The Cobweb Cage

by Marina Oliver

  Two twists was all there was time for, then the fragile vessel crashed into the top branches, and as Richard was flung out his last conscious recollection was of crashing, splintering twigs and branches, and his last thought a piercing loss as he knew he might never again see Marigold.

  *

  Lexie came into the morning room eagerly. It was a beautiful Spring day, and she had plans to take Marigold on the train to see her mother. It could well be the last time Marigold could make the trip before her baby arrived.

  She'd heard Marigold come down ten minutes ago, but had been delayed by her parlourmaid, Janie, who'd waylaid her in the hall to complain about the housemaid's failings so far as dusting the dining room properly.

  Their feud was an ancient one, their grievances imaginary. They were both excellent workers and Lexie had long ago discovered that all she had to do to resolve their differences was listen with as much patience as she could, murmur appropriate but meaningless words of sympathy, and she would hear no more.

  'Yes, Janie, I understand. I will see to it. I am sure Emmie will do it better in future. Mrs Endersby is already down, I think?'

  'Yes, Ma'am, some time ago. I took in the post.'

  'Good, then perhaps you can get some fresh tea? I think I'd prefer it to coffee this morning.'

  Janie departed, the ribbons of her cap floating out behind her, and Lexie went to join her guest.

  Marigold had become more of a sister to her than a guest, she reflected. It was a joy to have her in the house, particularly now that Archie had to be in London so often. Unfit to fight, he was working in the War Office, and without Marigold she would have been very lonely.

  'What a lovely day!' she exclaimed as she opened the door, and then saw Marigold.

  The girl had slid into a heap on the floor, her chair overturned, a sheet of paper clutched in her hand.

  Lexie ran across to her and bent to feel her pulse.

  'Marigold, oh my dear, what is it?'

  The pulse beat erratically, but Marigold was deathly pale, and she made no response to Lexie's frantic questions.

  Lexie hurried to tug on the bell then, impatient, went to the door and called frantically for help. Janie came in, followed by Emmie, and somewhat further in the rear, puffing slightly, Mrs Tompkins, the Cook.

  'Why, Mrs Cranworth, whatever's the matter?' the latter gasped.

  'Mrs Endersby's fainted, I think. Emmie, run for the doctor as fast as you can, and Janie, help me lift her onto a sofa. Mrs Tompkins, ought I to give her sal volatile or anything, in her condition? I don't know anything about childbirth!' Lexie asked as she rushed back into the room and, with Janie's help, carefully lifted Marigold onto the sofa.

  'Is the babby comin'?' Mrs Tompkins asked calmly.

  'I don't know! It's too early.'

  'Looks to me like she's just fainted. Keep her warm, and wait till the doctor comes.'

  'Is that best? Janie, get some blankets, and should we have hot water bottles?'

  'I'll see to them,' Mrs Tompkins offered, and departed.

  For the first time Lexie noticed the paper Marigold was clutching, and gently removed it. By the time Janie ran back with an armful of blankets she had read the letter.

  Marigold recovered from her swoon, but for some days did nothing but stare in front of her, not speaking, heedless of Lexie's pleas.

  Mary came, and John, but Marigold lay in bed, supine, apparently not aware they were in the room.

  'It's the shock, you must give her time,' Doctor Leigh said.

  'But the child!' Mary worried. 'What if she goes into labour?'

  'It's three days now since it happened, and if she'd been going to lose the child there'd have been some sign. All seems well, and by the time the child arrives let's hope she will have recovered.'

  But when Marigold went into labour a week later, she had still given no indication that she recognised anyone. She permitted Mary and Lexie to feed her, wash her and comb her hair, but uttered no word.

  Lexie insisted that she be dressed, at least in a dressing gown, and taken down into the garden.

  'It can't be good for her to lie in bed all day,' she said worriedly to Mary.

  Marigold sat when she was told, walked when Lexie commanded her, silent and unresisting.

  Mary slept in her room, and talked and crooned to her as she had when Marigold was a baby, but elicited no response.

  They all began to fear she was losing her mind.

