The Cobweb Cage

by Marina Oliver

  The lad looked across at the post he'd been hanging on to, and his face turned green. Just then the cage shifted, the winding gear creaked, and the cage plummeted downwards into the velvety black hole. There was no gleam of light. The only sounds were the clanking of chains and the whooshing of the air sweeping past them. Without warning the lad doubled up and spewed his breakfast over their feet.

  With a jerk the cage stopped, and the men, laughing or cursing the unfortunate lad, got out, lit their lamps, and the weak, flickering glow slowly disappeared as they set off in single file on the two mile tramp down the roadway to the face where they were working.

  'Sit down a minute,' John ordered, cutting off the lad's terrified apologies. 'Did you bring a flask?'

  He nodded, blinking in the light from several lamps hung around the bottom of the shaft. Timidly he looked round at the bewildering structure of wooden props and beams, the black gleam of exposed coal, and the rails snaking off into the distance.

  'Have a drink now, but not too much, mind. It's got to last all day and it'll get a sight hotter than this. And remember to keep the flask and your snap in your rabbit pocket, or the mice'll be after them. You're opening doors for the ponies?'

  Again the lad nodded.

  'Here's Mr Thomas, he'll tell you what to do. Cheer up, you'll get used to it.'

  John went on towards his cabin, from where he supervised his section of the colliery. Four hours later he joined the coalface workers as they stopped for ten minutes to eat their dinners, and then went back with them to the seam they were working.

  In the faint illumination of the lamps he could see sweat pouring off their naked, dust-caked backs. The passageway was less than four feet high, and one collier was almost lying down as he hacked away at the coal with his pick.

  Then there was a low rumble, a distant scream that echoed, endlessly reverberating through the passages, and the sound of running feet.

  'Come quick! There's bin a fall!'

  John was the first out of the passage, running along bent almost double. As he turned into a wider, taller tunnel he could see silhouetted in the faint light of a single lamp on the far side an untidy tangle of broken props and a heap of coal. It splayed right across the floor, almost completely blocking the tunnel. The only gap, through which the feeble light shone, just piercing the cloud of dust, was where the roof had given way and released the coal.

  'Jem Sykes, he'm trapped under it!' the man who had shouted to them gasped, and John nodded, swiftly assessing the situation.

  'Get the resue team, we'll need a stretcher. You two, start moving the lumps from the edges as carefully as you can, don't disturb the ones behind or underneath yet. Pass them along and pile them into a tub at the end of this tunnel. Don't let it come in for fear of vibrations bringing down more coal.'

  Swiftly and silently the men formed a chain, and John supervised. When there was room and he was certain he would not dislodge further coal he eased himself gently over the heap of coal and found Jem, his legs trapped, groaning in agony.

  'Get me out!' he pleaded. 'Fer Gawd's sake get me out! Me legs is crushed!'

  'Easy does it, Jem, and we'll have you out in no time. I'll take off a few of the lumps from this side now. Don't move in case you upset any.'

  He worked feverishly but with immense care for five minutes or more, lifting the coal away from Jem's body while on the far side of the fall the others made space for the rescue team to carry out the injured man. As Jem's legs were finally uncovered, and John could see the bloody, mangled mess, he heard another ominous rumble from just above his head.

  'Stand back!' he hissed in a sharp whisper, fearful that a shout would precipitate another fall. As he heard the men moving backwards he seized Jem under his armpits and dragged him along the suddenly hell-dark tunnel just as more coal fell in blinding, crackling, choking clouds of dust.

  *

  Several hours later John was carried home by two of his mates.

  'It's not so bad, luv,' he gasped as they helped him up the stairs. Mary for once cared nothing for the coal dust they carried with them, even when they trod it into her newly scrubbed quarry tiles and spread it all over the pegged rug beside the bed. They stripped John and put him between the sheets.

  'What happened? What's wrong?'

  'Just a fall o' rock, Missis,' Joe Tasker said soothingly. 'There's no bones broke, just a cut or two and a few bruises. 'E were out fer a couple o' minutes, lump o' coal must 'a caught 'im. Could 'a bin a lot wus.'

