by Ann Turnbull
“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.”
She shrugged and turned her attention to Rhoda. “So this is yours.”
“This is Rhoda Kelly,” said Mum. “Rhoda, this is Mrs Meadows.”
Doreen had become aware, as she grew up, that people were frightened of Aunty Elsie. Being the youngest child, and a girl, and rewarding to dress up and make clothes for, she had always been a favourite of Elsie’s and had never been scared of her. But she knew her mother felt sorry for the young women billeted here. “Poor things,” Doreen had overheard her saying to Phyl. “Feckless, she calls them; I remember when you were a baby and we went up to Elsie’s, I used to feel feckless the minute I stepped in her door!”
Aunty Elsie was a big woman. She folded her arms across her chest and studied Rhoda.
“Well, Rhoda, and how do you like living in Culverton?” she began.
Most of the girls Doreen knew would have retreated into timid whispers under this interrogation, but not Rhoda. She spoke up clearly, and as she spoke Doreen saw her eyes flicking over Aunty Elsie and around the room, taking everything in. When Elsie had discovered her age, religion, schooling and habits, Rhoda broke in to exclaim, “This is a lovely house, Mrs Meadows. You’ve got such nice things; all this china—”
The dresser was stacked with china plates painted with birds and flowers. Rhoda picked one up and turned it around in her hands. Doreen had never dared to touch them and yet here was Rhoda, a stranger, walking in and handling everything. Doreen felt outraged.
“Uncle Arthur painted those, didn’t he, Aunty Elsie?” she said, keen to retrieve her aunt’s attention.
Uncle Arthur had been a painter at the china works and Elsie’s house was full of the china seconds he had brought home. Doreen knew how proud of them Aunty Elsie was.
“He was the best painter at the works,” Elsie said. “They told him that – the management. It was a great loss to the company when he passed over.”
“What did he die of?” Rhoda asked, fixing Elsie with her frank blue gaze. Doreen felt apprehensive; she’d often wondered, but she’d been brought up not to ask questions like that. Strangely, Aunty Elsie didn’t seem to mind. Her voice sank to a whisper as she replied, “Tuberculosis. He’d always had a weak chest, but it was the TB that took him off.”
“That’s a terrible thing, the TB,” said Rhoda. She, too, spoke softly, and it sounded to Doreen like a grown-up speaking, as if she’d heard the phrase from her mother.
Doreen inserted herself between them. “Aunty Elsie, shall I show Rhoda round? Can I show her the piano?”
“Of course you can, love. I’ve got some other things in there now, as well as the piano, with all the bedrooms being full.”
She went to put the kettle on, and Rhoda followed Doreen into the front room.
“Oh! A sewing machine!” exclaimed Rhoda, as if she had discovered treasure.
The sewing machine was beautiful, glossy black with gold patterning, and from it fell a swathe of blue satin material, faded in places, but shining with a soft lustre where the light caught it.
For an instant Doreen thought, It’s for me! Her birthday was approaching, and in her imagination Aunty Elsie was making her a blue satin dress. Then she noticed the dress pattern that Rhoda had picked up and realized it was for an adult’s ballgown.
Mum, coming in behind them, murmured, “I haven’t seen material like that for a long time.”
Aunty Elsie arrived with the tea tray. Her parlour might be cluttered with sewing, but she had still put out an embroidered traycloth and the best china cups.
“Is it for you, Mrs Meadows? The dress?” asked Rhoda.
“That satin?” Aunty Elsie laughed. “No. It’s for Miss West up at T
he Laurels. Her mother bought the material before the war and never used it, and when Miss West got involved with the concert—”
“A concert?” Doreen exclaimed. “When?”
She saw Rhoda’s interest quicken, too.
“Oh, not till September,” said Aunty Elsie. “It’s Culverton Entertainments Committee. Miss Forrest and Mrs Miller are the organizers. I’m playing the piano, and they’ll be wanting your mother to sing.” She smiled at Mum, who looked anxious.
“Elsie! I haven’t a thing to wear.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll rustle something up. I’m in charge of costumes.”
“Mrs Meadows.” Rhoda was gazing at Aunty Elsie, shiny-eyed. “Could I help you with the costumes?”
Aunty Elsie looked surprised. “Do you like sewing, then, Rhoda?”
