Room for a Stranger (2 page)

“You're a good little singer,” said Mum. “Pity you can't come with me to choir practice.”

Most Friday nights Mum went to the church hall to sing with the choir; she'd joined it after Dad died.

“Are you going tonight?” Doreen asked.

“Oh, no. Not with the—”

There was a knock at the door.

Mum struggled with her apron strings. “They're in a knot! Help me, Doreen.”

Doreen freed her just as Lennie opened the door to Miss Wingfield.

“Hallo, everyone,” said Miss Wingfield.

She ushered a girl into the room.

“This is Rhoda Kelly.”

Rhoda Kelly was taller than Doreen, older-looking. She had red-gold hair, thick, curly and shoulder-length, and her face, which looked small under all the hair, was covered in freckles. Her eyes were pale blue. They flicked around as she entered the room, taking in everything, and finally coming to rest on Doreen. The two girls looked each other over in silence. Doreen felt intimidated. She wished Rhoda had been younger than her; just a bit younger: ten, perhaps.

Mum seemed nervous, too. She said, “Hallo, Rhoda. Come in, love. Let me take your coat. This is Lennie and this is Doreen. I'll put the kettle on. You'll stay for a cup of tea, Miss Wingfield?”

Miss Wingfield sat down at the kitchen table, forestalling any attempt on Mum's part to move them all into the front room. Doreen was relieved. It was cold in there, and there was nowhere to put your cup.

“Do you like tea, Rhoda?”

“Yes, please, Mrs Dyer.”

Rhoda's voice was clear and confident.

“How big is this house?” she asked. She had a Liverpool accent.

“Two up, two down,” said Mum. “You'll be sharing a room with Doreen.”

“I've been staying in a big house in the country,” said Rhoda. “Greenacres Farm. There were eight of us there.”

“And you went to St Joseph's, didn't you?” prompted Miss Wingfield. “Rhoda's a Catholic,” she explained. “We like to place them with Catholic families if we can, but it hasn't been possible every time. She'll go to St Joseph's – the Catholic school in Wraybury. She's brought her clothes in that bag, and if you need anything else we may be able to help. We can get you blankets…”

Rhoda caught Doreen's eye. “Can I see the house?”

They got up. Doreen glanced at Lennie, wanting him to come too, but he ignored her. It wasn't fair, Doreen thought, the way everyone saw Rhoda as her responsibility.

She opened the door of the front room, intending to give Rhoda a quick glimpse, but Rhoda walked in and started looking around, touching things. She picked up Nan Dyer's vase – the one she'd had as a wedding present. “This is nice.” She stroked the worn plush of the armchair, skimmed a hand along the small shelf of books without reading the titles, and picked up a photograph from the sideboard. “Who's this, in uniform?”

“My sister Mary.”

Doreen felt invaded. Who did she think she was, this Rhoda, poking her nose into everything?

“And that one – with the baby?”

“Phyl.”

Rhoda discovered the oval mirror and studied her reflection in it, pushing back her hair.

Doreen said, “Do you want to see my room?”

They went back into the kitchen.

“Take your bag, Rhoda, if you're going up,” said Mum.

Rhoda took the brown paper carrier bag and Doreen led the way up the steep twisting stairs. The door on the right was ajar. “That's Mum's room,” she said, and to her alarm Rhoda walked in.

Doreen hovered by the door. “We don't usually come in this room unless Mum says.”

But Rhoda took no notice. She flicked through the clothes on the rail and picked up Mum's brooch with the china roses and turned it in her hand. Doreen hoped Mum couldn't hear them moving around overhead.

“Where's your dad?” Rhoda asked.

“He's dead.”

She didn't want to talk about Dad – not to Rhoda. But Rhoda's eyes had quickened with interest. “What did he die of?”

“The dust.”

“The dust?”

“Down the mine. It gets on your lungs.”

“Do you miss him?”

Doreen didn't answer.

“He's gone to Heaven,” said Rhoda. “He's in a better place.”

The Minister had said something of the sort at the funeral, Doreen remembered, but it wasn't the sort of thing they said at home; it made her feel uncomfortable.

Rhoda had found a photograph. “Is this their wedding day? Your mam was pretty.”

