The Cobweb Cage

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The Cobweb Cage Page 26

by Marina Oliver


  *

  It was two weeks since Richard had been deposited with Father Matthieu. Ensconsed in a tiny attic bedroom, he doubted whether anyone else in the village apart from the priest and his housekeeper, the elderly Madame Cotier, knew he was there.

  She had once been a nurse and she made disparaging remarks about Gaston's cobbled stitches. They looked perfectly adequate to Richard, and had withstood the rigours of his journey.

  'But you will always have a scar, for he pulled the flesh together irregularly,' she explained as if to a child.

  'I don't mind a scar when he saved my life,' he replied mildly. 'The wound has healed perfectly, thanks to your salves, Madame. Is it time to remove the stitches?'

  'Yes, we can do that now, but you must not take too violent exercise for a few days.'

  Exercise was the only thing lacking, Richard thought. Apart from Marigold, that is. Madame Cotier's cooking was better than that of many acclaimed chefs, and the priest had a remarkably fine cellar of both French and German wines.

  'I see nothing unpatriotic in drinking what I bought years before this debâcle,' he chuckled when Richard expressed surprise that he would choose to open a fine Hock. 'Let us hope that before my cellar runs dry I will be able to purchase freely once more.'

  'You live well, Father,' Richard said after one particularly fine roast goose.

  'And you are wondering what became of my vows of poverty, eh?'

  Richard grinned. He now knew the priest well.

  'It had occurred to me to wonder,' he murmured.

  'Village pastors do not take those vows, in fact. That is for the monks and some of the orders. We should not live ostentatiously, it is true, but when my parishioners, knowing my love of good food, present me with bottles of wine and fowls and fruit and sides of bacon as part of their offerings, should I refuse?'

  'That would hurt their feelings,' Richard said gravely.

  'Precisely, and now I am going to hurt your feelings, my son, by having my revenge for last night over the chess board.'

  As he said goodnight an hour later, Father Matthieu looked up from where he was bent over the chessboard, puzzling over the endgame, trying to see what he could have done to prevent another victory by Richard.

  'Tomorrow I have a visitor for supper. Madame will bring you a tray. Have you enough books to keep you occupied?'

  'Yes, thank you. There are enough here to keep me occupied for years!'

  'Much as I enjoy your company, I trust you will not have to remain here for years. Goodnight, Richard. God go with you.'

  Two days later he explained his plans to Richard.

  'The man who came last night brought me some things. He does not know why. Most people prefer to know nothing apart from what they must. This is what we are to do. Here is a map. Destroy it after you have memorised it, for it could be traced back to my friend. Early tomorrow morning he will take you with him on his cart as if going to market. He will be going, but he will set you down in these woods here.'

  'He takes a great risk. Would it not be better if I were just to slip away one night, and then nothing could connect me with you?'

  'You would not get beyond the village unchallenged. You arrived here only because Jean is known and was not stopped, but I had word of you ten minutes before you arrived. You have not been betrayed because you were with him, but if you were alone it would be a different matter. We are suspicious of all strangers. He will say you are his wife's nephew. You are on your way to a new job in Ghent, if anyone asks. But they won't. In the valise he will provide for you will be a German officer's uniform, and a civilian driving coat.'

  'A German uniform?' Richard exclaimed. 'Is that necessary> Or wise?'

  'It is the best plan we could devise. Now see here on the map, this is where the nearest French soldiers are. We are too far east for the British, I'm afraid. You must behave on this side as if you are a German, and when you can take your opportunity to slip over to the French lines, covering up the uniform until you are safe, and no-one will shoot you.'

  Richard had several objections to this plan, but they could think of nothing better.

  'It is too far, and too uncertain, to head for the sea. You have no friends to help you and could be betrayed by the first person you approach. This way you could be back with your squadron in a couple of days.'

  'I shall be everlastingly grateful to you for your help, Father. I wish I knew how to repay you,' Richard said as he was about to climb on the cart.

