The Cobweb Cage

by Marina Oliver

  He followed a river valley going almost due west. The River Thur, he thought, which flowed into the Rhine below the Falls at Schaffhausen. He would need to turn south before he got there or he would risk flying back into Germany.

  The clouds had come even lower and were hiding the hills, but the silver gleam of the river below was sufficient guide, and he would have plenty of chances of landing in the valley. If he reached the Rhine he could turn south with it and be heading for Zurich.

  And then it began to snow. Almost without warning the heavy, soft flakes descended, and within minutes the surroundings were blotted out.

  Richard lost height until the ground was once more visible, a grey blur beneath him. He spotted a road which crossed the river and led southwards, and turned to follow it. He had no idea how near the German border he might be, but under no circumstances would he risk flying back to be recaptured by his enemies.

  Within minutes he was completely lost. The only course now was to land. He came as low as he dared, searching for a flat area. To his immense relief he spotted one on his left, and with the weight of the snow and the blinding vision he had no time to do more than point the nose of the aeroplane towards it and drift down, fighting to control the speed of the descent and keep the wings level.

  He touched down in a series of jerks and bumps which would have had his flying instructor gibbering with scorn and fury. But he hadn't learned to fly on a ridged, tussocky meadow. It was a miracle he kept the plane the right way up, and shuddered to a halt only five yards short of a massive stone barn. Shelter from the snow was imperative. During the struggle he hadn't appreciated how cold he was. Without the flying suit he would be incapable of moving by now. As it was his feet, in ordinary shoes, were numb.

  He stumbled round the corner of the barn and tugged open the heavy wooden door. Inside was a pile of sweet smelling hay, and Richard breathed in great gulps of the welcome aroma. Here were warmth and comfort.

  He burrowed beneath the hay, leaving a space just for his nose. It was warm and soft, and the smell of it evocative of boyhood days when he'd escaped with a book and a pocket full of apples to hide away from his mother's importunate demands. Within minutes he was asleep.

  ***

  Chapter 14

  He was there, in the audience! Poppy saw him as soon as she walked on stage behind the other three girls.

  She had been rehearsing for a week, since she'd joined a small group of girls and older men who gave concerts ever week in the church hall for the soldiers home on leave.

  This was her first appearance, and she had been incredibly nervous. For the time being she would sing in a group, for she hadn't had time to learn all the songs, and soloists needed to know a lot of different ones, Mr Thwaite said.

  'You've got a good voice, though, lass, and soon we'll give you a spot.'

  Looking at the sea of faces below, Poppy wasn't too sure she wanted to face the whistles and cheers of the soldiers all by herself. She'd listened to the joking and the repartee of some of the more experienced performers as they responded to the comments of the soldiers, and thought she'd never have the nerve to do the same.

  But he was there, sitting at one of the tables at the front of the hall, and it was clear he recognised her.

  She'd looked for him on the train every time she went home, but fruitlessly. It could have been a dream he'd ever spoken to her. She thought him handsome, with his dark hair and small, dapper moustache. He'd been kind, and he seemed to admire her.

  Now she sang as well as she could, glancing occasionally at him, but apart from a slight smile which hovered on her lips, which she could not control, she tried to give no indication she knew he was there.

  They had solo singers, a man who played a violin, another with a trombone, and one who told a series of funny stories. At the end, the whole company came on stage and the soldiers joined in several of the songs until it had become a general chorus.

  'Rugeley! Sing Rugeley,' they shouted, and the chant built up until, the pianist complying, they began the latest ditty which had swept the camps on the Chase.

  'Rugeley, Rugeley, We're all enjoying it hugely.

  To and fro we gaily go – we're always on the tramp,

  But if you think that Cannock Chase

  Is a lively and attractive place,

  You'll be Rugeley awakened when you get to Rugeley Camp.'

  They insisted on repeating it several times, and only stopped when the ladies who prepared the tea and cakes came in. Then the concert party left the stage and went to sit at the tables.

