Cuckoo in the Nest. Michelle MagorianЧитать онлайн книгу.
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