Doreen became desperate to get Rhoda away. She knew Mum must be able to hear their voices. “Come and see my room.”

She opened the door.

“Oh! You've got a triple mirror!” Rhoda exclaimed.

Doreen felt proud. “My sisters bought it between them. Second-hand.”

Rhoda turned her attention to the beds.

“Which bed will I have? I like the pink patchwork.”

“That one's mine,” said Doreen.

“Is that your night-light?”

Doreen's night-light – a candle in a tin – was on the chair beside her bed. For the first time in her life she felt embarrassed by it – it seemed babyish; but then she had always been the baby of the family. “Will you mind it being on?”

“Are you afraid of the dark, then?”

“I just like it on,” said Doreen. She didn't want to talk about her fears. “I've emptied those two drawers. And you can hang things on the rail.”

Rhoda began to take out clothes: a faded summer frock, a blue cardigan, a pair of pink knickers embroidered with rosebuds. Doreen stared at the knickers.

“How old is your brother?” asked Rhoda.

“Fifteen.”

“My boyfriend's twenty-two.”

Doreen was astonished, both at his age and at the thought that Rhoda might be old enough to have a boyfriend at all. “That's old,” she said. “How old are you?”

“Thirteen. My birthday's in February. I'm an Aquarius.”

Doreen wanted to know more about the boyfriend, but she couldn't think what questions to ask.

“I'll be twelve in November,” she said.

“What day?”

“The tenth.”

“You're Scorpio, then.”

Doreen had scarcely heard of the star signs, but she knew there was a horoscope page in Mum's magazine. She'd look up Scorpio, she decided.

Rhoda continued. “Sister Ursula says astrology is wickedness and leads to eternal damnation, but me mam always reads our horoscopes.”

She took out a Bible and a rosary and put them on the chair beside her bed. On the dressing-table she placed a picture of the Virgin Mary with baby Jesus. The picture had bits of gold in it that glinted as it caught the light: gold haloes and sun's rays and an angel with gold tips to its wings.

They heard footsteps on the stairs, and Mum came in.

“Miss Wingfield's gone now. Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” said Rhoda. “I like it here.”

“There's a screen,” said Mum, “if you prefer…”

“A screen?”

Mum pulled it out from behind the dressing-table. The screen was old, battered, covered in dark brown peeling paper. Over the years the children had pasted pictures on it: film stars, fashions, Christmas cards with robins and holly, and paper motifs from crackers.

Doreen loved its shabby familiarity. And she wanted it up; she wanted to make a space of her own where Rhoda couldn't come. But already Mum was pushing it back, saying, “You won't need it, will you? You'll want to talk.” And Rhoda agreed.

“I'll leave you to it, then,” said Mum. She went out.

Doreen followed, closing the door behind her. “Mum…”

Mum stopped on the stairs. “Don't whisper. It's rude.”

“But I don't like her.”

“That's silly. She seems quite all right. Nice and polite. Clean.”

“She's…” Doreen struggled to express what she felt. She thought of the boyfriend. “She's older than me.”

“I thought you'd like that. You're used to having older sisters.”

But Rhoda wasn't a bit like her sisters, Doreen thought. They were grown-up; they babied her, gave way to her. Doreen could control her sisters.

“Go and make friends,” said Mum. “You'll soon get on.”

She turned away.

Reluctantly Doreen went back into the room.

Rhoda had finished unpacking. She had no coat, just a couple of summer frocks and a cardigan. But there was a dressing-gown: long, silky and patterned with roses. And her shoes were black patent with a narrow strap over the instep. Doreen always wore plimsolls. She made up her mind to try on those shoes when Rhoda wasn't around.

She noticed the other things Rhoda had put on her side of the dressing-table: a pot of face cream, a brush and comb, and a black-and-white photograph in a frame. The photograph showed a woman's face glancing back over one shoulder and smiling with glossy lips. She had light hair that billowed in curls.

“Who's that?”

“My mother.”

“Your
mother
?” Doreen had assumed it was a film star.

Rhoda handed her the photograph. Doreen could see that she was proud of it. There was writing across one corner. Doreen read it aloud: “‘Anne-Marie'. Is that her name? It's lovely.”