  'It's them new seams, thinner, yer see,' his companion explained. 'The owd uns are gettin' worked out, an' we 'as ter go deeper, so we 'it the rock faster. Yer man'll be fit again in a week. 'E saved Jem Sykes's life anyroad, draggin' 'im out way just in nick o' time. Though poor chap'll never walk no more. They've teken 'im ter Accident 'Ome, but yer man'd not let us tek 'im.'

  ' 'E don't trust young Annie Blakemore,' Joe grinned. 'Too young, on'y bin there a year or so. Says 'e'll do better wi' you, an' I can't say I blame 'im! If my missus were such a dainty lass I'd feel same.'

  John's injuries, however, were far more severe than they'd thought at first. He suffered terrible headaches, and the torn muscles stubbornly refused to heal. The bruises faded but the cuts suppurated, the flesh round about growing white and puffy. Mary tried all the remedies she knew, and when the ointments she bought had no effect she searched the lanes for old witch hazel leaves, since none of the other healing herbs she knew were in leaf or flower.

  Eventually she had to call a doctor.

  'You should have called me or one of the nurses from the Annie Ker weeks ago, woman!' the elderly, weary Dr Mackenzie grumbled. It was always the same. He was called in only as a last resort, when it was usually too late for him to do anything but alleviate the pain.

  'We haven't the money for doctors if we can do without!' Mary snapped, rubbing her eyes. She'd had no sleep for two nights, was worried sick, and had already pawned everything they could possibly do without.

  'Doesn't John get compensation? The Act of '06 provided for that, I thought.'

  'It's not enough,' Mary sighed.

  The only other money coming into the house was the few shillings Johnny earned as a delivery boy, and the coppers Marigold was given when she did errands for neighbours after school. To pay for this visit she'd have to sit up all night again finishing some sewing for Mrs Nugent.

  'You needn't pay me until your man's back in work,' Dr Mackenzie said mildly. He knew Mary from the days she'd worked at Old Ridge Court. 'He will be, I promise, but not for several weeks. Send one of your lasses round to the dispensary for some ointment, and make sure you stay in bed, John. Every time you get up will put you back a day. Remember that and you'll be at work again as soon as possible.'

  When Marigold returned from fetching the ointment Mary had made up her mind.

  'You're a good child, and sensible,' she explained. 'If we're going to be able to pay the rent I'll have to earn more money. I can get a job cooking or doing housework. Mrs Nugent will recommend me to one of her friends. But you'll have to look after the little ones and help even more in the house after school. Can you manage, do you think?'

  'Yes, Mom, I'll do whatever you say. I'm eleven now, I can do lots of things.' Marigold swallowed back her tears. She hated seeing her Pa in bed, so still and pale, helpless and in pain. And she hated seeing Mom look ill with worry, her pretty face pinched and drawn. She'd do anything to help.

  'I can get something ready for tea before I go out in the morning. You can give everybody some bread and cheese when you come home at dinnertime, make up the fire and see to your Pa before you go back to school, and then do some cleaning when you get home. Poppy must help you, even Ivy can do something.'

  'Who'll look after Ivy?'

  'I'll have to ask if I can take her with me. Perhaps they'll let her start school early, even though she's only just four. Or Mrs Tasker will look after her.'

  *

  'You can't even sing!' Johnn
y said scornfully.

  'Yes I can!' Poppy retorted, and began to warble a hymn somewhat uncertainly.

  'Be quiet down here! Pa's trying to sleep!' Marigold came into the room carrying their father's empty dinner plate. 'Why are you singing "Away in a Manger", Poppy? It's long past Christmas.'

  'She wants to join a choir,' Johnny replied, and began to sing in a high, falsetto voice: ' "Come all you colliers in this town that loves a bonny lass. That loves to drink good ale that's brown, that will sparkle in the glass – " Why can't you sing something jolly instead of hymns?'

  Poppy was almost weeping with fury.

  'They sing hymns!' she said angrily.

  'Who do?'

  'Chapel choir,' Johnny said disgustedly. 'We always go to Church, not chapel.'

  'Why on earth do you want to go to chapel?' Marigold asked, bewildered.

  Poppy sniffed. 'They went to Alton Towers for their outing. They have better outings than anyone else,' she said resentfully. 'Why shouldn't I go? Why can't I go to chapel if I want to?'

