Читать книгу Cuckoo in the Nest - Michelle Magorian - Страница 7

One

The hush in the theatre was electric. Even as the curtain hit the stage there was still a dumb silence and then it was broken suddenly by great waves of applause. Looking down at the audience from the gallery, his hands smarting with the ferocity of his clapping, Ralph could see people hurriedly wiping away their tears. The curtain sprang up revealing the cast in their Victorian costumes, holding hands. There was only one man, Basil Duke. He had played Albert Feathers, the blackmailing scoundrel of a nephew.

From below Ralph could hear cheering. He applauded with even more vigour, yelling with them. It was one of the most magical moments in the Palace Theatre for months.

Elspeth Harding, who had played the murderess, Ellen Creed, stepped forward and the audience roared their appreciation. The woman in the box office had been right, thought Ralph. She did have star quality.

Basil Duke had star quality too. But of a different kind. He was the actor that Ralph most wanted to be like. He was totally different in each part he played, almost unrecognisable at times.

The actress, smiling with pleasure, indicated the cast and they all bowed again to tumultuous applause. She lifted her hand and gradually the auditorium grew quiet. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of myself and the entire company,’ she began in her deep husky voice, ‘we thank you for the way you have received our play tonight.’

She was magnificent, thought Ralph, quite magnificent.

‘Next week,’ she announced, ‘we are presenting a play by Terence Rattigan entitled French Without Tears. This charming, diverting and amusing romantic comedy is guaranteed to give an evening of pleasure in the theatre for all the family, so if you have enjoyed tonight, which I’m sure you have judging by the volume of your applause, do come again next week. We shall be here, same time, twice nightly, same place, same company in a variety of roles, so until then,’ she continued, ‘we all wish you goodnight and God bless.’

The Billy Dixon Trio in the pit began to play the introductory notes of ‘God save the King’ and four hundred and fifty seats slammed noisily back as everyone stood for the National Anthem.

As soon as it had finished the curtain came down and the theatre was buzzing with chatter. Down in the pit the three musicians had disappeared with their usual speed. Ralph stayed leaning over the railing, drinking in the red, cream and gilt of the Edwardian theatre, the nymphs and shepherdesses on the ceiling, the chandeliers, the endless rows of shabby red velvet-covered chairs. He was conscious that it might be his last Friday night here if he couldn’t find a job.

‘Seek and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you,’ he had heard the Reverend Collins saying in his head before the curtain rose, and he had made up his mind there and then to knock on one of those doors that night while he had some courage left.

He drew away from the railing and leapt up the steps to the swing doorway. Pausing for a moment he took a last glance back down to the stage now hidden by an immense red and gold curtain.

‘One night,’ he muttered with determination, ‘one night I’ll be playing here.’ And he pushed the doors open and headed for the next flight of stairs.

Coming down into the foyer, the wide carpeted stairs were jammed with people pushing their way out into the night. Regular Friday nighters were waving to each other over the heads of others. Drifting from the open doors and up the stairway was a pea-souper fog which was now swathing itself around them.

The commissionaire in his maroon uniform covered in tarnished gold braid was attempting to stand firm amongst the melee of pushing, chatting theatre-goers. Ralph nodded at him, thinking that after weeks of going to the theatre every Friday, the man would recognise him but he looked straight through him.

Ralph stood by the open door where some street lights still shone on the glass, and glanced at his reflection. Surveying his unruly coarse brown hair springing upwards from the short back and sides his father had forced him to have, he looked every inch a working class lad. He fiddled around with his scarf, attempting to make it look like a cravat but it looked like what it was, an ordinary khaki knitted scarf. He couldn’t take it off because he didn’t have a collar on his shirt. ‘Mind over matter,’ he muttered to himself.

He manoeuvred his way down the steps and turned round the corner, heading up through the fog in the street. He hesitated at the next corner, spat copiously into his hands and then smoothed back his hair with as much muster as he could. Then he buttoned up his jacket, tucked his scarf neatly in and prayed his hair wouldn’t suddenly spring up again in Stan Laurel fashion.

He peered round the corner. The stage door was open. He threw his shoulders back and stood to his full height. Shaking with a mixture of excitement and nerves he made his way towards it. Above the stage door a bright light burned a sulphurous yellow in the fog. Ralph blinked. Laughter was coming from inside. He hovered. He didn’t want to appear a stage-door johnny, neither did he want to appear a sinister figure in the mist.

He stepped back quickly. Three of the women who had been in Ladies in Retirement came stumbling out of the back door laughing. He was about to slip in when he heard the familiar male tones of Basil Duke.

‘No idea,’ he heard him saying. ‘I just hope it’s a play set in the winter. If I have to wear summer clothes again in this weather!’

‘I’m going to die next week,’ said a young female voice.

‘You’ve got your love to keep you warm,’ sang Ralph’s hero.

‘My love will be as cold as me. At least he can wear a blazer during the performance. I’ll have to keep a shawl in the wings.’

He heard an elderly voice saying goodnight.

‘’Night, Wilfred,’ said Basil Duke.

‘’Night,’ added a young female voice whom Ralph recognised as the maid’s. And then they were in the doorway pulling their coats up against the cold and Ralph was aware of a strong smell of face powder.

‘Oh my goodness, what a pea-souper!’ the young actress exclaimed.

She had shoulder-length pitch black hair and was slim and lovely, Geraldine Maclaren.

To Ralph’s surprise, Basil Duke was shorter than he appeared on stage. Peering at him through the mist, Ralph still couldn’t decide whether he was in his twenties or thirties. He gazed at the actor’s thick dark hair now slicked back so smoothly as to make Ralph sick with envy.

‘I’ll walk you home, darling,’ Mr Duke said.

‘No. Honestly. I’ll be fine. I know the route with my eyes shut.’

He stared out at the fog. ‘You won’t have to shut them in this.’

‘See you tomorrow morning then for the run.’

‘And cuts,’ he reminded her.

‘Oh, don’t. A run through and three shows! It’s madness!’

‘We’ll survive,’ he said cordially. ‘We always do.’

To Ralph’s amazement they gave each other a kiss. He felt embarrassed to see such intimacy at close quarters. As soon as they had gone he stepped, blinking, into the light.

An elderly man with a thick shock of white hair was sitting in a wooden cubicle reading a newspaper and sipping tea from a large stained mug. Behind him were rows of tiny pigeonholes, with letters painted roughly beneath them. Door keys hung on hooks beside them on a board with numbers on it.

Ralph stood tongue-tied. The man raised his head and glared at him. ‘I’m afraid they’ve all gone, sonny,’ he remarked in the local Hertfordshire accent. ‘You’re too late, best come back tomorrer night. Early.’

‘But I’ve been waiting outside for some time,’ said Ralph.

‘Oh?’ The man smiled at him kindly. ‘Too shy to ask, that it? Leave your autograph book here and I can ask the cast to sign it for you, so’s you can pick it up later.’

‘But I don’t want autographs,’ Ralph blurted out.

‘Well, what do you want?’ asked the man suddenly alert.

‘A job. I mean, I want to work here.’

The man scrutinised his face and frowned. And then his eyes suddenly lit up. ‘You want to sign up for the strike!’

‘I don’t think you quite understand,’ Ralph said perplexed. ‘I don’t want to strike. I want to work.’

The man threw back his head and laughed. ‘Set strike,’ he said. ‘Strike the set. Take it down.’

‘Oh,’ said Ralph, feeling a fool.

‘They do it every Saturday night. But it’s heavy work and long hours. They have to set up too. It can take well into Sunday. You’d best have a word with your parents first.’

‘I’m seventeen!’ Ralph exclaimed. ‘Well, almost. I can decide for myself.’

The man leaned on both elbows and peered at him. ‘Come closer, son.’

Ralph stood in front of his wooden shelf.

‘You sure you want to be working backstage?’

‘Yes of course,’ said Ralph. ‘I’ll do anything.’

‘You’ve a fine voice.’

‘Have I?’ said Ralph nonchalantly.

‘You look more the actor type to me. You sure that’s not what you really want to do?’

Ralph felt himself flush with pleasure. ‘Eventually,’ began Ralph.

‘Ah. Look, I’ll mention you to the master carpenter or stage director. Maybe they can find somethin’ for you to do. Be here same time tomorrer night.’

‘Thank you!’

‘No promises, mind.’

‘Of course not,’ Ralph stammered.

‘You’re a bit on the small side,’ he said as an afterthought.

‘But I’m strong, I’ve done a lot of farm labouring in my time.’

‘Then it’ll be a piece of cake.’

Ralph backed out towards the doors. ‘Good evening, then.’

‘Night, sonny,’ and he returned to his newspaper.

Outside, the fog was swirling more thickly. Ralph crossed the road and felt his way along the wall to the river where he had left his bicycle. It was leaning against a tree trunk a few hundred yards from the bridge, only the bridge had been obliterated. Swiftly he unpacked a pair of ankle boots from his saddle bag, removed his walking shoes, laced up his boots, crammed the shoes back in the saddle bag and put bicycle clips around the ankles of his trousers. He shoved his cap on and mounted the bike.

And then he stopped. The fog had encircled him completely. Even as he gazed out at the river it was disappearing before his eyes. He turned to look at the road but he could see nothing. He held his hand out in front of him and watched his fingers being enveloped in the strange green mist.

Standing there being rapidly swallowed up by the fog, he felt a moment of panic. He had a five mile ride home ahead of him and he would be lucky to make it to the end of the street. He took a deep breath to calm himself. The important thing was to stay put until he had found his bearings. He would have to find his way out of the town by sound. It would be too risky to go on the path by the river in case he fell in and in any case he’d have more chance of seeing street lights if he went via the High Street.

From the sound of the river behind him he knew he should be facing the back of the theatre. He stretched out his hand to the left and to his relief found the wall. Using it as a guide he reached the end of the pavement.

The blur of lights from the stage door helped him across the road. As he drew nearer he heard Wilfred talking to someone. An elderly woman answered back. At first he thought it must be one of the actresses leaving late, but the woman sounded working class.

He guided himself along the side of the theatre. In the distance he saw a vague smudge of light high up. He was hoping it was a street lamp. As soon as he felt the pavement hit the road he knew he had reached the High Street. To his right were shops, a department store, two cinemas and a restaurant. To his left the road sloped downwards past more shops towards the railway station. He needed to reach the railway station and veer left to a bridge, past some bombed factories and on to the main road which would take him home. He raised his collar and dragged his bike towards the Rose and Crown. To his relief he heard the sound of men’s voices, and glasses clinking, but he could still see nothing in the inky black smog.

It was going to be a long night.

Two

There were only five habitable houses left in their street. Three on their side, two at either end opposite. The rest of the street was rubble. They were the lucky ones, his mother kept reminding everyone when they all started getting on each other’s nerves when fighting for elbow room in the only warm room in the house, the kitchen. Even as he stumbled over the rubble in the fog, he still couldn’t tell if it was their street or not.

His feet hit a broken pipe sticking out of the ground. Near it was the wall of a house. He felt his way along it on to the next house. Relieved, he realised he was touching his own front door. He tried to open it in case someone, out of kindness, had left it unlocked but no such luck. Slowly he groped his way past the house next to it and climbed over the rubble to the lane which led to their backyards.

He closed the yard door quietly behind him and felt his way towards the coalshed. Gently he leaned his bike against it. He had hardly let go of it when there was a clatter as it collapsed into a heap. He froze and stared at the back of the house. No lights were switched on. He just hoped no one had heard. He propped the bike up again and felt his way along to the outside lavatory. After a quick visit he headed for the scullery door. His clothes felt damp from the fog and his head ached from squinting.

For one awful moment he thought the back door was locked too, but on the second try the door clicked reassuringly open. He stepped quickly in and gently closed it behind him. Even then the fog had managed to force its way inside. Traces of it were swirling round the room. In the dark he saw the copper in the corner glinting, the stone sink and wooden draining board and the mangle.

He dreaded going into the kitchen in case his father was sitting there waiting for him. He removed his bicycle clips, undid the laces of his boots and left them by the door. He turned the brass handle with painstaking slowness. Luckily the door didn’t creak, and within seconds he could see by the faint light of the range grate, that his father lay immobile in his bed in a deep sleep.

He eased the door shut. There was a smell of hops in the room, and then he realised it was his father’s beery breath. He edged his way carefully round the chairs on the opposite side of the room, past the dresser and towards the door which led into the narrow hall.

He was halfway up the stairs when they gave a loud creak. He remained motionless for a moment, and then carried on up to the small bedroom where he slept top to tail with Harry in a narrow bed. He slipped into the room, peeled off his sodden clothes and flung them over the rail at his end of the bed. He eased his pyjamas from under his pillow and put them on.

From the neck up he felt hot from suddenly being indoors again, but from the neck down he was chilled and clammy. He climbed gratefully into bed and was just stretching his feet down his side when he hit a tiny foot. There was a shuffling from the other side and two heads rose up.

‘Elsie,’ whispered Ralph. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Joan was snoring so bad,’ she yawned, ‘she kept waking me.’

There was a creak on the landing outside. Elsie dived under the covers. The door opened. Ralph glanced nervously across the room. It was his mother. She moved hesitantly towards the bed. ‘Ralphie?’

Ralph propped himself on to his elbow. ‘I got caught in the fog.’

‘Phone Uncle Ted’s place next time. Then he can let me know.’

He nodded. ‘I’m sorry if I worried you.’

‘You’re home now,’ she said with relief and she turned to go.

‘Mum,’ he began, ‘did Dad tell you?’

She stopped at the door and gave a nod. ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning. Now get some sleep. Night, love.’

‘Goodnight, Mum.’

