'What do people learn at Oxford Colleges?' she'd asked Mrs Dangerfield the previous day.
'Goodness knows, I don't,' she replied.
'Are they learning to be doctors, or lawyers, or what?'
'I don't think they're learning a job.' The cook considered it with a look of surprise on her face. 'Come ter think of it, Most of 'em don't need to work, especially this young Mr Endersby. Have you seen his big motor car?'
'Motor car? No, I haven't. I didn't know Rich – Mr Endersby had one.'
'Keeps it in someone's old coach house, no doubt.'
'But if they don't need jobs, why are they going on with schooling? Why do they need any more?'
'I suppose he's learning French and German. That's what the master teaches. He's been at a German college for a year, I think.'
How long would he stay at Gordon Villa, and would she see him again? Would they talk together before he left? Would she see him at all?
It was late morning. Marigold took the children down to the river for their daily walk. As she came through the gates she heard Richard's voice and almost turned tail and fled.
'Marigold! Wait for me!'
Marigold gulped, and let go Peter's hand nervously as she tucked a stray curl under her bonnet. The little boy darted ahead of her towards the path leading past the field.
'Want stroke pony! Lift me up!' he was soon commanding as he and Marigold reached the gate together.
'Master Peter! Where's your manners?' Marigold demanded, scandalised, but Richard laughed and lifted the child so that he could pat the pony's neck.
'Hello,' he said casually over his shoulder, giving Marigold a brief smile before turning back to answer Peter's imperious, if slightly incoherent questions.
'Come on, Peter, I want to go and walk by the river,' Eleanor said impatiently. 'Pat the other one and come on. He'll be getting jealous,' she added self-righteously, and Richard grinned down at her.
'Do you want to stroke the pony too?' he asked, holding out a hand. She shook her head, and in a sudden gush of shyness buried her face in Marigold's skirts.
Richard set Peter down. 'Can you ride a pony yet?'
'Yes.'
'Ooh, Peter, you're telling fibs! You don't! He can't,' Eleanor emerged to explain to an amused Richard. 'Not until he's a good boy, Mama says.'
'Can! Am good boy!'
'Not if you cry and shout like that!' Marigold intervened. 'Come on now, we'll go and walk by the river.'
Marigold was breathing rapidly. The sight of Richard, so handsome and still so friendly, had shaken her out of the golden haze she'd inhabited for the past day and a half.
Would she ever see him after this Christmas? There was no reason to suppose he would visit the house again. And suddenly she knew how badly she wanted to see him, not just once or twice, but every day of her life. To realise the impossibility of this was a physical pain, a sickness and aching that invaded every inch of her body.
Unsophisticated, even immature in the sense that she did not gossip about boy friends with her fellow maids, and through being kept at home had missed the same confidences with her former school friends, Marigold was bewildered. Why did it matter so much? Why should she need to see him, with a longing that created this overwhelming agony deep within her?
She wrapped her shawl close about her and walked slowly towards the river. Eleanor and Peter scampered ahead and were soon involved in a game of hide and seek. A rabbit scuttled across the path in front of her, and a bird, squawking in fright, flapped through the branches of an ancient oak. Marigold pulled her shawl even closer, hugging herself to keep out the cold.
'May I walk with you for a while?'
Once more, within seconds, the easy camaraderie surrounded them as if by magic. Marigold's fluttering heart expanded, became a glow of warmth that suffused and enfolded her. She forgot he was one of the gentry, forgot she was unused to talking with young men, and chattered away in answer to his questions.
They talked about Oxford, and Marigold's family. She discovered that he was indeed studying languages.
'My father owns a pottery manufactory,' he explained, 'and I will be helping him sell the china overseas. That's one reason he's in America now, to arrange for exporting there.'
'One reason?'
'Yes. My mother is American and is visting her family. It's the first time she's been back for ten years. That's why they're staying over Christmas.'
'Where is your brother?'
'He's with them. He doesn't come up to Oxford until next year. 1913, it'll soon be with us, just a few more days.'
