The Cobweb Cage

by Marina Oliver

  He covered his eyes with his hands. He could not disguise the distress it caused when he was suddenly confronted with the loss of Marigold. It would show in his eyes.

  'I don't know! Why do you call me Hans?' he asked, to deflect her attention.

  'We have to call you something,' she said cheerfully. 'If you do have a sweetheart she's a lucky one, and must be missing you. You'd better find that lost memory before she forgets you, though. Girls don't wait forever.'

  Marigold would, he thought confidently. But later that night, as he lay sleepless, he began to wonder if he could use the nurse's prediliction for him to his advantage. It would not be gentlemanly, but it was wartime, and she was as much involved as he was. Once more he began to to weave plots, devising plans for escape. Soon, he hoped in a few weeks, he would be fit enough to set out on his own. Perhaps he could trick her into helping him.

  First, however, he must discover all he could about what was happening at the front. What news they had was sparse, and he suspected heavily censored. It would be carefully contrived to be appropriate for civilian consumption. But if he could suggest that hearing about his former comrades might stimulate his memory, perhaps he could learn more.

  Cheered, he turned over and went to sleep.

  *

  'Poppy's coming home! Poppy's coming home!' Ivy sang as she walked with her parents towards Hednesford station.

  It was Saturday but John had a holiday from work. He was dressed in his best suit, with the new cap Mary had given him for Christmas. Mary and Ivy had new dresses and boots Marigold had given them, and they were all three in holiday mood.

  Poppy was fully forgiven for the pain she had caused while they hadn't known where she was. Ivy, secretly resenting the theft of her money, had prudently decided not to make a fuss. If Poppy disclosed how much she'd taken, there would be difficult questions. She would demonstrate, by her joyful greeting of her sister, that she bore no ill-will, and if Poppy referred to it privately she would say she'd found the large coins in a dropped purse.

  They reached the station in plenty of time and went onto the platform, the sooner to greet Poppy when she arrived. Several people were waiting, going into Rugeley for the day.

  'Look!' Ivy almost screamed with excitement, and there, in the distance, were puffs of smoke as the train rounded the bend and chugged slowly into view.

  'Get down off the bench!' Mary said sharply. 'You'll tear your new dress. And watch it, it's still wet from the rain we had earlier.'

  Ivy pouted, but knew better than to argue. She jumped down, and consumed with excitement began to get rid of her physical energy by hopping from one foot to another. This being unsatisfactory, she changed to an improvised form of hop-scotch, using the cracks in the platform as rough guides, and hopping over the many puddles which lay there.

  'Oh, John, it's been so long! Will she have changed? Do you think she's been hurt?'

  'Don't fret, love. She's proved she can take care of herself, even if she found it wasn't so easy as she thought,' John replied soothingly. They'd read far more into Poppy's short letter than she could ever have imagined she'd given away.

  'But she'll be changed.'

  'Of course she will. She'd have been changed if she'd stayed at home all this while. Girls grow fast at her age,'

  'And she'll have to find another job,' Mary worried. 'Mr Downing won't take her back.'

  'Perhaps she won't be so fussy now,' John laughed. Then his voice sharpened. 'Ivy, come away from the edge!'

  Ivy, her attention concentrated on the intricate patterns she was jumping in her game, looked up and grinned at him.

  'I'm not near the edge, and I can balance on one leg for ever and ever! Look at me!'

  The train was approaching, and had almost reached the end of the platform. Several people were leaning out of the windows, and Mary thought she could see Poppy. She moved forwards to get a better look, then swivelled round as there was a terrified scream.

  Ivy, also turning to look for her sister, had slipped on the wet platform, and Mary saw her flailing arms as she fell sideways, infinitely slowly, onto the track.

  People were screaming. Some were pushing forwards to see, others straining to get back out of the way. The train was already braking hard, the horrified face of the driver looming up as the monster rolled inexorably forwards.