He sank back into the pillow and had just closed his eyes when urgent whispers made him look down the bed. His brother and sister’s heads were raised again.

‘Where you been?’ asked Harry.

‘Everywhere, I think,’ whispered Ralph. ‘It was a real pea-souper.’

‘Dad burnt one of your books,’ said Elsie.

‘What!’

‘Mum stopped him burning the rest,’ said Harry.

‘And Dad hit her,’ added Elsie.

‘He never,’ said Harry. ‘It was an accident.’

‘Anyway,’ said Elsie excitedly, ‘you missed a row.’

‘And Dick Barton.’

‘But we remembered it for you. You know Snowy White had found where Dick Barton was holed up by the arch-evil . . .’

‘Not now,’ pleaded Ralph.

‘But I might have forgotten it by the morning.’

‘It is the morning. Now let me sleep. And Elsie?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Try not to kick. There are places on my anatomy which don’t take to being kicked.’

Sounds of smothered giggling came from the other side. Ralph groaned. ‘You’re causing a draught,’ he complained. ‘Can’t you laugh without moving?’

There was silence for a moment then a fresh outburst of laughter from the other side.

‘I give up,’ yawned Ralph. And fell asleep.

‘Which one did he burn?’ asked Ralph.

‘Dunno, dear. You’ll have to check them through.’

‘Where are they?’

She glanced at Harry and Elsie who were poring over a comic. Elsie was holding her broken spectacles to the bridge of her nose and reading the captions to Harry. But he knew Elsie could eavesdrop and talk at the same time. ‘I won’t tell,’ she said in midstream.

Ralph and his mother smiled quickly at one another.

‘I’ve hidden them in a pile of washing in the scullery till he cools down.’

‘Thanks.’

‘What’s in the scullery?’ said Harry suddenly alert.

‘Do you want to know what happens next?’ interrupted Elsie.

‘Yeah.’

His mother handed Ralph a plate of fried bread and dripping and a mug of tea. ‘What are you going to do, then?’ she asked. ‘You can’t go back to school, love. He won’t hear of it.’

‘I don’t want to now. I’ll find a job. I won’t scrounge off you, don’t worry.’

‘It’s not that.’

‘You’ve done enough for me.’

She reddened. He loved it when she blushed. She looked pretty again.

‘It was the rector,’ she began embarrassed, ‘he persuaded me.’

‘I couldn’t have done it without you, Mum.’

‘Oh, go on. You worked hard for it. Now eat that up before it goes cold. I’ve got things to do.’ And she disappeared into the scullery.

A newspaper was lying at the end of the table. He reached over for it and flipped it open at the job advertisements.

‘No time like the present,’ he said and he crunched his way through the fried bread. He was starving and the bread only whetted his appetite. He gulped down the hot tea.

‘Mum,’ he said casually, ‘there might be a chance of a job just for tonight.’

She appeared in the doorway. ‘Oh yeah? What kind of job?’

‘Well, um,’ he said slowly, ‘every Saturday night at the Palace Theatre, they have to take down the set.’

‘What’s a set?’ asked Elsie.

‘Scenery, nosy parker.’

‘Just wanted to know,’ she said returning to the comic. ‘Watch out, yer yellow-livered hombre!’

‘Sometimes they need extra hands,’ he continued hesitantly. ‘I saw a man backstage there and he suggested I pop round after the show. He’s going to put in a good word for me.’

‘I see. But won’t it be late?’

‘Later than late, Mum. All night.’

She came into the kitchen and sat down beside him. ‘I don’t know, love. I don’t like to think of you out all night. And your dad . . . It was bad enough last night.’

‘But I wouldn’t be out. I’d be cycling back in daylight. I’d be even safer than coming back from the theatre on a Friday.’

‘Talking of which,’ she said biting her lip. ‘I don’t know if your father will let you go any longer. He’s dead ashamed of you doing it.’

‘He’s ashamed of me breathing,’ commented Ralph. ‘He only has to see me and I make his blood boil. I only have to open my mouth and the steam starts coming out of his ears.’

Elsie began to giggle. He gazed affectionately at her. She was such an appreciative audience. She peered owlishly at him, her glasses juddering on her nose. Though eleven, she was so small and skinny she could pass for being nine. She grinned mischievously at him.

‘How are you going to pay for a ticket?’ asked his mother.

Ralph sighed. ‘I don’t know. And I must go. It’s the one thing that keeps me from going insane.’

‘What does insane mean?’ said Harry suddenly interested.

‘Barmy,’ said Elsie.

‘Mum, what about tonight?’

‘He’ll be that mad.’

‘I don’t mind him being mad with me, as long as you don’t get hurt.’ And he leaned over and touched the cut on her forehead. She blushed again.

‘I slipped.’

‘I don’t want you “slipping” again,’ said Ralph, not believing.

‘He wouldn’t hurt me for the world, Ralphie, honest. But it’s difficult with your Auntie Win here and . . .’ She stopped.

‘She says males give you headaches,’ said Harry.

Ralph laughed. ‘I can believe it. Look, Mum, if I do this job, it’ll mean I’ll be out of the way part of the evening. That’ll give him more time to cool down.’

‘Not if he knows where you are.’

‘I don’t know what he thinks is going to happen to me. I’m not suddenly going to turn up for breakfast in silk pyjamas, a Chinese dressing-gown and a cigarette in a long cigarette holder, am I?’

‘You try telling him that.’

‘At least it’ll show I’m trying to look for work.’

‘That’s true. But even if you did get it, what about the rest of the week?’

‘I’ll find something.’

She gave a nod. ‘I better get a move on. If I don’t queue up at the butcher’s soon we’ll have carrot stew again.’ She picked up his empty mug and plate and left him to scour the paper.

Searching the advertisements, everybody seemed to want girls, either to be trained as nurses or child nurses or as maids or cooks. There were a few light engineering apprenticeships going but he would only come up against the same problem. Slowly he looked down the small ads again. His eye fell on the word ‘Winford’. Another ‘housemaid wanted’ ad probably. ‘Gardener and odd job,’ he read out surprised. ‘Youth wanted.’

The yard door gave a slam and was followed by the whirring sound of a bicycle chain. There was only one other person who had a bicycle. His father. ‘Come on, Harry!’ said Elsie, folding the comic and rising.

‘What you doin’?’ he protested.

‘We need some fresh air.’

‘You gone daft?’

‘Out!’ she ordered.

‘Don’t boss me!’ he started.

‘I ain’t.’

‘Yes you are.’

‘I’ll be Snowy White again.’

His eyes lit up. ‘You’re on.’

‘Not that way,’ she said grabbing his darned sleeve. ‘We’ll go out the front.’

‘We ain’t visitors,’ he said. Just then they heard the sound of hobnail boots stomping up the yard. ‘Oh yeah, I get. Good idea, Elsie,’ Harry stammered and he and Elsie fled out of the door.

A sick feeling crept into Ralph’s mouth. He looked down quickly at the paper and read: Trained and untrained mental nurses and attendants. Male and female required. ‘Now there’s a possibility,’ he murmured attempting to make himself laugh. He didn’t think his father would find it amusing though.

The back door slammed.

‘Is his lordship out of bed yet?’ he heard his father demand.

‘He didn’t get back till this morning.’

‘He shouldn’t have been out. Ruddy pansy.’

‘John. Don’t say that.’

‘Where is he, then?’

‘In the kitchen. Looking for jobs in the newspaper.’

‘He don’t want work. He just wants to lay about reading pansy books.’

By now Ralph’s fear had disappeared. Anger had replaced it. The door was flung open. His father attempted to tower in the doorway, his stocky frame stretched to its ultimate.

‘This is between him and me, Ellen,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘No more hiding behind his mother’s apron.’

Ralph rose furiously to his feet. His father slammed the door shut. ‘Don’t think you’re too old for a hiding, lad.’

‘Go on then. Hit me. But I’ll hit you back.’

‘You what? I could wipe the floor with a little toe-rag like you.’

‘And that’s what you’d like to do, isn’t it? You’ve been dying for an excuse to do it ever since I came back home. So why don’t you get on and do it?’

‘That’s a lie. I’ve gone out of my way to help you. I got you a job for life. Steady, stable, with one of the best companies around. Good hours, good pay and a pension scheme. But oh, no, that’s not good enough for you, is it? Well, I wash my hands of you now. You’re on your own. You find your own work.’

‘I didn’t resign, Dad. They fired me.’

‘I know they fired you. For reading a pansy book.’

‘No!’

‘You answered back.’

‘I answered, that’s all. I forgot I was supposed to keep it secret I could speak French.’

‘Don’t give me that. You wanted to show off.’

‘No. Funnily enough, this week was the first time in months that I started to feel more relaxed. That’s why I was off guard.’

‘Relaxed! You’re there to work.’

‘In the lunch break.’

‘Dinner! We don’t need your lah-di-dah names round here.’

‘Dinner then,’ he said exasperated. ‘I tried to hedge round it, but in the end the foreman got it out of me, that I had School Cert.’

‘Clever enough to get a ruddy book exam, but not clever enough to keep your trap shut.’

‘I was shocked too, Dad. My work was as good as anyone’s. I worked hard. They just had it in for me.’

‘I wonder why,’ he said sarcastically. ‘You must think I was born yesterday. I heard what you said to him about it being the happiest day of your life.’

‘He asked for it. He looked so smug when he gave me my cards. He said that the manager didn’t think it fair that someone with my qualifications should take an apprenticeship away from someone who hadn’t. And I’d only cause trouble later on when I got bored. He was delighted, Dad. That’s why I said it to him.’

‘You didn’t have to dance around.’

‘I had to, to make it convincing, otherwise he would have thought it was sour grapes. I wanted to make sure I rubbed that satisfied smirk off his face.’

‘You did that all right. Everyone knows now that I’ve got a rotten apple for a son.’

‘I’ll find a job.’

‘You’d better, because if you don’t pay your keep, you don’t eat here. You don’t sleep here. Joan’s been paying her way for three years now. She ain’t going to carry you, sonny. Neither am I or your Auntie Win. And I know that you’ve already spent part of your last pay on that pansy theatre of yours. That’ll have to stop too.’

‘If I work hard, I’m entitled to spend some of it on something I like, or is there one rule for everyone else in this house, and another for me?’

‘Don’t tell me what you’re entitled to. You’re entitled to nothing till I see you muck in like the rest of us. You’ve got away without bringing in a pay packet for two years! But not any longer. You bring in a pay packet and you can join us at the table. Otherwise you can stay in your room and read your precious books.’

‘All but one!’

‘Oh, yeah, you heard, did you? Well, you can thank your ma that I didn’t tip the rest in.’

‘Let’s hope it wasn’t a library book, Dad. If it was they’ll be sending you a bill.’

‘Oh, no, sonny. If it was a library book it’ll be out in your name.’

‘You’d let me pay for you damaging it!’

‘You brought it into the house.’

‘It was in my room.’

‘In my house,’ he pointed out. ‘And I say what comes in ’ere and who comes in ’ere.’

‘So why were you so keen to get me back from Cornwall? I was happy where I was.’

‘Looks like I rescued you in time. You’re working class, and don’t forget it. Family is the most important thing in the world. You lose family, you lose everything. That’s where your first loyalty is. So you can drop that accent.’

‘Which working-class accent would you like me to speak, yours or Mum’s?’

For a moment his father stared dumbstruck at him. ‘Hertfordshire or London?’ Ralph continued.

‘I dunno!’ he said angrily. ‘Don’t twist my words.’ There was silence between them.

‘I did try,’ said Ralph eventually. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘So am I,’ his father said bitterly.

‘Look, I’ve seen a job advertised. I’ll go and ring up about it now.’

‘What is it?’

‘Gardener and odd job.’

‘Odd job! You wouldn’t have a clue.’

‘I can learn.’

‘If you phone they won’t even bother to see you. They want a local lad. Your voice will put them off.’

He was right. ‘I’ll put on an accent, just to get me an interview.’

His father grinned triumphantly. ‘Which accent?’ he said.

Touché, thought Ralph. He hated this man so much, yet he was annoyed that he couldn’t bring himself to hurt him and say Hertfordshire. But if he said London to please him, he’d hurt his mother. And then he knew. ‘Cornish,’ he said simply.

Three

It was a towering gothic-style Victorian house with odd wings sticking out of it. A large ornate gate, wedged between high hedges, led to a wide path to the front porch. There was a small gate at the side to a tiny path which, Ralph presumed, led to the tradesman’s entrance.

He opened it and wheeled his bike towards what appeared to be a dilapidated conservatory at the side. Peering in, he could make out bedraggled dead plants on shelves, and beyond, the kitchen door. Swiftly he sneaked past it to take a look at the back garden, and gulped. An enormous, unkempt lawn with waist-high grass sprawled past two sheds, trees and overgrown shrubs down to the river. The owners didn’t need a gardener, he thought, they needed a combine harvester.

At the back of the house was a large room with French windows in the centre and a bay window on either side. Outside it was a long veranda with a glass roof, covered in ivy which had reached there from ornate pillars supporting it. Stone steps covered in moss and weed led down from it to wide overgrown borders of what appeared to be mostly convolvulus.

He was returning to the kitchen door when a young man came flying out. He was about nineteen, taller than him, strong looking, muscular. Yet he couldn’t seem to get out of the door fast enough. Ralph watched him fly down the path like a frightened rabbit. He stepped into the conservatory and peered in through the window. A skinny disgruntled woman in an apron was moving around a large kitchen. Ralph took his cap off and knocked on the door. The woman glanced round and opened it.

‘Come for the gardener job?’ she asked in the local dialect.

Ralph nodded. He decided not to talk unless it was absolutely necessary.

