Room for a Stranger (6 page)

But Doreen was glad she had.

Precocious.

She liked that word.

The letter to Rhoda's mother was returned, marked “Gone away”.

“She must have moved,” said Rhoda. “She's always moving.” She seemed unconcerned.

“But doesn't she let you know her new address?”

“You could send it to the theatre.”

Doreen sensed her mother's disapproval as she addressed another envelope. “I'd better take you to Bensons',” she said to Rhoda, “and buy you some new shoes. We can post this on the way.”

She bought Rhoda a pair of plimsolls. The Dyers always wore plimsolls unless Mum managed to get a pair of shoes at a jumble sale. “They'll do for a few months,” she said.

Doreen inherited the black patent shoes. They were too big, but she wore them anyway, with insoles and her thickest socks.

Rosie Lloyd came round that night, wanting Doreen to play.

“I can't,” said Doreen. “We're rehearsing.”

She and Rhoda had chosen their songs. Doreen was singing “Run, Rabbit, Run” and Rhoda, “We'll Meet Again”.

“I'll listen,” said Rosie. She tried to sidle into the house, but Doreen shooed her away. “Go and practise your dancing.”

And Rosie did. They heard the lonely
tap, tap
of her second-hand shoes echoing in the passage between the houses. Doreen felt mean. But there were only two days left before the Grand Summer Show; she didn't have time for Rosie.

Rhoda missed the last two rehearsals; she was at Aunty Elsie's making costumes. Doreen was surprised and slightly offended that she hadn't put the rehearsals first, but on the other hand it gave Doreen a chance to take charge, and it wasn't as if Rhoda herself needed to practise.

Then, on the Friday, the day before the show, Rhoda said casually, “Oh, I can't come tomorrow, Doreen. I'm going out with Lennie and Martin. We're taking the pigeons for a toss.”

Doreen stared. “But it's the performance!”

“We'll do it on Sunday.”

“We can't. June's going to her aunt's. And Mrs Lee always spends hours at the cemetery, Sundays; she won't come.”

“Next week, then.”

“Rhoda, the others are already fed up – they wanted to do it last week. And it's on all the posters.”

“Well, do it without me; I don't mind.”

But Doreen knew it wouldn't be the same now without Rhoda.

“You don't
have
to go out with Lennie and Martin,” she said furiously.

“I do. I promised. And it's the only day. I'm sorry, Doreen, honestly.”

Doreen stormed downstairs and ripped the poster from the door. She went out and called over the garden fence to Rosie to take her poster down. Then she slammed the garden gate and ran to Barbara's.

Barbara was comforting and sympathetic, but she didn't care the way Doreen did.

“I
hate
Rhoda!” said Doreen.

“She is a bit bossy,” agreed Barbara. “We could do it any road, Doreen. We don't have to have Rhoda. I know she's a good singer and that, but it was more fun before.”

Doreen and Barbara had been best friends for ages. Doreen realized that Barbara had been missing their togetherness.

“If you want to get your own back, do it without her,” said Barbara.

But Doreen couldn't. Her enthusiasm had gone. She was in a wrecking mood. She went home and complained bitterly to Mum.

“She shouldn't have done it,” Mum agreed. “Trouble is, she's older than you; she's got other interests. I expect it all seemed a bit young, with kids like Rosie in it.”

“Then why did she come and take over in the first place?” retorted Doreen.

Lennie came into the room – and took the brunt of her temper.

“It's not my fault!” he insisted. “I just asked her; she never said about the show.”

“She wouldn't.”

“I'll tell her she can't come.” But he looked unwilling.

“Don't bother,” said Doreen.

Rhoda and Lennie left at twelve the next morning, as soon as Lennie got home from work.

“'Bye, Doreen,” said Rhoda in a small voice. She looked sheepish. Doreen guessed Mum had had a word with her last night.

“Have a good time,” she said sarcastically.

Mum sighed and shook her head. She began clearing the table.

Doreen heard Lennie and Rhoda talking as they walked across the yard. Then she heard the sound of the shed door opening. She sprang to her feet.

“My bike!” she said.

“Doreen—” Mum began. But Doreen was already out in the yard.

