,” said Mum, pouring soup into mugs. “I seem to have spent my life taking soup to picket lines.”
    Several families had come with food, making a party