  'Because you don't understand anything about it, and you're too young anyway to go on choir outings,' Johnny said dismissively. 'I may be late for tea, Marigold, will you feed the pigs tonight?'

  She sighed. 'That's the third time this week. I don't know what you and your friends get up to.'

  'I'm earning money, I've a right to do what I like,' Johnny retorted, and went swiftly out of the door. He hated getting into an argument with Marigold, because too often he had the impression she won, although he wasn't always sure why. It was just an uncomfortable feeling left behind that made him wish he could find better reasons for whatever it was he wanted.

  'You'll be going on the Sunday School treat in a few months,' Marigold said consolingly. 'You don't have to do anything special for that, but if you were in a choir you'd have to go to practices, and go to chapel three times every Sunday, I expect.'

  Poppy looked thoughtful. 'Well, perhaps I'll join a bicycling club when I'm old enough.'

  Marigold suppressed the retort that there would be no money for bicycles. Another tantrum had been averted, she must be satisfied with that.

  'Come on, it's time we went back to school.'

  *

  It had been arranged that Mrs Tasker would look after Ivy while Marigold was at school. Mary's wages paid the rent and bought coal. For the time being the colliery owners permitted them to stay in the house, for John was getting better and would soon be back at work. Her money, supplemented by the food she was able to bring home with her, thrown out by her wealthy and profligate employers, meant she could just feed her family.

  Marigold struggled to do all the jobs her mother had no time or energy for. Poppy ran errands for neighbours, and Ivy had her own tasks such as feeding the hens, collecting eggs, fetching in kindling and washing up the few dishes they'd not pawned.

  'Proper little 'ome body, your Ivy,' Mrs Tasker commented one afternoon when she brought Ivy home, along with a bag of potatoes she'd bought from the shops. 'Mek some lucky feller a good wife one day. 'Elped me mek pastry terday, didn't yer, duckie?'

  Ivy glanced up at her through long, dark lashes. She held out a small piedish covered with rather grey looking pastry for Marigold to admire.

  'It's for Pa's tea,' she said proudly. 'I made it all myself, didn't I?'

  Marigold smiled at her. 'We'll cook it later, shall we? Thanks for bringing the potatoes, Mrs Tasker. It's good of you to do the shopping.'

  'What's neighbours for if not ter 'elp? An' it's a long drag up 'ere from Market Street. How's yer Pa doin'?'

  'A bit better, I think. Dr Mackenzie says he'll be able to work again in a few weeks. But his leg will never be as strong again. And it's been much longer than we thought.'

  ' 'E deserves a medal for saving Jem Sykes's life. Joe said ter tell 'im there's still a job fer 'im, an' not ter fret.'

  Marigold had never considered the possibility that her father's job might be at risk. She glanced worriedly at Mrs Tasker and then looked away, afraid of revealing she hadn't even wondered about it. She should have done, and she didn't want to appear thoughtless. And if he lost his job they'd lose the house too. Where could they go then?

  'I'd best be off. Oh, 'ere's a bit o' baccy Joe sent. 'E knows yer Pa likes a pipe.'

  'Thanks.' Marigold was touched. Pa never complained because he wasn't able to afford tobacco now, but she knew he missed the comfort of his old clay pipe. Although it was empty he kept it beside the bed, and when he thought no-one was around he sucked it quietly, drawing in what remnants of flavour lingered from the tobacco it had once held.

  Apart from that his only occupation seemed to be whittling away with an ancient knife at pieces of wood, carving animals so lifelike Mary had once screamed at seeing a mouse apparently asleep on her pillow.

  'When can we bake my pie?' Ivy demanded as soon as Mrs Tasker, growing ever more huge over the years, and wearing an enormous felt hat with a vast crown and wide brim, waddled away.

  'It's too soon yet. And I need to rake the fire first, it's been damped down all day.'

  'Pa can have it early. Why should he wait for Mom to come home?'

  'Because he always does. He likes to think we're all eating together, even if he has to stay in bed. Now stop pestering me, Ivy,' she added impatiently as Ivy opened her mouth to argue. 'Let me do some potatoes and when they've been in the oven a while we can put your pie in. Take Mrs Tasker's tobacco up to him.'

  'She calls it baccy.'