  John plunged after his daughter moments after she had fallen. He leaped down onto the track, seized her limp form, and tried to jump forwards, out of the path of the train. It was yards away, and no-one afterwards was able to agree on the precise order of events.

  John appeared to hesitate, half turned as if to try and regain the platform, then hurled Ivy away from him onto the other track. He turned again, but by now the front of the train had loomed up behind him. He leapt after Ivy, but the engine caught him a glancing blow. As he fell, the great iron horse drew to a shrieking halt and hid everything from the watching crowd.

  ***

  Chapter 13

  'I have no choice. My mother cannot be left to endure this alone.'

  Marigold turned away from the opened chest of drawers and faced Sophia, who was standing just inside the door. Whether it was the smallness of the bedroom or the the overpowering personality of her mother-in-law, Marigold found the room smaller than ever.

  'She has both your sisters with her. Surely she does not need you also?'

  'Ivy is still at school, and Poppy has to work. She's found a job in Walsall, at the George Hotel, and must live in, so she cannot help at home and in any case her money is not enough to support everyone.'

  Sophia advanced to sit on the only chair.

  'Let us discuss this calmly, my dear. Sit down, on the bed, I suppose. We don't want to disturb Dick, and Betty is caring for him.'

  Marigold removed the clothes she had laid out on the bed, draped them on the open trunk, and obediently sat down. It would be over faster is she complied with the request and she would be able to resume her packing.

  'I thought your mother was a cook-general?' Sophia said, her nose turning up with distaste at having to recognise the fact.

  Marigold held hard onto her temper. It would do no good to lose it. 'She was a cook,' she replied quietly, 'but she could not keep her job while she was going to see my father every day, and the Andrews have shut up part of the house for the duration of the war. They do not entertain as much now, and don't need her.'

  'Surely there are plenty of war jobs?'

  'Mrs Endersby, if – when my father comes home, Mom will have to do everything for him. Can you imagine the problems in a house with only narrow stairs, no inside lavatory, and only a cold tap in the scullery? He can't move much by himself, he cannot be fitted with artificial legs, and he needs good food and excellent care. He almost died when the train ran over him. Sometimes, when I see how much he's suffered, I almost wish he had!'

  'That is a wicked thought!'

  Marigold sighed.

  'I know, and I have not truly wished it, just wondered occasionally whether we would not all have been spared much anxiety and Pa much pain if the train had run over him instead of just sheering off his legs!'

  'Many of our gallant soldiers have suffered worse injuries,' Sophia said sanctimoniously.

  Marigold looked at her curiously. She could understand her mother-in-law no better now than she had when she first came to The Place a year ago. Sometimes she utterly refused to permit any mention of the war, citing her sorrow at the loss of two sons. When in this mood she contrived to ignore the presence of the recuperating officers in the main part of the house. At other times she dwelt on her losses, bewailing the sadness and futility of the fighting. And she could, as now, declare her patriotism by praising the heroes who were performing glorious deeds in the name of freedom.

  Marigold had the occasional suspicion, which she thrust away as unworthy, that Sophia's reaction depended largely on how she could best contradict Marigold or make her feel in the wrong.

  'The soldier
s have people caring for them, hospitals like here, and lots of sympathy. Pa's injuries are regarded as just an unfortunate accident, the sort that happens every day to civilians, and as such not deserving the privileged treatment given to wounded soldiers! His agony and the wreck of his life are just as great,' she added under her breath.

  From the account she had been given when, summoned home by a frantic telegram, she had arrived in Hednesford, it had been a frightful, unnecessary accident. If Ivy had not slipped. If she had not been so close to the edge of the platform. If Pa had not caught his foot in the rail, which was what seemed to have happened.

  It was pointless, Marigold fumed. If the train had been late, if Poppy had not run away, if the platform had not been wet and slippy, if hundreds of things had not happened to bring about that peculiar combination of circumstances, her father would still be whole.