‘The last victim,’ she muttered.

Ralph indicated the direction the youth had fled, opened his mouth, remembered his code of silence and then closed it again.

‘Yes,’ said the woman. ‘He’s just been to see Mrs Egerton-Smythe. And I don’t think he’ll be coming back.’

A bell above the door rang. She gazed sorrowfully at him. ‘You’re wasting your time, lad. She’ll ’ave you fer breakfast. If you want to leave now I can always say you didn’t turn up.’

Ralph shook his head.

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

They walked out into an oak-lined hallway, with a massive hallstand along the wall by the kitchen door. Ralph gave an appreciative whistle. The woman grunted. ‘You don’t have to polish these floors. I tell her, she should get linoleum. Linoleum is the thing now. Give it a quick swab down and bob’s yer uncle.’ She led him to one of the doors. ‘Knock,’ she said, and then abandoned him.

Ralph knocked as hard as he could. ‘Think nineteen,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Think mature.’

‘Come in!’ yelled an irritated voice from the other side.

Ralph swung open the door and found himself in what appeared to be a library. Glass cabinets with shelves of books stretched up to the ceiling. Two leather armchairs stood solidly on either side of the laid, but unlit fireplace.

A handsome middle-aged woman of medium build in a tweed suit and brogues was standing by a massive table in the centre of the room. Her chestnut hair was gripped untidily back from her face. She looked tired and angry. Ralph’s first instinct was that she didn’t belong in the room. She scowled at him as if challenging him. ‘So you’re Mr Hollis,’ she snapped, looking him up and down. ‘More like Master Hollis to me. Still I did say gardener’s boy.’

She strode over to him. ‘Bend your arm,’ she commanded. He did so.

‘Oh,’ she said surprised. ‘There is muscle there. The strong wiry type, eh? Seen the garden then? Had a quick pry before you came in?’

He nodded.

‘Now I like doers, Master Hollis. I haven’t the time nor the energy to check that people are doing what I ask. When someone says they’ll do something, I expect them to do it. I’ve had enough of encouraging people to get on with it. Now Master Hollis, are you a doer ?’

Ralph nodded again.

‘Another silent type, eh? How wearisome.’ She began marching up and down the carpet as if a thorn had found its way into her clothes and was sticking into her. ‘Hollis! Hollis! Hollis!’ she muttered. ‘Doesn’t sound very Cornish to me. Is it Cornish?’

Ralph shook his head.

She stared at him. ‘Well!’ She paused. ‘Elucidate.’

Goodbye job, thought Ralph. Still it was only his first interview. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m from round here actually. But I was evacuated to Cornwall during the war. I put on the accent because I knew you wouldn’t interview me otherwise. And if you’re worried about me not being physically able to cope, I must point out that I worked on local farms in my school vacations.’

Her jaw dropped. ‘You little fraud!’ she roared. ‘This isn’t some Saturday job for a middle class schoolboy. Now clear out of here and don’t waste my time!’

‘I’m not a schoolboy. I had a job until yesterday when I was told I was over-qualified. In fact I might as well lay all my cards on the table. I have School Cert. And I didn’t get it by sucking eggs and counting clouds out of the window. It was hard work.’

‘Got quite a little temper, haven’t we, Master Hollis.’

‘Yes, we have, Mrs Egerton-Smythe!’

She pursed her lips. ‘Well I’m afraid holiday harvesting is not required here. You’ve been reading too much . . .’ She waved her hand as if searching for the right name.

‘A.G. Street?’ he suggested.

He could see that he had guessed right, but it was obvious he had little chance of a job. ‘If you want me,’ he stated firmly, ‘which I doubt, you can tell me what you want me to do. If I don’t know how to do it, I’ll find a way of doing it. I’m not witless, you know.’

‘Are you playing truant?’ she demanded.

‘No. I told you. Yesterday I was sacked from the paper-mill. If you don’t believe me you can contact them. I’m sure they’ll send you the worst letter of recommendation you’re ever likely to read.’

‘Paper-mill?’ she exclaimed. ‘What the hell were you doing at a paper-mill?’

‘My father took me out of school and got me a job there.’

‘He’s a bloody manager, isn’t he? Is this some kind of character-building experiment?’

‘No,’ said Ralph wearily. ‘Look, I need a job, but I want it on my terms now. I’m not spending any more time pretending I’m something I’m not.’

The faintest flicker of amusement passed her eyes. ‘Oh, lucky you. You know who you are, eh?’

Ralph opened his mouth, and then to his astonishment he burst out laughing. The woman strode across the room to a long velvet cord which she pulled. And Ralph couldn’t stop himself. It was as if the last four months of awfulness had finally taken their toll. He knew she was calling for the maid to take him back to the kitchen and out. And he was beyond caring. He had no job and he had ruined his first interview for one. He hadn’t had a conversation about any of the things he loved, like plays or the theatre or books or ideas, for months. His brain was atrophying and now he suspected he might be going insane. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

The door opened and Queenie entered.

‘Queenie, Hollis will be staying for tea.’ She turned to him. ‘You have no further appointments this afternoon have you?’

Too surprised to speak, he shook his head.

Queenie held the door open for him. He was about to move when Mrs Egerton-Smythe raised her hand. ‘No, Queenie, Hollis will have tea with me. In here.’

Queenie gasped. ‘But, madam!’ she protested.

‘Hollis and I have a lot to talk about,’ and she turned sharply to Ralph, ‘haven’t we?’

Ralph nodded again, amazed. The door closed.

‘Now, sit down, and we’ll discuss what we’re going to do with that jungle out there.’ Ralph just stared at her. ‘Or have you decided to look for work elsewhere? Don’t worry, it’s quite common. I seem to scare the living daylights out of most people who work here. I don’t know why.’

‘You mean I’ve got the job?’

‘Don’t be an ass, boy. Of course you have. Now do as I say and sit down. I want to interview you a little more.’

He lowered himself into one of the leather armchairs opposite her and grinned. ‘You mean, interrogate me.’

‘Exactly. Now where shall we start?’

It was already dark when Ralph wheeled his bicycle out through Mrs Egerton-Smythe’s small gate. He stopped for a moment to gaze back at the large forbidding house. He had a feeling Mrs Egerton-Smythe’s brusqueness was caused by some kind of pain but, in spite of her irritability, he liked her. He gave a broad smile.

As he cycled away, his spirits were so high that he found himself singing a Brandenburg Concerto. He headed towards the wide tree-lined road which led off Mrs Egerton-Smythe’s avenue. Once he reached the High Street, he turned left past the department store on the corner where his Auntie Win worked and the little dress shop a hundred yards further on where his cousin Joan worked, past two cinemas, a jeweller’s, a shoe shop, a butcher’s, past the tower with a clock on it which stood in the centre, past more shops until he was outside the Palace Theatre. He pulled on his brakes and glanced up at the hoarding advertising Ladies in Retirement. Next week, it announced, French Without Tears. ‘Charming, Amusing, a Delight!’

He mentally crossed his fingers and skimmed downhill towards the railway station and bridge.

The family were all sitting round the table when he arrived home. Several arguments were going on which were being refereed by his mother. His father was polishing his boots, a sign that he was going out.

‘You’re not old enough for the Saturday thriller, Elsie,’ his mother was saying. ‘You’ll have nightmares.’

‘I won’t,’ she insisted. ‘I know it’s just a story.’

‘It’s for grown-ups.’

‘So’s them books Auntie Win reads out. You let me listen to them.’

‘You’re not supposed to be listening.’

‘Mavis White’s allowed to go out to Saturday dances with her friends,’ interrupted Joan. ‘And meet boys there. He said that’s where he’d see me, and I promised.’

‘You had no right. If he wants to take you out he can come here and pick you up hisself. Elsie, clear the table.’

She turned and winked at Ralph. ‘’Ow’d you do?’ she mouthed.

‘I got it.’

‘Oh, Ralphie!’ And to his surprise she flung her arms round him, and then suddenly broke away blushing.

‘What’s that?’ said his father, looking up.

‘I got the job.’

‘Regular, is it?’

‘Occasional.’

His father gave a snort.

‘It’s a start,’ said his mother.

‘And if I do well she might spread the word to her friends.’

‘Gardener!’ he scoffed. ‘What kind of job is that?’

‘Mum,’ began Elsie, ‘couldn’t I listen to the first bit of it?’

‘No.’

‘What if I met him at the Odeon?’ pleaded Joan.

‘What’s wrong with him meeting you here?’

‘It’d scare him off. He’d think it was serious.’

‘It is.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Elsie, clear the table!’

‘Hello,’ said Auntie Win into her newspaper. ‘There’s another bigamist in here.’ She tutted and shook her head. ‘I dunno.’

Because they had only six chairs, it was Harry’s turn to sit on Dad’s bed at supper, but he accidentally spilt some gravy on it in the middle of his exciting rendition of the previous night’s episode of Dick Barton, Special Agent, which made his father almost hit the ceiling, since it was the one place in the house he could call his own. He was only to have slept in it temporarily but it had stretched to six months because Auntie Win didn’t feel she should share a room with her nieces. Ralph volunteered to change places, but his father said he didn’t want no slackers sitting on his bed. Elsie said Harry could share her chair and so they spent the rest of the meal giggling as one or other kept pitching to the side. After the meal, his Uncle Ted, a large portly man in his fifties, from two streets away, called for his dad. He had persuaded him to go greyhound racing with him. His father wasn’t interested in greyhound racing, but he told Ralph that he thought it was better for both of them if one of them wasn’t at home.

Sometimes Ralph wondered if there was something he had done when he was little to cause so much hostility between him and his father, because try as he might, he rarely got a smile out of him.

While Elsie and his mother washed the dishes in the scullery, Joan arranged to go to the 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 to make himself sink into the surroundings as they shook hands with Wilfred and disappeared into the night. Finally a tiny elderly woman bustled up to Wilfred with a small bundle. ‘Not much washing this week,’ she said, ‘it being a costume drama. Next week’s going to be busy though. Lots of whites.’ She caught sight of Ralph out of the corner of her eye.

‘He’s looking for work,’ Wilfred explained.

‘Call boy?’

‘Strike.’

Ralph pushed himself away from the skip. ‘They’ve got everyone they need,’ she said.

‘I know,’ he whispered. ‘But I didn’t want to disappoint the lad. Anyway he can hold a ladder, can’t he?’

‘Listen, lovey,’ said the old woman to Ralph. ‘There ain’t much hope but I’ll take you backstage and you can ask Jack Walker. ’E’s the master carpenter. He and Mr Johnson, the stage director, are in charge of hiring and firing.’

‘Thanks awfully,’ he said.

‘But don’t get in the way or they’ll have my guts for garters.’

As they stepped up the stone stairway he felt the old adrenalin returning. On the first landing to his right there was a door. To his left there were more steps leading upwards. ‘The other dressing rooms is up there,’ she said noticing him glancing up at them. She pushed open the door.

He found himself in a long corridor. As they walked along it they passed a dressing room with a door open. It was just as he had imagined it, with light bulbs round the mirrors. Hanging on a rack were Victorian dresses above pairs of button boots. Next to the room was a dilapidated kitchen-cum-sitting room and another dressing room. He hovered in the door. There was the ulster Basil Duke had worn as Albert Feathers when he had walked over the marshes in the rain in flight from the police. Scattered in front of the mirror were sticks of greasepaint and small round tins. He was astounded to see so much make-up.

‘You coming, love?’ said the old woman.

‘Yes, of course, sorry,’ said Ralph, startled.

‘Those are the number one and number two dressing rooms,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘The more important you are, the nearer you get to the stage.’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘It ent your first time backstage, is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Funny that, you look like you’ve bin ’ere before. Look at home.’

‘I feel it,’ he said shyly.

‘This way,’ she said and she pushed open a black door.

Ralph was surprised to find himself standing in the wings. On his left the doors to an enormous shed adjoining the stage were open. Stacked in corners and along walls were piles of furniture, painted scenery and boxes. On long worktables were pots of paint and glue and props. There was a strong pungent smell which seemed to cause his nose to retreat into the back of his head.

The painted flats on his immediate right had been removed, leaving the rest of the set and auditorium exposed. Most of the furniture had been removed from the house, and the flagstone floor which looked so solid from the gallery, he discovered, was only painted canvas. Two young women were staggering towards him with a Georgian sofa. Behind them on-stage right, a young man with wavy hair and a large muscular man in his forties, were carrying the piano where the retired dancer had been strangled by Ellen Creed whilst playing Tit Willow.

Ralph turned to ask the old lady who he should ask about work, only to find that she had disappeared.

‘Isla!’ called out the young man. ‘Could you shove those chairs out of the way?’

‘Hang on a minute, Robin,’ said one of the young women. She lowered her end of the sofa and began clearing a couple of heavy dining-room chairs out of the way. Feeling desperately empty-handed, Ralph lifted her end of the sofa.

‘Oh,’ said the other young woman. ‘Where did you spring from?’

Isla appeared at their side, chairs in hand. ‘Marvellous,’ she said. ‘Helena will show you where to take it.’

Dumbfounded by this easy acceptance of his presence he found himself backing with the girl called Helena towards the shed.

Helena was small and strong with untidy short blonde hair and grey eyes. She was wearing a threadbare navy jersey underneath maroon dungarees. She pointed with her chin to a stack of furniture in the corner.

‘The sofa goes there,’ she explained.

‘What can I do now?’ Ralph asked after they had carried it to the pile.

‘Didn’t Jack Walker tell you?’

‘Well I haven’t exactly asked him yet,’ he began.

‘Helena!’ yelled Isla from on-stage.

‘Stay here,’ said Helena. ‘We’ve got to finish clearing the props. They can’t clear the set until we do. Is it your first strike?’

