Free No Friend of Mine by Ann Turnbull Page A

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