  'God go with you, my son.' His eyes twinkled irrepressibly. 'Our rewards will be in Heaven, but if I should happen still to be alive when this conflict is ended, and you happen to think of me, a few bottles of a good wine would recall our happy evenings together.'

  'You shall have a dozen cases of Champagne, Father!'

  Twenty-four hours later Richard thought longingly of the comfortable house he'd left. He had parted from the rather taciturn driver in a thickly wooded area, and after changing into his German uniform and burying the jacket and trousers Gaston's family had provided him with, he cautiously made his way towards the German lines.

  He kept in cover as much as possible, and blessed Father Matthieu for selecting such an area where there was a great deal of it. When it was impossible to move under cover, as through villages, he marched confidently forward. As he had seen the Germans do he ignored everyone, and much against his natural instincts walked as though he expected everyone, women and children and crippled ancients, to step aside for him.

  By nightfall he was within a mile of the nearest trenches, and in the faint moonlight he crept nearer, looking for a place where he might steal across.

  All was too heavily guarded. Several times sentries rose from holes as if from graves, and challenged him. With a few curt words in German he calmed their fears, but he dared not risk going past them towards the French lines, so tantalisingly close. That was to invite being shot in the back as a deserter.

  Just before dawn he found a convenient tumbledown shed where he hoped he might remain hidden during the day, while he tried to work out some alternative strategy. He was desperately in need of sleep. The enforced idleness, on top of his injury, had taken more toll than he'd realised. He'd been walking, hoping, searching, for a whole day and night.

  He wrapped himself up in the driving coat, lay down on the ground in the shelter of the part-ruined shed, and slept.

  Some hours later, refreshed, he began to plan anew. He'd heard planes during the day and they seemed to be landing not far away. He would try to steal one and fly it back home. Of course there was a risk of being shot down, but that he had to take. He had to get round, under, through or over the German lines. The first three were improbable, which left the last. It had the advantage of an element he was used to.

  He unwrapped the sausage Madame Cotier had given him, saying it would keep as long as he needed it. He bit off chunks to eat with the last of his bread, then went to drink from a stream nearby. The day was warm and the stream enticingly deep and cool. A track ran alongside the stream, but it looked unused. No-one, walking or otherwise, had used it while he'd been thinking and eating. He stripped off his heavy uniform and plunged in.

  Having dried off simply by lying naked in the sun on the soft grass beside the stream, he was almost dressed again when he heard a plane overhead.

  Startled, he looked up. It was a Blériot, one of the French planes, flying low. The noise covered the sound of a motorbike tearing along the track. Then there was another sound, a slow, swelling medley of thumps and cracklings and booms, pierced by a shrill scream. Richard had time to realise that the plane had dropped a bomb just yards away from him before the motorcyclist was lifted from the saddle, and came hurtling towards him in a confusion of clumps of earth, twisted metal, and whirling branches. Richard knew no more.

  *

  'Lexie, I must. It's what Richard would want.'

  'The old hag only wants you because little Dick is the last male Endersby left.'

>   'Perhaps. If Richard is not still alive,' Marigold said quietly.

  'Oh, my dear, I'm sorry! You still feel he's not been killed?'

  'I'd know if he were dead, Lexie. Something inside me would have died too, and it hasn't. Some day he'll come back.'

  'But where can he be? Surely if he'd been taken prisoner we'd have been told by now?'

  'Perhaps. Perhaps he's hiding in Belgium. Anyone there would help an Englishman. He may be trying to get home through Holland. It could take a long time, Lexie, to walk to the coast and find a boat. Are boats still crossing the Channel? Surely they are?'

  'Yes, and I even heard of some people who were able to go and disport themselves in Nice, now the threat of France being overrun is less! How can they, when thousands of boys are dying to keep them safe?'

  Marigold sighed. 'Like Henry. I must take Richard's son to The Place. It's what Richard would want, and she was sincere in her apologies. Besides, there are other advantages. They've turned over most of it for a hospital, and are living in just a few rooms. I shan't be overawed, like I was when Richard took me. I could do something to help.'

  'You have Dick to care for.'