“I love it. And I don’t always need patterns. I’m very creative, Bernadette says.”
“Does she! Well, I could do with a helper,” said Aunty Elsie. “Those girls and their babies – they take up such a lot of time.” They heard the squeak of a gate. “And here they come, ready for their tea. Will you help me put the food out, Rhoda?”
Doreen jumped up. “I’ll help, too.” She followed in their wake as they went out to the kitchen. Lennie was there, testing a cooling scone. Even in wartime Elsie managed to produce cakes and scones that were almost like the real thing.
“Lennie!” said Mum.
But Elsie laughed. “You eat up, Lennie, my love. He’s too thin, Lina; I’ve told you before. Here, Rhoda, put this cloth on the table and get some plates from the dresser.”
The kitchen filled up with the women and their noisy babies. Rhoda made straight for the prettiest baby. “Oh, she’s gorgeous! What’s her name?”
“Christine.”
“Can I hold you, Christine?” She jigged the baby on her shoulder.
The other one was screaming and had a damp nappy; Doreen avoided it. She plucked at Aunty Elsie’s sleeve. “Can I sing in the concert, like Mum?”
“Oh, it’s not for children, Doreen, love. This is an adult’s concert. Children won’t be performing this time.” It wasn’t fair, Doreen thought. But Mum, who had overheard, said, “You’ve got your own concert that you’re doing, haven’t you, Doreen? With Barbara and June? You’ll be singing in that.”
“It’s not the same,” said Doreen.
“When I grow up,” Rhoda said that night, “I’m going to have my own house, and everything nice, like at your Aunty Elsie’s.”
Doreen was still feeling jealous at the way Rhoda had got on so well with Aunty Elsie. “I’ve never known Elsie take to anyone outside the family the way she has Rhoda,” Mum had said afterwards. And Doreen had felt pushed out; she’d been her aunt’s favourite for as long as she could remember.
She said sourly, “Mum says Aunty Elsie’s is nice because she hasn’t got children.”
“Oh, but I shall have children! Two at least. Twins.”
Twins! Doreen was drawn in, in spite of herself. She wanted twins, too. Amanda and Angela. Or Isla and Irene…
“You know that concert they’re doing?” said Rhoda. “I’d like to be in that. To sing.”
“Well, you can’t.” Doreen couldn’t keep the satisfaction out of her voice. “It’s for grown-ups only. Didn’t Aunty Elsie tell you?”
CHAPTER FIVE
“I can see it up your sleeve,” said June.
Doreen sighed, and pulled out the scarf. It wasn’t easy being a magician. Marbles rolled on the floor and cards slipped from her fingers, revealing their secrets. Maybe she should just sing – she was better at that. But they needed a lot of acts and there weren’t many people to go round. June was going to juggle with tennis balls, and she had brought along a rabbit which she said could perform tricks. Barbara – who was easily embarrassed – had been persuaded against her will to do a spoof cookery demonstration: how to make a pudding out of chopped newspaper, tea leaves and water. Rosie Lloyd was tap-dancing – not because she could dance but because June’s outgrown tap shoes fitted her.
And now there was Rhoda. Doreen had wondered, this morning, whether she was right to have invited Rhoda to join them. But Rhoda was older, and her mother was on the stage. Maybe she could give this show the professionalism it needed.
“I used to know a magician,” said Rhoda. “Friend of me mam’s. It’s all done with sleight of hand.”
“I know that,” retorted Doreen. “Only my hands aren’t sleight.”
“He said you have to get their attention away – so they’re looking at the box while you’re slipping the scarf up your sleeve.”
“I can watch the box and the scarf at the same time,” said June.
You would, thought Doreen. She was going off June.
“Did this magician teach you how to do any tricks?” she asked Rhoda.
“No. He couldn’t. They’re all in this guild, The Magic Circle, and they’re not allowed to tell how they do it. It’s against the rules.”
“Well, I could see the scarf,” said June, “and I could see you changing the cards over in the other trick.”
Barbara said, “I expect the mums and dads will pretend they didn’t see.”
“But I want it to be right,” said Doreen. It was especially important now; she didn’t want to look a fool in front of Rhoda.
“Are you going to sing for us, then, Rhoda?” asked June. “You said you would.”
Rhoda walked into the centre of the shed and faced them. “I’ll sing ‘Yours’” she said.
