The Cobweb Cage Read online

  'Now the other. Stay there, it's in one o' the drawers,' Sam ordered.

  He was soon back with the other ointment, which was creamier, white and with only a faint perfume. Lavender, Ivy thought.

  'Lay yersen down, I can't do it wi' yer sitting up,' he ordered.

  Ivy sighed, but complied. She was eager to be done with it and go home, where she had several new flowers to identify from her book.

  Sam knelt beside the bed. Slowly he spread the ointment on his hands, then began to smooth it gently over her flat chest. Ivy wriggled. It tickled. And his fingers were rough. Then she was distracted by the look on Sam's face, and frowned, puzzled. He was flushed, and began to breathe heavily. After a while he began to tremble, and then suddenly he turned away and leant across the bed, rocking backwards and forwards.

  She sat up in alarm.

  'Sam, are you ill? What's wrong?'

  'It's nothin', just a cramp,' he said hoarsely, and turned away from her to push the lid back on the jar. 'I'll 'ave ter do it every week, mind. Get dressed now, but come back next Sunday afternoon, same time.'

  *

  Mrs Roberts didn't return to Oxford until the beginning of June. On the first Wednesday afterwards Marigold took a bus for Woodstock, where she hoped to meet Richard.

  'I shall know from Professor Roberts when you get home, so as long as I'm not actually sitting an examination I'll be meeting you as usual,' he'd said before they parted outside Hednesford.

  She got down from the bus in the pretty market square, and walked towards the entrance to the Park of Blenheim Palace.

  'We can meet inside, no one will mind. In fact we go skating on the lake sometimes, so I know it well,' Richard said.

  It was the first time Marigold had been there, and she was rather hesitant about crossing the high-walled courtyard outside the gatehouse until she saw Richard's car parked in one corner.

  He must be inside. She stepped hesitantly through the archway, and saw him immediately, strolling along the edge of the lake to the right, an enormous palace visible on the far side.

  'Darling Marigold, it's been so long!'

  It seemed so natural to kiss, and Marigold held up her face expectantly.

  'Let's go this way.'

  Richard, his arm about her waist, guided her along between the wall which surrounded the entire park and the lake, away from the huge palace which was bigger even than the Oxford colleges.

  They soon reached a secluded spot on the shores of the lake, in the shelter of trees heavy with summer foliage.

  'I brought a rug for us to sit on,' Richard said, pointing to a tartan rug he had already laid on the ground. 'And I'm cooling a bottle of champagne in the lake. To celebrate our reunion.'

  'Mom makes elderflower champagne,' Marigold said. 'Is it like that?'

  'It's bubbly. I came early so that it would be cool. It should be ready now. Let's try some.'

  It was, Marigold decided, not quite as nice as the elderflower champagne, which tasted more like lemonade, and after one glass she laughingly refused more.

  'No, really, I don't think I like it. The bubbles get up my nose and make me want to sneeze. Why do people like it so much?' she asked, puzzled.

  'An acquired taste, I suppose. Tell me what you've been doing. It's seemed so long since I saw you.'

  She talked mainly about the large country house where she had stayed with Mrs Roberts, even more imposing than Gordon Villa, but as she spoke she realised with some surprise that she hadn't been nearly so overawed as she would have expected. She seemed to be getting accustomed to living in rich, even opulent surroundings.

  Richard told her about his examinations, which were now almost over, and his father's business, which he expected to work in after the summer.

  'It's a pottery, making all sorts of goods, and he wants to export a lot to America. He thinks the situation in Europe is getting more dangerous.'

  'Dangerous? How?'

  'The French and the Germans are squabbling in North Africa, the Balkans are in turmoil yet again, the Turks and the Italians are fighting. It just seems that nothing is the same as it was. Father believes we shall do better in America, and he intends to set up a shop there.'

  'Will you have to go there?'

  Marigold turned to him, suddenly realising that this enchanted time in Oxford was about to end.

  'No, I don't think so.'

