The Cobweb Cage

by Marina Oliver

  She hugged her secret to herself. George had written as often as he could, and since the waiting in the trenches was so incredibly tedious, and the men had little to do when they were off duty, she received a lot of letters. Fortunately she could hide them from the rest of her family. The hotel received many letters and she had taken over the task of opening and sorting them.

  George had proposed at Christmas, by letter, and this was the first time she had seen him since. She was both excited and shy.

  'Despite the dreadful losses on the Somme,' he had written, 'we are doing better. We've brought down the Zeppelins at home, and with Lloyd George now Prime Minister the war will be fought a little more vigorously, as everyone out here wants. It would not surprise us if the Germans sued for peace soon.'

  The peace proposals had been rejected, and Germany had turned their submarines, the much-feared U-boats, onto non-combatants. That had brought the Americans into the war just a few days earlier. With their fresh armies the war would be over within weeks, people said. Poppy would soon be able to plan her marriage.

  She was tremulously happy. Here was someone who wanted her for herself. She did not have to compete with Marigold, always so capable and in charge. She didn't have to defer to Ivy, because she was the youngest and had suffered from the burns when she was a baby, so that everyone felt sorry for her.

  She would have her own house at last as she had dreamed all those years ago. George was a gentleman, she would have a big house, she would always wear smart clothes and not have to work.

  Of course she loved George. He admired her, he was handsome, and so different from the boys she'd known in Hednesford. A sudden remembrance of Sam Bannister's slobbering attempts to kiss her made her shudder involuntarily. That had been horrid. Poor Sam, though. He'd died a week or so after getting to France. He hadn't wanted to go but they'd forced him.

  The train came puffing in, putting a stop to her reflections. Lots of people were hanging out of the windows waving to friends, and Poppy saw George near the front of the train.

  He opened the door and leapt down before the train fully stopped, and ran to catch her to him.

  'Poppy! Oh, my darling Poppy! You can't believe how much I've missed you!'

  He was swinging her round in excitement and she put her hands on his shoulders to steady herself.

  'George!' was all she could say. Her voice seemed to have vanished.

  He smiled, gently took her face in his hands and kissed her on the lips.

  'Darling Poppy, that's the first time I've kissed you properly!' he said wonderingly. 'In my dreams I've kissed you so often. I feel I know you so well, but I've never actually kissed you before!'

  She was blushing and laughing, clinging unashamedly to him. She loved him so much, he was hers and he loved her. Life was wonderful.

  'We'd better go to the hotel,' she said breathlessly.

  'Have you told them about me?' he asked.

  Poppy shook her head.

  'No, I was – well, I explained to you, I'm superstitious! I don't want anything to happen to you, and when I love something it always seems like a bad omen!'

  'But if they don't know how can we spend time together?'

  'It would be difficult inside the hotel, but I'm having a few days off. Marigold said I could, we've worked so hard for the last two months. We can go for walks, get a train somewhere, or we could borrow bicycles and go out into the country. There's lots to see.'

  'I wanted to buy you a ring,' George said. 'I can't do that unless I have your father's permission.'

  Poppy was tempted. What a thrill it would be to flaunt a lovely ring. None of her friends had yet become engaged. She would be the first and the envy of them all when she explained what George was. But caution and an irrational stab of fear made her shake her head.

  'Not just yet. I want to enjoy you to myself before we start discussing practical details,' she pleaded.

  'You're not having second thoughts now you've seen me again?' he asked quickly.

  'No! Of course not, George! I love you, I said I did in my letters and it's true.'

  'Until my next leave then? Before next Christmas, I hope. Who knows, perhaps by then the war will be over.'

  It was an enchanted two days for Poppy. They walked in the parks, rode borrowed bicycles on a trip into the nearby countryside, sat on the banks of the canal and talked until the chill spring air made them move on. They kissed under the shelter of the willows, hidden by the bright fresh foliage as the yellowy green leaves burst into abundant life.

  All too soon it was over and George had to return for the last few days of his leave with his parents.

