Free No Friend of Mine by Ann Turnbull

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