'What sort of china? Tea services and things?'
'We do make them and all sorts of tableware, but we also make ornaments.'
'Mom buys cups sometimes from the market. Mrs Andrews often gives her old plates which are chipped, but Mom says the cups usually get broken and there's always plates and saucers left over. I wonder if she's ever bought one of yours?'
'There are hundreds of firms, making all sorts of different things. She may have done.'
'I'll ask her when I go home. Mrs Roberts has given me two extra days' holiday at New Year.'
By the time she returned he might be gone.
Then the children, tired and by now fretful and hungry, came rushing up, she gave him a stricken look.
'I must take them back home. Goodbye.'
*
'Johnny! Johnny Smith! Where are ye, lad?'
Johnny, who had been lying underneath the bonnet of a car, emerged and stood up as his foreman entered the workshop. He wiped his greasy hands on a piece of rag.
'Here I am, Mr Barlow.'
'Good lad. Here, look at this.'
He thrust a sheet of paper under Johnny's nose, pointing eagerly at a diagram.
'Would it work, d'you think? If we bent the steering arm like this, there'd be less pressure here, so it'd be less likely to break. Mr Fortescue wants us to try it if we think it'll work.'
'Shall I make one and try it on this motor here?' Johnny asked, already working out lengths and angles in his head.
'Aye. Do that now, and if you can get it fixed by morning we'll take it out and try it. I can give you another lesson. Way you're shapin', you'll soon be able to drive by yourself. Then you can impress young Lucy Kelly!'
'When am I ever going to afford a motor?' Johnny asked with a grin. 'Mr Fortescue may want me to be able to deliver his motors to customers, but I don't think he'd be very pleased if I took girls along with me!'
'Who knows?' Mr Barlow had a faraway look in his eye. 'I've been readin' about Mr Henry Ford. It takes so much less time to build one of his motors they say quite ordinary chaps'll soon be able to buy 'em.'
'He just puts them together, doesn't he? Like that place up in Manchester. And the chap in Oxford, Morris. People will always prefer quality, knowing it's been properly built, every little piece made to fit.'
'But this new method, all the motors are the same. All the pieces slot into any of them. It makes sense in a way.'
'Saves time, perhaps, but who wants to have the same motor as every other fellow?'
'Better that than no motor at all.'
'I'll believe it when I see it, that I could ever buy one! Might as well dream of owning an aeroplane and flying across to France like that chap Bleriot.'
'Don't scoff, lad. The world's changing fast these days. I wouldn't be surprised to see lots more aeroplanes soon. And airships.'
Johnny laughed. 'You wouldn't catch me risking my neck in one. I'll stick to motor cars!'
Mr Barlow was barely listening.
'They've built the first ocean-goin' motor ship in Copenhagen, and finished the Jutlandia on the Clyde. They'll all improve, you'll see. Modern science can do anything!'
'It can't stop the Titanic hitting icebergs, or get Captain Scott back from the Antarctic. Beats me why people want to go into cold, snowy places anyway. It's cold enough at home for me.'
'We'll do better one day. All these inventions an
d making things better's just a matter o' putting money into finding different ways of making 'em.'
Johnny shrugged. 'Not from me. Why, Mom's always complaining about prices going up, money doesn't stretch so far. Where's all this money coming from? It must be the same for everyone. And if I didn't have good rises I'd not even be able to send her the same as I used to.'
'You're a good lad. If you were mine I'd be proud of you. It was a good day's work when Mr Fortescue's sister sent you to him.'
Johnny turned away, flushing. Even now he couldn't bear to think of what he'd done, the thief he'd been. He knew deep down that if he hadn't been caught then he could have gone on to greater crime. It became easier. You gained in confidence through not being caught, and your conscience got weaker.
'I'd best get on with this if we're going to try it out tomorrow,' he muttered, and walked away.
That evening, when he and Lucy were walking back from the bible class they attended at the chapel, enjoying the balmy sunshine, he told her about the thefts.