  'Next time we'll get properly engaged,' George said firmly. 'I want to shout my love to everyone, tell them what a lucky chap I am to have your love.'

  *

  Ivy was disgruntled. Silas Frome had gone to London for a few weeks and her lessons with him had stopped for a while. She had been doing, under his direction, several small drawings of the buildings about the city centre, and he had promised to sell them for her. But he wasn't here and she was impatient.

  She was dawdling on her way home from school, for this was the day she would normally have gone for her lesson. Now she was uncertain what to do.

  'Miss Ivy? I thought it was you!'

  She turned round, puzzled, to see an elderly woman hurrying after her.

  'I'm Mrs Glover, probably you don't remember me,' the woman said. 'Mrs Cranworth's housekeeper.'

  'Yes, of course,' Ivy said politely. She could always recall faces, even if not the names which went with them.

  'This letter came.' Mrs Glover fumbled in her capacious shopping bag. 'It's got a foreign stamp. I was going to take it round to Mrs Endersby, but you can save me a journey. I'm that busy nowadays with the house turned over to the officers, I don't have a spare minute.'

  'Yes, of course I'll take it,' Ivy smiled at her and after a few polite questions about Marigold and the rest of the family Mrs Glover departed.

  Ivy looked at the envelope curiously. Who on earth could be writing to Marigold from Switzerland? Surely the fame of her hotel hadn't spread that far yet? But it was far too thick a missive for a simple query about accommodation.

  She continued on up Church Road into the Hagley Road. So absorbed was she in puzzling over the letter, she almost walked into a young man carrying a large flat parcel.

  'Hello, Ivy,' he said cheerfully.

  'Herbie. Hello.'

  'Are you on your way to Mr Frome's?'

  'No, he's in London,' Ivy said, her original cause for discontent resurfacing.

  'Is he? Then I can use his studio. Good, I've been wanting to finish off the portrait of old Mrs Tucker. You know, the grocer's wife.'

  'The one you were doing with her dressed up in Tudor costume?' Ivy asked, intrigued. 'Mr Frome told me.'

  'Yes, just because they have a Tudor house near Alcester and he thinks it would be appropriate.'

  'Does Mr Frome let you use his studio?' Ivy asked enviously.

  'He lets a few of the senior class at the art school use it, but only when he doesn't want it himself. I know where to get a key, and I could do some now but the problem is I haven't got a model.'

  'I thought Mrs Tucker was your model?'

  'Yes, but I've done the face and the hands, now I need to fill in the dress. Anyone could sit for me dressed in that.'

  He looked at her speculatively.

  'Would you do it for me?'

  'Me?' Ivy was wary. It might involve showing her scars, and no one in Birmingham, she was sure, knew about them.

  'She's quite small and you'd be sitting down. It's just so as to get the folds right. They never look the same unless someone's wearing the dress. Come on, Ivy. Just for an hour?'

  'What's the dress like?'

  'Tudor dresses are very stiff, with ruffs round the neck and those pointed waists.'

  Suddenly Ivy made up her mind. She wanted to mix with other artists, if only to displ
ay her own superior skill, but Mr Frome said she did not need to go to the art college even when she was old enough. She had met Herbie and a few other students at the studio on several occasions. Now she would sit for him.

  She almost forgot the letter until Herbie put his brushes down and began clearing away. While she was changing back into her own clothes behind the screen she found it in her pocket and curiosity consumed her.

  Carefully she eased up the flap, which was quite loose. She saw the beginning, 'My darling Marigold,' and with a sickening lurch of her heart turned over the many pages and read the ending, 'Ever yours, my dearest love, Richard.'

  After all these years, during which she had got Marigold back with them, as well as money and a lovely house, even if they did have to share it with hotel guests, he was going to come back and spoil it all. Marigold would go away again, they'd probably have to move back to a horrid little house in Hednesford, and she would lose her lessons with Mr Frome.

