Room for a Stranger (3 page)

“OK,” said Rhoda. “I don't mind.”

She took a box of mascara out of her dressing-table drawer and leaned forward to the mirror, brushing the stuff onto her eyelashes. Rhoda's eyelashes were white. Doreen watched them darken and thicken.

Mum would have a fit if I did that, she thought – even if I
was
thirteen.

“You have to make the best of yourself,” said Rhoda. “Me mam says. You're lucky to have dark eyelashes.”

Doreen had never thought about her eyelashes before. She looked at herself in the mirror: brown curly hair cut short, pale skin, grey eyes with the desired dark lashes.

“Sister Ursula says painting your face is vanity,” said Rhoda. “She says your soul is what's important, not your outward appearance. I know she's right, really, but
she
hasn't got white eyelashes.”

Doreen got dressed, pulling on her baggy navy-blue knickers under cover of her nightdress.

“I've got to tidy up,” she said. “But after that we could go to the pictures if you like. Or we could go to Old Works.”

“What's on at the pictures?”

“
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
. It's good. I've seen it before.”

Doreen loved cartoons. But Rhoda pulled a face. “Old Works, then,” she said.

Tidying up was quick with Rhoda's help. Rhoda seemed to be expert at washing up, laying fires and making beds. She even swept the carpet and dusted.

“Mum will be pleased,” said Doreen. Mum worked mornings only on Saturdays; she'd be home at midday.

“I do all that sort of thing at home,” Rhoda said. “Me mam never thinks about tidying up. It's not that she's lazy,” she added quickly, “only her mind's on other things. She's very talented.”

Doreen was relieved to find Old Works deserted. The gangs of little boys who often infested it were not there.

“This tunnel's supposed to come out at Springhill,” she said, “but I don't believe it. It's a dead-end, Lennie reckons.”

The entrance to the tunnel was wide, but the roof soon sloped downwards, and Rhoda showed no interest in exploring it.

“It pongs,” she said.

“I think the boys use it…you know.”

“Ugh!”

They pulled faces and giggled.

“What else is there?” asked Rhoda.

There were broken walls, remains of buildings, piles of brick rubble, all overgrown with trees and ivy. Doreen had read in a book about lost cities in the Amazon jungle; Old Works was like that, she thought.

Rhoda balanced along a stretch of wall; on one side was an eight-foot drop. “This is a great place,” she said.

Doreen was gratified, and relieved; she'd been afraid Rhoda might be too grown-up for Old Works. “Come and see my favourite bit,” she said, “down here.”

Some steps led down into a small square room with a grating over the window. Half the roof had crumbled away and you could look up and see tree roots and ivy overhead.

“It's like a bomb site, isn't it?” she said proudly.

“Greener,” said Rhoda. “Older.”

“Lennie reckons it was a storeroom. We call it the Dungeon.”

“There's some stuff here,” said Rhoda. “In this corner.”

In the dim light they caught the gleam of metal: jagged pieces of sheared-off aluminium, small round bullets, dented where they had hit the ground.

Rhoda picked up the bullets. “Shrapnel,” she said. “The kids on Merseyside have tons of it.”

“Hey! Leave that alone! It's ours!”

The voice came from above. A boy stood on the crumbling roof, shouting down at them: Billy Dean. More small boys appeared behind him.

“Who wants it, any road?” Doreen retorted. “Old rubbish.”

Billy was clinging to a sapling. He let go and leapt into the Dungeon, bringing down a shower of earth and loose brick. He landed with a thud beside Doreen. Three other boys followed him.

“That's not rubbish,” said Billy. “See that bit there? That's off a Heinkel. It's got blood on it.”

“It hasn't!”

“It has! See that stain?”

Rhoda spoke up. “That's fire did that, not blood.”

“It's blood!” Billy's voice was shrill.

“Blood would wash off.”

He glared at her. “Know everything, don't you, Scouser?” He turned to Doreen. “Who is she, any road?”

“She's my evacuee,” said Doreen. “She knows more about shrapnel than you do.”

A profusion of boys' voices broke out, high-pitched, indignant. “My evacuee brought a whole propeller—” “My cousin gets all this stuff…” “I've got sixteen bullets—” “That's from a Messerschmidt—”

Billy Dean pulled something out of his pocket. “See that? It's a grenade.”

