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would be waiting for him.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    “Where did you get these?” Ken Forton demanded. “You never won them, did you?”
    The row of cigarette cards propped along the ledge outside the boy’s toilets contained unfamiliar cards, not part of the well-known pack that circulated amongst the Culverton boys.
    “I did,” asserted Lennie. “I won them.”
    “Who off?”
    “My friend.”
    Lennie became aware that Bert, Alan and Reggie were on the edge of the group listening. He longed to grab his cards quickly, and get away. But he couldn’t; that would be cheating. They were in the middle of a game – himself, Ken Forton, Martin Reid and Peter Jones. He had to see it through.
    “What friend’s that?” asked Ken.
    The enemy were standing close to Lennie now – Bert in front, Alan and Reggie a step or two behind. Lennie was reminded of a photo he’d seen in the newspaper the other day. It had been of Oswald Mosley, the British fascists’ leader, walking in a London street with two of his followers looming behind him. Bert was like that, Lennie thought. A fascist.
    Bert said, “It’s that posh twit you were with in the woods last week, isn’t it? He’s your friend.”
    “Yes!” crowed Alan. “He was with this posh twit, Ken. We heard him talk,”
    “Who’s that, then?” Ken asked.
    “No one,” said Lennie.
    “Posh twit was a ghost!” spluttered Alan, laughing and staggering against Reggie.
    “Who was it?” Ken persisted. “What’s his name?”
    “Ralph,” muttered Lennie.
    “Ralph!” exclaimed Bert in delight. “Walf! Lennie’s posh fwend is called Walf!” Cries of “Walf! Walf!” came from Reggie and Alan, degenerating to “Woof! Woof!”
    “Leave him alone,” Martin said wearily. And Ken said, “Clear off, Haines. We’re trying to have a game here.”
    The three faced him. Bert strutted. “Who are you telling to clear off?”
    But Ken wasn’t intimidated and Lennie could see that it was only a gesture, a show of strength before they drifted away.
    The bell clanged for the end of break.
    “You don’t want to let Bert Haines push you around,” said Ken, sorting the cards and handing Lennie’s back to him.
    But how do I stop him? thought Lennie. How is it that Ken can tell Bert Haines to clear off when I can’t even look at him without getting a fist in my face?
    By dinner time everyone knew about Lennie’s friend, and there was speculation about who he was. The girls, normally a species apart who despised anything of concern to boys, picked up on the mystery and gave it their full attention. They whispered together during the handwriting lesson; suspicions were exchanged, gossip passed on. “I’ve
seen
him with Lennie. It’s him, honest.” “Never!” “It is.” A rumour began to circulate: he’s old Wilding’s son.
    Lennie kept his head low. How did they know? Why did girls always know things like that?
    By home time Lennie had scarcely a friend in the school yard. Nearly all the children at the chapel school were from miners’ families. “Stuck-up,” the girls said, tossing their hair. “Thinks he’s better than us.” The boys were more imaginative: “Toad.” “Creep.” “Arse-licker.” And, not the most appropriate word but the worst they knew, “Scab.”
    Scab. Lennie was mortified. No one in his family had ever been called that before. A feeling of disaster overwhelmed him. What had he done? He’d just met Ralph by accident. It was all an accident. It had been bad enough at home, everyone talking about it. Even Mary had said, “You don’t want to get mixed up with that sort.” Mary, who usually took his part.
    Now, in the school yard, he turned to his accusers. “I just met him. I didn’t know who he was.”
    “Thought he was a miner, did you?” sneered Bert. “Sounds like one, doesn’t he?”
    And Reggie said, “We’ll get you, Dyer.”
    Margaret Palmer mentioned last Sunday’s sermon, when the Reverend Sinclair had preached the