loved it. Miss Quimby permitted a smile to cross her face. She said, “Just a hint, Lennie. Don’t overdo it.” On the following Monday he staggered less dramatically but added a discreet hiccup.
After rehearsals started, things began to change for Lennie. The gang bothered him less; other children acknowledged him in the street; he still wasn’t any good at football and got caught in “tag”, but it didn’t seem to matter so much. One day, as they filed silently into school after the break, Martin Reid nudged him and said, “Hic!”
Lennie wrote to Ralph about the pantomime. Ralph wrote back, but not often, and his letters were always short. Then, at the beginning of December, he told Lennie, “Term ends next week. I’ll be home on Friday the tenth. See you on the Saturday? Usual place.”
The tenth. A whole week before Lennie’s school. That could mean trouble. Lennie knew he would never get to meet Ralph after school without someone finding out, and then those new fragile links with his classmates could be broken.
He didn’t want to break them. And yet he had to see Ralph. Ralph was his friend.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Hello.”
“Hi.”
Lennie tried to sound cool, like someone in an American film.
Ralph was crouching by the fire he had lit in the ruined cottage. He stood up.
“Quite a blaze.”
He held out his hands over the fire.
The two boys regarded each other awkwardly. Lennie was aware all over again, after so many weeks without seeing him, of how different Ralph was. It wasn’t just the clothes. There was a healthy bloom about him that you never saw in Culverton boys. Lennie knew Ralph must be looking at him and thinking about the differences – the thin darned jersey, the dustiness.
The dust got everywhere in Culverton: black dust from the mines, white dust from the tile and china works, ash from the foundries. The women said their washing came in dirtier than it went out. Lennie thought of the dust that had settled on his dad’s lungs over the years until it formed a hard, unshifting layer.
“My dad’s dying of the dust,” he said.
Ralph looked startled. “Dying? Your father?”
“I don’t mean he’s dying this minute.” Lennie hadn’t meant to talk about the dust, hadn’t consciously thought until this moment that the dust would eventually kill his father, but it pleased him to have got a reaction. “I mean it’s the dust that will kill him, slowly. Like our Uncle Charley. He died of the dust. In the end they just can’t breathe. My dad’s trying to get compensation from your dad. Didn’t you know?”
Ralph stared. “I know who he is now – your father. The Union secretary?”
Lennie nodded.
“Damned smart alec, my father calls him. Always stirring. A troublemaker. You never told me it was him.”
Lennie’s fists clenched.
“
You
never told me your dad was George Wilding!”
“You knew!”
“I didn’t.”
“You’re stupid, then. Everyone knows us.”
Lennie mocked: “Everyone knows us. Think you’re so important, don’t you?”
“My father
is
important. He keeps this town employed. Wilding, Denton, Lang – there would be nothing here without the three of them, my father says.”
Lennie withdrew a step. How could he ever have liked Ralph? He was one of Them, the bosses. You could hear it in his voice.
Ralph said, uncertainly, “Why are we arguing? It doesn’t stop us being friends, does it, what our fathers think of each other?”
Lennie caught a hint of anxiety in his voice, and realized that he, Lennie, had the upper hand for once; it was a new feeling and he enjoyed it.
“Us working folk have to stick together,” he said. It sounded unreal, like something said at a political meeting.
Ralph stared at the fire for a moment. Then he looked up and grinned. “No,” he said, “us
two
have to stick together. Against fathers. And families.”
Lennie caught the change of mood. “Against sisters.”
“Definitely against sisters. Against
After rehearsals started, things began to change for Lennie. The gang bothered him less; other children acknowledged him in the street; he still wasn’t any good at football and got caught in “tag”, but it didn’t seem to matter so much. One day, as they filed silently into school after the break, Martin Reid nudged him and said, “Hic!”
Lennie wrote to Ralph about the pantomime. Ralph wrote back, but not often, and his letters were always short. Then, at the beginning of December, he told Lennie, “Term ends next week. I’ll be home on Friday the tenth. See you on the Saturday? Usual place.”
The tenth. A whole week before Lennie’s school. That could mean trouble. Lennie knew he would never get to meet Ralph after school without someone finding out, and then those new fragile links with his classmates could be broken.
He didn’t want to break them. And yet he had to see Ralph. Ralph was his friend.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Hello.”
“Hi.”
Lennie tried to sound cool, like someone in an American film.
Ralph was crouching by the fire he had lit in the ruined cottage. He stood up.
“Quite a blaze.”
He held out his hands over the fire.
The two boys regarded each other awkwardly. Lennie was aware all over again, after so many weeks without seeing him, of how different Ralph was. It wasn’t just the clothes. There was a healthy bloom about him that you never saw in Culverton boys. Lennie knew Ralph must be looking at him and thinking about the differences – the thin darned jersey, the dustiness.
The dust got everywhere in Culverton: black dust from the mines, white dust from the tile and china works, ash from the foundries. The women said their washing came in dirtier than it went out. Lennie thought of the dust that had settled on his dad’s lungs over the years until it formed a hard, unshifting layer.
“My dad’s dying of the dust,” he said.
Ralph looked startled. “Dying? Your father?”
“I don’t mean he’s dying this minute.” Lennie hadn’t meant to talk about the dust, hadn’t consciously thought until this moment that the dust would eventually kill his father, but it pleased him to have got a reaction. “I mean it’s the dust that will kill him, slowly. Like our Uncle Charley. He died of the dust. In the end they just can’t breathe. My dad’s trying to get compensation from your dad. Didn’t you know?”
Ralph stared. “I know who he is now – your father. The Union secretary?”
Lennie nodded.
“Damned smart alec, my father calls him. Always stirring. A troublemaker. You never told me it was him.”
Lennie’s fists clenched.
“
You
never told me your dad was George Wilding!”
“You knew!”
“I didn’t.”
“You’re stupid, then. Everyone knows us.”
Lennie mocked: “Everyone knows us. Think you’re so important, don’t you?”
“My father
is
important. He keeps this town employed. Wilding, Denton, Lang – there would be nothing here without the three of them, my father says.”
Lennie withdrew a step. How could he ever have liked Ralph? He was one of Them, the bosses. You could hear it in his voice.
Ralph said, uncertainly, “Why are we arguing? It doesn’t stop us being friends, does it, what our fathers think of each other?”
Lennie caught a hint of anxiety in his voice, and realized that he, Lennie, had the upper hand for once; it was a new feeling and he enjoyed it.
“Us working folk have to stick together,” he said. It sounded unreal, like something said at a political meeting.
Ralph stared at the fire for a moment. Then he looked up and grinned. “No,” he said, “us
two
have to stick together. Against fathers. And families.”
Lennie caught the change of mood. “Against sisters.”
“Definitely against sisters. Against
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