Rhoda grabbed Doreen's arm and pushed her towards the steps. “You shouldn't mess with grenades,” she said. “It could be live.”

The boys crowed. “Scaredy-cats!”

Rhoda looked down at them. “You could get blown up.”

Billy came to the point. “This is our den. And our stuff.”

“Anyone can come here,” Doreen insisted.

“Except girls and Scousers,” said Billy. “So that's you two out.”

Doreen and Rhoda were already moving towards the steps, but Doreen was determined to have the last word. “Smelly old dump, full of rubbish.”

“Yes. Full of you. You're rubbish. Scousers are rubbish!”

Howls of laughter.

The girls retreated. “Kids!” said Rhoda contemptuously.

They went off together, a warm feeling of unity between them.

“Let's go down the High Street,” said Doreen. “We can get our sweets.”

She chose aniseed balls and Rhoda had pear drops and they shared them, half each. Doreen introduced Rhoda to Mrs Jennings. “This is Rhoda; she's my evacuee.” She met other people she knew in the street and introduced Rhoda again. She began to feel pleased about Rhoda; she was a lot better than some of her friends' evacuees. The Palmers had those awful boys from Dudley, and Ida Jones had a girl who kept telling tales about her.

They walked home through the churchyard. Rhoda talked about her boyfriend, who was called Michael, and was a soldier, serving abroad. “We're in love,” she said. “When I'm sixteen we're going to get married.”

Doreen felt friendlier towards Rhoda now. She said, “My dad's buried here. Do you want to see his grave?”

Dad's headstone looked stark, although it was over a year since he had died. There were rose petals blowing around it. Doreen remembered seeing rose petals at the funeral. She had watched one fall onto the lid of the coffin and saw it crushed as the earth descended. Later there had been yellow leaves, then snow, then dandelions springing up all around. And now rose petals again.

“The flowers are dead,” said Rhoda.

Last week Mum had filled a jamjar with marigolds and big white daisies; they were drooping now.

“We'll do them tomorrow,” said Doreen. “We always come here on Sunday morning.”

The inscription read:

THOMAS WILLIAM DYER
1888–1940
Rest in peace

And beneath it Mum had asked for the names of two children to be added: “George, 1923–1925” and “Joan, 1920, aged three months”.

Doreen thought about those children. If they had lived they would be grown up now. In the army, or the air force, perhaps getting killed like Bobby Lee.

“Those are my mum's babies that died, and over here is Uncle Charley, and over there Uncle Arthur, and Grandad and Nan Dyer…”

“You've got a big family,” said Rhoda. There was envy in her voice.

“Haven't you got any brothers or sisters?”

“No. There's only Mam and me.”

“Is
your
Dad dead?”

“No.”

“In the army, is he?” But even as she asked, Doreen sensed that Rhoda didn't want to talk about her father.

Rhoda turned and began to walk towards the church. “He's away,” she said, over her shoulder, “but he'll come back. After the war he'll come back and marry me mam and we'll be a proper family.”

When they got home Lennie was coming in through the back garden gate, wheeling his bicycle; he only worked mornings on Saturdays.

Doreen ran up to him. “Lennie, we've been to Old Works! It was great. Rhoda likes it there, don't you, Rhoda?”

But Rhoda, with Lennie's gaze on her, shrugged, and said dismissively, “It's OK – for little kids.”

Her words cast a shadow over the bright morning, spoiling it.

Doreen felt betrayed. Rhoda
had
liked it there; she was just showing off. Not that she'd got anything to show off about, seeing as her mum and dad weren't even married.

On Sunday morning Rhoda went to mass, leaving the family in the kitchen, clearing breakfast.

“And how are you two getting on with Rhoda?” Mum asked.

“All right,” said Doreen. And it was true. She and Rhoda had got on better than she'd expected, except for Rhoda's remark about Old Works; that still hurt. “Mum, she wears pink knickers!”

“Doreen! Not in front of Lennie!”

“Well…I wish
I
could. And, Mum, she goes to a convent school and her teachers are nuns.”

“She likes the pigeons,” said Lennie.

“Has she been to the loft?”

“Yes. Last night. I told her all their names and the places they fly to. She liked them.”