  'You'll still be so far away,' she whispered. 'I don't think I can bear it.'

  'We'll see one another again, I promise.'

  She didn't know how this could possibly be, but when he bent to kiss her Marigold turned her lips towards his, seeking comfort. This was no gentle kiss such as she'd been used to, a tender exploration of mouth and lips and tongue, soft flesh meeting and mingling and giving exquisite sensations of pleasure.

  This was fierce, demanding, a craving to reach one another's very souls, to crush and be crushed. Marigold was overwhelmed by a need she'd never known before.

  Richard had intended no more for the moment than a gentle comfort, but the passion he recognised in her could not be assuaged by a light touch. As she strained against him, her hands clutching his hair, her lips opening in a wordless plea, his resolve to keep a fierce rein on his own desires faltered.

  She was so young, so inexperienced, nothing like Flo. He'd been aware from the moment he knew he wanted her that he'd have to proceed very slowly. It was a new experience. To his surprise he realised he was now treating her as he would a girl of his own class, with its very different code dictating the speed and extent of his courtship.

  But her grief, changing so suddenly into this raging desire, inflamed him beyond caution. He slowly removed the pins from her hair until it fell in a golden shower to float round her shoulders. The silken feel of it on his hands was a shivering ecstasy, and he wound it sensuously round his fingers, lost in the delight of it.

  Gradually his hands came free of her hair. Marigold sighed as they slid down from her shoulders, moulding her slender body in the thin print dress she wore.

  She pressed even closer to him, murmuring his name as he began to kiss her cheeks, her chin, and then her neck. She arched away from him, unconsciously willing him to explore further, and shuddered in astonished delight when his hand folded over her breast.

  'My love, my dearest love!' he whispered. 'Marigold, I can't bear to let you go! Love me, let me love you properly!'

  His hands strayed past her waist, and as he lay down and pulled her close to him she could feel the heat of his desire. Somewhere, in the deepest recesses of her mind, she knew she had discovered what it was that tempted girls into this sort of behaviour. The sensations were so delicious, making her want to forget everything else but the need to be close to him, to lose herself in the ecstasy of desire, to savour fully what she knew instinctively would be even more rapturous bliss.

  But when he began to undo the buttons at the front of her dress it broke the spell. Marigold's eyes opened wide with shock, and she gasped as if just awakening from a dream.

  'Richard, no!' she protested.

  'It's all right, my darling. I won't hurt you, I just can't bear the thought of being away from you soon, perhaps for a long time. Darling, you want me as much as I want you. We love one another, and I need you so much!' he whispered. 'I can't let you go. When I leave Oxford come back with me. I can easily rent a cottage for you somewhere near my home. Of course, that's what we'll do! I can see you almost every day, and you wouldn't have to work any more!'

  She shuddered, and moved suddenly, away from him. When he reached out a hand to stop her she shook her head, pushing his hand away before beginning to do up her dress.

  'What is it?' he asked, worried.

  'I'm not that sort of girl,' she said quietly, struggling to prevent the sobs from breaking loose.

  She wanted him to continue, she knew. How she wanted it! But it was wrong. They were two people whose lives had crossed, but who could never mean anything more to one another. She kne
w she loved him, but her mother's warnings echoed in her head. He would forget her. Soon he would be away from Oxford, and unless she did the unthinkable and went with him he would never think of her again.

  'There's nothing wrong, my darling. It's natural when two people love like we do, to want to kiss, and touch each other, make love together. We can have our own home.'

  'You can't love me, not honestly,' she suddenly cried out, struggling to her feet. 'What would happen to me when you wanted to marry some suitable, well bred girl? Would I have to find another man to keep me?' She backed away as he reached out to her. 'No! Stay there! I couldn't get a decent job. You don't understand, you're rich, from a rich family. I'm just a miner's daughter, a servant myself, and I might have known no good would come of it. We can't just be friends, and I won't be your whore!'

