by Ann Turnbull
“Venue,” wrote Rhoda, “The Garden Shed, 26 High Street, Culverton.”
“‘Starring.’” Doreen reached for the pencil, but Rhoda held on.
“‘Starring’,” said Rhoda. “Who should come first?”
They eyed each other.
Doreen had an inspiration. “Alphabetical,” she said. A quick run-through had showed her that this way she would be first legitimately; and, even more satisfying, June Wilkins would be last.
“I don’t know the surnames,” said Rhoda.
Doreen reached for the pencil again, but Rhoda evaded her, turned the paper over and began jotting them down: “Kelly; Dyer; what’s Barbara’s?”
“Lee,” said Doreen. “And there’s Lloyd and Wilkins.”
“You’re first, then, and I’m second, then Barbara Lee…”
Rhoda wrote the names at an angle, so that they seemed to interlock, and she drew six-pointed stars in between them. It was better than anything Doreen would have thought of.
“Admission,” said Rhoda. “How much should we charge?”
“Fourpence?”
“Sixpence.”
“All right.”
“And we must put what it’s in aid of: the Red Army.”
She wrote, “In aid of our gallant Russian comrades,” and drew a soldier in a greatcoat and Russian hat.
She could draw better than Doreen, too.
That night, while Rhoda was upstairs, Mum wrote to Rhoda’s mother. Doreen had to help her. “I can never think what to put,” said Mum.
Even starting was difficult. Should she begin “Dear Anne-Marie” or “Dear Mrs Kelly” or…Doreen realized that Mum couldn’t bring herself to mention the third, more accurate possibility: “Dear Miss Kelly”.
They decided on “Mrs Kelly”.
“Dear Mrs Kelly, I expect Miss Wingfield has told you that Rhoda is now billeted with me.” She crossed out “billeted” and wrote “staying”. “It’s friendlier, like.” She chewed the end of the pen. “What else shall I say?”
“Say she does good posters but she’s taking over everything and we hope she’ll be going home soon!” Doreen burst out.
“Oh, Doreen!” Mum put down her pen. “I don’t think you’ve tried to like her.”
“I have!” Doreen felt she’d tried hard. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Mum, she’s bossy.”
“Well…so are you.”
“But I’m not horrible!” Doreen said, and realized, even before Mum’s lips twitched, that at the moment she was being just that; reluctantly she gave way to laughter while the tears ran down her face.
“No, you’re not,” said Mum, composing her face. “So please help me with this letter. ‘Settled’ – shall we say that?”
“Yes.” But she added sulkily, “Only I still wish she’d go home.”
Mum ignored this. “‘Rhoda has settled in. She is well and happy. We will be pleased to see you if you wish to call —’ Does that sound all right? Oh, dear: I ought to ask for money for clothes, but it seems rude, doesn’t it, in the first letter? Perhaps in a P.S….”
She wrote, “Yours sincerely, A. Dyer (Mrs)” and added “P.S. I don’t like to mention it but Rhoda needs new shoes and a coat for autumn.” She turned to Doreen. “Do you think I should put that in?”
“Yes!” said Doreen. “Rhoda says the shoes are hurting.”
This was true, but it had also occurred to Doreen that if Rhoda got new shoes she might get the old ones.
Mum read the letter through, worrying that it should have been longer, that it might not be impressive enough for someone who called herself Anne-Marie and was on the stage.
“It’s all right,” Doreen assured her, and Mum copied it out neatly and put it in an envelope addressed to “Mrs M. Kelly, 72 Furnival Buildings, Crown Street, Bootle”.
Perhaps she’ll come and see us soon, Doreen thought. She longed to meet Anne-Marie.
CHAPTER SIX
“I’m going out,” said Lennie. “Get some air.”
It was a fine evening and he’d been underground all day.
“Take the girls,” said Mum. “I heard there’s a hedge full of raspberries over Brick Kiln Lane. You could pick me some.”
They took some paper bags and went out.
The evening was golden. Long shadows lay across the street. Women stood at their front doors, arms crossed, gossiping. Rosie Lloyd and the Richards children were playing hopscotch on the pavement.
Doreen saw that Rosie had spotted her and was beginning to detach herself from the hopscotch. “Quick,” she said. “Let’s get away.” From the corner of her eye she saw Rosie run after them, hesitate, and drift back to her game.