  Following the same logic it was foolish to blame Ivy. The child was distraught, blaming herself, and still had spells of hysterical weeping and dreadful nightmares. She refused to go back to school until Marigold, in despair, rashly promised to try and arrange for her to go to an art school when she was old enough.

  'But only if you reach standard seven, Ivy, and unless you go to school and work hard all the time you won't do that.'

  'You mean you'll pay for me to go?' Ivy demanded, and for the first time since the accident had, that evening, picked up a pencil and begun to draw once more.

  Marigold had promised to pay the necessary fees. Her income was not large since the profits from Richard's share of the firm had been taken from her, but she spent almost nothing on herself. Since the accident she had sent Mary money, however, to make up for the loss of both her earnings and Pa's, and she had no idea what art school fees cost. There was time enough to worry about that.

  'Are you proposing to take my grandson to live in such squalid conditions?' Sophia's question broke into Marigold's reflections.

  'Of course, what else could I do? Besides, he needs to be with me.'

  'He is weaned, he is no longer dependent on you.'

  'I'm his mother, of course he needs me.'

  'So you would condemn the poor child to live in poverty, crawling about in the dirt of a slum, mingling with all sorts of riff-raff, when he is the heir to all this?'

  'As you deny me the money from Richard's share in the firm, what other choice do I have?' Marigold asked calmly. 'I cannot provide anything better for him, but I will ensure he is brought up in the way Richard would want! He'll be taught to value people for what they are, not what money they have or what schools they went to!'

  Sophia stared at her, then shrugged and went out of the room. With a sigh Marigold resumed her packing. If she were honest she didn't want to return to Hednesford. Lonely though she was, and however antagonistic Sophia was, she had become used to her life at The Place.

  She revelled in Dick's company and progress, especially now he was toddling, enjoyed the spaciousness of the grounds, and had come to terms with living almost in isolation. The times when she must try to explain to Betty the correct way of doing something, or endure the formal dinners in the dining room, were amply compensated for by her discovery of books.

  Mary had always spoken nostalgically of the reading she had done at Old Ridge Court. Marigold had read all that came her way when she'd been a child, but there had been little enough of it after she's left school, and she'd worked so hard she rarely had leisure or energy in the next few years. When she had been at Gordon Villa she had been permitted to borrow from the library there, and while living with Lexie had extended her reading. But she had never had a great deal of time to herself even then.

  Here, though, with the long evenings when Dick had gone to bed and she had escaped from the dining room, she devoured books. Mr Endersby had collected all the Victorian novels although he never seemed to read them. Most of the pages were uncut. Marigold lost herself in the cloisters of Barchester and the historical adventures of Scott. She marvelled at the way Dickens brought to life the appalling conditions of the slums or the prisons, and laughed at Becky in Vanity Fair. Delving further into the library she discovered the Brontë sisters, Jane Austen, and Mrs Gaskell. A faint ambition to occupy herself with weaving a tale some day was born. Then she found the more recent books of Arnold Bennett, and perused them in the hope of learning more about the Pottery towns, so near, and yet for her virtually unknown.

  She had just begun to explore the foreign writers when the accident happened. Then, much to the obvious if unexpressed disapproval of Sophia, she travelled twice a week to the hospital to visit her father. Now he was almost well enough to return home. Mom could not manage on her own, and Marigold had to help.

  *

  Richard knew that if he wished to regain the allied lines before the onset of winter, which would make travelling more difficult, he had to move soon.

  He knew a little more now about the progress of the war – if it could be called progress. The opposing sides had remained holed into their trenches, firing away at one another ceaselessly. There had been the occasional increases in activity, justified by the designation of specific battle titles, but almost no movement of positions.

  The ill-fated Gallipoli venture had ended, and men were being conscripted in England to fill the gaps left in the lines by the thousands of dead and wounded. Now, for over two months since the beginning of July, the guns had been pounding away at one another across the Somme.