  The first change happened when Marigold, obediently sitting up in bed while Mary fed her toast dipped in tea, winced and put her hand to her back. It happened again some while later and Mary went quietly from the room.

  'I think labour is starting,' she told Lexie. 'Can you send for Doctor Leigh?'

  It was a long and difficult labour, but to Mary's intense relief it seemed to jerk Marigold back from the brink of insanity.

  The pain banished the blankness from Marigold's eyes. When the Doctor patiently questioned her she nodded in reply. The first sound she uttered since reading the letter announcing Richard's death was a groan as his son thrust his way into the world.

  *

  Ivy skipped along, holding her father's hand. It was two whole weeks since her nephew Dick had been born, and she had begged to go and visit him and Marigold.

  'Not yet,' Mary said. 'Marigold is still not well.'

  She was almost back to normal, though, Mary thought with relief, remembering that marvellous moment.

  When she turned towards Marigold after seeing the healthy baby boy the midwife had just delivered, she saw her daughter's expression, anguish and anticipation combined, and knew the worst was over.

  'You have a lovely son, my dear,' she said, and Marigold smiled, though her eyes were full of tears.

  'Give him to me, please.'

  Marigold's voice was hoarse, hesitant, but her words were clear. The midwife hid her impatience. It was not good practice to encourage this sort of sentimentality before mother and infant had been properly cleaned up and the bedroom tidied, but Doctor Leigh had been adamant.

  'Mrs Endersby's mental state is delicate,' he told her. 'Whatever nonsense it may appear to you, she must be humoured.'

  So Marigold sat up and held her child. Her sight blurred as she saw the dark hair, the eyes which were Richard's eyes, and the expression which was exactly his.

  For two weeks she had wanted to die. She had not cared what was done to her, all she wanted was to join Richard, to be with him in death.

  Now she was shaken out of that apathy of despair. Here, utterly dependent on her, was another Richard. Her beloved lived on in his son.

  She glanced up and saw Mary looking anxiously at her. She smiled, and it was as if a pale moon had turned suddenly into a blazing sun.

  'Thanks, Mom,' she whispered, and immediately turned her attention back to the baby.

  He was looking about him, snuffling a little, and blinking as a shaft of bright sunshine fell across his face. Marigold turned him slightly, to escape it, and he reached for her breast.

  With fumbling fingers she undid the tapes at the neck of her nightgown and pulled it down, letting the baby nuzzle her. She watched him, entranced, and some of the pain she felt at Richard's death was transmuted into a fierce, protective love for this child.

  The midwife stepped forward, about to speak. She was willing to indulge her patient so far, in accordance with Doctor Leigh's commands, but enough was enough. New mothers did not behave as if she wasn't there. Only the lowest classes, who knew no better, went straight ahead and fed their infants in such an abandoned manner. It was perfectly clear the patient wasn't about to descend into a bout of madness, so the proper childbed procedures would be performed.

  Mary divined her intention and seized her arm.

  'No! I must talk to you for a minute. Outside, if you please.'

  Before the woman could say more than a couple of words Mary, the gentlest of souls, had physically dragged her out of the bedroom and shut the doo
r.

  'You will not disturb them!' she said fiercely. 'My daughter has suffered the most dreadful shock and loss, and now she is recovering. You will not take her baby away from her!'

  'For goodness' sake, Mrs Smith, what are you suggesting? I have to wash the child, tidy the mother, make all presentable.'

  'Doctor Leigh ordered she was to be allowed to do what she wanted.'

  'That's all very well, but he's a man and only a doctor. I have delivered hundreds of babies and know what is best for both them and their mothers. Now pray take your hand off me. I mean to institute some order and sensible management into the nursery.'

  'We'll ask Doctor Leigh's opinion. Until he comes, you will not go back into that room. Come with me, please.'

  Almost dragging the protesting woman with her, Mary marched firmly downstairs to where Lexie waited in the drawing room.

  'She has a son, a healthy little boy, and she seems well again.'

  'Thank God! But shouldn't someone be with her?' Lexie asked, puzzled, looking at the midwife.