Lennie's bicycle was propped up against the shed wall and he was bringing out the other one: a lady's, with a basket on the front.

Doreen threw herself at him. “She's not having my bike!”

“It's not yours. It's Mary's.” Lennie felt the tyres: squashy; he unclipped the pump.

“It's mine for now.”

“Yours and Mum's,” said Lennie. He was pumping steadily.

“I asked your mam,” said Rhoda.

Doreen glared at her. “You never asked me! And you're not having it.” She grabbed at the handlebars, knocking Lennie off balance.

“For heaven's sake, Doreen,” he shouted, “don't be so babyish!”

Mum had come out. “Doreen, I told Rhoda she could take the bike. It's Mary's bike, not yours. Now leave Lennie alone.”

Doreen gave the bicycle a hard shove towards Lennie and ran inside.

Everybody was against her. She hated them all. She stormed upstairs and into her bedroom. The two beds confronted her; hers unmade, Rhoda's neatly covered with its floral quilt.

She hated Rhoda.

She began to drag out the screen from behind the dressing-table. Mum came up, alarmed by the noise.

“What
are
you doing?

“I want the screen up.”

“You're being silly.”

“I'm not!” Doreen was close to tears. She got the screen into place and retreated behind it, to her own bed.

Mum followed her. “
I
told Rhoda she could have the bike. I know she was wrong to let you down, but refusing her the bike wouldn't have made any difference.”

“It might have stopped her going.”

“And how would she have felt, then? She still wouldn't have wanted to join in with you.”

“It's not fair,” said Doreen. “She gets everything.”

“She doesn't. I treat you all the same.”

“I didn't mean that. I meant…people. Lennie. Aunty Elsie.”

“Elsie does seem to like her,” Mum agreed.

“She used to like me.”

“Oh, Doreen! She loves you. You can love more than one person, you know. It isn't rationed – not like butter.”

Doreen plucked at the patchwork quilt – the one Aunty Elsie had made her. “That Rhoda – she pushes in,” she muttered.

“Perhaps no one takes much notice of her back home,” suggested Mum. “If you could share Lennie and Aunty Elsie with her, while she's here…It won't be for ever.” She stood up briskly. “Why don't you go and see Barbara?” Mum liked Barbara. “You might even feel like doing the show. I'll turn up any road. I've got my ticket.”

“I don't know,” said Doreen.

But she went to Barbara's. Barbara was sitting on her back doorstep shelling peas. Her cat, Tiggy, was on her lap, struggling to get comfortable and nudging the colander out of his way.

“Get him off me, Dor,” said Barbara.

Doreen picked up Tiggy and held him on her own lap as she sat down, but he was soon back on Barbara, pressing and purring.

“I'll have the colander.” Doreen popped open a pea pod and brushed the row of peas into the bowl. She tasted one. It was crunchy and fresh.

“I can't stop eating them,” said Barbara.

The sun was warm on their heads. Doreen popped pea pods and stroked Tiggy and ate fresh peas and slowly the anger melted out of her. Barbara didn't talk much except to say, “Ugh! A wormy one!” or “Get
off
, Tiggy!” But after a while she asked, “Are we doing the show, then?”

“Yes, let's do it. We don't need her.”

“Will Rosie come?”

Doreen pulled a face. “Bound to. I told her it was cancelled but that wouldn't stop Rosie.”

“June's still coming. But her mum won't let her bring another rabbit.”

Doreen was stroking Tiggy. She looked up, and smiled. “I've got an idea. About your cookery demonstration.”

Barbara hung her head. “It's awful.”

“No, it's not. But listen.”

The garden shed was full. Barbara's mother was there; and June's. Mum had brought Mrs Richards from up the road and Miss Wingfield, who'd been passing by. There was an old man, Mr Ross – a neighbour of the Lees – and his collie dog, and Barbara's sister Sylvia who was on shift-work and had her curlers in, ready for bed. Doreen, getting her props together behind the screen which Mrs Lee had provided, totted up in her head: three and six already, and then there was to be the raffle.

She turned to Rosie. “Will your mum come?”

Rosie wiped her nose on the back of her hand. She always had a runny nose. “She never goes anywhere,” she said.