  He had, very cautiously, appeared to remember a few details. The talks he'd had in Oxford with the German army officer, his fellow guest that long-ago Christmas at Gordon Villa, provided useful facts about the army. He knew Munich well from his pre-war studies there, and began to drop hints that he came from the town. If he could persuade them to send him there in the hope of restoring his memory, he would be much nearer to Switzerland.

  He'd abandoned the idea of escaping by ship after seeing the precautions taken in the docks. Overland would be easier, and Munich was in the south.

  He began the campaign when the blonde nurse Anna came to sit with him one day, as had become her custom when her duty shift ended.

  'Where do you come from, Anna?' he asked casually during a lull in the conversation.

  'Berlin, I've always lived there until two years ago. Do you know it?' she asked.

  He shook his head.

  'I can't remember. Is there a Prinzregenstrasse there?'

  'I don't think so, but why? Can you remember that? Hans, do you think your memory is returning?'

  'Who knows? I just had the name come into my head for no apparent reason. I can see a great new boulevard, but nothing more, yet the name runs through my head.'

  Watching her from under lowered eyelids, Richard saw she was trying to control her excitement. For a moment he despised himself for using the girl, then he reminded himself that he was at war with her country, her brothers were trying to kill his countrymen, and he had never responded to her covertly amorous advances. She made an excuse to leave soon and he sat back to await the reaction.

  The next morning, instead of a posse of doctors descending on him as he had half expected, Anna came alone.

  'I managed to discover there is a Prinzregenstrasse in Munich,' she said casually.

  'Prinzregenstrasse? Munich? What do you mean?'

  'You mentioned the grand new street yesterday, don't you remember?' she said, her voice showing her disappointment.

  'Did I?' Richard frowned, then shook his head. 'Oh, yes, so I did. Is it in Munich?'

  'There is one there. Built not long ago by Prince Luitpold. Does that mean anything to you?'

  Richard pretended to ponder.

  'Sorry, it means nothing. It could be my home, I suppose, but the name is not important to me. And yet? No, it's gone, it could mean anything. You seem to have been busy researching on my behalf,' he added.

  She blushed. Richard knew they tried to keep all attempts to jog his memory apparently casual. He wondered in some amusement how
she would deal with this.

  'I happen to have an aunt there,' she said awkwardly. 'I found a few old postcards she sent me, I thought you might recognise some other places in the town.'

  She produced a handful of cards. Richard glanced at them, noting cynically they were almost all of them unused, and the rest were addressed to various people at different addresses.

  'I was given some of them because I collect postcards,' Anna said hurriedly, her blush deepening, and Richard felt sorry for her. She was not a natural conspirator, and telling lies was not easy for her.

  He concentrated on the cards. After a while he selected one of a huge palace, similar to Versailles in appearance.

  'I believe I've been there,' he said slowly, 'but I don't recognise the name. Herrenchiemsee, is it?'

  Over the next few days, on various pretexts, Anna produced items connected with Munich and Bavaria, more postcards, books, and a map. Richard thanked her and spent hours poring over them, but in the end turned away in apparent frustration.

  'None of it helps, I'm afraid. You've been so kind, Anna, but the only way is to go there myself. Do you think that could be arranged? Are there any convalescent homes there? They were talking some time ago of transferring me.'

  Anna sighed, but she was a dedicated nurse. She would do what was best for her patient, even if it conflicted with her own wishes to keep him with her. Perhaps she might later on arrange a transfer for herself too, she thought, and cheered up. Hans was still far from fit, and even without the loss of memory it would be months before he was strong enough to be discharged.

  *

  Poppy flopped into the corner seat of the carriage. She was tired after her work at the George all week, but it was far better than the factory. She shuddered at the recollection. And now she lived in a warm hotel, ate good food, and had time and leisure to go out with the friends she had made in Walsall, mostly fellow waitresses and chambermaids at the George. With Marigold living at home again, and the money she contributed to the family budget, life was easier than for years, and she only had to go home on her day off.