Cuckoo in the Nest. Michelle Magorian

the grass, smothering their laughter like a couple of schoolchildren. They had just swapped the trunks and carried her son’s one through the garden room into the hall when the bell at the front door rang. Through the coloured glass was a silhouette of a man. Horrified, the two of them gaped at one another. Ralph nodded his head upwards, frantically. With incredible speed they ran swiftly up to the top of the house with the trunk. The doorbell rang again. ‘He’ll use his key if I don’t answer it,’ she said.

      ‘I can do this on my own,’ said Ralph.

      As she ran down the stairs, he heard her calling out loudly, ‘Just coming.’

      Ralph swung the trunk on to his shoulder and staggered up the tiny steps. To his alarm he heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. ‘Really, Charles, this is too much! I told you yesterday I merely brought down a few books. I think you’re overstepping the bounds of duty. Charles!’

      As quietly as he could, Ralph pushed the trunk gently into the loft, pulled up the ladder and slid the door shut, just as the footsteps reached the landing.

      ‘I merely want to look at the roof, Mother. We’ve had a lot of heavy rainfall and I want to check that there are no leaks.’

      ‘There aren’t.’

      ‘That’s convenient,’ he heard Charles say. ‘The chair’s still there.’

      ‘Yes, I forgot to put it back in the bedroom.’

      ‘Fortuitous.’

      To Ralph’s horror he heard him step on to it. Quickly he turned around looking for somewhere to hide. And then he saw a figure looming in the shadows. The bear! Praying he wouldn’t cause any creaks he moved stealthily towards it, pulled it forward and squeezed in behind it. He heard the trapdoor being flung aside and was aware of a spill of light casting shadows along the roof. A beam of torchlight went scurrying along the walls like a small ack-ack light. He listened to the sound of the padlocks being handled.

      ‘Found any leaks?’ said a voice from below.

      ‘Not yet.’

      ‘What are you doing up there?’

      ‘I bumped into some trunks. Really, Mother, his things ought to be cleared out. Let me deal with it.’

      ‘They don’t belong to you, Charles. Neither did they belong to your father. So I shall keep them for as long as I like.’

      ‘Why? It’ll only upset you. It’s just too sentimental for words, keeping all this rubbish. I mean, look at that bear. Completely useless.’

      Ralph shrunk down, willing him not to come over and check it for moths.

      ‘Have you finished looking for leaks, Charles?’ There was a slight pause.

      ‘Yes,’ he said at last.

      ‘Good.’

      ‘But I think I’ll stay for a while and see what’s been done to the garden.’

      The loft was plunged into darkness again. Ralph slipped out from behind the bear and crept back towards the trapdoor.

Ten

      He was ashamed of his feeblemindedness at not opening it and climbing down. It was only a little jump from the ladder to the floor. If he had moved immediately after Charles Egerton-Smythe had gone downstairs, he might have been able to pretend he had just come in from the garden, but he also might have been caught on one of the landings. And how would he have explained his being there? He would lose his job and Mrs Egerton-Smythe would have no ally.

      As the hours passed, his stomach began to gurgle loudly. He was going to miss the Saturday strike! If he didn’t turn up they might think his parents had stopped him and see him as a boy and not want him around again.

      He found an old rug and wrapped it round himself to stave off the cold but he was so chilled he began to feel slightly sick. And then he heard a car draw away. He had hardly moved towards the trapdoor when there were footsteps on the landing. Someone was whispering. At first he couldn’t make it out, and then to his relief he heard the word ‘Hollis’. Gingerly he moved the trapdoor and peered down but there was no one there. There was more whispering from one of the rooms.

      ‘Here!’ he whispered back urgently. He heard a hurried tread of shoes and Mrs Egerton-Smythe came into view.

      ‘Up here!’ he repeated.

      She looked up. ‘My God, Hollis. Have you been up there all this time?’

      ‘Yes,’ he answered, his teeth chattering.

      ‘You must be frozen.’ He nodded. ‘Look, I know this is a lot to ask, but could you hang on for ten more minutes? Queenie is due to leave then.’

      He nodded again, closed the trapdoor and lay down. He must have fallen asleep because he was startled to feel the trapdoor moving underneath him. He crawled backwards. The trapdoor was pulled aside and hands reached up for the ladder.

      ‘What time is it?’ he said through his clamped jaws.

      ‘Ten.’

      ‘Morning or night?’

      ‘Night.’

      ‘Saturday or Sunday?’

      She gave a sudden snort. ‘That bad is it? It’s Saturday.’

      ‘I haven’t missed the strike then.’

      ‘Oh, lord, you’re delirious. Come on down before pneumonia or rigor mortis sets in.’

      She had drawn the curtains in the library so that no one could see in. The embers from the fire were still warm. She insisted he sit in one of the leather armchairs as close to the fire as he could. To his embarrassment, she brought a tray of food in for him. He stood up and protested, but she only told him to shut up and do as he was told.

      The combination of hot food and warmth was making him drowsy. He longed to lie down on the hearth and go to sleep but he resisted. He would miss the strike if he shut his eyes.

      ‘Now,’ she said, when he had finished eating, ‘what’s all this nonsense about a strike?’

      ‘They strike the set every Saturday at the Palace Theatre.’

      ‘And you help?’

      ‘I did a bit last week. But really I’m supposed to keep out of the way.’

      ‘So why are you going again?’

      ‘To learn and also because I want to get my foot in the door.’

      She gazed at him steadily. ‘That important, is it?’

      ‘Very.’

      ‘You want to work backstage?’

      ‘No.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to be an actor.’

      He had said it. Not even ‘I want to be an actor’, but ‘I’m going to be an actor’.

      ‘I see,’ she said slowly. ‘And what do your parents think?’

      ‘They don’t know. I hadn’t really dared say it till tonight. My father would probably shoot me.’

      ‘And your mother?’

      ‘She’d be worried, but . . .’ He paused. ‘She’d probably get used to the idea.’ He smiled. ‘I feel so relieved to have admitted it!’ And then he stopped. ‘Oh. Will this put you off employing me?’

      ‘I think I can cope,’ she said wryly, ‘but I wouldn’t let Queenie know.’

      ‘Rogues and vagabonds, and all that?’ said Ralph.

      ‘Exactly. Now, young man, you’d better get a move on.’

      He