Cuckoo in the Nest. Michelle Magorian

reddening. ‘I told my parents I’d be going to a strike.’

      ‘Did you now?’ He peered at the books. ‘French speaker, eh?’

      ‘Well, schoolboy French.’ He added modestly, ‘I only just scraped by.’ And then he cursed himself for saying schoolboy.

      ‘You ent gonna get paid for this, you realise that?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘I don’t usually allow stage-struck youngsters to help and neither does Mr Johnson. We got enough to cope with. But you’re certainly a good worker. Let’s say you got away with it, shall we?’

      Ralph nodded.

      ‘For tonight, that is. I s’pose you want to come next week?’

      ‘Yes, please!’

      ‘I’ll ask Mr Johnson. As long as you’re out of our way it should be all right.’

      He gave him a curt nod and walked away. Ralph was about to start on the last spine when there was a loud ‘Oi!’

      Ralph swung round again. ‘Yes?’

      ‘Any good at making tea?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘When you’ve finished you can wash up the mugs and make us a fresh cuppa. That’ll be seven cups, including you.’

      The kitchen was a tiny room with old chairs and armchairs along two walls under shelves stacked with props and scripts. At the far end, pots of paint and brushes were stuck higgledy-piggledy round a sink. On the wooden draining board was a tray with dirty mugs on it and a grimy gas ring. A huge kettle, a tin of dried milk, a bowl of damp sugar and a tea caddy were on the table beside it. Peering inside the kettle he discovered a mound of tea leaves waiting to be restewed. He added water to it, put it on the gas ring to stew and set about washing the mugs.

      He pushed the door open with his foot and sidled into the wings. Edging his way behind the upstage flats, he carefully avoided the weights and entered through a pair of open French windows which were upstage right. Blocking his way was a stepladder. Isla and Robin had hung a huge pair of pink and white curtains up and were now attaching a pink and white pelmet above it. Matching sashes were draped over the steps. ‘Excuse me!’ he said.

      ‘Oh, you angel,’ gasped Isla.

      Helena was up another ladder placing leather-bound books on shelves in the alcove in the upstage centre wall. ‘Jack says the books look very good, which is something, because he rarely gives praise. Let’s hope Sam Williams likes them.’

      ‘Who’s he?’ asked Ralph anxiously.

      ‘The designer.’

      ‘Its beginning to look like a living room,’ Isla said with relief.

      ‘It’s supposed to be in a villa in a small seaside town in the South of France,’ explained Helena.

      The stage was nearly set out except for an armchair, a small table and more ornaments and pictures. They were to go on to the downstage left wall which was still being painted. Jack Walker appeared suddenly.

      ‘Home, you lot,’ he commanded. ‘Come in Monday, usual time, and finish setting up then. Lighting will be at nine. Dress rehearsal at two.’

      After Ralph had helped Helena carry her ladder back to the scene dock he returned to the stage. He wanted to have a last look at his books in the bookcase.

      Robin had already gone and Isla and Helena were chatting in the corner. He said goodbye but they didn’t hear him. He hesitated for a moment and then made his way backstage to the wings. He was about to open the door to the corridor when he heard a voice call after him. It was Isla.

      ‘You can’t go out that way. The stage door’s locked,’ she said. ‘Wilfred went home ages ago. We have to go out by one of the side doors. Come with us.’

      ‘Thanks,’ said Ralph shyly.

      He followed the two girls out through a door by the prompt corner and found himself in the stalls. Isla led them through another door at the back of the auditorium which led into the foyer. They then turned down a small corridor at the side and Isla opened another door which opened out into a small alleyway round the corner from the High Street.

      ‘Where do you live?’ asked Isla.

      ‘Braxley,’ he said.

      ‘That’ll take you for ever,’ exclaimed Helena. She turned to Isla. ‘Do you think Mrs McGee would put him up for the night?’

      ‘I have a bike,’ he interrupted. He stared awkwardly at them for a moment in the dark. ‘Thanks for covering up for me, by the way.’

      ‘I like people who are a bit cheeky,’ said Isla. Ralph enjoyed the look of admiration she gave him so much that he felt a slight fluttering sensation in his chest and a tightening in his throat.

      ‘So it’s fine about next week?’ he ventured.

      ‘It depends what Jack Walker says to Mr Johnson.’

      ‘If you turn up and make the tea, that’ll win them round,’ said Helena.

      ‘I’ll be seeing the play on Friday,’ he said to Isla. ‘Are you in it?’

      ‘Oh, no, the parts are too big.’

      ‘I thought you might be playing Jackie.’

      ‘You dark horse! You know the play.’

      ‘Coincidence,’ he said embarrassed. ‘If you wait for me to get my bike, I’ll walk you both home.’

      ‘Thanks,’ said Isla, ‘but we’re staying in the same digs, so we’ll protect one another from any dragons we might come across.’

      ‘Poor Judy,’ said Helena, ‘she has to paint until she finishes.’

      ‘All three of us share a room,’ Isla explained.

      ‘It’s like being drama students again,’ laughed Helena.

      He watched them walk away until they were out of sight and then ran with excitement down the dark alleyway to the road at the back of the theatre and across it to the one which led to the river.

      His bike was still where he had left it. He leapt on to it, switched on his dynamo and began pedalling wildly along the river path towards the railway bridge. He had done it! He had actually walked into the very heart of the Palace Theatre and helped behind the scenes. And with any luck he would be returning. Suddenly he had a vision of a girl in dungarees with dark eyes and a deep throaty laugh and he began to shake with the sheer exhilaration of it all. ‘Yahoo!’ he yelled. ‘Yahoo!’

Five

      He could just make out the dark outline of the trio of houses which stood defiantly between the piles of rubble and gutted houses on either side. He hauled his bike over a broken segment of wall, wheeled it over loose bricks towards the lane at the back of the houses. As he carried his bike into their tiny yard, he spotted his father’s own bike leaning up against the coalshed and he suddenly realised that his father must have noticed the absence of his bike. He quickly brushed his anxiety to one side. He would have to deal with that, if and when it arose. He slipped back out of the yard and went round to the front of the house.

      The front door gave a loud click as he turned the handle. He froze, waiting for footsteps and the sudden exposure that light flooding through the coloured-glass windows at the top of the door would give. But there was silence. With a relief that almost made him weep, the door eased open. Quietly he shut it behind him. He was halfway up the stairs when he realised he had forgotten to lock it.

      Cursing he crept back down the stairs and retrieved the key from a little shelf. He was about to insert it in the lock when the most tremendous grunting sound