Ralph nodded, but before he had time to explain, she was already dashing towards the stage, her small mercurial figure whirling round the set, grabbing any props in sight.

As the two young women came towards him, their arms filled with nineteenth-century bric-a-brac, Isla came directly to him. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Now is not the time to ask Jack what he wants you to do. I should just keep out of the way for the moment till he needs you.’ She looked at the heap of props around the table. ‘What a mess!’

‘Want me to sort it out?’ he asked.

The two girls glanced at each other and smiled. ‘Rather,’ said Helena.

‘Why not?’ laughed Isla. ‘It’ll save us having to do it on Monday.’

‘And I can go and help with electrics,’ said Helena beaming.

As soon as Helena had left them, Ralph found Isla giving him a penetrating stare. Like Helena she, too, was wearing a jersey under a pair of dungarees, only her jersey was brown and her dungarees green. Unlike Helena she was attractive in a striking buxom sort of way. She was the same height as Ralph, with huge almond-shaped brown eyes, short glossy chestnut brown hair, and a wide full-lipped mouth. To his embarrassment he found himself blushing. She gave a deep warm laugh.

‘Come with me,’ she said.

Ralph followed her to the pile of Ladies in Retirement furniture.

‘Grab hold of this,’ she said, and she flung a sheet at him. ‘We need to cover this all up until we can return it to people who have lent it to us.’ She glanced at him curiously. ‘You’re not going into acting, are you?’

Ralph found himself nodding.

‘Poor fool,’ she said looking a little sad. ‘So you’re learning a bit before going to drama school?’

Drama school! Ralph hadn’t even thought about drama school. He found himself nodding again and hated himself for lying to this stunningly beautiful young woman.

‘How on earth did you manage to persuade Mr Johnson to let you help on a strike? Or do you know Jack Walker?’

Ralph opened his mouth to answer but no sound emerged.

Four

‘Look out!’ she yelled suddenly.

Ralph swung round. Helena, who was carrying a china mandarin with a nodding head, was about to go flying over a statue of a Madonna and child.

‘Thanks,’ said Helena.

‘I’ll be glad when all these antiques are back at Parker’s,’ said Isla. ‘I’ve been sweating buckets during Tears rehearsals. Every time someone makes a grand gesture I’ve been expecting to hear the tinkle of shattering Ming.’

Helena gingerly put the mandarin on the table. Isla was removing a list from underneath some imitation seaweed.

‘Wrap anything on this list with a “P” beside it, and put it in here,’ she said, pointing to one of the packing cases.

Ralph took the list and she and Helena dashed back on to the stage.

‘Oh, well, here goes,’ he whispered.

Methodically he unpacked the props which had been thrown willy nilly into one of the other packing cases, picked up the ones from the floor and spread them out on the long table. Then piecemeal, he put all the props with ‘P’ beside them at one end.

Out of the corner of his eye he observed a dishevelled-looking man in his thirties in dirty overalls standing next to a youth who appeared to be painting dark-green fleurs-de-lis on sea-green wallpaper. The youth was feverishly painting the ones at the bottom while the man stood on a ladder painting the top ones.

On-stage a workman was hauling on heavy ropes. As he pulled, the painted ceiling of the Tudor farmhouse was lifted into the flies and two burly men carried the flats which had been underneath it into the scene dock, and stacked them next to the Ladies in Retirement furniture.

Ralph placed the borrowed props in the box and ticked them off the list. He noticed there was a ‘T’ placed against other props on the list and began sorting those out.

‘How’re you doing?’

It was Isla. He handed her the list.

‘The snuffbox is probably in the jacket of one of the actors’ costumes. You’ll find it in dressing-room two. The shepherdess is over there,’ she added gloomily. She pointed to a headless porcelain woman with a crinoline, on one of the worktables by the wall. ‘I’m not looking forward to returning her.’

Before he could speak she had run back on-stage again. He had to tell her, had to tell someone that he was there under false pretences. One of the men carrying the flats past him must be the boss. If only he knew which one!

He heard a large burly one say to the painter, ‘We can’t do anything till the lamps and panatrope are cleared and the stage swept, so keep painting.’

Ralph realised he must be the master carpenter. The man turned and gave him a puzzled look.

Ralph walked swiftly towards the stage, out through the door into the corridor, and towards dressing room two. Once inside Basil Duke’s dressing room he closed the door and leaned against it, sweating profusely. He knew he was being ridiculous. He had to ask the master carpenter for permission to stay and the longer he left it, the worse was his crime.

He glanced at the dressing room table. Make-up had hastily been put into a box at the side, with a grubby towel flung half over it. A round tin with Crowe’s removing cream lay beside it. Ralph gingerly prised it open. It smelt vaguely like lard. Peering under the towel into the box he could see a tray with sticks of used greasepaint of every shade. He was about to look under the tray when he noticed an enormous Victorian book of magazine stories. Perhaps Basil Duke had used it to look at pictures of Victorian men or do a bit of research. He picked it up and began flicking through the pictures. Suddenly something furry leapt out. With an alarmed yell he dropped it. As it fell to the floor he could see other furry things.

‘Oh, my goodness!’ he whispered. ‘They’re his moustaches.’

He put the book back on the table and glimpsed inside. Sure enough, moustaches of every size from a small clipped one to a walrus one were pressed into the book. At the back of them was a hard residue of white stuff which looked like dried glue. Gently he picked up the escaping moustaches from the floor and carefully replaced them between the pages, hoping that Mr Duke didn’t have an index arrangement to them.

He found the silver snuffbox in the pocket of the checked suit. He slipped back out into the corridor and headed back to the door. Everyone was on stage busily untying the ropes which were connected to the ceiling canvas, now lowered to just above floor level. Head bowed, he returned to the prop table, wrapped the snuffbox and placed it with the other Parker props and ticked it off.

Hurriedly he left the scene dock and walked into the area on-stage where the flagstoned floor was being rolled up. Ralph shyly joined the end of the line of people and helped push it along.

As men carried it off into the scene dock Ralph stood awkwardly in front of the footlights not knowing what to do next. He spotted Helena attempting to move two boxes in the stage right wings. Cables trailed from two turntables on them towards two speakers on either side of the footlights. She was removing a gramophone record from one of the turntables and placing it carefully in its sleeve.

Isla was picking up cigarette ends. ‘Can I help?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The brooms are over there.’ And she indicated the widest brooms he had ever seen, leaning up against the back wall of the stage. ‘This whole area has to be cleared.’

Relieved to be doing something, he grabbed one and swept with gusto. Out of the corner of his eye he observed a private exchange between the master carpenter and a stage hand and a small envelope passing hands.

Then the master carpenter turned on his heel, headed straight for Ralph and towered over him with his hands on his hips.

‘Now then,’ he said abruptly, ‘mind telling me who you are and what you’re doing here?’

The silence seemed to last for hours. ‘Well?’ said the man impatiently.

‘I meant to ask,’ he began. ‘I mean . . .’ he stammered.

‘Sorry, Jack,’ said a voice from behind, ‘he’s a friend. He’s learning. I meant to ask you but I clean forgot. And when I remembered I couldn’t find you.’

‘Isla, you know the rules! If he ain’t on the payroll and a spot bar falls on his head, we’d be in serious trouble. He ain’t insured.’

‘Yes, I know. I’ll make sure he stands to one side. But can he help me mark out first while Helena makes the tea? I’m sure no lights will fall on him.’

He frowned.

‘We can all get home earlier,’ she added.

‘I suppose so. But don’t go telling Mr Johnson.’

Ralph, Isla and Helena watched him head for the scene dock where two workmen were waiting to be paid.

‘Thanks,’ said Ralph quietly to Isla. ‘I tried to tell you . . .’ He paused. ‘How did you guess?’

‘It was the putrid colour you turned.’

‘Oh.’ And he laughed.

‘Give us a hand with the stage cloth will you? Then we can mark up.’

Ralph, Helena and Isla spread it out on to the stage and tautened it with weights. Then they carried a long roll of green felt and unrolled it on top, smoothed it down and fixed the weights at the edges.

Helena went to wash the mugs and make tea. ‘They can’t put up any of the flats till I get this marked up,’ said Isla. She unrolled a thick piece of paper from a small table on the left side of the stage next to the curtain, which she called the prompt corner. Beside it on a wall were all sorts of switches for lighting and sound cues. On the piece of paper was a ground plan. She laid it out on the floor.

‘These are the walls of the set,’ she said pointing to the outer lines, ‘and these rectangles are where the different bits of furniture are set. I take a measurement from this line here,’ she explained drawing her finger down the centre.

‘So you have to measure and mark up the back flats first, is that it?’

‘No. And by the way we call the back part of the stage, upstage and the front part of the stage going down towards the floats, downstage.’

‘What are floats?’

‘The footlights.’

‘But why does the furniture have to be a precise length from the centre?’ he said. ‘Can’t you just set them roughly?’

‘Not when you’re dealing with timing a move or a line.’

‘How often have you to do this?’

‘Every day once the moves have been set. And I have to put back the furniture for the evening show on their marks. Only snag is that sometimes I have to measure up and mark for that show all over again in the afternoon.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of this,’ she said pulling out a piece of chalk from her pocket. ‘Some of the marks I’ve made get rubbed off during morning rehearsals so . . .’ She shrugged and pulled out a bundle of string. ‘I think we’d better get on with it.’

With a tape measure, chalk and knotted string it took them three-quarters of an hour to measure out where the walls and furniture for French Without Tears would be set. Helena appeared with mugs of tea for them and took two more to the painters in the scene dock.

‘Don’t usually get to have a cuppa during a strike,’ said Isla, smiling. ‘Helena and I usually leave Judy to make it for the others but she’s always too busy painting to do it.’

‘Judy? Oh, is she the youth painting?’

Isla nodded.

‘Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean . . . It’s just I couldn’t see under her hat that she was a girl.’

‘And the fag hanging permanently from her mouth doesn’t help, does it?’

‘I didn’t expect there to be so many girls back-stage.’

‘It’s the best way of getting acting work. I’m ASM, that’s assistant stage manager, and I get to play small parts occasionally.’

‘I thought I’d seen you. Oh, you’re good!’ Ralph felt himself redden again.

‘Tell that to my father,’ she added sardonically.

‘Doesn’t he think you are?’

‘Nope. Mind you, I’m beginning not to care.’

‘So he wants you to stop acting, is that it?’

‘Oh, no. He just wants me to be better at it. Well, as long as I don’t overshadow him. He’s Geoffrey Leighton.’

There was an awkward pause.

‘I’m sorry,’ began Ralph. ‘I’m not very good at names.’

‘It’s refreshing,’ she said airily and she gave a broad smile. ‘It’s quite funny really. Most ASMs are bursting to get on to the stage. Here we are in a good rep with an ASM who can take it or leave it and Helena, who’s general dogsbody, who’s changed her mind.’

‘Is that true? That you can take it or leave it?’

‘Yes,’ she said brightly. ‘Still, I’m not much good at anything else, except walking dogs. So this will have to do.’

Just then Helena reappeared. She didn’t look like someone who was changing her mind. She looked positively jaunty.

‘Is it true for you too?’ he blurted out.

‘Is what true?’ she asked, scooping up the mugs.

‘That you’re changing your mind about acting. You look so happy.’

‘I am happy. But to be honest, I am not a very good actress.’

‘But she’s superb at sound,’ said Isla. ‘She can hit the right band on a record blindfolded. She has nerves of steel. Correction. She has no nerves.’

‘I like it. That’s all.’ She leaned forward confidentially. ‘Arthur is going to let me help him set up the lights on Monday.’

‘Arthur’s the chief electrician,’ explained Isla. She stood up. ‘Now I suggest you stay in the scene dock while the flats are being put in. You can help with the furniture downstage once the walls are in.’

‘Do you want me to set them on the marks?’ he asked eagerly.

‘We can’t really do that while Sam and Judy are still painting. We’ll have to keep dustsheets on the floor till they’ve finished. Anyway, best to stay out of sight in case Mr Johnson decides to leave his office and pop in.’

Helena laughed. ‘His office is the Rose and Crown,’ she explained.

Ralph found some glue near the table where the shepherdess had been dumped. It was congealed in the bottom of a paint tin. With a small stick he pasted it on the shepherdess’s neck and gently pressed her head back on to it. The join was just visible, but with a bit of paint or a ribbon around the neck he was sure it wouldn’t show. Suddenly Isla and Helena came dashing out from one of the flats on stage.

‘Can you give us a hand with the props!’ yelled Isla. Ralph leapt up as if in a dream.

‘Some of them need to go on the set,’ Isla explained. ‘The others can go on to the prop table.’ She brought out two lists. ‘These tell you what goes on-stage and what’s set in the wings. I’ll do the on set props, and you can help Helena with the prop table.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Helena. ‘At this rate we might get home before light!’

‘Personal props will go this end,’ said Helena pointing to the end of a long table in the wings. ‘And the rest at the other end.’

‘What are personal props?’ asked Ralph.

‘Things like a cigarette case, or a particular book an actor has to enter carrying, or spectacles or a watch.’

As he and Helena busied themselves setting up the prop table Isla walked past them and disappeared behind the set with armfuls of books and ornate French lamps. And then she was by their side.

‘Slight problem,’ she said. ‘The French lesson books haven’t been done.’

‘I’m sorry, I thought Judy was doing them,’ said Helena.

‘She’s been so busy she forgot. We’ll have to carry a dozen books back to our digs and cover them there.’

‘Why can’t you cover them here?’ asked Ralph.

‘Because there’s no time to do it tonight.’

‘I can cover them.’