Lennie led the girls on a short cut across fields. They skirted the edge of Old Works – where boys’ voices floated up, bird-like, on the still air – then crossed Old Hall Lane and climbed a stile into the fields. Lennie was quiet – shy because of Rhoda. If she hadn’t been there, he and Doreen would have been sparring with each other. It was Rhoda who talked, asking questions, always of Lennie, what this crop was, when it would be harvested, what work did he do in the pit, did they have ponies, wasn’t it horrible working in the dark all the time?
“I shan’t stay there,” said Lennie. “When the war’s over I’m going to try and get a job in Birmingham, in a drawing office.”
“Lennie’s really good at drawing,” said Doreen.
“No, I’m not.” He sounded irritated. “But I could learn.”
They came to a field of cows. As they climbed over the stile the cows began moving towards them. Rhoda hesitated.
“They won’t hurt you,” Lennie said.
But Rhoda didn’t move.
“Walk the other side of me,” said Lennie. “No – don’t hurry. Just walk.”
The cows came close: bulky bodies, snorting puffs of breath. Lennie waved a hand at the cows, and the leaders, startled, shifted back a step. “See, they’re scared of us. They’re just nosy.”
“I don’t like them,” said Rhoda.
“City girl,” teased Lennie.
He and Doreen walked either side of her.
The next field was full of some fodder crop, knee-high with limp leaves and yellow flowers. It brushed pollen onto Doreen’s blue frock.
“Rabbit! Look!” They saw the white scut vanishing into the hedge. Lennie pretended to shoot it. He had lost his shyness and was showing off for Rhoda’s benefit.
“I can see the raspberries!” said Doreen. She ran ahead, through the gap in the hedge and into the cornfield that bordered Brick Kiln Lane.
The raspberries hung in thick arching clusters. No one had found this side of the hedge yet. The fruit was soft red, deepening to crimson, so ripe it fell at a touch. It was too soft to keep; they ate greedily.
“I’d never had them till the war,” said Rhoda. “Only in jam. Didn’t like them at first.”
“We’d better save some,” said Lennie.
Doreen began filling one of the paper bags. Lennie and Rhoda worked together, Lennie holding a bag open, Rhoda dropping the fruit in.
“Hold one for me, Lennie,” said Doreen. It was awkward trying to hold the bag open while you picked the fruit. But Lennie said, “You’re doing all right,” and moved on down the hedge.
They walked home laden. The sun was a pink glow in the west and dusk was gathering beneath the hedge and under the knots of trees. The cows were gone from their field. Lennie teased Rhoda, and she laughed. The two of them walked ahead, and Doreen heard Rhoda telling Lennie about Merseyside, and the bombing, and then they got onto the war and the reasons for it, and Lennie talked about his friend Howard who worked at Springhill pit; Howard was a conscientious objector and he’d volunteered to work in the mine rather than join the forces.
“But it’s all the same, isn’t it?” asked Rhoda. “I mean, he’s helping us win the war.”
Doreen, trailing behind, felt left out. Lennie never talked to her – not properly, about sensible things, only to teas
e. And lately, since he’d been at work, he’d had no time for her at all. He was too tired in the evenings to play marbles or jacks or ludo, and he didn’t always want to go to Saturday morning pictures either; he preferred to be outside. He spent a lot of time out on his bike, with his friend Martin. Doreen suspected that although they pretended to be grown-up, they played the same sort of games as she did with Barbara: looking for spies, and parachutists, and military storage depots. “Can I come?” she’d asked, but they didn’t want her around.
When they reached Old Works, the children were gone. It was almost dark.
“Let’s go to the Dungeon,” said Lennie.
“Oh, yes!” Rhoda was enthusiastic.
Doreen thought of the Dungeon, black and secret under the trees. Lennie knew she was scared of the dark. “It’s late,” she said.
“You go home, then.”
But Doreen wouldn’t. She followed them, stumbling over the uneven ground, until they reached the entrance to the storeroom, deep in its well of darkness.
“Can’t see a thing,” laughed Lennie. His foot struck against something metallic.
“The kids brought shrapnel here,” said Doreen. “Billy Dean and that lot. They had a grenade. Rhoda was scared, weren’t you, Rhoda?”