  ***

  Chapter 7

  Marigold was still numb with misery a whole year after her quarrel with Richard and scarcely noticed the glorious weather. It was one of the finest summers of recent years, but she moved through her duties oblivious to the sun and the halcyon summer days.

  Garden parties became the normal way of spending the afternoons, especially when the long vacation began. While the young people played tennis or croquet, and went in boats on the river, Margold often had to serve tea to the guests on Gordon Villa's spacious lawn.

  One day the Professor invited several colleagues and a couple of retired army officers to tea. Marigold was helping to pass sandwiches.

  Two elderly men were sitting on wooden benches, conversing in the tones of the very deaf. As Marigold went towards them she could hear their voices plainly.

  'Those damned Serbs are at it again.'

  'What's that? Serbs?'

  'Don't think the damned Balkans'll ever get sorted out. They're like Ireland, always a problem. Some fanatic shot an Austrian Arch-Duke. Place called Sarajevo, or something like that. Ever heard of it?'

  'Always get those places confused. Spent most of my time working on Chinese history.'

  'Central Europe's one petty squabble after another. It's a wonder there's any royalty left, so many of 'em get shot at by some disaffected plotters.'

  Marigold moved away to fetch more of the dainty sandwiches, but that night she mentioned what she had overheard to Miss Baker, whose brother, she had discovered, was an army officer.

  'Are there lots of killings?' she asked. 'Is it worse than Ireland? It seems so dreadful to kill Kings and Queens.'

  'We did it once,' Miss Baker reminded her.

  'But that was hundreds of years ago! Surely we've become more civilised?'

  'That's your answer. The central European countries are very backward in many ways.'

  By the end of July the situation had become grave. Every time there were guests Marigold heard talk of the happenings in Europe instead of University affairs and the perennial Irish question.

  'It looks like war,' Miss Baker said one morning as they were taking the children into Oxford to order new shoes for them.

  'War?' Marigold was shaken out of her lethargy. 'I heard Germany and Russia were threatening one another, but I don't understand why. What has it all to do with an assassination in the Balkans?'

  'Austria is threatening the Serbs, after the Austrian Arch-Duke Franz-Ferdinand was killed. Germany supports Austria, Russia supports Serbia.'

  'But will that involve us? None of our Empire is threatened, is it? Like it was in South Africa? Though I never did know the causes of that,' Marigold said ruefully. 'At school the only history we were taught was the dates of kings and queens and battles hundreds of years ago – nothing about recent times.'

  'It may involve us if Germany threatens France. They're old enemies, remember.'

  'That's terrible, but surely we wouldn't be in danger? If Germany is fighting Russia as well they wouldn't have enough strength to attack us.'

  Miss Baker sighed. 'That depends. And it's not so simple. I heard the Professor say he suspects Germany will attempt a sudden strike to defeat France and make them helpless before turning on Russia. The best way into France is through Belgium, but Belgian neutrality is guaranteed by Britain, amongst others.'

  'So if Germany attacks Belgium to get to France, we'll have to go and defend Belgium? Why do we have to fight other countries' wars?'

  'It wouldn't stop there. Would you prefer a country like Germany to rule everyone else?'

  'So what will happen?'

  'I imagine if the diplomats can't find a solution, our armies will be going to France soon. It's not unexpected by everyone. We've been building the navy up for years, keeping ahead of Germany.'

  'If war comes it will be much worse than anything the world has yet known. Many of the Professor's students will want to go.'

  *

  Johnny held Lucy's hand as they walked along the canal towpath.

  'I have to go,' he said, the words forced out of him.

  She could barely restrain her tears.

  'I know, and really I'm proud of you for doing your duty, but – I shall miss you so much! I love you, Johnny.'

  'Lucy, I love you too, I always have!'

  'Johnny, you know there's no-one else for me,' Lucy said firmly. 'We'll be married, before you enlist.'

  He could hardly believe his ears.

  'I'm only just nineteen, Lucy. Much too young, people would say, to get married, even though I'm earning good money.'

