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 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.
