The Cobweb Cage

by Marina Oliver

  'What is there to explain?' Marigold asked sharply. 'You told lies about staying with Lucy, and you deliberately made it appear that David Travers was cheating his employers.'

  'But I didn't mean it to get him the sack! I just wanted to frighten them! I didn't want Poppy to leave me again!' she wailed, casting herself into Marigold's arms. 'Marigold, don't be angry with me!'

  'Don't be taken in by her!' Bill exclaimed.

  Ivy swung round towards him, her eyes suddenly blazing.

  'What's it got to do with you?' she demanded furiously. 'Poppy's my sister! She shouldn't have left me!'

  'She was afraid for David,' Marigold said slowly. 'Ivy, what did she mean?'

  Ivy gave a bitter laugh.

  'I expect it was that stupid accusation she made when George died, that I poisoned him!' she exclaimed scornfully. 'Just because her wretched little dog died of eating some rat bait and George ate a tainted mushroom, she has to blame me! Well good riddance to her! America is welcome to her crazy ideas!'

  'Poison? You poisoned George?' Bill was staring at her in utter amazement.

  'Whether she believes that or not you've driven Poppy away from us, Ivy!' Marigold said slowly, and Ivy turned on her, at last losing control.

  'I haven't! She was always trying to get away from me!' she screamed, and although Bill tried to hold her she shook him off and stormed around the room. He shrugged, hoping she would exhaust her fury the sooner if left to vent her spleen unchecked.

  'You all tried to get away from me!' she gabbled, the words tumbling over each other. 'Why blame me for everything? It was your fault I fell on the fire, and Johnny's that Pa didn't get better, and he started it by stealing and having to be sent away from home! If he hadn't gone you wouldn't have had to go to that horrid Oxford, and you wouldn't have met beastly Richard and spoiled everything! I hate you! None of you love me, and you're always trying to get away! But Poppy had to come back from her horrid factory and you had to come back as well, I made you, but now she's gone again! I hate her!'

  She was striding about the room, while the others looked on in amazement. Suddenly she seized the decanter and hurled it at the window. Then, as the shattered glass slithered crackling to floor and Bill rushed to grab her, she tossed the glasses furiously into the fireplace, sobbing wildly.

  'Be quiet!' he commanded. 'You can be heard all over the hotel! There's no need to display such a temper just because you've been told a few unpalatable home truths and for once cannot scheme or lie your way out of trouble, you little hell-hound!'

  Ivy went limp suddenly, and he laid her on the sofa.

  'Should we call the doctor again?' Marigold asked, habitual concern for her sister overcoming her revulsion at the girl's behaviour.

  'You'd be better advised to forget all about her and leave her to her own devices,' Bill said soothingly, crossing to clasp Marigold in his arms. 'Give up, my darling Marigold. Marry me and stop worrying about her.'

  Marigold began to say this was not the time or the place to discuss her future but Ivy, hysterical and beside herself with fury, shouted her down.

  'That's where you're mistaken, Mr Colonel Thomas! Marigold can't marry you or anyone else because her beloved Richard's still alive, in a love nest in Switzerland!'

  ***

  Chapter 18

  Marigold looked about her with awe. The mountains, snow capped even in summer, were magnificent. They were unlike anything she had ever seen before, even in the days of travelling with Mrs Nugent to house parties.

  She had booked into a small hotel, but it was almost dark when she arrived and there was no time to do anything more that evening despite her impatience.

  When Ivy made that shattering announcement she at first refused to believe the girl. It was yet another way in which her little sister, incredible though it seemed, was trying to wound her.

  Bill, however, had taken charge. He questioned Ivy relentlessly, ignoring her tantrums and protests and Marigold's own pleas to him to stop, until Ivy had given way.

  'I didn't want you to leave us and go back to him,' Ivy repeated over and over again.

  'How did you know he was in Switzerland?' Bill asked.

  Ivy at first tried to maintain it was pure chance which took her to St Moritz, but Bill's repeated questions made her once more lose her temper and she mentioned his letter.

