Theatre Shoes Read Online Free

houses were old friends. “Proper old-fashioned, isn’t it? Go on, Mark, ring the bell; I can do with a nice cup of tea if you can’t.”
    It was queer how Hannah changed things. As she said “proper old-fashioned” the square seemed different. It was just as shabby, the petrol tins were just as rusty, the white-painted E’s on the doors just as queer, but instead of it all seeming rather sinister it became curious.
    It was when Mark was on the steps ringing the bell that he noticed the garden.
    â€œLook,” he said, “a garden!”
    Sorrel was mopping and tidying Holly’s face, so she did not turn at once, but when she did she felt a shiver of pleasure run all through her. The garden had once been shut in with railings, but the railings had been taken away to make munitions, and the trees of the garden were sticking out over the pavement and, though there were a proper gate and path a little way down the square, it was clear you could push in anywhere. Through the trees there were patches of colour, the mauves and purples of Michaelmas daisies, the pinks and reds of roses.
    â€œLook, Holly,” she said, “a proper garden. Now there’s nothing to cry about, is there?”
    The taxi-driver, who was unstrapping their big box, looked at Sorrel over his shoulder.
    â€œYou’re right there, it’s a proper garden. Me and my mate we often slips in there for a smoke after our dinner. Lovely it is inside. Flowers and all. Ought to see it in the spring, proper picture it is.”
    â€œWho does it belong to?” Sorrel asked.
    The taxi-driver laughed.
    â€œWell, the people in this square rightly, I suppose. I hear they pays to keep it up, but they aren’t here and the rails is gone, so there’s no ’arm done when you has a nice sit down and a smoke.”
    Sorrel looked at the others.
    â€œThe people in the square! That’s us. Fancy us having a garden in London!”
    They heard steps inside the house. Hannah, who had just brought up two of the suitcases, looked in a nervous way at each of the children.
    â€œSorrel, keep hold of Holly’s hand. You all look as if you’d come off a train, but I daresay your Granny will understand you started out looking nice.”
    There was the sound of a rusty key being turned and the clank of a heavy chain and the door was thrown open. In the doorway stood a little, thin, grey-haired woman with the biggest smile any of them had ever seen.
    Mark remembered his manners. He lifted his cap.
    â€œHow do you do? Are you our grandmother?”
    The woman laughed. Not a gentle laugh to fit her size but a great rolling sound as if she enjoyed it so much she did not care if it tore her to bits.
    â€œYour Granny! No. Bless the boy, you’ll be the death of me! Your Granny! No, indeed, I’m Alice. Buckingham Palace to you.”
    Sorrel held out her right hand.
    â€œHow d’you do? I’m Sorrel.”
    Alice took her hand and pulled her into the hall, then she turned her to face the light. She gave her a kiss.
    â€œSo you’re Sorrel. Why, you’re the living image of Miss Addie.”
    Mark was shocked.
    â€œDo you mean our mother? Sorrel can’t be, our mother was a great beauty.”
    Alice kissed him.
    â€œNot always she wasn’t. Not when she was your sister’s age and popping in and out of our dressing-room driving us mad with her tricks, she was the spitting image of Sorrel then.” She knelt down by Holly and hugged her and then turned her to the light. “I don’t know who you’re like. Maybe there’s something of your Granny, but she never had curls. Hair like a pikestaff we’ve always had.” She caught hold of one of Mark’s hands and drew him to her. “Well, there’s no doubt what family you belong to. You’re the spitting image of your Uncle Henry, and he’s the spitting image of old Sir Joshua, if the portrait of