“It's her stage name: not ‘Anne-Marie Kelly' – just ‘Anne-Marie'. Her real name's Mary Ann; she hates it.”

“Is she a film star?”

“She's a singer and dancer. And she does some acting. She's quite well-known. I'm going to be a singer, too.”

“So am I,” said Doreen. “Or I might be an actress.” An exciting possibility occurred to her: “Will your mother come and see you?”

“Oh, she's sure to. But she's doing the summer season at the Hippodrome, so she won't have a lot of time.”

“What's your house like in Liverpool?” Doreen asked. She imagined a grand place, like the mine owners' houses at Woodend.

But Rhoda said, “Oh – nothing. Just a room. Mam puts her things around: photos, and posters, and mirrors. But we're always moving.”

Doreen was envious. “I've lived here all my life.”

Rhoda looked out of the window. “Is that a mine?”

“Yes. That's Springhill pit head. Mum and Lennie both work there.”

“Your mam too?”

Rhoda sounded astonished, and Doreen was glad to have the advantage for once. “Not digging coal,” she said scornfully. “Mum works on the screens – sorting.”

Rhoda changed the subject. “Have you got any shops? Big shops? Or arcades? Or cinemas?”

“There's a cinema,” said Doreen. “We could go to Saturday morning pictures if you like. It gets crowded, though. All the vaccies –” She stopped, embarrassed. “Lots of little kids. They're fidgety, like.”

“Our cinema was bombed,” said Rhoda. “The seats gone, the walls, everything. There's just the arch and the stage left.”

Doreen wished there had been a bomb on Culverton – just one, a small one. She sought for something that would equal a bomb site. “We could go to Old Works tomorrow,” she said. “It's all ruins there, old buildings, a tunnel.”

“A tunnel!”

“It's dangerous,” said Doreen. “Don't tell Mum. She doesn't like me playing there.”

“Doreen?” came Rhoda's voice. “Are you awake?”

“Yes.”

“There's something hard in this bed.”

“It's a spring.”

“Gets you between the ribs,” said Rhoda.

Doreen felt a mean satisfaction. At least she'd kept the best bed.

It was morning. She'd been lying awake for some time, listening to Rhoda's breathing. Rhoda sounded different to Mary, or Phyl, or Lennie. They all had their own, familiar sounds. But then Rhoda
was
different. She did strange things. Last night, wrapped in the silky dressing-gown, she had washed out her knickers and socks in the kitchen sink and hung them over the fireguard to dry. Then she had dabbed her face with cold cream, coiled her hair into pin curls secured with hair grips, and knelt at the side of her bed and murmured prayers.

Doreen had felt that she would like to say prayers, too, but she didn't know any words; and her hair was too short for pin curls.

Rhoda got out of bed.

She was wearing a white cotton nightdress with ribbon straps over the shoulders. Doreen thought it romantic; her own nightdress was flowered winceyette, grey with age.

Rhoda noticed her looking and said, “Do you like my nightie? I made it out of an old sheet. Dead easy. Bernadette showed me – me mam's dressmaker.”

Doreen climbed on a chair and undid the pegs of the blackout screen and lifted it down. She pulled the curtains and pushed the window wider open, letting in mild summer air.

Outside, the day looked fine already, with blue sky and little high, white puffs of cloud: the sort of day when she might have met up with Barbara and gone out on what they called Parachute Patrol, roaming the woods and fields and occasionally glancing up at the sky in case a German parachute was descending. Lennie said it was daft. “There won't be a German invasion now. They're too busy invading Russia.”

“We're doing a concert in aid of the Russian allies,” Doreen told Rhoda. “Me and some friends: Barbara and June. And Rosie Lloyd from next door, she comes too, but she's not my friend, she just hangs around.”

Rhoda looked interested. “Where are you doing it?”

“Well…in Barbara's dad's shed at the moment.” Doreen felt embarrassed. “It's a big shed. With a window. Room for people to sit around and watch. Just mums and dads, like.” She could see that Rhoda had already dismissed it as kids' stuff, but she persisted. “You could join if you like. We need more people. We're having a rehearsal on Monday.”

She hoped the word “rehearsal” might make the project sound more impressive.