  'Letter? What letter?' Marigold intervened, by now as determined as Bill to discover all Ivy had to tell.

  'Did you ever have a letter from Richard?' Bill asked.

  'No, of course not, or I'd have known he was alive.'

  Sulkily, realising that neither tears nor hysterics nor repeated swoons would let her escape now, Ivy was forced to admit to having opened the letter Richard had sent to the Cranworths' house.

  'Why didn't he write again? Surely he could not have been so certain one letter would find me?' Marigold asked, pain in her voice. Had he cared so little after all?

  Bill was watching Ivy closely and saw the smirk almost of pride on her face.

  'You copied the writing of David Travers easily enough,' he said thoughtfully. 'Did you send Richard a reply, pretending it was from Marigold?'

  'Of course not!' Ivy retorted. 'He was so besotted he'd never have believed it if she'd said she didn't want him back.'

  'Then how did you stop him coming here, or writing again?'

  'He obviously wanted to stay with his little Swiss doll!'

  'You can't have it both ways! If he was besotted he would hardly be in love with anyone else!' Bill said sharply. 'Did you reply pretending to be someone else?'

  'I wrote saying she was dead, and the baby!' Ivy said defiantly. 'I didn't want him ever coming back and disrupting our life here! It was all going well for the first time ever, I was having drawing lessons, we had money, we were happy!'

  'And you didn't care one jot for how Richard would feel to be told his child and I were dead?' Marigold asked in amazement. 'You are a monster, Ivy! How could you be so incredibly selfish?'

  Bill forced Ivy, defiantly proud of her ingenuity in forging the letter from Mary, to tell them what she had said. As he hadn't suspected she had also forged one from Sophia she was able to keep that secret. Marigold still found it hard to believe the sister on whom she had lavished love and care could repay her in such a way.

  With Bill's promise to stay in Birmingham and take care of both Ivy and the hotels, including the imminent opening of a new joint venture in Stafford, Marigold packed a few clothes and set off at once for Switzerland. She refused Bill's offer to accompany her, saying he would be of much more use in England watching over Ivy.

  'Why not tell Richard's parents? They could come with you,' Bill suggested, but Marigold vehemently shook her head.

  'If he'd wanted to contact them surely he would have done so long before now?' she said. 'He never forgave them their attitude to me. He may not wish to be reminded, to have the hurt renewed. Besides, if – whatever happens, I prefer to face it alone.'

  Ivy insisted Richard was living with a girl and appeared happy with her. Marigold had to see for herself. She could not subject him to a sudden letter announcing, after all these years, that the previous one had been false. And if Ivy was wrong she wanted to be with him as soon as it was possible. She could not bear to wait for letters to pass, for him to journey home, for agonising delay.

  She went to bed but barely slept. In the morning she made herself swallow coffee and rolls, and wait again until it was a reasonable hour to be taking the air.

  Marigold had discovered from Ivy where Inge's hotel was, and when she could bear the waiting no more she set off in that direction.

  As she drew nearer her steps slowed. What would she say to him? How could she minimise Ivy's responsibility? The old habits of protecting her sister and excusing all Ivy's faults still gripped her.

  With relief she saw there was a café opposite, and she hurried to sit where she could watch the entrance of the hotel. Perhaps if she watched for a while
she would see something that might help. Precisely what she had no idea, but as the moment for seeing Richard came closer she was suddenly as apprehensive, as shy and nervous as during their first few encounters, when she had no idea what he really felt for her.

  Slowly she drank her coffee. The waiter hovered, for there were few people about so early in the day. Marigold spoke to him hesitantly and smiled as he replied in English although with a heavy German accent.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. It had made her journey so much easier to find the Swiss often spoke two or more languages fluently. St Moritz was in the area where Romansh was spoken, but German was the commonest language. However, she had always found someone who understood English.

  Marigold waved her hand towards the hotel opposite.