‘There’s white paper by the glue table,’ said Helena.

‘We’ll still have to take them home and write something French on them.’

‘No one will be able to read them from the audience.’

‘The fur brigade will.’

‘Who are the fur brigade?’ asked Ralph bewildered.

‘People who always sit near the front in their furs,’ she said.

‘Why can’t I write in French on them?’

They stared at him in amazement. ‘Can you speak French?’ they chorused.

‘Well, School Cert. standard.’

‘Marvellous. Helena, can you show him where everything is? Judy and Sam are working on the left flats now. We can start setting stage right.’

Back at the glue table Ralph settled himself down with a dozen books, and covered each book as carefully and speedily as he could. And then he had a brainwave. After years living in the rectory surrounded by theology books he began to paint on the spine of the book in italic writing. To his horror the paint ran in rivulets and he had to tear off the cover and put another one on. He found a pen and a bottle of black ink and supporting each book with one hand, spine upwards, he was relieved to find that the ink didn’t run. Swiftly he wrote Le francais pour aujourd’hui vol. I and drew a small fleur-de-lis underneath. He lined the books up next to one another to make sure the writing and the fleurs-de-lis were level with one another.

Behind him, from the stage there was the sound of general banter and laughter and banging of nails, and in spite of sitting on his own he felt a sense of belonging he hadn’t felt in years.

He was busily working when he heard footsteps. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jack Walker approaching. He looked down hurriedly, aware of his fingers trembling. The master carpenter stood behind him and said nothing. Ralph began to sweat. As delicately as he could he finished the fleur-de-lis on the eleventh book and propped it up next to the others.

‘Ain’t you got a home to go to, lad?’ the man barked.

Ralph turned, feeling his face 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 came echoing through the hall. Startled, he dropped the key. Luckily there was a mat to catch it. He listened out for footsteps again, but none came. There was another grunt followed by a loud drone. He smiled. It was coming from the front parlour which was now a bedroom for Joan and Elsie. Suddenly he had a vision of Joan lying under a white satin eiderdown in a four-poster bed draped with veils and chiffon, Hollywood style, like the American films she was forever going to see. Her hair was coiffured, her lips dark red and bow-shaped, and as the dark handsome figure of Errol Flynn gazed at her beauty, Joan would begin to snore like a pig. He pressed his hand against his mouth, to smother his laughter, shot up the stairs into his room, stripped off and dived under the covers.

Luckily there was only one pair of feet that night, although if Joan continued her trumpeting, Elsie would soon be joining them again. There was a creak on the landing.

‘As I thought,’ he muttered, full of sympathy.

The door opened slowly. Ralph peered over the covers. By the dim grey light of dawn he saw his mother. He watched her make her way to his bed. ‘Everything all right?’ she whispered.

He propped himself up on one elbow. ‘Sort of.’

‘Did you get work there?’

‘Yes and no.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I helped out, but I didn’t get paid.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I hadn’t asked the stage director or the master carpenter for permission to be there. In fact I would’ve been out on my ear if it hadn’t been for one of the ASMs. That’s an assistant stage manager. She made out I was a friend who had come to watch and learn and that she had forgotten to ask permission. She even got ticked off for it.’

‘Young, is she?’

‘No. She’s about twenty.’

‘Very old. Walk with a stick, did she?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Too old for you.’

‘Mum! It’s not like that!’ But he could see that his mother was smiling. ‘Anyway,’ he said firmly, ‘in the end the master carpenter said he’d put in a good word for me so I can do it again next week. They still won’t be paying me but I’ll learn a hell of a lot if I help.’

‘She must be a good looker.’

‘Mum!’ he said exasperated, but he found that he was blushing and he laughed.

She touched his hair. ‘It’s good to see you happy again.’

He sighed. ‘Not for long, I expect. Fireworks to face soon enough, I suppose. Did he say anything?’

‘We was all in bed before he came back.’

‘Was he drunk?’

‘’Course not.’

‘How do you know if you weren’t up to see it?’

‘Just ’cos a man smells of beer it don’t mean he can’t handle his drink, love. Now get some sleep. You must be done in.’

So must you be, he thought.

‘And you’ll have to get up same as everyone.’

‘I know.’

He watched her move back to the door. ‘Mum,’ he whispered.

‘Yeah?’

‘You shouldn’t have waited up for me.’

‘Who says I did? I just happened to hear the door. Anyway Auntie Win’s like a donkey in the night. I’m black and blue. I don’t know what she dreams about but she’s kicking the hell out of somebody.’

‘Dad, I expect,’ said Ralph sardonically. ‘Or a bigamist.’

‘Oh, Ralphie, don’t start me up,’ and she smothered a laugh and fled from the room.

It seemed as though he had only closed his eyes for a second when he felt himself being torn apart by small insistent hands. He woke to find Elsie and Harry rocking him from side to side. He yawned and promptly fell asleep again.

‘Push him harder!’ he heard Elsie mutter urgently. ‘I got to use me other hand to keep me specs on.’

‘I’m pushin’ him as hard as I can.’

‘Sit up, Ralph,’ he heard her say and he felt a small thin arm encircle itself round his neck and yank it forward. ‘You’ll get Dad in one of his moods if you don’t get a move on!’

That seemed to motivate him. He hauled himself out of bed and allowed his brother and sister to shove him out of the bed and lead him to his clothes.

‘Do you mind!’ he said when he realised that Elsie was attempting to pull his pyjama trousers off. ‘I’ve seen it all before,’ said Elsie nonchalantly.

‘Well, you haven’t seen my all, Elsie,’ he said, hanging on to the trousers, ‘and I don’t intend you should.’

Elsie gave the sort of exasperated sigh one would give to a small child and stomped to the door. ‘Mind you make him dress, Harry,’ she said waving an admonishing finger at him.

Ralph smiled. His tiny sister’s bossiness with Harry amused him.

‘I can remember how to dress myself, Harry. You can go if you want.’

‘You’re joking. I ain’t going nowhere till you’re washed and dressed.’ He pointed to the large jug which was standing in a china bowl on the table. ‘Your water’s there.’

‘You mean our water.’

‘I don’t need to wash. I’m clean enough.’

Ralph stood in his trousers, his braces dangling down the sides of his legs. He poured the icy water into the bowl and proceeded to wash his face and hands. ‘Sure you don’t want any of this?’ he said, flicking some at his brother.

‘Gerrof !’ Harry protested.

‘Its not acid, you know. It won’t burn you.’

He rubbed his face vigorously and then stopped. His skin felt slightly rough. He touched it gently with his fingertips.

‘Harry,’ he said, ‘can you see any stubble?’

Harry peered at him in the gloom. It was a dismal day outside and it permeated the room.

‘Nah.’ He grinned. ‘Spots, mebbe.’

Ralph flicked some more water at him. He rubbed himself vigorously with a towel. He was freezing. Still the water had woken him up a bit.

He grabbed the clean white shirt his mother had left out for him, tucked it in and hauled his braces over his shoulders.

‘You can go now,’ he said to Harry.

‘I’ll wait till you’ve done your buttons up.’

‘She’s really got you under her thumb, hasn’t she?’

‘I let her think she has,’ said Harry airily.

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,’ he said quickly.

‘Belt up, Hollis,’ she interrupted. ‘I mean, what are you doing standing out in this! You look like Niagara Falls. Come in.’

‘But the floor . . .’ pointed out Ralph.

‘Damn the floor! The floor can’t catch pneumonia.’ And with that she dragged him into the kitchen. ‘Stand in front of that Aga while I get you some dry clothes. Queenie! Follow me!’

Ralph was so stunned that before he could protest she had slammed the door behind him.

‘The master’s clothes, it will be,’ muttered Queenie disapprovingly over her shoulder. And she followed Mrs Egerton-Smythe out of the kitchen.

By the time Queenie returned he had begun to shiver.

‘Mrs Egerton-Smythe says you’re to take off your boots and socks ’ere and come with me,’ she said and she pressed her lips together tightly.

He pulled off the boots with some difficulty and then peeled off the socks. Standing barefoot on the scrubbed flagstone floor, a sock dangling from each hand, he felt rather foolish. Queenie stared at him with her arms folded and then produced a clothes horse from the wall, opened it out and placed it firmly in front of the Aga. Ralph hung one sock from one bar and the other on the opposite side, fighting down a desire to laugh.

‘This way,’ she commanded. And Ralph followed her out into the hallway, his trousers clinging soggily around his legs.

He was taken up to an enormous bathroom on the first floor. A huge white bath with claw feet stood under a window over-looking the garden. A large sink with blue designs under the taps was on the wall alongside it. A tall green basket with a lid stood near a dark mahogany cabinet. Someone had draped a threadbare white towel across it. On a seat of a wicker chair were several pairs of trousers, a leather belt, woollen shirts, pullovers and socks.

‘I’m to wait outside for your clothes,’ said Queenie eyeing his soaked garments disparagingly, ‘so’s I can dry ’em before you goes home.’

As soon as she had left the room, Ralph bolted the door and avoided standing in front of the keyhole. The clothes were good quality in spite of being worn. He chose a plain blue shirt, a thick navy blue jumper, grey flannels and socks. The flannels were so large he had to turn the legs up half a dozen times, and use the belt round them. He decide to leave his underwear on. He wasn’t going to let Queenie contemplate them in the kitchen.

He had hardly unlocked the door when Queenie snatched the bundle of clothes from his arms. ‘I dunno,’ she said turning. ‘I dunno.’

Ralph followed her as she rapidly raced across the landing and down the wide staircase to the main hall. They had just reached the kitchen when Queenie stopped. ‘Mrs Egerton-Smythe wants to see you in the garden room. It’s that door there,’ she said pointing to one opposite, further along the hall.

‘I’ve got to get my boots.’

‘There’s wellingtons on the veranda. Mrs Egerton-Smythe will show you.’ And she opened the kitchen door and slammed it in his face.

Ralph slid across the polished floor in his stockinged feet and knocked tentatively.

‘Come in!’ yelled a voice.

Ralph’s first impression of the garden room was whiteness. All the furniture was covered in sheets. Mrs Egerton-Smythe was standing by the French windows facing him. He hung in the doorway while she stared angrily at him.

‘Thanks for these,’ said Ralph after an awkward silence.

‘They’re not yours to keep,’ she stated. ‘They’re my husband’s, on loan, until Queenie has dried what you came in.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Ralph.

‘I expect you already know he’s dead by the kitchen grapevine.’

‘No, Madam,’ said Ralph, stunned. ‘Would you prefer it if I took them off ?’

‘No!’ she barked. ‘Now, you can’t cut the lawn today, but I can show you the garden shed. It will be your domain from now on.’

She opened the French windows and stepped out. He could hear the rain drumming loudly on the glass roof of the veranda. As he moved across the room he gazed around at it. He loved the bigness of it, in spite of its dark and miserable appearance. It let him breathe easy again. It was what he missed about not living in the rectory.

‘Splendid!’ he whispered.

‘Oh, you approve, do you, Hollis?’ she remarked wryly.

‘Very much,’ he said stepping quickly outside.

‘Boots are there,’ she said indicating the pair of wellingtons by the wall. ‘What size are you?’

‘Eight.’

‘They’re nine. They’ll have to do. And help yourself to one of the oilskins, or sou’westers.’ She pointed to a large shed halfway down the garden at the side. It was half-hidden by trees. ‘That’s the garden shed. There’s a woodshed further down. Get to know it. Queenie will ring a bell when it’s lunch.’

Ralph stepped into the large boots and picked out a sou’wester and the smallest oilskin. It came down to his ankles, but he was glad of it as it protected his legs as he waded through the wet grass towards the shed. He fumbled with the lock on the door with his cold hands and glanced quickly back at the house. Mrs Egerton-Smythe was standing by the French windows observing him. He looked hastily away and pushed open the door.

It took him a while to get accustomed to the darkness. It was obvious that no one had been in the shed for a long time. In the gloom he saw a large motor-mower covered in cobwebs. Tools, boxes and spades were scattered loosely around the wooden floor and, on shelves on the walls, empty dusty flowerpots stood with the remains of dead plants hanging over the sides. A big window, now covered with grime and cobwebs, looked down to the jungle of high grass, trees and the river beyond. He hung his oilskins on a hook behind the door, picked up an old rag and bucket and took it outside to the small stand-up tap he had noticed just outside the door. He placed the bucket underneath and turned it on. He was about to turn it off when it suddenly began to shudder and a burst of water came gushing out.

The first thing he did in the shed was to wash the window. Anything to let a little light in. And then he grabbed a broom and went on a cobweb hunt. ‘Shelves next,’ he muttered. As he divested the shelves opposite the window of pots and empty seed boxes he found, to his alarm, dust all down the jersey and trousers. Frantically he beat it off and looked around for some overalls. He found some tossed into a heap in the corner. He held them out at a distance and then, screwing up his nose, he stepped into them. They stank of years of dampness.

It was with some surprise that he heard a school bell ringing. At first he ignored it, but then remembered Mrs Egerton-Smythe mentioning the lunch bell. He pushed open the door. Queenie was standing under the veranda roof swinging a large bell up and down. As soon as she spotted him she disappeared. He threw the oilskins on and made a quick sprint through the rain and up the steps to the veranda. The French windows were open. He hung his oilskins on the hook and stepped out of the boots. He noticed, as he entered the room, cobwebs at the sides of the doors and a long line of dark dust. It looked as if they had been closed for a long time.

A few nondescript pictures remained hanging on the walls, but there were light squares where other pictures must have once hung. Even the large mahogany mantelpiece above the fireplace was empty. He stepped on the old blue carpet and made his way to the door.

Lunch was a bowl of vegetable broth with a hunk of grey bread.