  'There will doubtless be others, older women, to do that. I could help with the nursing. I'm used to hard work. I've been living in a sort of cocoon this last year, ignoring the war apart from how it affected me. I must do something to help. And if I went you could go to London to live with Archie.'

  'He says he doesn't want me to risk being there.'

  'And you know perfectly well, Lexie, that wouldn't stop you for a minute if you didn't feel obliged to keep this house open for me and Dick.'

  'Wouldn't you hate it there?'

  'Probably, if they lived in all those intimidating rooms. But they can give Dick everything I can't, Lexie. Mr Thane is sure I won't be able to force them to give me Richard's share of the firm. And in my heart of hearts I know how unlikely it would be for me ever to be able to afford to send Dick to a good school, let alone Eton. They will pay for him as a matter of course if he lives there with them.'

  'You must promise that if it becomes unbearable you will come straight to me?'

  'Of course. I don't know how I'd have survived this year if it hadn't been for you.'

  *

  'Marigold? Is Poppy with you?'

  'No, should she be? If she came to meet me at the station I must have missed her. But how are you, Mom?'

  Marigold went to kiss Mary, then narrowed her eyes.

  'What is it?' she demanded. 'Where's Pa?'

  'He's going round all her friends, to see if she told any of them anything.'

  'Told them about what? Mom, what is it?'

  Mary sat down suddenly and burst into tears.

  'I hoped she was with you. She went, yesterday. She's been very quiet since her puppy died, and I know she was unhappy, but she wouldn't talk about it. I came home from work to find a note, and she's taken her best clothes.'

  'A note?' Marigold sat down beside her mother and began to chafe her hands. 'Where is it? What did it say?'

  'Pa's got it. She said we weren't to worry, and she'd write soon, but she couldn't stand it at home any longer. Marigold, what have we done to turn her against us so?'

  'You haven't done anything, Mom. Poppy is always dissatisfied. She's never content, and I don't suppose she ever will be, whatever she has. Some people are like that. She's almost certainly gone to get a job somewhere. She never liked it at Mr Downing's. Could she have gone to Lucy?'

  'She's not there yet, and she went early yesterday. Pa sent a telegram. I didn't like to for I thought it would give Lucy a fright, you know everyone expects the worst when they get a telegram, but she's a sensible lass. She sent one straight back and promised she'd send to let us know if Poppy turned up there. But she hasn't. Where can she be?'

  Marigold did her best to calm Mary, while pondering ways she might try to look for her sister.

  'Have you told the police?' she asked tentatively.

  'Pa went and reported her missing. They said they'd keep a look out, but they didn't seem interested. Said she's over fourteen, and Pa said they seemed to think they had better things to do than look for a runaway girl. Oh, Marigold, they asked whether she went with men! Said lots of girls had their heads turned with all the workmen and soldiers on the Chase. Pa said he was tempted to knock the fellow down!'

  'She'll be all right, Mom. Now let me make you a nice cup of tea. Here's Ivy. Have you been out looking for her?'

  Ivy smiled at her older sister.

  'Yes, I've been asking all her friends, but she didn't say anything to any of them.'

  'I thought Pa was doing that?'

  'He went to see the ones she works with. I wondered if some of the girls in her class at school might know. She still goes out with some of them, to the entertainment hall.'

  'Did she have any money?' Marigold asked, practical as ever.

  'Only her wages. I don't know if she's saved anything,' Mary replied. 'Are you going upstairs, Ivy? Bring me a shawl, I'm feeling cold.'

  Marigold went to the scullery to fill the kettle. She was coming back into the kitchen when Ivy came rushing down the stairs, her face red with fury.

  'The rotten thieving tyke! She's stolen my money!'

  'Ivy! Don't use such language!' Mary protested.

  'What money? Had you been saving up, Ivy?'

  Ivy whirled round to face Marigold and burst into violent, angry tears.

  'It was my money! How dared she! I'll kill her for this!' she stormed.

  'Hush, darling!'