  Poppy hesitated, but he was waiting for her.

  'Come and sit with us. How lovely to see you again. Perhaps I ought to introduce myself this time. I'm George Grierson, I live here in Walsall.'

  Shyly Poppy responded, but by the end of the evening her shyness had been overcome by the friendliness and obvious admiration of George and his companions. Perhaps after all she might one day be able to exchange witticisms with an audience.

  'May I walk you home?' George asked as the evening ended, and they began to leave.

  Shyly, overcome with pride and nervousness, Poppy assented. It was the first time an attractive, older boy had shown any interest in her. She recalled Sam's advances with a shudder. This was totally different. For one thing, George treated her with respect. He showed his admiration in unexceptional glances and words, he didn't try to maul her. He was well spoken, too, and she soon discovered he'd only just left school.

  'I should have gone up to Cambridge,' he said with a laugh as they walked back down Digbeth towards The Bridge and the George Hotel, close but not touching one another. 'But how on earth could I have concentrated on law while this was going on?'

  'Law? You're going to be a lawyer?' she asked. Dreams and aspirations and wonderful prospects swirled round in her brain. A lawyer was better even than a pottery owner, for it was in no way connected with trade. Instantly, Poppy became a vehement if silent supporter of Cambridge. It was, it must be, far better than Oxford.

  She felt ashamed, for a moment, remembering that Richard, despite Marigold's unwavering belief, was certainly dead. But her own newly awakened tremulous hopes could not be kept at bay. When George suggested taking her to a dance on the following evening, she could scarely reply for happy excitement.

  'I have to go back in a couple of days, then we'll only be in camp for a short while,' he explained diffidently. 'We've lost so many men on the Somme they want to send us out as fast as possible to replace them. I'd like to see you as much as I can before I go. If, that is, you are agreeable.'

  Poppy was decidedly agreeable, and for the next few days lived in a pink cloud of happiness. When George tentatively kissed her she felt there was nothing else in the world she ever wanted. She promised to write to him, and such was her euphoria she was only mildly unhappy when he finally departed for France.

  She knew she loved him, but the sensible part of her reminded her she was not quite sixteen, and he would have to train for his profession when he came out of the army, when this horrible war was over. It was sufficient for the moment to hug her secret to herself, to lose herself in dreams and not spoil it by introducing reality, the questions and arguments and plans which would be voiced if she shared her happiness with anyone else.

  *

  It was pitch dark when Richard woke. Outside the barn it was snowing heavily, with neither stars nor moon visible. He was hungry and thirsty, but could slake his thirst at least on a handful of snow. He went back to his snug nest in the hay and lay contentedly thinking of Marigold, his unknown child, and how soon he would be able to see them. He drifted off to sleep again, and when he awoke some hours later bright daylight showed through cracks in the barn door.

  He went to look out, and gazed on a scene of incredible beauty. The snow, crisp and fresh, lay several inches deep. Today there were no threatening clouds and a bright sun, a deep orange-pink in colour, had just risen over the far horizon. Spruce and pine trees, their br
anches loaded with the snow, dotted the white slopes of the hillside on the right. Far below the river he had been following glittered silver shot through with ice-blue shards. A road snaked up towards him, passing within half a mile of where he stood.

  Richard discarded his flying suit, for it would give rise to difficult questions, and struck off across the fields. He scrambled down onto the road. The tracks of vehicles showed in the fresh snow, and with luck he would soon be able to beg a ride towards Zurich.

  Within minutes a large truck stopped for him, and the driver cheerfully said he could take him some of the way.

  'I'll drop you by the railway. There should be a train soon. I want to stop for breakfast first, though. Do you mind waiting?'

  'I could do with some food too.' Richard realised how hungry he was, and then belatedly began to wonder whether he would be able to use his German marks, the only money he had.

  'Where did you get those?' the driver asked suspiciously when Richard explained his problem.