  Marigold bit her lip to stop an angry rebuke. She knew that because her mother had been in service with the gentry and insisted her children spoke properly some of the neighbours thought they were snooty. How could she explain to Ivy?

  'Never mind. Take it up to him.'

  'I want to finish putting patterns on the pastry. Mrs Tasker showed me how to make patterns with a fork.'

  It was easier not to insist, and Marigold hadn't yet found time to go and see her father since she came in from school.

  'Put some paper on the table first then, and don't drop crumbs,' she ordered. She picked up the screw of paper which held the tobacco and went upstairs.

  John was sitting up in bed whittling away at a small chunk of wood.

  'What's that, Pa?'

  He held it out to her. 'There, just finished. It's for you, but I'll paint it first with a bit of black paint. Then it'll be a lucky black cat.'

  'Pa, it's lovely! Oh, please, can I have it now, like it is? It doesn't need paint. Look how its tail curls round, and I can see the whiskers! Pa, it's so real looking! Is it truly for me? Thank you. I'll put it on the mantlepiece in our bedroom.'

  There were already a dozen small carvings displayed there, and Marigold spent several minutes rearranging them to give her 'lucky' cat pride of place. Then she fingered it admiringly, imagining it was purring as she stroked its back. She'd love to have a real kitten, but Pa make such lovely carvings they were almost as good. He'd often bought them small treats before he'd been ill, sweets and toys, and now they had much less money he tried to make it up to them with his carvings. She loved him so much.

  'Marigold!'

  The thin whining voice came through the bare boards of the floor and Marigold frowned. Drat Ivy, couldn't she wait just a few minutes? She hardly ever had time to sit and admire her carvings, and just for once she meant to enjoy looking at her new one.

  'Be quiet! I'll be down in a minute!'

  Sighing, she put the tiny cat back on the mantlepiece and went back downstairs. She pushed open the door into the kitchen, and for the moment couldn't see her sister. There was no protecting newspaper on the table and she assumed Ivy had abandoned the pie and found something else to do.

  She came through the doorway and suddenly caught sight of Ivy, the pie in her hands, stretched out towards the open door of the oven.

  'No! Ivy, you'll hurt yourself!' she exclaimed, and jumped down the last step into the kitchen.

  Ivy, startled, lost her balance. There
was a confused medley of sound, crockery breaking, fire irons clattering onto the hearth, stacked kindling skittering down. Above it all rose the piercing wail of a terrified child.

  ***

  Chapter 2

  Marigold screamed and leaped down the step towards her sister. She slipped on the poker and fell headlong, but ignored the pain in her knee as she scrambled up to snatch Ivy from where she lay screaming in the hearth.

  'Mom! Pa! Oh help! Ivy, it's all right, I've got you now,' she tried to comfort the little girl, sobbing herself with fear and shaking uncontrollably.

  Ivy's screams continued, and Marigold, mesmerised, watched as the sleeve of Ivy's dress shrivelled and wrinkled across her shoulder. Unaware of the stench of burning wool, Marigold slowly pulled away the ruined material and saw long, angry weals forming across the top of Ivy's arm and round her shoulder, three parallel lines made by the bars of the grate.

  Then, making Marigold jump nervously, a lock of Ivy's dark hair fell loose and rolled across her face, curling as it went and causing Ivy to bat at it with renewed screams of terror. Another weal became visible across Ivy's temple

  A pungent, sickly reek, the mingled smells of burning wool, hair and flesh, gradually penetrated Marigold's numbed senses, and as she understood, she gagged, horrified. No! It couldn't be Ivy's skin smelling like that! Not her little sister.

  It seemed like hours to the petrified girl, but was less than a minute before her father stumbled into the room.

  'Go and get me a bowl of cold water!' he snapped, and gently eased Ivy from Marigold's convulsive grasp.

  She fled to do his bidding, and then, still sobbing, fetched the unguent Mary kept ready for soothing the frequent small scalds and burns they suffered. By the time Mary arrived home Ivy, hiccuping in her sleep, was wrapped in a blanket and cradled on John's lap in the chair before the fire.

  John grimly suppressed the pain in his leg, made worse by having to support his daughter, and the cold striking through the back of his thin nightshirt. He concentrated on willing away the agony inside his skull which threatened to blow him apart.