Doreen felt a twinge of jealousy. She didn't know Lennie had been making friends with Rhoda.

“Rhoda's mum's a famous singer,” she said.

“I saw the photo,” said Mum.

“She might come and see Rhoda soon.”

“Well,” said Mum, “if she does come I hope she'll bring Rhoda some clothes. All she's got is those two summer frocks, and it'll be autumn soon. She'll be needing something warmer. Perhaps I should mention it when I write.”

“How much do you get for having Rhoda?” Doreen asked.

“Ten and six a week.”

“That's a lot.”

“We won't make much on it. Not feeding a growing girl. Mind you, she's no trouble. Tidies up after herself. Always offers to help—”

“Unlike some,” said Lennie, looking at Doreen.

“
You
can talk!”

“I'm bringing in money.” He was proud of that, she knew.

“Mum,” she began tentatively, “how much does a gold cross and chain cost – like Rhoda's?”

“I've no idea.”

“I wish I had one.”

“I don't really hold with crosses and that,” said Mum.

“Why?”

“I just don't. We're not churchy people.”

Doreen thought of Rhoda at mass. “We ought to go to chapel,” she said. “We used to.”

She remembered the last time she'd been. There was a visiting preacher – a woman – and the sermon wasn't as boring as usual. It was on the theme “Careless Talk Costs Lives” – the poster about spies that they all saw everywhere. Only the preacher had spoken about careless talk in everyday life; she had said that before you said anything you might regret, you should ask yourself three questions: “Is it true? Is it kind? Is it necessary?” And you should only say it if you could answer yes to at least two of them. Doreen had tested this theory, afterwards, by inventing things she might say and asking the three questions.

“I liked it – sometimes,” she said. And yet she knew it wasn't really chapel she wanted to go to today. Rhoda had told her about the Catholic church, with its candles and statues and paintings, and everywhere the glint of gold and soft light. She wanted to go there.

“You could have gone to chapel, if you'd liked,” said Mum. “I haven't got time. I need to change the beds and start the washing. And I could do with a bit of help. We'll get one load on the line, shall we, and then go and see your dad?”

Doreen and Lennie exchanged a glance. They both wished she wouldn't put it like that. Doreen wanted to say “Dad's dead; we can't go and see him”, but when she tried the three questions on it, it only came out as true, not kind or necessary. Aunty Elsie always said that Dad had “passed over”, making Doreen think of the way the flock of pigeons circled over the house. No one ever said the word dead, just as no one had ever said “dying” when Dad was ill, and yet everyone knew.

Another word she'd been thinking about came into her mind. “Mum, if your parents aren't married are you a bastard?”

Lennie snorted.

“Shut
up
, Lennie!” This was important.

Mum had tensed. “Illegitimate,” she said. “There's no need to use that other word.”

“I think Rhoda's illegitimate.”

Mum whisked crumbs from the table. “Yes, she is, but it's not her fault. And there's no call for you to be talking about it to anyone else.”

“I haven't!” She told them what Rhoda had said about her father coming home after the war.

“Is that what she says?” Mum's voice had softened. “I daresay she's had trouble from other children. People can be unkind. Let's get those sheets in the copper, Doreen. Make a start. This afternoon we're all invited up to Aunty Elsie's for tea.”

Lennie grinned. “She wants to look Rhoda over.”

“Oh, that's what it is,” Mum agreed. “But I reckon our Rhoda will cope.”

Lennie and Doreen wore their Sunday clothes to go to Aunty Elsie's. Doreen added her green ring that had come from a fair years ago. The ring was the only jewellery she possessed; she decided that from now on she'd wear it all the time, like Rhoda with her cross.

Aunty Elsie was a widow. She lived in Upper Street, across the centre of town, in a house that seemed big to Doreen. It had three bedrooms, two of them occupied by evacuee mothers and babies.

“I can't wait to see the babies!” Rhoda said, but when they arrived they found that the evacuees had been sent out for a walk; they'd be back for tea. Aunty Elsie raised her eyebrows at Mum. “Feckless – both of them. I have to push them out of the house or they'd sit around all day reading magazines. No idea about hygiene; think cooking's something you do with a tin-opener. They're all the same, these girls.”