Cuckoo in the Nest. Michelle Magorian

cinema with a friend of hers. And still Ralph didn’t mention going back to the theatre. He watched his mother spread out a blanket and sheet at the end of the table and iron a dress for Joan whilst Auntie Win read aloud an announcement of carpet sales from the newspaper and then began the third chapter of her Margery Allingham detective novel. It constantly surprised him that two sisters should be so unalike. Both in their thirties with five years between them, his aunt, who was the younger, appeared five years older. A head taller than his mother, she was robust, with a face which seemed to gather into a point, and fiery blue eyes whereas his mother was slight with wavy chestnut hair and soft dark eyes. Constantly on the move, she rarely sat down.

      As he gazed at her methodically ironing, he felt a deep fondness for her. But her illiteracy still embarrassed him. No one suggested she should learn to read. How she managed to shop for food amazed him. Even the letters she wrote to him, when he was in Cornwall, were dictated to his aunt or Joan or Elsie while his mother was busy with something else, so she said. Elsie read to her. Even Joan read to her. Yet she seemed to show no shame. Auntie Win read her thrillers, Elsie her children’s books and Joan her women’s magazines or film magazines.

      He waited till Joan had gone out and Elsie was in bed. Harry had been allowed to stay up for the thriller and had promised to tell Elsie every detail the next day. It was while his mother began ironing shirts for Sunday best, that he broached the subject of the set strike. ‘Mum,’ he began, ‘I won’t need that shirt in the morning.’

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘Remember? The set strike. It’s all night.’

      His aunt stopped reading. ‘What’s this, Ellen?’

      ‘Another job he’s hopin’ to get. Ralphie, I don’t think it’s a good idea. Your father will take the belt to you. You know what he thinks of the theatre.’

      ‘He’s out. He doesn’t have to know.’

      His mother glanced at Harry who was listening with rapt attention to the wireless. ‘He’s going to notice you’re not here in the morning.’

      ‘He won’t. After a night out with his brother, he’ll sleep through all of us having breakfast,’ Win commented.

      ‘Ralphie,’ said his mother quietly, ‘the rector would be very upset if he thought you was missing church.’

      ‘I can go to Evensong. I prefer it anyway. It’s simpler than the morning service.’

      ‘Ellen, the more he’s out of the way, the better,’ said his aunt.

      ‘Thanks, Auntie Win,’ said Ralph sardonically. ‘I’ll go without a night’s sleep and get up with everyone. And go to bed early tomorrow. After church.’

      ‘I don’t like keeping secrets from yer dad, Ralph.’

      ‘Mum, please,’ begged Ralph, ‘I’ve got to find some way of getting my foot in the door.’

      ‘Why?’ said his aunt. ‘You don’t want to spend too much time there, you know,’ she added significantly.

      ‘Not you, too,’ said Ralph wearily.

      ‘Don’t talk to your aunt like that.’

      ‘I’m sorry, but where’s the harm?’

      ‘I don’t like it, Ralph.’

      ‘I might not even get the work and it’s only on Saturdays.’

      ‘What do you think, Win?’

      ‘Work’s work when all is said and done, I s’pose. And he might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.’

      Ralph caught his mother’s eye. ‘So can I go?’

      His mother gave a sigh. ‘I don’t want you out in the dark with no lights.’

      ‘I’ve checked my dynamo.’

      ‘I’ll leave the front door open so you don’t disturb him. But don’t forget to lock it afterwards.’

      ‘Mum,’ protested Harry, ‘I can’t hear.’

      ‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Ralph.

      Half an hour before curtain down, Ralph stood awkwardly outside the stage door not knowing quite when to make his presence felt. He walked back down the road towards the High Street and stood in front of the brightly lit foyer. At the first glimpse of the Saturday nighters flooding down the staircase he ran back down the road and hovered by the door again.

      Peering in he could see Wilfred sitting in his cubby-hole. Nervously he stepped in. He was about to speak when he realised that he didn’t know the man’s surname. The old man looked up and frowned. ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘What you doin’ in ’ere?’

      ‘I came last night, sir, about a job?’

      ‘Oh,’ he said, slapping his forehead. ‘Sorry, sonny, I completely forgot. I ent seen Mr Johnson or Mr Walker all day.’

      Ralph’s heart fell.

      The man looked sorry for him. ‘Stand over there,’ he said pointing to a notice board.

      Ralph walked over to where a large skip was wedged up against a wall and leant against it. He heard a door being opened at the top of the steps and voices.

      ‘So when do you think you’ll be back?’ said a female voice he recognised as belonging to one of the batty sisters in Ladies in Retirement.

      ‘I don’t know,’ said the dark voice of Elspeth Harding. ‘Before Christmas, I hope. I need the money!’

      ‘Money? What’s that?’ quipped the younger actress.

      ‘Oh, don’t,’ said Elspeth Harding in mock despair.

      As soon as Ralph saw them appear at the foot of the steps in their hats and coats he stood to attention.

      ‘Well, we’re off, Wilfred,’ said Miss Harding.

      ‘Not fer long, I ’ope.’

      ‘Tell that to the producer,’ she laughed.

      ‘You’ll be snapped up by the West End.’

      ‘That’s what I keep telling her,’ said the younger actress.

      ‘Right now all I can think about is catching the train, getting home and cooking myself a meal.’ She glanced aside at her companion. ‘I envy you, Annie, living so near.’

      More footsteps were making their way down now. Ralph looked up expectantly. Geraldine Maclaren appeared. She was flicking through a playscript. ‘Oh, bliss,’ he heard her breathe. ‘Only one costume.’

      She looked dazzling in a red jacket with padded shoulders and red skirt with navy piping. A red hat was perched to one side on her black wavy hair. Ralph was shocked to see how heavy her make-up was at close quarters. In the corners of her eyes were dark red flecks. It looked almost as if she was wearing a mask. ‘Is Basil down yet?’ she asked Wilfred.

      ‘Not yet, Mrs Maclaren.’

      At that moment Ralph’s hero came leaping down the steps with his script.

      She swung round. ‘Have you had time to have a look?’

      ‘Yes, I’m playing a real sod,’ he said cheerfully. ‘And I can wear my evening dress all through.’

      ‘Lucky thing,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll try to get hold of a cape from somewhere to keep me warm.’

      ‘You could wear long johns underneath.’

      ‘I don’t think so somehow.’ She smiled. ‘I’m looking forward to this, I’ve only been in one Priestley play before and I loved it. Oh, hell! I wore my white dress for Moonlight Over Athens. The audience will recognise it. Unless I wear a coloured sash perhaps?’

      Ralph returned to sitting on the skip and tried