As she started to sing, Doreen saw Barbara and June exchange astonished glances. Doreen could sing, but not like this. Doreen sang like a child, but Rhoda’s voice was much fuller, and she sang as if she really meant it, with gestures and expressions just like Vera Lynn’s. The others burst out clapping as the song came to an end.
Doreen felt pleased – Rhoda would add such a lot to the show. But she was jealous, too, at being outshone. Until now she had been the one who was best at singing, the one with all the ideas and the one who did most of the organizing. But Rhoda was already beginning to take over. “I used to tap dance,” she said. She began to dance alongside Rosie, encouraging her to swing her arms and loosen her knees, and suddenly Rosie didn’t seem so hopeless after all; she was dancing quite well, though not with Rhoda’s style.
“We need a curtain,” Rhoda decided next. “And music – or a drum roll. To announce the start.”
“A dustbin lid!” said Doreen. “And a stick.”
“Yes!” Barbara fetched them, and Rhoda produced an impressive drum roll, rising to a crescendo.
“I want to do that!” said June.
“We’ll take turns,” said Rhoda.
She was in charge now. Barbara was sent indoors to ask about curtains. Rosie was allowed to practise the drum roll.
“When are we putting on this performance?” Rhoda asked, and Doreen felt foolish, realizing that she hadn’t thought; the rehearsing had seemed to be all that mattered.
“We could do it on Saturday,” she said, “in the afternoon.”
“We’ll need posters. And tickets.”
“I’ll do them.” Doreen liked doing things like that.
“I’ll help,” said Rhoda.
Doreen felt her resentment of Rhoda rising again. It’s my concert, she thought, my idea; they’re my friends, not yours.
She turned away and fondled the rabbit. She liked the rabbit, even though it had failed to perform any of its tricks. They had rabbits at home, but Doreen ignored them; she dared not get fond of a rabbit she was going to have to eat. Clearly June was less sentimental.
The group broke up at tea-time, and Doreen and Rhoda walked home together. Rhoda was full of the concert; she’d taken over the organization of it and seemed quite unaware of Doreen’s feelings.
On Tuesday morning a postcard with a view of the Mersey ferry came from Rhoda’s mother. It was dated two weeks earlier and had been forwarded from Rhoda’s previous billet, via Miss Win
gfield. The message was brief: “Show going well – full house every night. Be good. All my love, M.”
Mum said, “I’ll have to write to your mother.”
“Miss Wingfield will have told her I’ve moved,” said Rhoda.
“But I’ll write any road. It’s only polite.”
Doreen was impressed by the picture postcard. They’d only once had one before: from Phyl when she went on a day-trip to Barmouth; but she was back before it arrived, so it wasn’t the same.
“Mam always sends me cards,” said Rhoda. “I’ve kept them all. I’ll show you later.”
“Does Michael write to you?”
“Oh, yes.”
But from Rhoda’s look Doreen realized that she had no chance of being shown those letters.
Mum was off to work. She tied a headscarf into a turban and tucked in her hair. “Can you girls tidy up?”
Doreen would have left the tidying-up until the last minute and then done it half-heartedly. But Rhoda set to as soon as Mum had gone, clearing out the ash from the fire, washing the dishes, making the beds. She did everything properly, as if she enjoyed it. Doreen’s resentment grew. Rhoda was just trying to get in with Mum, she thought.
She left Rhoda sweeping the floor and went upstairs to find some paper and make a start on the tickets and posters. She’d get them done, she decided, before Rhoda could take over.
There wasn’t much clean paper; only paper bags, too crumpled for posters. Doreen smoothed one out and started anyway, making a border of flowers and leaves and writing SUMMER SHOW in capitals in the centre.
Rhoda came in. “Oh! What are you doing?”
Reluctantly Doreen told her. “But the paper’s no good. I’ll have to ask Barbara for some – her dad has invoices and things.”
She put the paper and pencil on the dressing-table, hoping Rhoda would go away. But Rhoda didn’t. She said, “We could plan it first.”
“Plan?” Doreen had never thought of planning anything.
Rhoda retrieved Doreen’s poster. “This is OK. But you need heavier lettering.” She turned it over and wrote SUMMER SHOW in blocked three-dimensional characters. Immediately it began to look like a real poster; Doreen felt pleased and thwarted at the same time.
