Cuckoo in the Nest. Michelle Magorian

away in the opposite direction.

      Swiftly he wheeled his bike over the road, through the gate and hid it behind the hedge. He leapt up the stone steps to the arched porch and stood in front of a heavy black door with its ornate brass knocker and knob. There was an iron ring at the end of a chain. He gave it a hearty yank. The bell rang from inside. He glanced around to see if there were any visitors’ cars. He found himself sweating at the sound of footsteps. A light came on in the hallway. There was the sound of a heavy latch and the door swung open.

      To Ralph’s relief it was Mrs Egerton-Smythe. When she saw it was him she looked relieved too.

      ‘Have you forgotten something?’ she asked.

      ‘No.’ He hesitated. ‘Look, it’s none of my business but if you want any of those trunks moved to where they can’t be found, I’ll help you.’

      To his amazement, she gave an amused smile and then hauled him in looking hastily around. ‘You’re a man after my own heart, Hollis,’ she remarked.

      They hid one trunk in the boot of the Alvis which she then locked. A smaller trunk was hidden in the corner of the garden shed under sacking and flowerpots. They moved swiftly and silently, hauling boxes and cases from her bedroom and down the stairs and hid them in the coal cellar. They had just finished when Ralph remembered something.

      ‘Hell!’ he exclaimed. ‘You must have something around otherwise he’ll wonder what you did get out of the loft and he’ll smell a rat.’

      ‘Of course. Good thinking, Hollis.’

      ‘The gardening books! They’re in my saddle-bag. I’ll bring them back in.’

      Just then there was a knock at the door. ‘Doesn’t waste time, does he, my son,’ she said wryly.

      ‘My bike is round the front. Can you leave the kitchen door unlocked? Then I can sneak the books in round the back.’

      She nodded and they separated. As he dashed into the kitchen, he heard her yell out, ‘Just coming!’ That was all Ralph heard before he was flying down the side of the house. From the corner he saw the light from the house flooding down the front path.

      ‘Charles! This is a surprise,’ he heard Mrs Egerton-Smythe say loudly. ‘And Mr Patterson, what brings you here so late?’

      ‘Just passing this way,’ said a rather pompous voice.

      Ralph held his breath. As soon as the door closed he sprinted down the path, across the pavement, through the front gate and dived behind the hedge, where he fumbled nervously with the buckles of his saddle-bag. He piled the books high in his arms and ran back along the side path to the kitchen.

      He had hardly dumped the books on the table when, to his horror, he heard voices just outside the door. He noticed the broom cupboard was open. He dived into it and held the door as close as he could to himself. There was a sound of a switch and a chink of light filtered into the cupboard.

      ‘It’s all right, Charles, I can make you a cup of tea.’

      ‘Where’s Queenie, then?’

      It was the voice of the man Ralph had heard in the porch.

      ‘I sent her home early.’

      ‘What’s this?’ he barked.

      ‘Gardening books. Hollis helped me get them out of the loft today. He’s the new gardener.’

      ‘A new gardener? Why wasn’t I informed?’

      ‘Why should you be? It’s my garden.’

      ‘And I think we should keep it the way Father wanted it.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘In his memory, of course. I’ll put these back in the loft for you.’

      ‘No, thank you, Charles,’ Ralph heard Mrs Egerton-Smythe say firmly.

      ‘But they’re filthy. Look at the state of them.’

      ‘That’s why I put them in the kitchen so I could sponge the covers.’

      Ralph grinned.

      ‘You’re not serious about this, are you?’ The voice was different now. It had a warning tone in it. There was a silence.

      ‘I don’t know,’ Mrs Egerton-Smythe said, but her voice had lost its firmness. ‘I can at least daydream, can’t I? Or is that not allowed in this house, either?’

      ‘There’s no need to get hysterical, Mother.’

      ‘Charles, if I scratched my nose you’d say I was hysterical.’

      ‘I don’t like you being up in that loft. It’s not healthy.’ He paused. ‘You didn’t bring anything else down, did you?’

      ‘Like what?’

      ‘You know damned well what.’

      ‘Your brother’s things?’

      ‘Well, did you?’

      ‘How could I?’

      ‘You said there was this Hollis chap with you.’

      ‘He’s a boy. He’d hardly be able to carry trunks. Anyway, what would be the point? Since you and your father padlocked them I wouldn’t be able to get inside, would I?’ she added with bitterness.

      ‘We did it for your own good,’ he said. ‘If you’d let me get rid of them I wouldn’t have needed to.’

      ‘Why should I? Are you afraid of a little bit of him in the house?’

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mother. He’s dead and I think you should accept that. Better to get rid of his belongings and forget about him.’

      ‘And start fresh, so to speak?’

      ‘Of course. That’s what I’ve been saying for two years, Mother.’

      ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

      Ralph wanted to burst out of the cupboard and say ‘No, no, keep them as long as you like.’ But he was pleased he hadn’t, for Mrs Egerton-Smythe was holding her trump card.

      ‘Of course I’m right.’ He sounded delighted.

      ‘That’s why I’ve been thinking about your father’s books.’

      ‘What on earth do you mean?’

      ‘I think you should get rid of your father’s law books to the university.’

      ‘I’ve never heard of anything so absurd!’

      ‘But you’ve just been saying that one should get rid of . . .’

      ‘That’s a little different,’ he said, the sarcasm rising in his voice. ‘Laurie wasn’t my father.’

      ‘Ah,’ she said wryly. ‘One law for your father. One law for Laurie.’

      ‘Well of course,’ he snapped. ‘Father was a genius.’

      ‘A dead genius.’

      There was a shocked intake of breath. ‘Mother! You’re his wife.’

      ‘Was his wife.’

      ‘You’re just tired. His books are staying here. That’s what Father would have wanted.’

      ‘Perhaps if there was no fire in the library the students wouldn’t be so interested in using them.’

      ‘Mother, if you dare do that I shall employ someone to do the fires myself and deduct it from your . . .’ He stopped.

      ‘Wages?’ she added.

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

      ‘Well, I feel like a curator here. Keeping guard on some mausoleum or monument to our national