Room for a Stranger Read Online Free Page A

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.”
    â€œAnyone can come here,” Doreen insisted.
    â€œExcept 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.”
    â€œYes. 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.
    â€œLet’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.
    â€œThe flowers are dead,” said Rhoda.
    Last week Mum had filled a jamjar with marigolds and big white daisies; they were drooping now.
    â€œWe’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.
    â€œThose are my mum’s babies that died, and over here is Uncle Charley, and over there Uncle Arthur, and Grandad and Nan Dyer…”
    â€œYou’ve got a big family,” said Rhoda. There was envy in her voice.
    â€œHaven’t you got any brothers or sisters?”
    â€œNo. There’s only Mam and me.”
    â€œIs
your
Dad dead?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIn 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