Queenie sat at the opposite side of the table and watched him suspiciously. ‘’Ow come you speak with such a posh accent?’ she said suddenly.

‘I went to a grammar school.’

‘Did they teach you to talk proper there, then?’

‘No. But I suppose I picked it up by osmosis.’

‘’Ow d’ya mean?’

‘From the teachers and some of the other boys. It was that or Cornish.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it was in Cornwall.’

‘’Asn’t done you much good,’ she commented, ‘all that education.’

Ralph shrugged. He spooned the last mouthful of soup into his mouth. ‘That was splendid.’

A flicker of a smile spread across her face, and then it was gone.

‘If that’s your way of trying to get a second helping, you’re wasting your time,’ she said sulkily. ‘There’s rationing, you know,’ and she whisked the bowl away from him.

‘How are my clothes doing?’ he said after an awkward silence.

‘Oh don’t worry, they’ll be dry. You won’t be going home in the master’s clothing.’

A mug of tea was slammed on to the table. Ralph bit into the bread.

After lunch he returned to the shed. The cobwebs were gone, the shelves were swept clean and the tools were either on the shelves or leaning neatly against the wall. The motor mower was brushed down, with bits of it he had discovered lying beside it. He now sat on the floor and stared at it. Years of Latin grammar and algebra had not equipped him for this. Hours later when he heard the bell ringing again, he blinked. He had been so absorbed in fiddling with the machine that he had merely squinted when the light had begun to fade.

He stuck his head outside. It was still raining. He ran across the grass in his oilskins again. He found his clothes lying folded on one of the dust sheets in the garden room. Hastily he pulled off the navy jersey.

When he was dressed he carried the armful of borrowed clothes to the kitchen. Queenie was peeling potatoes. She glanced up at him.

‘Put them there,’ she said indicating the table. ‘Your boots are by the door. So’s the mac.’

On the hook behind the door was a beige trenchcoat, the kind every detective wore in a thriller.

‘On loan,’ she said imperiously. ‘To be returned.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t thank me. I just work ’ere.’

‘Do I say goodbye to Mrs Egerton-Smythe?’

‘I dunno. No one tells me anything.’

He laced up his boots and attempted to hide the tremor of excitement he felt at doing up the raincoat.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then,’ he said at the door.

‘Prompt’, said Queenie.

He hovered outside the stage door. He wanted to be seen in the raincoat. He hoped his hobnailed boots didn’t spoil the effect too much. He removed his cap, held it behind his back and stepped in. Wilfred was sitting in his cubby-hole reading a newspaper. He looked up and frowned. ‘I just came to thank you,’ said Ralph hurriedly.

The man’s face unfolded. ‘Oh, it’s you. I didn’t recognise you. ’Ow’d it go?’

‘It went well. I didn’t get a job, but I hope to be allowed to attend the strike this Saturday.’

‘Good,’ he said, and he returned to his newspaper.

Ralph gazed awkwardly at him. ‘Well, cheerio, then.’

Wilfred looked up again. He gave a wave. ‘Cheerio, lad.’

Ralph cycled home disappointed. He had wanted the man to leap up and down and say, ‘Well done, lad! You’ll go far. Mark my words.’

It was pitch black when he wheeled his bike into the street. A tiny slip of light was shining across the pavement from Elsie and Joan’s room. He ran round to the yard and leaned his bike by the wall. His father’s bike was not there. Relieved he ran to the back door, flung it open and ran straight into a damp sheet.

Of course, it was Monday. The room was still slightly warm from the copper’s being stoked all day. He wiped his feet and opened the scullery door to the kitchen. Elsie was sitting at the end of the table, head down, scribbling at tremendous speed as if her life depended on it. Harry sat near her with a dogeared comic. His mother emerged from under the cascades of washing which were hanging from a wooden clothes rack from the ceiling. Months ago he had been embarrassed at the sight of male and female underwear swinging amongst sheets and shirts and petticoats. Now he took it all in his stride.

‘Ralphie!’ she began, and then gaped at his trench coat.

At that moment, the door behind him swung open and Auntie Win entered. The two women gazed at him stupified. Ralph grinned.

‘It’s on loan,’ he said. ‘Till it stops raining.’

‘What do you look like?’ said his aunt.

‘Inspector Gideon of the Yard,’ said Harry in awe.

‘It’s soaked,’ said his mother, feeling it. ‘You’d better hang it up.’

She lowered the wooden clothes rack. Ralph hung the raincoat over the end and watched his mother haul it up. ‘Where’s Joan?’ said his aunt.

‘In her room,’ said his mother, ‘changing. You’d better get out of your togs too,’ she said looking at his aunt’s sodden coat. ‘So how did it go, Ralphie? I kept wondering what you were doing in all this rain.’

‘Getting to know the garden shed.’

There was a sound of a whirring bicycle in the yard. Suddenly Elsie gathered up her books and Harry grabbed her satchel. In seconds they had gone. A waft of cold air billowed in.

‘Shall I disappear too?’ he asked.

‘You’d best face the music sooner than later,’ she sighed.

His Auntie Win draped her coat in front of the range and rolled up the sleeves of her cardigan as if to do battle. His mother, noticing this defiant gesture, turned away hurriedly to look at the supper.

Harry returned and sat on his father’s bed, bouncing up and down.

The scullery door opened and his father slumped in, visibly smaller. Ralph gazed helplessly at him. Harry shot off the bed and stepped towards him grinning. ‘Well, Dad?’ he asked excitedly. ‘Did you ask? Did you ask about me?’

His dad looked startled. Harry could hardly contain himself with excitement. ‘What did they say? Did you tell them I only got a few months to do?’

He made school sound like a prison sentence, thought Ralph.

‘Harry, sit down,’ said his mother. ‘Can’t you see your dad’s tired.’ She glanced up at Ralph. ‘Can’t you all sit down. It’s crowded enough in here as it is,’ she said. ‘Elsie, lay the table.’

‘Elsie’s not ’ere,’ said Win.

His father then looked at Ralph with such hatred it frightened him.

‘Bad, was it?’ his mother said softly.

‘It’ll pass,’ snapped his father.

‘It’s not your fault,’ she said.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s yours.’

‘Mine?’

‘You shouldn’t have let him go to that grammar school. He don’t belong ’ere.’

‘Thanks,’ said Ralph sardonically.

‘Don’t give me none of your lip.’

He turned swiftly to Ralph’s mother. ‘He hand over his wages last Friday?’

‘Course he did.’

‘You hand over the same wages this Friday, lad, and no more fancy visits to that theatre.’

‘Joan goes to the cinema three times a week. Are you going to ask her to hand over all her wages?’

‘Joan works hard.’

‘So do I.’

‘Did, lad, did.’

‘Dad, they didn’t sack me because I wasn’t working hard enough.’

‘Don’t give me that. They need good workers.’

‘I’ll be a good worker, Dad,’ said Harry eagerly.

‘I was that ashamed today,’ he said angrily.

‘Why?’ argued Ralph. ‘Why didn’t you stick up for me? Isn’t that what real fathers are supposed to do?’

‘Are you telling me I’m not a real father to you when I get you a plum job?’

‘Doing what I hated doing!’

‘This is real life, sonny. Work’s work. You’re lucky to have it with so many ex-servicemen hunting for jobs.’

His mother began laying the table.

‘Elsie should be doing that,’ he said. ‘Where is she?’

‘In her room.’

‘I’ll get her,’ said Harry hurriedly and he dashed out.

There was a stony silence. His aunt sat back in her chair with a look as if to say, ‘Men, didn’t I tell you, Ellen?’

His mother stood helplessly, the cutlery still in her hand. The door opened suddenly and Elsie appeared. She looked pale. ‘What you bin doing?’ roared her father. ‘You know you’re supposed to be helping. I’ll not have two layabouts in this house.’

‘Sorry, Dad,’ she said quietly, and she took the cutlery from her mother.

‘You still haven’t answered my question.’ Elsie looked up startled. ‘I’ll ask you again. What have you been doing?’

‘Talking to Joan. She’s got another letter from Kay.’

Ralph groaned inwardly. That would be another evening of Joan looking like a wet weekend because she could have been living the life of a movie star like her friend, instead of selling ladies’ clothes in the High Street.

Elsie hastily finished putting out the cutlery.

It was when they were sitting round the table eating that his father noticed the trenchcoat. His father, as usual, sat at the end of the table near the hallway door. His mother at the other end, by the range. Ralph sat on the wall side by his mother and his aunt. Harry and Joan opposite. Elsie was sitting on the bed. True to form, Joan had been playing the ill-done victim to the hilt, while Harry chatted to his father, ignoring the atmosphere while his father ignored him. Then Ralph saw his father suddenly look up and his face change. ‘Where the hell did that fancy raincoat come from?’

‘Mrs Egerton-Smythe lent it to me,’ said Ralph quickly.

‘Well, you can take it back.’

‘I will be, Dad.’

‘I ’ain’t havin’ you being a parasite to other people.’

‘She lent it to me, Dad, because it was raining.’

‘Well, do without until you can buy your own.’

‘How can I if I have to hand over all my money?’

‘You can wear your grammar school raincoat,’ he said sarcastically.

‘I’ve grown out of it.’

There was a moment’s silence.

‘So have they put anyone in Ralph’s place?’ insisted Harry.

Ralph had to smile. Persistence was his brother’s middle name.

‘Will you leave me be. A man’s entitled to eat his meal in peace.’

There was another silence.

‘John,’ began his mother tentatively, ‘ain’t you going to ask Ralphie about his new job?’

‘Job?’ he exploded. ‘Job! Go on then, surprise me.’

Ralph knew his mother wanted to help, but he’d much rather talk to her about Queenie and the shed and the room with the dust covers, later.

His father sat back in his chair and gloated. ‘He can’t think of anything.’

‘Ralphie, why won’t you tell your dad?’ asked his mother, coaxing him.

‘Because anything I say, he’ll find fault with.’

‘You won’t, will you, John?’

But his father remained silent.

‘Is my blue cardigan nearly dry?’ whined Joan.

‘I’ll shove it in the oven for a bit,’ said Ralph’s mother. ‘That’ll do it.’

‘I expect it will,’ she said sadly, and she sighed. ‘If only we had radiators.’

‘Like Kay,’ chorused Elsie and Harry and burst into fits of giggles.

‘That’s not funny,’ she protested.

‘I s’pose you’ll be wanting to borrow my umbrella,’ said Auntie Win.

‘Can I?’

‘As long as you don’t leave it at the pictures. Who’s going with you?’ she added suspiciously.

‘Dolly.’

‘No hanging around outside,’ said Ralph’s mother.

‘What do you take me for!’ she exclaimed.

‘I know Dolly,’ said Ralph’s mother.

‘She likes anything in trousers,’ said Auntie Win.

‘Not everyone likes being a spinster,’ said Joan crossly.

‘Joan!’ exclaimed Ralph’s mother. ‘Don’t speak to your aunt like that.’

‘You’re all men haters! You just want me to end up in a monastery.’

‘A nunnery,’ said Ralph.

‘Oh shut up, toffee nose.’

‘You’re only seventeen,’ said Ralph’s mother.

‘Like Kay,’ chorused Harry and Elsie.

‘Leave off,’ said Ralph’s father. ‘Have a bit of respect for your cousin.’

Joan turned to her uncle and blushed.

‘Ellen, don’t you think you’re being a bit tough on her?’

‘No,’ said Ralph’s mother firmly. ‘Now, you promise you’ll come straight home, or I won’t finish drying off this cardigan.’

‘I promise,’ said Joan sulkily.

Suddenly Ralph’s father pushed back his chair. ‘I’m off, then,’ he announced.

‘But, John,’ said Ralph’s mother.

‘I’m meeting Ted.’

‘Oh,’ said his mother, looking disappointed.

‘I need a drink, especially after today.’

Harry placed his hand on his father’s arm. ‘Dad, don’t forget to ask about me apprenticeship tomorrow.’

‘Don’t give me orders. I’m asking no one nothin’.’

And with that he pushed his way violently past the chairs and walked out into the scullery.

‘Don’t get downhearted, Harry,’ said Elsie in a motherly way. ‘It’ll take him a bit of time.’

Ralph caught his mother’s eye, and they smiled with amusement. ‘I better go and get ready,’ said Joan leaving the table.

Once the two had left, the atmosphere in the room was visibly lighter. Ralph’s mother placed a large teapot on the table and sat down. ‘Now, Ralphie,’ she said eagerly, ‘tell us. What was it like?’

The door flew open again. It was Joan. ‘Don’t forget it’s the blue cardigan,’ she said, and slammed the door behind her.

His mother stood on a chair and pulled the blue cardigan down.

‘I don’t know why she’s so fussy about what colour she wears,’ said Auntie Win. ‘Who’s going to see it in the pictures?’

‘We’ll wait till she’s gone, love,’ said his mother. ‘Then we can have a proper talk.’

‘Can we have the wireless on?’ said Harry.

‘Why not?’ said Ralph’s mother.

‘Now where’s my cup of tea?’ said Auntie Win.

Seven

Ralph climbed into the smelly overalls and peered out of the window. It was now clean enough for him to make out the river more clearly. It had stopped raining and there was a field of lawn to cut. He dragged the motor mower out through the door and attempted to get it to go but the motor still wasn’t responding. With a heavy heart he knew he would have to tell Mrs Egerton-Smythe that he had failed to get it working. He went back to the kitchen entrance and knocked on the door.

Queenie was washing up at the sink. She scowled when she saw him and took her time drying her hands. ‘What you want?’ she snorted.

‘I need to talk to Mrs Egerton-Smythe.’