  'I've just escaped from Germany, I'm a British pilot.'

  'You speak German very well.'

  'I spent some time in Germany before the war, and I've spoken nothing else for months.'

  The driver said no more, but when he stopped and they entered an inn he excused himself and Richard saw him talking to another man, both of them glancing frequently in his direction.

  'I'll pay, you can give me the marks afterwards,' the driver said brusquely when he returned to the table where Richard sat.

  The rolls spread thickly with butter and plum jam were delicious, so was the coffee. Nothing in Germany had tasted half so good as this simple meal eaten in freedom.

  'I'll be out in a minute, go and wait by the truck.'

  Richard nodded and walked outside. The truck was parked alongside a large shed, and he strolled towards it. As he rounded the corner of the shed a noise behind him made him turn swiftly, but he was too late to save himself from the vicious blow which connected expertly with his skull.

  When he came to he found himself sitting in the truck, his wrists and ankles tightly bound, the rope securing him to the seat.

  'So you have a hard head?' the driver commented.

  'What happened, and why am I tied up?' Richard demanded.

  'A precaution. I don't like the Germans, and I mean to turn you over to the authorities who will test the truth of what you say.'

  Richard couldn't judge the time, for the sun had disappeared behind some clouds, but it was starting to get dark. There was almost no other traffic on the road, what little there was went in the opposite direction.

  'Where are we? Near Zurich?'

  'I haven't the time to go there. The pass won't be open after tonight, for there is more snow to come soon. I'm taking you to St Moritz where I live. If you can prove you are who you claim to be, you might be able to get to Zurich before the passes are all blocked for the winter,' the driver said cheerfully.

  There was nothing he could do, although he fumed at the mischance which was taking him in the opposite direction to that he wished to go.

  The roads were icy and treacherous. The driver was navigating a relatively gradual slope, with a bend at the bottom, when from a small track which left the main road at the bend a horse-drawn cart appeared. It was being driven utterly recklessly, approaching him erratically with no indication that it would get out of the way.

  With an oath the driver steered for the wall of rock to the side, but the jarring shock as the truck hit it sent him falling helplessly out of his seat and onto the road. If he had not been tied to the seat Richard would probably have been flung out too. The truck careered on for some yards, scraping against the wall of rock, coming to rest several screeching, shattering seconds later leaning drunkenly against an outcrop which halted further downward progress.

  A girl's voice was calling frantically for help, and it was some minutes before Richard could attract her attention.

  'I can't help until you untie me,' he shouted down to her as she ran towards him. 'There's a knife in my jacket pocket.'

  She was shaking and sobbing wildly, but she managed to find the knife and cut the rope round his wrists. Swiftly Richard freed his legs and scrambled out of the wrecked truck, thankful they had not been alongside a sheer drop.

  It was nonetheless a scene of carnage which met his horrified gaze. The truck driver had fallen under the wheels of the truck, and a quick inspection showed he was beyond help.

  The cart had been halted but the girl who had freed him was back beside it, staring down in horror at her companion, lying frighteningly still on the road.

  'He was flung out!' she sobbed. 'Oh, please help me! Is he dead?'

  Richard was already kneeling beside the man, an elderly peasant from the look of him, and feeling for his heartbeat.

  'No, just stunned I think, from the fall. But his leg may be broken too.'

  'Can we move him? He'll die of cold if we leave him there. Please, can we get him into the cart? Should we take him home or to the town? It's too far away, we'd never reach it before dark! What shall we do?'

  'You have a house nearby?' Richard cut into this torrent of words ruthlessly and she looked at him blankly for a moment, then took a deep breath and pulled herself together.

  'Yes, a short way along the track. If he isn't badly hurt we'd better take him there. My aunt can look after him. She used to be a nurse, I am sure she can set his leg.'

  'Tie the horse to something. That tree will do, and then come and help me lift him.'

