Cuckoo in the Nest. Michelle Magorian
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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.
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