  'That's what I say, Ma'am, but Mrs Smith sees fit to dispute my professional experience.'

  Mary explained. 'So you see, Lexie, I don't want anything to disturb her, perhaps upset her balance again. I've seen lots of babies born, and none of them have been hurt by a little bit of love. I expect the same goes for their mothers. Will you send for Doctor Leigh, and I'll go back and do what else is necessary when Marigold's ready.'

  'Of course.'

  'And what am I to do?' the midwife demanded aggressively.

  Lexie glanced from her red face to Mary's determined one.

  'I think you have done a good job delivering the baby,' she said quietly. 'You have our thanks. If you will come with me I will see that you are paid, and then I think you had better go. Mrs Smith can look after her daughter and grandson.'

  Mary recalled this battle now as she walked along to the station. Lexie had invited them all to Sunday lunch, and they could see Marigold and her son.

  She'd remained a week with them, but Marigold showed no signs of reverting to the shocked state she'd been in before little Dick was born. She'd even been able to talk quite calmly about Richard, so Mary had returned to Hednesford and her own family.

  Poppy, having overcome her aversion to working in a shop, for no alternative had offered and it was better than staying at home, was by now working full time in the draper's, as the male assistants had all joined up. She had done her best to keep the house in order while Mary was in Birmingham, but Mary suspected Ivy had been of little help, and the place had practically needed another spring clean when she'd got home.

  Mary considered Ivy, skipping along in front of her and Poppy. She was such a single-minded child. When she was drawing or painting nothing else mattered. She didn't even hear anyone speaking to her. It was the same with her plants. If she heard of some new plant she would walk miles to find it, totally forgetting John's strictures about not going onto the Chase while the soldiers were nearby.

  At the moment Ivy was thinking neither of drawing nor plants. She would see Marigold again, and Marigold would come home with her baby, and once more be part of the family.

  She'd hated it at home since Marigold had been away. She knew her parents loved her, but they were out at work so much, and somehow she always seemed to do something, or be accused of doing something, which made them get cross at her.

  Poppy was almost always bad-tempered. She fussed and shouted and gave Ivy orders, bossing her about. And she let her horrid little dog tear up Ivy's drawings.

  Ivy frowned. She hadn't dropped the last drawing on the floor, she took too much care of them. So Scrap must have scrambled up onto the chair and snatched it off the table.

  'So I won't do another! It was of the beastly dog, and I was going to take it to show Marigold, but I don't care if she doesn't ever see him,' she shouted before slamming out of the house and going to call Lizzie out to play.

  Marigold loved her and knew how she felt. She knew how hard it was for Ivy to go out and meet strangers. She knew how most of the other girls at school mocked her, called her 'scarface', and wouldn't play with her. Lizzie was her only friend.

  If it hadn't been for the scars she'd have been the most popular girl in the class. They'd all have loved her and wanted to be her best friend. Instead she had to put up with Lizzie and her stupid brothers.

  Her lips curled. Sam was ridiculous, getting so excited about putting on the creams. It was clear to Ivy that her scars were never going to heal, but her bosoms were beginning to swell, very slightly. She was only ten and a half, and they might have done anyway, but Sam was totally convinced his cream had been responsible. Ivy wasn't sure, but at least he was still willing to go on paying her. They'd had another argument the previous Sunday.

  'Yer gotta keep doin' it,' he insisted.

  'It's not working fast enough,' Ivy demurred.

  Sam had been preparing for this.

  'It needs more puttin' on, not just once a week,' he told her.

  'Well, that's daft, Mr Potter's here all the rest of the time.'

  'We don't 'ave ter be 'ere, now it's light evenin's. We could goo up onter Chase.'

  'Sixpence every time,' Ivy stipulated.

  Sam argued, but she was adamant. He sighed. He was finding it a strain providing sixpence a week, but he'd been exploring other possibilities which, although less attractive in one way, had compensations.

  'What yer needs is more rubbin' in, massage, it's called. But it's 'ard work on me fingers. Awl right fer you, yer just 'as ter lay there. Billy 'ud pay yer ter let 'im 'elp.'