'Johnny, you didn't!' she said, scandalised. 'I'd never have thought it of you.'
'It's true,' he said miserably, 'and if you never want to speak to me again, I'll understand. I don't feel as though I could ever be forgiven.'
'When a sinner truly repents, then God will forgive,' she replied primly.
'But will you forgive me?'
'You didn't steal from me.'
She would say no more, and they walked home in silence until they were at the gate opening into the tiny front garden.
'Will you tell your Mom?' he asked anxiously, knowing that if she did he would be forced to find other lodgings.
Lucy looked at him consideringly.
'Have you truly repented?'
'Oh, yes, I didn't like doing it, but Ivy liked the things I bought, and I felt guilty about her scars.'
'Then if God can forgive you so must I. I won't tell Mom unless you do something else bad.'
That night Johnny's thoughts were so full of Lucy he found it difficult to go to sleep. He thought about her black, glossy hair, so wild it never stayed confined however many pins she stuck in it, and her blue eyes, the deepest blue he'd ever seen. Her complexion was pale, with that peculiar translucence he had come to expect from Irish girls, though Lucy would not have appreciated this, for she hated any reference to what she called pagan ancestry. Altogether Lucy Kelly was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen, but he hadn't quite plucked up courage to tell her. At least she now knew the worst of him, and it hadn't made her turn from him in disgust. Perhaps, when he could drive one of Mr Fortescue's motors, he'd ask if he might take Lucy out in it for a short ride. No-one else she knew would ever be able to do that.
It was with glorious dreams such as these that he curbed his impatience. Lucy was only sixteen, and though he was positive she was the girl he wanted to wed, he knew they would have to wait a long time before they could afford a home of their own.
For one thing he had to send most of his money home, to make up for his wickedness in the past. The strike of the previous year had all but destroyed any progress his Pa had made towards clearing the debts they had from his illnesses. Not only had his headaches become worse, there were now days when for some reason he couldn't even get out of bed, though not even John himself knew what ailed him.
When Poppy was old enough to go out to work things might be different, and he could begin to save. Then, if Lucy would wait for him, he could look forward to a future brighter than any he might have the right to expect.
*
Marigold set off early the day before New Year's Eve. It would be the first time she'd slept more than a night at home since going to Oxford, and she wanted to make the most of it. Mom would be working, but she could help Poppy prepare a meal. Cook had given her a huge piece of ham to take home, it would be a feast for them all. What a pity Johnny wouldn't be there too.
As well as the ham, she carried the new dresses for Ivy and Poppy. The only fly in the ointment was that she wouldn't see Richard for four whole days. She'd come to look forward with a trembling delight to each morning when he joined her as she walked by the river with the children.
That would end soon. He would return to his college soon, and she knew he would forget her.
She trudged towards the Woodstock Road. It was far too early for most people, still dark with only a faint dawn light to allow her to pick her way.
She didn't often venture into the town. It was so big and strange, with the huge ancient college buildings which at first she'd found rather forbidding. People were always so busy, preoccupied with their own concerns. They didn't stop to chat like they did at home, or wave cheery greetings as they passed.
Then she heard a distant chug-chug sound. A motor car! Perhaps it was one of those Mr Morris was making.
She turned and stared at the monster, red, huge and gleaming, as it bore down on her. Motor cars were still a novelty to her. They rarely saw any in Hednesford, and although there were quite a lot in Oxford she was still fascinated by them.
The driver was muffled up in a huge fur coat, a hat pulled down over his eyes, and goggles. Marigold was watching the machine, though, worried that the slushy mud in the road might be splashed all over her clothes. When the driver slowed down her only thought was thankfulness that he didn't mean to shower her with mud.
'Marigold!' She jumped. It couldn't be! She was dreaming. She'd been thinking so much of Richard she was hearing his voice everywhere. Then she looked up at the man in the motor car. He was tearing off his goggles, and it was indeed Richard.