  'Have you finished? I must lock up now,' Herbie called, and Ivy thrust the letter into her pocket.

  'Will you come again tomorrow?' Herbie asked. 'I still have quite a bit to do.'

  'If you like,' Ivy said listlessly. 'What time? After school?'

  'I may be a bit later. Look, I'll show you where Mr Frome keeps the spare key, then if I'm late you can let yourself in and get changed ready for me.'

  Ivy nodded, watched where he hid the key, and set off for home. As she went an idea came to her. She must read the letter first before giving it to Marigold, and then she would know what had happened to Richard. It wasn't safe to read it at home, for someone might come in. She would creep back to the studio where she would have privacy.

  Ten minutes later she was letting herself in and locking the door behind her. It was still daylight, and she sat by the window and pulled the many sheets of paper out of the envelope. She read them grimly, wondering why Richard had survived all those calamities, any of which could so easily have killed him. And now all he waited for was Marigold to arrange to send him money for the journey home.

  Within days, a week, he could be here and her life disrupted. He would take Marigold away as he had before, and she would no longer love Ivy best.

  Ivy raged against a cruel fate that had kept Richard alive when so many of his friends had been killed. She didn't want him here. She wouldn't have him. Somehow she would stop him coming.

  Having made that decision she became calmer. She looked round for somewhere to hide the letter, and in the end stuffed it into the depths of a wickerwork hamper in which Mr Frome kept various lengths of cloth he used for draping the throne. She would miss school on the following day and come here to plan what she must do. On the way into the hotel she went into Marigold's office, which was empty, and took a sheet of the handsome headed notepaper and some envelopes. Hurrying upstairs she decided that a bilious attack would be the safest excuse. On reaching her room Ivy sat down and hastily wrote a note to Miss Dawson to explain her absence from school the following day, copying her mother's writing. It wasn't the first time she had adopted this ruse to escape from school.

  Ivy sealed the note, went out once more, and ran swiftly to the school in Church Road. It would be quite safe to put the note through the letterbox tonight, for once the school was closed no one looked there until the morning.

  By the following morning when she let herself into the studio again she had made her plans. She had with her a supply of writing paper and various other items, including the copy she had once made of the letter in Sophia's writing.

  She had thought very carefully about what she needed to do. Richard had said in his letter that he wouldn't write to his mother until he heard from Marigold whether they had begun to treat her properly. If she wrote a letter as if from Sophia it might prevent Richard from contacting them. This was essential because she was going to tell him Marigold and his child were dead. Then he would never come back and wreck her life.

  *

  'This is wonderful, Marigold! You've made it so elegant. Johnny will be so amazed when he sees it!'

  'Thank you, Lucy. When's he coming home on leave again? And how are you?'

  'He hopes to be here in the summer. They're having leave every six months if possible, but I pray the war will be over very soon. Little Jack hardly knows his father, and now – well, Johnny was here just after Christmas, and I'm having another child.'

  Marigold was honestly delighted for her sister-in-law, but she was surprised to feel a fierce pang of jealousy consume her as she thought of holding another baby in her arms. That would not be until Richard came home. If then, she thought, desolation in her heart. He must be seriously wounded, perhaps helpless, not to have found a way of contacting her all this time. Even when he did come home he might be an invalid or a cripple like her father.

  They might not be able to have more children. Then she chided herself. She'd had Dick. For more than a year she and Dick had been together for most of the day, and she had slept beside him at night, responsive to his every need. Richard had never seen him, not known the infinite joys of each tiny new thing the miracle of a baby learnt.

  Firmly Marigold pushed these gloomy thoughts away and concentrated on what Lucy was telling them. Then the child Jack was left with his adoring grandparents while Marigold took Lucy on a tour of the hotel.

  'I do admire you,' Lucy said sincerely. 'It looks both friendly and efficient as well as terribly superior.'

  'Good, that's what I aimed at,' Marigold said. 'One of those is no good without the others. Birmingham has some very big, grand hotels, and lots of small ones, but nothing in between. I couldn't have done any of it without Mr Endersby's help, and the money he gave me which should have been Richard's.'