  'I was told an Englishman lived there,' she said. 'Is it not unusual for an Englishman to own a hotel in Switzerland?'

  The waiter shrugged.

  'There is a man, a foreigner, English or German. But he does not own the hotel. It belongs to Fraulein Inge Schwartz, though she is supposed to be getting married soon, my sister says, and they are friends. Then no doubt there will be changes.'

  'She is marrying the Englishman?' Marigold asked faintly. Had Ivy been right after all? Was Richard happy with this girl? Had he forgotten her? Did he believe her dead? Of course he must, after receiving Ivy's letter.

  Her thoughts were in such a turmoil she missed the waiter's reply, but then she noticed he was pointing along the road. A small cart driven by a tall, dark-haired young man was bowling along. Beside him a pretty, fair-haired girl sat clutching a wicker basket in her arms.

  'Fraulein Schwartz,' the waiter said briefly, and moved away to attend to a new customer.

  Marigold shrank back and instinctively raised her hand to shield her face. Then she gasped, half rose from her chair, and sank back again as her legs, quivering like jelly, refused to support her.

  Richard, more handsome than she recalled with his beard, tanned and virile in his open-necked shirt and the local lederhosen, bare headed and smiling broadly, had appeared on the steps of the hotel.

  She longed to run towards him, throw her arms about him, and feel once more that beloved body close to hers, know the joy and comfort of being held by him, the sensuous pleasure of his lips caressing her, and his eyes, full of love and desire, telling her she was his.

  She could not, dare not move. Deeply though she knew she still loved him, Richard might have changed. He might have a new love now. He might not relish reminder of a younger, impetuous love which had separated him from his family, an obligation he would feel bound to obey. She had no right to demand that of him.

  He greeted the pair in the cart. Marigold saw his lips move as he spoke, but he was too far away for her to hear the words. The girl in the cart thrust her basket into the driver's hands and without ceremony cast herself down into Richard's outstretched arms, flinging her arms round his neck and babbling happily up at him. Then she stretched up and kissed him full on the lips. Marigold's last faint hope collapsed.

  The driver descended and hitched the reins to a post. He offered his hand to Richard who shook it heartily and then, his arm about the girl's waist and with the other man following, Richard led them into the hotel.

  He looked so happy. Marigold sat on for some time, ignoring everyone, not knowing what to do. At last she rose, paid her bill, and walked slowly back to her hotel.

  Quite calm now, she gave orders she wasn't to be disturbed. Then she removed her dress and lay down on her bed. The sight of her beloved after all these years when she had hoped and prayed he was still alive, refusing to admit his death, had given her both exquisite joy and unbearable pain.

  He was alive, clearly fit and well. He had been told she was dead and he had recovered. He was happy with another girl who obviously adored him and they were to be married. What right had she to disturb that happiness? How could she claim him as her husband and perhaps destroy a hard-won peace of mind, ruin the new life he had carved for himself in this beautiful country?

  Methodically she thought back over their courtship and marriage. It had been so unconventional. He had been young and might have regretted in later years marrying a servant. Would he relish having to resume that life and give up the one he had so clearly chosen here, with a new love to console him for the loss of Marigold? Inge, she thought without rancour, was very pretty, far lovelier than she was, and lively.

  If he was happy, and her brief glimpse of his reception of Inge Schwartz convinced her he was, surely her greatest gift to him would be to keep silent, to retreat from his life, leave him in ignorance of her own existence?

  What of Dick and his parents, her conscience asked.

  He could have written to his parents at any time. And to know of Dick's existence would mean he knew of her own. That would destroy his present life. Dick had never known a father, and so many children had lost fathers during the war. It was nothing unusual.

  What was of overriding importance was Richard's happiness, she concluded at the end of that long, agonising day. No one else should know anything. She would return to England leaving Richard in peace.