Doreen thought of Mrs Lloyd, moaning to Mum over the washing lines about the state of her insides. Nobody had much time for Mrs Lloyd – or Rosie.

I ought to be kinder to Rosie, Doreen thought. But it was hard.

Doreen had swiftly rearranged the programme with Barbara. June was on first with her juggling. That pleased June, who felt honoured, but Doreen knew it was better to be last; she intended to finish the show herself with two songs.

The audience was restless. “Oi!” called old Mr Ross. “Let's be having you then!” A chorus of giggled “Shushes!” from the women followed this.

“Let's start,” whispered Doreen.

She held up the dustbin lid and produced the drum roll. The dog began to bark. Doreen darted out from behind the screen and announced, “High Street Entertainments Committee presents a Grand Summer Show!”

June did her juggling act. She was good, but she did drop one ball; the collie made a dash for it. Doreen, peeping through a crack in the screen, saw the dog sitting in front of June, eager for another one.

June was pink with suppressed laughter when she came off. “I nearly dropped the lot.”

Doreen went out again. “Miss Rosie Lloyd!”

Rosie was lost without Rhoda. She had done all her rehearsals with Rhoda directing her, and now she blundered through the routine, ended in a brief flurry of taps, and came off looking bewildered. Doreen heard the audience clapping. She said, “That was good, Rosie!” and was rewarded with one of Rosie's rare smiles.

Doreen's magic was next; but there were problems backstage. Doreen could hear a persistent miaowing: Tiggy, who was being restrained in a box. The dog began to growl, and Doreen was aware of Mrs Lee and Sylvia whispering together, “What's Barbara
doing
to that cat?”

Doreen's problems with the scarf and the marbles went largely unnoticed; far more interesting were the increasingly frantic miaows and sounds of scrabbling and shushing behind the screen.

Doreen realized that things were getting out of hand. She cut her act short and announced the cookery demonstration.

Barbara brought on a table, a mixing bowl and spoon, a pie dish, and some cream-coloured cloth. The back stage miaowing was muffled now; Doreen held Tiggy while she watched through the crack. Barbara was blushing bright pink, but she managed to say her lines. “In this time of austerity we cooks have to make do with whatever comes to hand. Rabbit is not always available, but have you thought of tempting the family with cat? Cats are abundant and very tasty. I will now demonstrate how to make a nourishing cat pie.”

This was Doreen's cue to release Tiggy, who shot onstage. The collie broke into a frenzy of barking, and Mr Ross grabbed his collar. “Steady on, old lad,” he said. “You can have him when he's cooked.”

“First, catch your cat,” puffed Barbara, as she chased around between the chairs. She pounced and caught Tiggy and brought him to the table, where she wrapped him in the cream cloth to look like pastry and put him in the pie dish. Tiggy was outraged. Bits of him kept emerging from the pastry: an ear, a paw, two paws, his head and shoulders. The audience rocked with laughter.

Tiggy burst free of his packaging and hurtled backstage. The dog was frantic. Barbara, no longer embarrassed, smiled at her audience and said, “On the other hand, you may find that a leek and potato pie is far less trouble…”

Doreen was calming Tiggy behind the screen. Now she had to sing. As she had guessed, the audience was in tears of laughter, so she began with a funny one: “The Quarter Master's Stores”.

As she sang, she heard her mother saying in a horrified voice to Mrs Lee, “I don't know where she learned this one…”

Rhoda had been going to finish the show with “We'll Meet Again”, and Doreen had thought:
I'll
sing it; that'll teach her. But it didn't feel right, and at the last moment she went back to her original choice, “Run, Rabbit, Run.”

The audience loved it. Doreen saw them all swaying as they joined in and knew she'd done the right thing: she didn't have to try to be Rhoda.

Mr Ross won the raffle: a bottle of Aunty Elsie's elderflower wine. The girls totted up. “Three and six, plus four and eight for the raffle: that's eight shillings and twopence.”

Doreen gave the money to Miss Wingfield, who knew where it should be sent.

The group began to break up. Sylvia went to bed, and Miss Wingfield drove off in her car. Mr Ross went home with his dog and his bottle of wine. But everyone else stayed and sat on the grass, drinking tea.