  Marigold hastily hung the kettle on the trivet, then seized the furious child and sat down with her on her lap while Ivy sobbed in bitter frustration. When she was calmer Marigold spoke again.

  'How much was there? You couldn't have had a lot.'

  Ivy gulped. 'I – it was just a few shillings,' she said bleakly, suddenly realising that if she admitted to the real amount all sorts of unanswerable questions would follow. 'Money you've given me, Marigold. I was saving it up for some paints, and presents for Christmas.'

  'Poor Ivy! Never mind, I'll buy you some paints, and when we find Poppy she'll have to pay you back.'

  The kettle began to sing and Mary got up to make tea. She looked round in a rather dazed way.

  'Did we have any dinner?' she asked. 'I can't remember.'

  'We had bread and jam,' Ivy reminded her. 'You and Pa were out all morning, you said you couldn't cook.'

  'I've brought some bacon, so let's have that now. You must be hungry,' Marigold said briskly. 'Ivy, go and see if there's any new eggs. Is there anything else, Mom?'

  'I think there's some cold potatoes from yesterday, and some pork scratchings.'

  'We'll soon have a feast.'

  'What about Pa?' Marigold asked doubtfully.

  'He'll understand. You need something hot now, and he might be hours. He can have something when he comes in.'

  'Marigold, what would I do without you? You're so sensible and strong. I haven't even asked how Dick is? And Lexie?'

  Marigold told her the plans she had for going to live with Richard's parents at The Place, but Mary wasn't paying much attention. She was listening for her husband's footsteps.

  When John did come in Marigold was saddened to see the defeated look on his face once more. It was the look he'd worn so often when he'd been unable to do what he hoped for his family, and she hated it.

  But soon she had to go. Dick would need feeding, and she couldn't help any more apart from promising to search for Poppy in Birmingham, hopeless though she knew the task would be in that teeming city.

  'She'll write soon, no doubt to tell us she's got some marvellous job in a munitions factory. Don't worry, Mom, she can look after herself, and she'll soon write.'

  *

  'We are to retain the whole of this wing. It has a separate door and a private garden. In fact it was the original house.'

  'It's charming,' Marigold replied, relieved to disco
ver that this older part of The Place, which she had not seen on her first disastrous visit, was actually smaller than Gordon Villa.

  Sophia, though, had made no concessions. She was as elegant as ever in her black satin evening gown and a profusion of jet mourning beads. Despite her fur coat Marigold felt gauche and out of place.

  'It was built about a hundred and fifty years ago. It's very small, but since most of the menservants left to join the army, and the maids are all clamouring to go and work in hospitals or factories, it has been forced on us. Apart from wanting to do what we can, of course. Naturally I've stipulated officers only, and it will be mainly for convalescence. Well, that's the drawing room and the dining room, and the library is through there.'

  Sophia Endersby led the way up the gracefully curving stairs. Marigold, with the sleeping Dick in her arms, followed. Her mother-in-law barely paused on the first landing.

  'There are just four bedrooms and a bathroom here. I shall adapt one of the bedrooms for a boudoir, and we shall need a guest room, so I have put you on the nursery floor. I assumed you would prefer to be near young Richard.'

  The rooms here were much smaller. A tiny night nursery, communicating doors to a day nursery on one side, and a small bedroom which was to be Marigold's on the other, occupied one corner of the attics. Sophia gestured to the other doors.

  'Most of these had become storerooms. We've cleared two for Cook and the two maids. Kemp will learn to drive and take over the chauffeur's room above the garage when he goes. The wretched man enlisted, would you believe! No thought at all for our convenience! Betty, who is only fourteen and untrained, will be free to help you when she is not needed in the kitchen or elsewhere. Do correct her when necessary. I have little confidence in Joan's ability to control her. They are sisters, you know, and both a bit wanting. Betty was quite troublesome to her parents. It is a pity there is no bathroom up here, but you will be able to use ours when we do not require it.'

  It was becoming abundantly clear to Marigold that she was to be treated, not as a daughter-in-law, but as an unpaid nanny to her own son and a kind of superior maid who would train the others.

 

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