'I've decided to go to Rawnsley, would you like to ride with me?' he asked, clambering out of the motor.
'Me? But I've never ridden in a motor car! I never imagined I would,' she added longingly.
It would be so exciting. Marigold was discovering that the world was very different from that she'd known at home, and was eager to sample all she could. She knew it would be frowned on, going in such a vehicle alone with a young man. None of the young ladies, daughters of the Professors, would be allowed to do so. But she wasn't a young lady, and it would save her half the fare home. She'd be able to give Mom a little bit more, as well as the presents she'd spent too lavishly on.
'Then you'll come with me now.'
Before Marigold could reply he had picked her up and swung her into the motor car. Then he produced a thick fur rug and tucked it in around her. Astonished that this could be happening to her, that a man had held her so closely, that ordinary Marigold Smith should actually ride in a horseless carriage, or any carriage at all, for that matter, she was unable to speak until he'd climbed in beside her and they were bowling along the road to the north.
'Do you go home every weekend you have off?' He had to shout over the noise of the engine.
'No,' Marigold managed, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves at the sensation of speed and power, and many other inexplicable emotions which overwhelmed her.
'It's too far, and anyway it's too expensive,' she explained. 'Mom needs as much money as I can give her. After Pa was injured he was ill for a long time, and we owed money, then there was the strike and now he doesn't earn as much,' she added.
He was silent and she glanced up at him, thinking he was offended. But his goggles hid his face and although he turned towards her and she thought he smiled, she couldn't be certain.
As he drove without speaking Marigold had time to grow accustomed to the speed and noise of their progress. She didn't cling quite so tightly to the seat, and when a gusty breeze seized her hair and dragged it loose from the confining pins she laughed and revelled in the freedom of it streaming in the wind.
Birds skittered away at their approach, squawking in fright. A rabbit, busy nibbling the sparse grass on the verge sat up on its hind quarters and watched, its huge soft eyes enigmatic. She
looked across the expanse of rolling hills all around them. High and bleak in the grip of winter cold, they stretched for miles.
; As they approached Birmingham and could see the vast array of buildings, Richard pulled the car onto a patch of turf and stopped the engine. In the sudden silence they heard a blackbird trilling away, oblivious to all.
'I have a cousin living in Edgbaston.'
'Oh. Do you want to go and see him?' Marigold asked in a small voice. She was terrified at the thought of meeting anyone she knew, for how could she explain why she was riding in a motor car. But to meet any of Richard's family would be worse. They were gentry. Although she was learning fast how wealthy people behaved, she knew she would be tongue tied and embarrassed in their company.
'Not this time. We don't actually go through Edgbaston, it's more to the west, but I think you'll enjoy seeing the city as we go through.'
'I've seen it from the train,' she told him, not wishing to appear totally untravelled.
'The main roads are something else. They are wide and spacious. But before we do let's eat. I persuaded Mrs Dangerfield to pack me a hamper. It's windy here, so let's walk a short way and find a more sheltered spot,' Richard suggested. 'December isn't the best time to have a picnic.'
Before she could disentangle herself from the enveloping rug he came round to her side of the motor car and opened the door. With impatient hands he dragged the rug away and threw it onto his seat, then grasped Marigold round the waist and lifted her from the vehicle.
For a fragile yet endless moment she was suspended there, her eyes level with his, her lips a few inches from his own. Then it was over. He set her on the ground, picked up the hamper, and took her hand in his.
'Over here, there's a clump of trees which will keep out the wind.'
He ran along a path across a field, pulling her after him, and they were both laughing and breathless when he halted by the trees.
He took a rug from the hamper and spread it out, then unpacked the food, pies and cold meat, with fruit and cakes to follow. There was a bottle of wine, even glasses to drink from.
The excitement of the drive and the cold wind had made Marigold hungry, and the food was soon demolished. She sipped one glass of wine cautiously, but hastily refused when Richard went to refill the glass. He forced the cork back and began to repack the hamper.
The Cobweb Cage Page 10