  'Will you keep it on when Richard comes home?'

  Marigold blessed her sister-in-law. Lucy was the only one who believed Richard was alive and spoke of it as a normal, to-be-expected event that he would one day soon come home.

  'That depends on what he wants. It's his money, after all,' she replied.

  'But I've no doubt you're increasing his money,' Lucy suggested with a laugh.

  'I've already had an offer to buy me out or go into partnership,' Marigold said with a pleased laugh. 'I can't believe it, we've been open only for a few months.'

  'Who is this?

  Marigold flushed slightly.

  'It was actually an Army Captain. His family own hotels in Worcester and Northampton. He came here to stay, came back twice more, and on the last occasion he said we might perhaps do business.'

  Lucy was aware of Marigold's heated cheeks.

  'Was he impertinent?' she asked sharply.

  'No. No, of course not. Why on earth should you think he was?'

  'You seem agitated.'

  'It was nothing. No, that's not true. I can tell you, Lucy. You're to be trusted. You'll understand.'

  'Of course.'

  Marigold smiled gratefully at her.

  'He was just flattering, admiring me. Not the hotel or what I've built up here, although he did praise them too, but me as a person. I knew it although he was perfectly correct. I haven't noticed it before with anyone. It's a look in their eyes, an expression you can't define. I know he liked me and Lucy, it was as if I'd been unfaithful to Richard!'

  'Do you like this Captain?'

  'Yes, but not at all in the same way as I do Richard! It's laughable, as if I could ever feel the same about anyone else! But he was pleasant, polite, and he admired me. I didn't want his admiration, I felt threatened. Do you understand what I mean?'

  Lucy nodded. 'I hear lots of women talking about the temptations when their men are away for a long time. They miss them, and some of the weaker ones confuse that with missing any man! I expect you're afraid of yourself, but you needn't fear, Marigold. You love Richard and you're strong. No one will come between you unless you want them to.'

  'Thank you, Lucy. I'm not surprised Johnny loves you. It does me a great deal of good to talk to you. I j
ust wish you lived in Birmingham.'

  'Then I'd get on your nerves! No, Longbridge is my home, and unless Johnny wants to move that's where I'll stay. His old job is waiting for him when he comes back and he's already making plans. I hope it's soon.'

  'So do I. I long for this dreadful, awful slaughter to finish, and for us all to be happy again.'

  'Happiness is within ourselves, Marigold. You and I have the capacity for it, I believe, but at times I wonder if Poppy and Ivy have. Forgive me for speaking to you like this about your sisters, but there are occasions when they worry me.'

  'I know what you mean, but Poppy seems more content these days. She has a sort of glow about her.'

  'She may be in love.'

  'Poppy? But she's only sixteen!'

  'How old were you when you met Richard?'

  Marigold laughed ruefully. 'Fifteen! Younger, I know, But I felt much older! Not in dealings with boys, never that, I'd hardly thought about it. But I'd been looking after the house and the others for so long when Mom was out at work. I don't think I ever considered myself a child. Poppy's different, surely? She didn't grow up so fast.'

  'We all grow up fast when necessary,' Lucy said drily. 'I'll guarantee Poppy produces a man before long. You'd best be prepared for it.'

  *

  It was a thick letter, but not Marigold's writing. Richard felt a tremor of unease as he stared at the packet from England.

  By now some of the roads were open and Inge fetched their neighbours, two sturdy brothers Dieter and Helmut, to help. They lived a mile away, but across a couple of deep ravines which made communications impossible during the snows. A track similar to the one leading to the Müller s' house led from further along the main road to their farm, and as Inge said, it was now open.

  Horrified at the tale they were told, they helped Richard bury Frau Müller decently, removed the pitiful remains of the truck driver's body, then took Inge to shop for stores, for some items were running dangerously low. She brought back the letter, reply to the one Richard despached two weeks ago when he'd ventured to the village on skis.