‘I’ll get her. Stay there,’ she ordered, glancing at his overalls with disdain.

Ralph gazed back towards the mass of swaying grass. It was windy and leaves were being flung into the green undergrowth.

‘Good God!’

Ralph turned, startled. It was Mrs Egerton-Smythe at the doorstep. He opened his mouth to speak.

‘You smell like a rotting cabbage dump! Where the hell did you find those!’ she exclaimed, waving at the overalls.

‘In the shed. I didn’t think you’d mind,’ he began.

‘My God, there’s mould on them!’

Ralph flushed slightly. After years of living in an environment where it was blasphemous to use God’s name in vain, he was aware of feeling vaguely alarmed.

‘Aren’t they damp?’

He nodded.

‘Ass! Why didn’t you say? Is that why you want to talk to me?’

‘No. It’s your motor mower. I can’t get it to work.’

‘Oh, God!’ she exploded and she stormed past him. Ralph glanced upwards waiting for a flash of lightning from the powers that be to strike her, but nothing happened. Feeling awkward he followed her.

She knelt down in the long grass and examined it.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I spent ages slotting bits together. I really thought it would work.’

She rose up in front of him, her hands on her hips. ‘Petrol,’ she said.

‘Petrol?’

‘Petrol. That ingredient that used to be a grey-black colour but has now been changed to pink and is commonly known as pool.’ Suddenly she marched off in the direction of her garage. She turned and glared at him. ‘Are you going to stay there like a mildewing statue?’

He ran to join her. She waited outside for him. There was a massive door at the front but she opened the side door. Ralph stepped in after her. There was a smell of petrol, engine oil and leather. She pulled a cord and a swinging light bulb lit up the gloom.

Ralph gasped. Standing jacked up was a large dark green car with a low bonnet. The massive spoked wheels were red. Dazed, Ralph walked round to the front. There on the front of the bonnet, rising up from the radiator cap was an eagle, its wings out-stretched and below its feet a triangle with ‘Alvis’ written on it in silver.

‘She’s beautiful!’ he breathed. Tentatively he touched the two enormous headlamps. They stuck out prominently above two medium-sized lamps and a pair of trumpet-like horns in front of the radiator.

‘Glad you approve, Hollis,’ Mrs Egerton-Smythe remarked and she suddenly looked sad.

‘Why is she jacked up?’

‘No point in having it on the road with petrol rationing, and my husband and other son weren’t interested in driving it anyway.’ It belonged to my eldest son. He was killed in ’44. He left it to me.’

‘Gosh!’ Ralph exclaimed, still unable to take his eyes off it. ‘Lucky you.’

‘Yes. Lucky me,’ she said quietly. ‘One day I shall learn to drive her,’ she added, picking up a bucket. ‘Now let’s see if we can bleed her.’

‘Bleed her?’ asked Ralph, alarmed.

‘Of petrol, you fool.’ She stuck a small hose into the petrol tank and to Ralph’s astonishment she began sucking it, pushed it away quickly and shoved the end into the bucket. When it was half full, she whipped the hose out of the bucket, held it up and drained back the remaining petrol into the tank.

‘Hold this,’ she commanded, handing him a funnel and a tin can. After she had poured the petrol into the can she walked briskly out of the garage. Ralph had hardly stepped outside when he found she had already disappeared into the house. He had a feeling that she had said more than she had intended.

Throughout the course of the week his days took on a routine. He would arrive at the shed, grab what he needed and return to widening and shaping the borders. He stacked the turf he had cut in case he got cold feet and wanted to put it back.

In the middle of the day he would hear a bell being rung. He’d wash his hands at the tap outside and go into the kitchen where he would eat vegetable broth and bread and be glared at by Queenie. Then he would work in the afternoon until it grew dark, go home, quarrel with his father who would then leave in high dudgeon, and would then attempt to relate the day’s events to his mother who was always too busy to listen.

On Friday the rain swept across Winford in great gusts. Dry clothes and a towel were waiting for him in the bathroom on his arrival. When he came out he found Mrs Egerton-Smythe waiting for him at the top of the staircase above him.

‘Feeling strong?’ she called down to him.

‘I suppose so,’ he answered, mystified.

‘I want you to get a chest down from the loft. I have some more gardening books there. We could have a look at them.’ She turned tail and disappeared. This was obviously her signal for him to follow.

The staircase was wide. He let his hands glide along the huge mahogany rails and gazed up at the magnificent high ceilings and white empty walls.

‘I used to have pictures hanging there,’ came a voice from above him. But that was all she said and Ralph didn’t feel he could ask her to elaborate. At last they reached the top of the house. In the ceiling of a huge landing was a trapdoor.

‘Stay there,’ she ordered.

She disappeared into a nearby bedroom and re-appeared with a chair and placed it under the trapdoor.

‘There’s one of those pull-down steps just inside. I’m not tall enough.’ She sounded rattled.

He climbed up and stretched upwards. He gave the trapdoor a quick push. It fell with a crash to one side. Fumbling around the sides his hands touched something hard and cylindricalshaped. He gave it a tug. A small collapsible stepladder swung over and on top of him. He leapt off the chair. She pushed the chair aside and pulled the ladder down to the ground.

‘There should be an oil lamp near. See if you can find it.’

Ralph didn’t say anything for he noticed she was growing more agitated by the second. At times she glanced nervously down the stairs as if she expected someone to appear at any moment.

The stepladder was covered in dust. Like the shed it had obviously not been used for years. As his head emerged through the trapdoor opening he was amazed to find that the loft was in fact a huge attic room at least thirty feet long with several windows. The rain was pattering noisily on the roof and the dour sky didn’t cast much light. But it cast enough for him to spot the lamp. A box of matches had been placed nearby. Within minutes the lit oil lamp had transformed the vague shadows around him to recognisable objects.

‘Are you still alive up there?’ Mrs Egerton-Smythe shouted up to him.

He peered down at her. ‘It’s marvellous up here,’ he exclaimed.

‘Did I ask for your opinion, Hollis?’

Ralph smiled. ‘No, madam.’

‘Right, let’s see what’s what.’ And she began climbing the ladder.

Ralph stood back with the lamp as she searched among boxes and furniture.

‘I’ll take that,’ she said hurriedly.

It was a portrait of a young man in a blazer. Handsome, hair swept back. For a second her face softened and then she suddenly tossed her head. ‘Right. Let’s look for some gardening books,’ she said quickly.

Ralph had just placed the lamp on an upturned trunk when he caught sight of a huge creature in the corner. He gave a frightened yelp and nearly knocked the lamp over.

‘What the hell!’ yelled Mrs Egerton-Smythe. ‘What’s got into you?’

‘There!’ he shrieked.

‘Where?’

‘There, in the corner.’

She turned to where he was pointing. ‘It’s only a bear.’

‘A bear!’

‘Don’t worry. It’s stuffed. It’s been in the family for years. My parents used to have it in our hall when I was a child. My father used to put his hat and scarf on it when he came in. Ah. That’s the one,’ she said, and she pointed to a small tin chest in the corner. ‘Think you can manage it?’

It weighed a ton but he found that if he balanced it on his shoulder with his right hand, and guided himself down the ladder with his left, it was quite easy. To his surprise she came swiftly after him, carrying the painting. ‘We’ll come back for the rest later. I want this in my room as soon as possible.’

He heaved it back on to his shoulder and followed her with speed down two flights of stairs and along a corridor. She threw open a door and beckoned him in with agitated gestures.

‘Shove it under there,’ she commanded, pointing under a huge, mahogany bed. Ralph did so, glancing round the room. Everything was dark wood, sombre colours, dark velvet curtains.

‘Quickly!’ she urged.

He followed her out, padding silently along behind her. He hauled down two suitcases, another larger chest and a stack of books on painting and sculpture and photography. And all the time he noticed a sense of growing urgency in his employer’s manner. As soon as they had finished he put the lamp out, stood on the chair, pushed up the stepladder and replaced the trapdoor.

‘Now,’ she said, ‘you’d better collect your wet clothes from the bathroom and take them downstairs for Queenie to dry. I’ll call you when I need you. Oh, and Hollis, I wouldn’t mention our little venture to her.’

Ralph nipped down and had just taken his clothes out of the bathroom and on to the landing when he froze. From the hallway he could hear Queenie using the telephone, but in such a secretive manner that he knew she wasn’t meant to be. Intrigued, he sat on the stairway and eavesdropped.

‘Just now,’ she said, ‘I heard them.’ Pause. ‘She’s got this new gardener’s boy and she asked him to go upstairs. And he’s wearing some of Mr Egerton-Smythe senior’s clothes because his got wet.’ Pause. ‘That’s what I thought.’ Pause. ‘I can’t but I can have a look in her room when I dust up there.’

Ralph was horrified. It sounded as if Queenie was conspiring with someone to steal.

‘Not at all, sir. It’s my pleasure,’ she said, sycophantically. ‘So you’ll be calling tonight, sir.’ Pause. ‘Oh no, I won’t breathe a word, sir.’ Pause. ‘Well, I had to do what’s right, sir. I knew you’d want to know.’

Ralph sneaked quickly back to the lavatory next to the bathroom, pulled the chain and made his way noisily down the stairs. He heard a muffled whisper and the light clunk of the receiver being replaced on its cradle.

By the time he reached the kitchen, the door was closed. He knocked.

Queenie opened it and glanced disapprovingly down at the bundle in his arms and up at the clothes he was wearing. ‘Mrs Egerton-Smythe said I was to ask you to dry these.’

She grunted and snatched the clothes. ‘Wangled your way into those clothes again I see,’ she said. The bell rang. ‘That’ll be for you, I s’pose. That’s the study.’

He knocked at the door. When he entered, his second impression of the room was similar to the first. Cold masculinity, but not a masculinity he could identify with. When he looked at the endless shelves of glassed-in books he was surprised to find they were all law books.

‘My husband was a KC,’ she commented and her voice took on a lifeless quality. ‘Law students come here to read them. They’ll be popping in and out next week. It’s their half-term at the moment. Now, these books look far more interesting.’

On a small table in front of him were some of the books from the loft. ‘Pick what you want. Do you have a saddle-bag?’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘Good. Take them home. Peruse and digest.’

‘Thank you.’

There was a creak outside the door. Ralph looked up at Mrs Egerton-Smythe but she hadn’t noticed. It was probably nobody. Just the house shrinking with cold. There was still no fire in the grate. She caught him glancing at it.

‘I only keep it going for the students. When it’s half-term I don’t because . . .’ She paused. ‘Actually that’s my business, Hollis.’

After lunch it stopped raining. It was too soggy to work on the lawn so he decided to dig over the earth in the borders. At the end of the day, the bell was rung, and his dry clothes were handed to him. He changed in the bathroom, left Mrs Egerton-Smythe’s clothes folded neatly on the chair, as he had been instructed, and then returned to the study to collect his first pay packet. It was in an envelope on top of the gardening books he had selected.

‘Well, Hollis, you’ve almost impressed me. Better keep it up, though.’

‘Yes, Mrs Egerton-Smythe.’

‘What are you going to do with your new-found wealth then?’

He was about to say ‘That’s my business’ when she gave one of her slight smiles again.

‘It’s all right, you’re not obliged to tell me.’

‘French Without Tears ’, he blurted out and then wished he hadn’t.

‘The Terence Rattigan play?’

He beamed. ‘Yes, do you know it?’

‘I saw it once, years ago, with my eldest son. Off you go. I’ll see you on Monday morning.’

As he approached the door he heard footsteps in the hall outside. He swung it open only to catch the kitchen door just closing. Enough was enough, he thought. Swiftly he shut it again.

‘What now?’ she asked impatiently.

‘Madam, there’s something I must tell you. It’s about Queenie.’

Eight

She didn’t speak for some time. She stared for what seemed an eternity at the bookcases and then said very quietly, ‘Thank you, Hollis.’

Ralph felt awkward. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being a sneak,’ he stammered.

She looked at him in surprise as if she had forgotten he was there. ‘I expect you know which side your bread’s buttered on.’

Ralph flushed with anger. ‘It wasn’t that at all!’ he exclaimed.

For a fraction of a second her face softened and then she quickly frowned and the old angry look returned. ‘No, that was rude of me. I apologise. You’d better go now.’

Ralph gave a nod. He was just about to open the door when she suddenly said, ‘Enjoy the Rattigan.’

Up in the gallery, listening to the Billy Dixon Trio in the pit, he mulled over her words. He had the strange feeling that she would have liked to have come too but he couldn’t have asked her even if he had wanted to.

He longed to know what the surprise visit was all about and if Mr Egerton-Smythe was the other son she had mentioned. Whoever he was, Mrs Egerton-Smythe would not be able to move those trunks by herself if she wanted to hide them.

The auditorium grew dark. The music died down. The curtains rose to a living room in France with its walls of sea green, and pink and white striped accessories. The sun was flooding through the French windows. The table was laid for breakfast and there in the centre of the alcove on one of the shelves was a row of white books with his italic writing and fleur-de-lis design on them. Somewhere hidden from the audience were Isla’s chalk marks. She would probably be watching from one of the wings now. The thought of her produced a glorious ache which suffused his entire body.

A young man appeared through the French windows, gazing in despair at a textbook. The play had begun and Ralph felt himself being drawn into another world where men wore white flannels and blazers, fell in and out of love, had civilised arguments and everything came all right in the end.

When the play was over he made his way back to the stage door and hovered for a moment as if hoping to catch some drift of conversation coming from a dressing room window somewhere. He had broken his usual Friday habit. Instead of going to the second show after having supper at home he felt it would be wiser to go to the first show before his entire pay packet had been removed from him by his father.