  *

  It was time to go, Richard knew. Inge had come back from Helmut's wedding with Dieter, overflowing with excitement at the fact that Dieter had asked her to marry him. If Richard privately had a suspicion that Dieter saw an opportunity to acquire a flourishing business as well as a wife, should he be condemned for it? Inge would be happy and Dieter would, so far as Richard could judge, treat her well.

  Richard, however, would be in the way. There was insufficient work for him now, it was routine and tedious and he was bored. Dieter could manage the hotel perfectly well and set up his skiing lessons besides. The newly-married couple would not want him always around, and he had no desire to remain and simply find another similar job in a different hotel.

  'Will you go back to England?' Dieter asked when Richard told them he would be leaving as soon as it was convenient for them.

  'I may go back for a while, just to see old places again, but I think I would prefer to go to America.'

  'You have enough money for the journey?' Inge asked anxiously.

  'I have plenty saved. You've paid me well and there has been little to spend it on. I have enough to see me to America and to keep me for a few weeks while I look for a job.'

  'Will you go and see your wife's grave?' Inge asked gently.

  She had never referred to his wife and child since that dreadful day when he had received the letters from home. He had been grateful for her silent sympathy then and her reticence afterwards, and was rather surprised she should speak of such painful matters now.

  'Inge told me,' Dieter said quietly. 'Forgive me, Richard, if it is a private matter, but you have been such a good friend to Inge. We wish to help you now.'

  'I don't understand.' Richard said abruptly. 'How can the fact you know about Marigold's death help me?'

  'No, that is not what Dieter means, Richard. You must go and say goodbye to them,' Inge said seriously. 'You will soon start a new life in America. You must first be finished with the old.'

  'I was finished with that long ago,' Richard replied. 'Once I hoped to go back. I spent years contriving my escape from Germany. When they died it was pointless.'

  'If I had not had the accident you would have gone back instead of staying to help me,' Inge said. 'You have not finished with it, you have not said farewell. I went to say goodbye to Uncle Friedrich and Aunt Gertrude while I was up in the valley. It was like closing a door. Now I can go forwards and plan a new life with Dieter. You must do the same with your loved ones, Richard, or you will suffer regret always.'

  Richard had not replied and soon Dieter spoke of something else. That night he forced himself to consider what they had said, and came to the conclusion Inge had once more shown a simple wisdom. It came, perhaps, from living so close to nature, isolated in her mountain valley.

  It would be incredibly p
ainful to see the grave where his darlings lay. He would be unable to read the gravestone, he feared his eyes would be so full of tears. Then he lifted his head. Would they have a gravestone? The Smiths were so poor he doubted whether they could have afforded one, and who else would have bothered?

  For the first time he wondered what had happened to his own money, whether his parents had claimed it, or whether Marigold had left it to her sisters. What was the law when his death was not known for certain? That at least was something he could do. He would make sure a good, proper headstone with a few words of love from him was erected, and then he could see to it that Marigold's family were in receipt of the money and income that was rightly his.

  To do this he would have to tell his parents he was alive. But he would deal with them through lawyers. He wondered if the man he had used in Birmingham was still there. It would be better to go himself rather than try to explain such a complicated matter by letter. Besides, there was nothing to keep him and the sooner he went the sooner it could all be arranged.

  Inge begged him to remain for her wedding, and as it was fixed for the following month he agreed. A few more weeks would make little difference.

  'And you can teach me how to run the hotel, my friend,' Dieter said cheerfully.

  'I'll go the day after the wedding,' Richard said, and tried to curb his impatience as Inge talked excitedly and repetitively of nothing else.

  He might have been going to his own wedding, to his own beloved bride, his eagerness to be back in England was so great. Never before had he faced the physical reality of Marigold's death. He was going to her but she was in a cold, comfortless grave.

  He had known as an intellectual fact that she was no more. The aching loss, the void within him had remained as cuttingly painful as the first moment of reading the letter. Now he would see her grave, have final proof she had gone from him. It was something he had to do. Inge was right. He had to say goodbye before he could start a new life. He would never forget his love, never take another wife, but by saying goodbye he would complete a necessary task.