  Lucy took a deep breath. The fire and spirit of her Irish ancestors seemed to flow into her.

  'You may be killed,' she stated bluntly. 'That's what happens to soldiers. I'd never forgive myself if you were and we hadn't belonged to one another because of some silly notion we were too young. I always meant to marry you.' She suppressed her tears with difficulty. 'And if you died I'd want to have your child. Something of you, to remember you.'

  'Is there time? Before I go?' he asked.

  'I can be ready quickly. I don't need a new dress, my best one will do. Let's go and see if we can get a special licence. I've read about them, but I don't know how to start! Then we could have a week or two longer.'

  'But your mother?'

  'Leave her to me. She won't be surprised. And she likes you, Johnny, don't fear. She knows you're a good, God-fearing man.'

  'A house! I can't find you a house or even rooms in the time. And how can I support you?'

  'Why would I want a house? There'd be no sense in leaving Mom and having extra expense just to to live on my own.'

  'But, I – Lucy, I like your Mom, it's not that, but I'd want us to have our own home.'

  'And so I mean to, later, but it doesn't make sense now. We couldn't afford more than a couple of rooms, so we'll save the money and stay with Mom. I can go on working. There'll be lots of jobs for women if all the young men enlist. Why all these objections? Are you having second thoughts? Am I rushing you?' she teased.

  His response left her breathless and in no doubt of his need of her. Some while later they strolled home busy making plans, the first of which was to take Lucy to Hednesford to meet his family and gain their blessing and permission.

  *

  Poppy was oblivious of the looming clouds. She had worked in the house during this summer like a zombie, ignoring Ivy's absences, doing her sister's work as well as her own without complaint.

  Every morning, when Ivy had gone to school, she took a small sheet of paper out of her pocket and crossed off another day. Only another six months and two weeks and three days before she was fourteen, old enough to get a job, old enough to escape from this claustrophobic drudgery which she hated with a fierce, but unexpressed loathing.

  She had no friends. How could she when she never had time to go out with them.

  'Of course there's time,' Mary told her one evening when Poppy had refused to walk with them up on Hednesford Hills. 'You work much harder than you need, love, and I'm so thankful I can rely on you. But you can leave the ironing till tomorrow.'

  'It'll be too hot to do it during
the day. I'd rather do it now, while I can leave the door open and the air's a bit cooler.'

  'It's a lovely evening, and lots of your old school friends'll be there. Folk always walk up there when it's fine.'

  'No one wants me,' Poppy said sullenly. 'It'll be different when I've got a job, a proper job, and can buy some nice clothes.'

  'Well you can soon, when your birthday comes, and then maybe I can stop working for Mrs Andrews. If I can do more sewing at home, we'll manage fine. Sure you won't come?'

  Poppy shook her head and defiantly plonked the irons on the fire to heat.

  'There's a lot to do if Johnny's coming home on Sunday, like his postcard said.'

  Mary sighed and left her to it. She was worried, but had no idea how to treat Poppy in order to make her happier. The girl could have worked for a few hours a week, the law permitted that, but she'd refused all suggestions of working in a shop.

  'I won't do that, even when I can get a proper job.'

  'Shop assistants have to have a half day now, it's better hours than it used to be,' John had reminded her, but Poppy had hunched her shoulders and refused even to discuss what she wanted to do.

  Nor would she go out with Ivy.

  'Come on, it's a lovely afternoon, and I'm going on the Chase with Lizzie,' Ivy had said on several Sundays recently, about to disappear as she normally did straight after dinner.

  Poppy always refused.

  'Why should I want to play games with a couple of babies?' she asked scornfully the previous week.

  For once Ivy ignored the slur.

  'Billy'll be there, and Sam Bannister and some of his friends. They're older than you' she offered, but Poppy turned away and began clattering the dishes.

  'I've got to wash up while Mom has a rest,' she said pointedly, taking the kettle from the trivet and carrying it out into the scullery.