  To Richard's relief she obeyed without delay. The cart was too small to take the dead man too, and Richard knew he would have to return later to move his body, unless there were local officials to whom the task could be left. They were soon driving back along the track, the horse now docile. The girl explained he had been frightened by the gunshots of a hunter too near the track.

  'It was probably Dieter, the fool. He's always coming too far from his own house. We'd been going to collect a last pile of wood before the snow covers it up, and the idiot horse got the bit between his teeth and ran away. Is Uncle Friedrich all right, do you think?'

  'Apart from his leg he's just stunned,' Richard assured her, hoping he was right.

  It seemed a very long way before they reached a house, but once there a motherly woman took control. She gave brisk orders, fashioned a competent looking splint for what she declared was a simple fracture of the tibia, and seemed quite unperturbed by the disaster. Soon after they had put Uncle Friedrich to bed he recovered his senses, but was promptly forced to drink a herb sedative by his dominating wife.

  'We will keep him quiet tonight,' Frau Müller said firmly.

  'I must do something about the driver.' Richard said. 'Is there a village, someone I should report to?'

  'It's too dark for you to find your way, these tracks are difficult for strangers. And it's too late to get to the town tonight, but in the morning we will see what is to be done. There is a bed in the other room for you, sir.'

  By the morning, however, there had been another heavy fall of snow. Frau Müller was busy in the kitchen when Richard appeared.

  'How can we get out? It's too deep for the cart,' he said after enquiring about her husband.

  She shrugged. 'We can't. We will be snowed in for several months now. The poor man will have to lie there. The only way out, if you can use them, is on skis.'

  *

  When Marigold returned from shopping she found Mary slumped in a chair beside the kitchen table. She was shaking uncontrollably.

  'Mom, what is it? Are you ill?'

  Mary looked up at her, eyes blank.

  'The rent collector came,' she said tonelessly. 'The landlord sent a message.'

  'Well? What was it?'

  'He wants us out.'

  'To leave here? Mom, he can't! We're never late with the rent!'

  'He says it's meant for miners. He's offered us a back to back, two rooms, the same rent. It seems he can get more now.'


  'Have you told Pa?'

  Mary shook her head. 'I daren't. You know how quiet he goes, not speaking for days when something upsets him. This would finish him, to be turned out of the house he's been so proud of, and be pushed into a slum.'

  'That won't happen!' Marigold declared. 'With my money we can afford something better anyway. How long have we got?'

  'A month. But we couldn't afford a good house, Marigold, especially as my eyes are so bad and I can't sew much now. It's not right to depend on your money, and Poppy can't spare much.'

  'Don't say a word to Pa. I'll arrange something before he has to know, and make it look as if it's planned, meant to help all of us and not forced on us.'

  Marigold had been thinking hard even before this latest calamity. Sophia's letters had been growing more desperate, more pleading even, as she wrote how much she missed Dick.

  Also Marigold was concerned for the child. He seemed more delicate than he'd been at The Place, and succumbed to colds and other infections too readily. It really wasn't a good place for a child, this damp and cheerless house, but she couldn't desert her mother, especially now.

  Mary had grown suddenly old, her previous boundless energy gone. She could see to do her sewing, her only way of making money, only in bright daylight. Pa had more frequent and longer spells when he seemed oblivious of everything, not speaking for days on end. Without Marigold's help and support her family would be doomed.

  She spent a day in Birmingham and was ready with her plans.

  'I ought to take Dick to The Place,' she said that evening. It was shortly before Christmas. 'Mrs Endersby misses him so. Could you manage if I went for a few days?'

  'Of course, we mustn't be selfish and keep him all to ourselves,' Mary said at once. 'Ivy is much more responsible now, and helps a great deal. And Poppy doesn't seem to have so many rehearsals lately on her days off, despite the Christmas show she's involved in. Of course we can manage.'

  Marigold set off for the Potteries. She'd sent a telegram to annouce her time of arrival, and Kemp was at the station to meet her.