Cuckoo in the Nest. Michelle Magorian

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      Ralph grabbed his collar which was dangling over his end of the bed, held it in his hands like the murderess Ellen Creed and advanced towards him. Harry gave a shriek and crawled hastily over the bed to the door with Ralph after him.

      ‘Glad to see someone in good spirits,’ said Auntie Win in the kitchen, ‘though I don’t know why.’

      Ralph and Harry gave each other a glance. Ralph noticed that his father’s bed was made up and sounds of water were coming from the scullery. His mother was frying bread over the range. A large bowl of dripping was in the centre of the table.

      ‘So you got home,’ she added.

      ‘Win, please,’ said Ralph’s mother urgently. ‘I couldn’t take another row.’

      ‘On your own head be it,’ said Auntie Win. ‘But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

      Ralph grinned. In spite of his aunt’s gibes he was happy. His sudden jolt into a world of insecurity left him feeling strangely liberated. At the paper-mill he knew which direction the rest of his life was going to take. The pension at the end of it had not made him feel secure, but as if he was living in a coffin. Instead of the dullness he had felt for months, his wits felt sharpened. From now on he would have to take each day as it came. He looked round the room with renewed interest and everything seemed intensified; the black range, the white sheets and shirts, grey trousers and pale cardigans hanging over them, the red rug over his father’s narrow bed, the window at the end of it which looked out on to the yard. Even the whorls in the scrubbed wood table seemed vivid. He took in the smell of frying bread, the floral apron on his mother’s slim frame, her hair dishevelled, her face pink. The door opened and Elsie and Joan came in in their Sunday best.

      ‘Auntie Ellen,’ whined Joan, ‘I don’t feel so good. Can’t I stay at home?’

      ‘It’s only once a week,’ said Ralph’s mother.

      ‘If we went to the later one we could get extra sleep.’

      ‘If we went to the later one we’d have dinner late.’

      ‘It’s best to get it over with,’ said Elsie.

      ‘And then me and Dad can get to the allotment quicker,’ added Harry.

      Their mother put the plate of fried bread on the table and began pouring tea. ‘Now eat up quick,’ she said.

      The scullery door opened and Ralph’s father stood in the doorway, his coat and cap on.

      ‘It ain’t that late, is it?’ cried Ralph’s mother in alarm. And then she froze. ‘Where’s your collar?’

      ‘I ain’t going to church. I’m going down to the allotment.’

      ‘Now?’ interrupted Harry eagerly.

      ‘John,’ pleaded Ralph’s mother.

      ‘I ain’t standin’ next to him,’ he said, glowering at Ralph.

      ‘I’ll go to Evensong,’ Ralph said quickly.

      ‘Wait for me, Dad,’ said Harry. ‘I got to get out of this clobber.’

      ‘I’m going on me own,’ he snapped.

      ‘But, Dad, you promised to take me with you.’

      ‘I’ll see how I feel this afternoon.’

      ‘John, please come with us. It’s one of the few things we can do together as a family.’

      ‘Don’t kid yourself we’re a family,’ he said angrily. ‘You’ve made it perfectly clear whose side you’re on.’ He stopped as if too overwhelmed to speak. ‘I need some fresh air,’ he said in a choked voice, and with that he slammed the door.

      Ralph watched his mother stand at the window, dazed and silent, the teapot still in her hand. When she turned, her face was drained of all colour. ‘Eat up,’ she said, looking tired. ‘Or we’ll be late.’

Six

      Ralph lowered his head and pedalled faster. His first day as a gardener and the rain was streaming down his face under his sodden cap in rivulets. He headed for the road which would take him to Winford and further away from the tense atmosphere of his home. Instead of Sunday having been wonderful because of his father’s absence, it had been a day of gloom. Harry had been miserable because he had been looking forward to spending time on the allotment with his father and Elsie was upset because Harry was upset and also because her father hadn’t offered to take her with Harry.

      In the end they went out to play amongst the bombed-out debris of the street. Most of their friends in the street had been moved on or killed. They didn’t play with the children in the other streets because they were from another street and therefore arch enemies.

      Joan spent the day in her room with a girlfriend where they had experimented with hairstyles from film magazines. His mother prepared Sunday dinner, cleared up after it and rolled out dough in the afternoon while his aunt read aloud the next chapter of a Margery Allingham. At least his aunt chose a better class of detective story, but the sight of his mother being read to still embarrassed him.

      When she had spotted him writing, she had said ‘You have such a nice way of putting things, Ralphie. I loved opening your letters and reading them.’ And he had wanted to say, ‘It’s all right, Mum. You don’t have to pretend. I don’t mind that you can’t read.’ But to his shame he knew that he wouldn’t be able to make it sound convincing.

      His father had returned when it was dark, flushed from a day’s digging and planting. For his mother’s sake Ralph had gone up to his room to avoid another confrontation, but when he came down to supper he was accused of being lazy or too hoity-toity to stay in his family’s company. Whatever he did, he couldn’t win.

      As he turned the corner he sped through an enormous puddle which drenched him from head to foot. But he didn’t care. He just wanted to cycle away his fury at having to live in the presence of his father. At least he wouldn’t have to cycle to work with him any more.

      He saw the railway station ahead, rode over the bridge and towards the High Street, juddering over the tramlines past the shops. He slowed down and paused for a moment opposite the Palace. Outside, a poster announced: Opening night. French Without Tears. The stage electricians would be setting up lamps by now, and Helena would be wanting to help them. He smiled. Only four more days and he would be seeing the play. He set off again. Until then he must put all theatrical thoughts aside and think only of Mrs Egerton-Smythe.

      The woman in the kitchen stared at him as if he had come from another planet.

      ‘Don’t you move,’ she shrieked. ‘I just cleaned this floor!’ And she slammed the door.

      Through the window he watched her dart out of the kitchen. Within minutes she returned with Mrs Egerton-Smythe, who looked as irritable as ever. He watched her storm over to the door and fling it open. ‘You silly fool,’ she snapped. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

      ‘I’m sure there’s plenty I can still be doing,’ СКАЧАТЬ