old George, but he could be if he decided you were just taking the mickey.'
Harry shrugged dejectedly. 'I was daydreaming,' he said. 'Actually, it's sort of funny. See, when I daydream like that, it's like I can't stop. Only old Hannant shouting - and you giving me a jab - pulled me out of it.'
Pulled me out... the strong hands reaching down into the water... to pull me out, or push me under?
Jimmy nodded. 'I've seen you like it before, lots of times. Your face goes sort of funny...' He looked serious for a moment, then chuckled and gave Harry a playful thump on the shoulder. 'Not that that's a big deal - your face is funny all the time!'
Harry snorted. 'Listen who's talking! Me, funny-look ing? I'd play Kirk to your Spock any time! Anyway, what do you mean? I mean, how do I look, you know, funny?'
'Well, you just sit very still, all stary-eyed, scared- looking. But not always. Sometimes you look a bit dreamy, like. Anyway, it's like old George said: you just don't seem to be here at all. Actually, you're very weird! I mean, it's true, isn't it? How many friends have you got?'
'I've got you,' Harry feebly protested. He knew what Jimmy meant: he was too deep, too quiet. But not studious, not a swot. If he'd been good at lessons, that would perhaps explain it, but he wasn't. Oh, he was clever enough (at least he felt he could be clever) if he wanted to concentrate on it. It was just that he found concentration very hard. It was as if sometimes the thoughts he thought weren't really his at all. Complicated thoughts and daydreams, fancies and phantasms. His mind made up stories for him - whether he wanted it to or not - but stories so detailed they were like memories. The memories of other people. People who weren't here any more. As if his head was an echo-chamber for minds which had... gone somewhere else?
'Yes, you've got me for a friend,' Jimmy interrupted his train of thought. 'And who else?'
Harry shrugged, went on the defensive. 'There's Brenda,' he said. 'And... and anyway, who needs lot of friends? I don't. If people want to be friendly they'll be friendly. If they don't, well that's up to them.'
Jimmy ignored the mention of Brenda Cowell, Harry's grande passion who lived in the same street. He was into sport, not girls. He'd hang himself from a goal-post before he'd be caught with his arm round a girl in the cinema when the lights went up. 'You've got me.r he said. 'And that's it. As for why I like you -1 just dunno.'
'Because we don't compete,' said Harry, shrewder than his years. 'I don't understand sport, so you enjoy explaining it to me - 'cos you know I won't argue. And you don't understand me being so, well, quiet - '
'And weird,' Jimmy interrupted.
'-And so we get along.'
'But wouldn't you like more friends?'
Harry sighed. 'Well, see, it's like I have friends. Up in my head.'
'Imaginary friends!' Jimmy scoffed, but not unkindly.
'No, they're more than that,' Harry answered. 'Arid they're good friends, too. Of course they are ... I'm the only friend they've got!'
'Huh!' Jimmy snorted. 'Oh, you're weird, all right!'
Way up at the head of the column, 'Sergeant' Graham Lane came out of the woods into bright sunlight, pausing to hasten on the double rank of kids behind him. This was the narrow mouth of the dene, also the mouth of the stream which had cut its gulley through the sea cliffs. To north and south those cliffs now rose, mainly of sandstone but layered with belts of shale and shingle, and banded with rounded stones; and here the stream passed under an old, rickety wooden bridge. Beyond lay a reedy, weedy marsh or lake of brackish water, only ever replenished by high tides or storms. A path skirted the boggy area towards the sandy beach; and beyond that, there lay the grey North Sea, growing greyer every day with debris from the pits. But today it was blue in the bright sunlight, flecked white here and there by the spray of diving gulls where they fished.
'Right!' Lane called loudly, standing arms akimbo and very much The Man, in his track-suit bottoms and T-shirt on the nearside of the bridge. 'Off you go, over the bridge, round the lake and on to the beach. Find your stones and bring 'em back to me - er, no,