No Friend of Mine by Ann Turnbull

Author:Ann Turnbull [Turnbull, Ann]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781406351071
Publisher: Walker Books
Published: 2013-06-06T04:00:00+00:00

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 atmosphere around the works entrance. Braziers full of red-hot coals were burning, and some men were frying sausages. But the weather was cold – raw and windy, with flurries of sleet. Caps were pulled low over faces, headscarves tied tight. The pickets stamped their feet to keep warm, and Mary complained, “My jaw’s that stiff, I can’t shout.”

“You weren’t doing too bad just now,” said Mum. “It’s not solid, then, the strike?”

“They’re trickling back. It’s the cold; and Christmas coming…”

Doreen nudged Lennie. Jimmy Morris was offering them sausages. Lennie took one. It was charred on the outside, but when he bit into it the inside was pink.

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