Cuckoo in the Nest. Michelle Magorian
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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