Suddenly he decided to return to Mrs Egerton-Smythe’s house. He collected his bike from the wall near the river and headed back through the High Street.

There was a chink of light in the library curtains downstairs. He stood on the opposite side of the road still not knowing quite what to do. He heard footsteps coming down the side of the house. He saw Queenie walking 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 heritage.’

‘You are, in a sense. You should be proud to keep his memory alive.’

‘I’d like a home, Charles.’

‘This is your home!’ he said, exasperated. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Putting the kettle on. You did say you wanted some tea. And your friend must be freezing to death in the library.’

‘Why isn’t there a fire in there?’

‘It’s half-term, remember?’

‘You could at least keep the room warm. It’ll take ages to get it warm again next week.’

‘I can’t afford it. Keeping that fire going all day is an extravagance. Perhaps if the university could donate something towards the cost.’

‘I give you enough, don’t I?’

‘Only just. Fuel is very expensive. It’s also getting hard to find. It means I can’t light a fire anywhere else in the house.’

‘But you don’t need to. You have that as a sitting room in the evening.’

‘And the daytime?’

‘I assumed you sat and supervised in there.’

‘Did you?’

Ralph could hear the tinkling of cups and saucers.

‘Mother, there’s no need to do that. I’m only making a passing visit.’

A passing check-up, Ralph thought.

‘Charles,’ began Mrs Egerton-Smythe, ‘this really is too big a house for one person. I’ve been thinking of taking in lodgers.’

There was an audible gasp. ‘Have you lost your senses?’

‘If I took lodgers,’ she continued, ‘I wouldn’t be dependent on you.’

‘You aren’t dependent on me. It’s Father’s money. I’m just delegated to give it to you when needed.’

‘I would have preferred it to be a solicitor.’

‘I am a solicitor.’

‘Outside the family.’

‘And let them take payment for it?’

‘Of course, if it had been left to me.’

‘You would have spent it in the first six months!’

‘You think I would. I’ve always done the household budgeting, remember?’

‘It’s hardly the same thing.’ He was beginning to sound bored. ‘Look, I must go. We’re expecting people. Sandra will wonder where I am. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

‘I could take law students,’ she went on. ‘Surely your father would approve of that.’

‘Law students! Living here?’

Ralph heard the door open.

‘You make it sound as if they’d be sleeping on an altar.’

The cupboard was suddenly dark and Ralph heard the door close. He stepped out cautiously and sprinted across the room.

Nine

His mother flung back the scullery door and dragged him into the kitchen. ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded.

His aunt and Joan were sitting at the kitchen table. Joan gave him a cursory glance before returning to her magazine. His aunt sat back on her chair and folded her arms. ‘I went to the theatre. It’s Friday.’

‘Does his breath smell?’ asked Auntie Win.

‘Don’t be silly, Win. He’s too young.’

He pulled out his pay packet and presented it to his mother.

‘It’s been opened,’ noted his aunt.

‘I took out a shilling for my theatre ticket.’

‘He still hasn’t told us where he’s been.’

‘Yes I did. The theatre.’

‘For both shows?’ his mother asked.

‘I stayed on a bit to help Mrs Egerton-Smythe.’

‘Mm,’ said Auntie Win, suspiciously.

His mother placed one piece of bread, a potato and a nub of cheese on to the table. ‘I’m sorry, it’s not much, love.’

Ralph drew up a chair.

‘She tried to save you some stew, but your dad said if you couldn’t be bothered to turn up for supper, you didn’t deserve any, so he ate what was left,’ his aunt said.

His mother turned away and hurriedly brought him out a mug of tea from the pot on the range.

‘Thanks, Mum,’ he said quietly.

She smiled and pushed the cup across the table.

‘Aren’t you having one? You look like you could do with a sit down.’

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ she smiled, and she poured herself one.

She had hardly sat down when Joan glanced up. ‘I’m a wage earner too,’ she said scowling. ‘How come I don’t get one?’

Ralph’s mother gave him a ‘what’s the point’ shrug and was about to give her cup to Joan when Ralph caught hold of her arm.

‘No you don’t,’ he said. ‘Joan’s got legs. She can pour herself one.’

‘I didn’t notice you pouring yours out,’ she objected.

‘I’ve only just come in. I bet you’ve been sitting there for hours.’

‘It’s no trouble,’ said his mother rising. ‘I don’t want Joanie thinking I’m favouritising.’

Ralph sighed and got on with eating. His Auntie Win raised her newspaper. Within seconds there was a loud tutting noise from behind it. ‘Good show, was it?’ asked his mother when she eventually sat down again with another cup of tea.

‘Splendid,’ said Ralph.

His aunt lowered her newspaper. ‘Don’t I get a cup?’ she said affronted.

Ralph lay back in the dark mulling over the conversation he had heard. No wonder Mrs Egerton-Smythe was angry most of the time.

The bolster under his head had gone flat. He raised his head, plumped it up and sank back into it again, but he couldn’t sleep. He felt uneasy, not turning up at the house till Monday. He didn’t trust Charles Egerton-Smythe. He was more than a stuffed shirt. His voice was ruthless and condescending. From downstairs he heard faint noises and guessed it must be his father returning from the pub. He didn’t know which was worse, his being home in the evening with the tension between them or going out and leaving his mother sad and quiet. He knew he was the cause of all the friction but felt impotent to make matters better.

‘Ralph,’ came a sleepy voice from the other end.

‘Yes,’ he whispered.

‘Keep still, will ya. You’re making me cold with all the draughts.’

‘Sorry.’ Ralph closed his eyes. ‘I must do something,’ he whispered to himself.

He decided to go to the tradesmen’s entrance as usual. He rang the bell, but no one answered. He peered into the kitchen – there was no sign of Queenie. He rang again and waited. He was about to leave when he noticed that the door to the garden shed was slightly ajar. He knew he and Mrs Egerton-Smythe had closed it. Maybe she was in there trying to open the small tin trunk.

He ran across the grass, and hesitated. He could hear movement from inside. He knocked at the door. There was a frantic shuffling. He waited again. ‘It’s me, Mrs Egerton-Smythe,’ he said politely, ‘Hollis.’ The scrabbling stopped. Ralph pushed the door aside and found himself face to face with Queenie. Her face was bright red and Ralph, at a glance, could see she had been at the sacking in the corner. ‘What are you doin’ ’ere?’ she snapped.

‘I should be asking you that question.’

‘Don’t you be saucy, young man. If you must know, Mrs Egerton-Smythe sent me here to look for somethin’.’

‘Oh, can I help?’ he asked innocently. ‘I know where everything is. I’ve reorganised it, you see. I expect that’s why you’re having a problem.’

‘I ain’t havin’ a problem,’ she said ruffled. ‘I found what I wanted.’

‘Oh?’ he said looking at her empty hands. ‘What was it?’ Her face reddened again. ‘It’s not big enough,’ she stammered.

‘Maybe I could find a bigger one,’ said Ralph enjoying himself. ‘I’ll have a look. Just give me a clue.’

‘Hedge cutters,’ she said after a pause.

He took a pair from the shelf nearest the window. ‘Will these be big enough?’

‘Oh! There they are!’ she gushed, acting so badly that it was all Ralph could do not to laugh.

‘Good job I was here, eh?’

‘Yes. Yes,’ she said hurriedly.

‘Now which hedge did she want cut?’ She looked startled. ‘Or shall I ask her?’

‘No!’ she screamed. She backed out of the shed. ‘She won’t remember anyway. Her memory’s not so good now. She’s got a lot on her mind.’

He watched her fly back to the kitchen.

‘I’ll just start on the ones near the river, then,’ he called after her.

He had been standing on a stepladder clipping a huge hedge for about an hour when he saw a familiar figure striding towards him.

‘You’re not supposed to be here till Monday,’ she hollered.

‘Weather forecast said it would be raining all day on Monday.’

He sat on the ladder and watched her approach.

‘Liar,’ she said. ‘What’s the real reason?’

‘Couldn’t keep away, could I? Wondered if you’d had time to look at those gardening books?’

‘And?’

‘Queenie said you wanted the hedge cut. I found her in the potting shed. She knows where that small tin trunk is now.’

Mrs Egerton-Smythe paled.

‘It’s none of my business, madam, but maybe you ought to unlock them and put whatever’s in them somewhere not so easy to find.’

‘I can’t,’ she said quietly, and she hastily looked away.

‘Oh. Have you lost the keys?’

She swung round. ‘Yes.’ He could see she was lying and he wanted to help her lie even better. ‘I thought so. Having been up there so long.’

‘How did you know that?’ she said sharply.

‘From the dust.’

‘Oh yes, of course.’

‘May I make a suggestion, madam?’

‘Out with it then.’

‘I break the locks for you.’

‘Thank you, Hollis, but I’ll probably want to lock them up again.’

In case Mr Egerton-Smythe checks up on you, he thought.

‘I can get ones that match from the High Street.’

She smiled. He knew she had agreed.

‘We’ll have to move fast,’ he added.

‘Why?’

‘Just a feeling,’ he said.

‘Queenie?’

‘Something like that. We’ll have to get rid of her.’

‘Yes. She’s probably on the phone right now.’

‘The butcher’s!’ said Ralph. ‘My mother says the queues are always a mile long there. Tell her you’ve heard there’s a special offer of tripe. Then wave to me from the French windows when she’s gone.’

‘Where do you get all these ideas? From the theatre?’

‘My Auntie Win reads green Penguins out to my mother. Margery Allingham, Ngaio Marsh. You name it.’

‘How nice for your mother.’

Ralph shrugged uneasily. It was then that he noticed Queenie hovering at the end of the garden.

‘What are you going to say about me hedge clipping?’

‘I’ll pretend I forgot and thank her for remembering. That do, Hollis?’

He grinned and carried on snipping.

Half an hour later, he was pushing his bike back down the road, the pockets of Laurie Egerton-Smythe’s large sports jacket bulging with new identical looking padlocks.

He was about to take a detour so that he could avoid the part of the High Street where the butcher’s was when he saw Queenie coming round the corner and heading in his direction. Swiftly he crossed over the road. Ahead of him was the stage door of the theatre. He flung his bike on to the pavement and dived in between the doors. Wilfred was talking to a tall man with white hair and a flushed complexion. He spotted Ralph as soon as he walked in. Ralph walked boldly over to him and said very firmly, ‘It’s me again. I thought I’d just pop in to see if there was any chance of me seeing Mr Johnson before the strike tonight.’

‘You’re in luck. Mr Johnson, the lad I was telling you about.’

Ralph looked upwards and found Mr Johnson staring down at him from a great height.

‘I’m Isla’s friend,’ he gulped. ‘I expect she’s mentioned me.’

The man continued to stare at him. ‘Young Isla thinks you can do things back to front, lad. You shouldn’t have been anywhere near the strike last week.’

‘Oh,’ he said feebly.

‘But,’ he went on, ‘the master carpenter told me you made yourself useful.’ He frowned at Ralph and then eventually gave a weary sigh. ‘You toe the line. Whatever Jack Walker says, jump to it. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

Ralph was so exhilarated by this stroke of luck that he quite forgot that he was hiding from Queenie until he leapt out into the street and spotted her at a public phone box. Luckily she had her back to him. He wheeled his bike swiftly round the corner and hopped on to it, cycling down an alley past the second-hand clothes shop he had discovered actors from the rep frequented.

As soon as he hit the High Street he pedalled as fast as he could.

With relief he saw there was no car outside Mrs Egerton-Smythe’s house. He leapt off his bike, ran with it up the side of the house, rang the bell and dumped his bike by the wall.

Mrs Egerton-Smythe flung open the kitchen door. He pulled the padlocks out, sweat pouring down his face. ‘Have you emptied them?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Buckets!’ he panted. ‘Buckets! Earth!’

‘Hollis, what are you talking about?’

‘Fill the trunks,’ he gasped. ‘Queenie telephoning from the box.’

For the next quarter of an hour she and Ralph shovelled earth into buckets which they carried upstairs. They filled the large trunk and suitcase and re-padlocked them. Then, between them, they pulled the stepladder from the loft down and hauled them back up. Ralph slid them across the floor. ‘Two up and two to go,’ she declared. They filled the suitcase which had been in the car boot and returned it to the loft. They were shovelling earth into the one in the shed, when Ralph suddenly said, ‘Queenie will have told him about this.’

‘Oh lord,’ said Mrs Egerton-Smythe.

‘Got any similar tin trunks?’

‘There’s one in the garage. It’s filled with tools.’

They dashed conspiratorially across 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 removed Laurie Egerton-Smythe’s jacket.

‘Do you want to borrow it?’

It surprised him that she wasn’t upset to see him wearing it. ‘No. I’d better take my own one.’

‘Yes, it is rather large.’

‘It’s not that. I don’t want to mess it up at the strike.’

It was while she was letting him out that she brought up something which was so obvious he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it himself.

‘Have you asked to play any parts there?’

‘No,’ he said surprised. ‘I’ve had no training.’

‘And you’ve done no amateur dramatics?’

‘Only at school.’

‘Any good?’

Against his will he found himself smiling. ‘People seem to think so.’

‘You can mention that in a letter, can’t you? To the producer?

‘I suppose so.’

‘You’re small. There might be a young part going. You’re local. The producer can only say no.’

Ralph stood on the doorstep feeling slightly dazed.

‘You’d better go, Hollis,’ she said at last.

‘What?’ he said, suddenly remembering where he was. ‘Oh. Yes, madam. Goodnight, madam.’ He was about to leave when he realised what she was doing. ‘Are you sure you should be encouraging me?’

‘Be a waste of time discouraging you, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ he said happily. ‘Yes it would.’

‘I’ll see you Monday then.’ And she closed the door.