She was scared herself, now, afraid of the darkness that pressed against her eyes as she entered the underground room, and angry with Lennie for making her come here. His shirt-sleeve gleamed white in the darkness; she grabbed it and held on.
Lennie moved further in, and Doreen was pulled with him. The light from the tiny barred window showed up faint outlines, but the corners of the room were black.
“It’d be a good place, this, to hide out,” said Lennie. “A spy—”
“Or a German prisoner on the run,” said Rhoda. She wasn’t frightened.
Doreen pressed against Lennie. “I don’t like it here.”
Lennie took pity on her. “Let’s go home. Mum will be wondering.”
Doreen got some paper from Barbara, and the three girls spent a morning designing posters and tickets. Barbara didn’t seem to mind being bossed by Rhoda; she was happy to be told what to do. But Doreen did two of the posters and deliberately made them different from Rhoda’s, although she copied the blocked lettering. Barbara cut out and printed the tickets. Rhoda had decided that more rehearsals were needed, so the date was put forward to the Saturday after next.
When the posters were finished they distributed them around the town: one in each of the children’s houses, one in the butcher’s shop and one in Jennings’ sweet shop.
The extra rehearsals did little to improve the performances. June still insisted she could see through Doreen’s magic tricks, and Rosie still couldn’t dance. The rabbit escaped. Doreen was glad. She thought of it out in the fields with the wild rabbits, its white scut bounding in the distance like the one they’d seen on Brick Kiln Lane. Lennie said, “It’ll just get shot instead of having its neck broken,” but Doreen thought that at least it had a chance. Besides, it got June into trouble with her mum, who hadn’t known she’d been bringing it.
Meanwhile, plans for the adults’ concert were going ahead. “What shall I sing?” asked Mum. Doreen suggested her own favourites: “The Lark in the Clear Air” and “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”.
Aunty Elsie began making costumes, and Rhoda spent several days helping her cut out and pin and tack. Doreen went, too, the first time – she’d always liked going to Aunty Elsie’s. They let her pin some of the pieces together, but she felt dissatisfied; Rhoda was so much better at everything than she was.
The next day she went to Barbara’s instead, and they roamed the woods and fields, playing a game of Doreen’s invention: they were spies, parachuted into occupied France to help the Resistance. They hid in the undergrowth and watched the boys with their war games and bits of shrapnel, and pretended they were watching Germans.
That evening, when Doreen came back from Barbara’s at tea-time, she heard singing in the kitchen as she approached the back door, the opening words of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”.
Mum and Rhoda.
Doreen stood still. She couldn’t bring herself to go in. She had always sung with Mum, ever since she was two or three and Mum had taught her nursery rhymes; and then songs like “She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain” and “Dashing Away With a Smoothing Iron”. And now Mum was singing with Rhoda. She listened to Rhoda’s husky, grown-up contralto and knew she would never be as good as that; Mum would always prefer to sing with Rhoda now.
She ran down the garden path to the pigeon loft and went inside. The birds rustled on their perches. Doreen sniffed back tears. I’m being stupid, she thought. She found Dad’s old jacket still hanging on the hook behind the door and rubbed her face against it, but it only smelt of dust and grain; Dad had gone. Doreen had never taken much interest in the birds, but now they were a soft, comforting presence. She sat on Dad’s chair and let the sound of their cooing soothe her.
The door opened, making her jump: Lennie, come to feed them.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Nothing.” Doreen rubbed a hand across her face.
“You know, if you don’t get on with Rhoda you should tell Mum.”
“I have. She doesn’t care.” She glowered at him. “You seem to like her.”
Lennie picked up a pigeon and examined its wing feathers. “She makes you like her – the way she’s interested in everything. But I can see it would be different for you.”
Doreen nodded. Rhoda was like a river that had flowed into all her space.
“They’ve stopped singing now,” said Lennie. He smiled. “It’s safe to go in.”
“There you are!” said Mum. “Rhoda’s upstairs. We’ve been having a sing-song.”
“Rhoda sings better than me,” said Doreen.
“Different,” amended Mum.
“She sounds like the wireless.”
“To be honest” – Mum lowered her voice – “I prefer a child to sound like a child. Rhoda’s a bit…precocious.” And then she looked guilty, as if she regretted saying that to Doreen.
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 tom
orrow, 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.”