  'Billy?' she exclaimed in surprise. Sam was red in the face.

  'Well, yer can see 'ow it meks me pant,' he said. 'I need 'elp, an' yer'd get more money.'

  'Sixpence each time as well?'

  'Thruppence.'

  'No. Sixpence.'

  'Tell yer what, me friend Eddie, 'e'd pay thruppence too.'

  Ivy had said she'd think it over. By now, with the money Richard had given her long ago, and the guinea from when she'd visited Marigold in Birmingham, as well as the money Marigold had given her since, she had quite a store of coins in the old tobacco tin she kept hidden under her knickers in the chest she shared with Poppy. But it wasn't enough.

  She was determined to collect enough money to go to London and stay there for a while. Once there, if she could show her drawings to the teachers, she knew she'd be welcomed at the best art college there was. And someone would pay for her to be taught there, and provide her with somewhere to live. But she needed several pounds, before she was fourteen and had to leave school, or her chance would be gone.

  She could double the amount she got from Sam for no effort. It wasn't very much, but a shilling a week for the next three years or so, as well as what Marigold, now rich, would be bound to give her, would help a lot.

  It had crossed her mind to ask Marigold to help her, but for the moment she preferred to keep her plans secret. She was afraid they would scoff at her, say she was dreaming foolishly. And just in case Marigold wouldn't help she had to be prepared.

  She pushed aside these thoughts as they boarded the train to Birmingham. Marigold would soon come home. Life would be like it had been before, with Marigold at home all day, for she couldn't go out to work with a small baby. Besides, she had enough money not to need to work. Ivy would have her to herself again.

  Briefly she thought about Dick. But he was a baby, he would lie in his cradle, and Marigold would only have to see to him occasionally. And Richard, who had stolen Marigold away from them, was dead, no longer a rival.

  Ivy hugged these thoughts to herself as the train chugged towards Birmingham, ignoring the conversation of the others, which was all about Johnny's last letter and the boring, tedious war.

  Mary sighed. 'How long will it go on? Johnny says they've been fighting nonstop for a month, and getting nowhere. And they're using dreadful gas, that chokes men to death.'

  'We'll not thi
nk about it. I'm looking forward to seeing my grandson.'

  *

  'Mother, isn't it time to forgive Richard? His son is not in any way to blame.'

  Sophia Endersby brushed the skirt of her pale pink satin gown, and held out her wineglass towards Henry.

  'I have asked you not to mention that name in this house,' she said coldly.

  'Richard is dead! And you sit there, not a shred of mourning on your clothes, and refuse to talk about his child! You are inhuman!'

  'Don't talk to your mother in that way, Henry!'

  'Father, she's only hurting herself.'

  His mother stood up abruptly.

  'If you insist on prolonging this distasteful conversation, let us retire to the drawing room. I will explain to you, once, Henry, my reasons.'

  She swept out of the room, the butler Kemp opening the door for her.

  'Is there anything else, sir?' the man asked, and Mr Endersby waved him away.

  'No. That is, bring some brandy to the drawing room. We'll go there now.'

  Henry followed his father into the green drawing room, where Mrs Endersby was ensconced in a chair near the deep window bay. The view was magnificent, facing westwards and overlooking a steep sided valley. The sun was setting gloriously, and in summer they often had their coffee beside this window and watched it.

  Henry waited impatiently while his mother poured coffee and handed round the delicate cups which the Endersby pottery had only recently brought into production.

  Kemp came and placed the brandy and some glasses on a small table beside his father, then silently withdrew. Henry looked unblinkingly at his mother.

  Suddenly she turned to him.

  'Your brother was dead to me from the day he went though a form of marriage with this trollop. I do not accept her as his wife, and I certainly do not accept her child as his son. How can anyone have the slightest idea who fathered the brat? Richard was deceived into believing he had, but instead of appealing to us for help he allowed himself to be tricked into offering marriage!'

  Henry was white with anger.

  'Marigold is no trollop, as you'd know if you'd seen her!'