The Cobweb Cage Page 4

  Poppy, told what had happened in whispers by her distraught sister, helped silently. Marigold, pale and trembling, crept round getting their dinner ready. If only she could live those few moments again, if only she hadn't spent so much time admiring the carving, ignoring Ivy, snapping at her even, being selfish, her little sister wouldn't have been so horribly, painfully burnt.

  Johnny arrived home on Mary's heels, and stood in the doorway, mouth agape as he listened to John explaining what had happened. Ivy awoke, and began to scream again as the pain of her burns overwhelmed her, unresponsive even to Mary's gentle cuddling.

  Marigold, accusing herself, apologising, and almost incoherent with fear and remorse, clutched her mother's skirt as she knelt beside Mary.

  John eased himself to his feet trying to rid himself of the cramps and aches in his leg now Mary had taken Ivy from him,

  'Where have you been, young Johnny?' he snapped, and Johnny blinked in astonishment. He'd never before heard that cold, venomous tone in his father's voice.

  'I – I was with Ted and Arthur,' he stammered.

  'Messing about when you should have been here! Why weren't you at home, helping Marigold? You finished work an hour ago. You're older than she is, and it's about time you began to think of someone else instead of yourself!'

  'It's not my job to do housework!' Johnny retorted. 'That's for girls!'

  'Marigold, fetch my belt from upstairs.'

  He was cold, ice-cold, and implacable. Even dressed only in an almost threadbare, neatly darned nightshirt, he was more impressive and frightening than they'd ever imagined he could be. None of them had ever seen him like this.

  'No, John, don't! It was an accident, it wasn't anyone's fault!' Mary whispered, but he didn't even hear.

  'Marigold?'

  Sobbing afresh, she fled. She daren't disobey him. As she came back and handed the thick leather belt to her father, she trembled violently. This was all her fault. Johnny was going to be thrashed because of her!

  As John ordered Johnny to bend over the table and raised his arm Marigold screamed.

  'No, Pa! It was my fault! Hit me, not Johnny!'

  The belt sang through the air and Johnny let out a howl of anguish, then another and another.

  Mary struggled to her feet and clutched at John's arm, Ivy still wailing in her arms. 'John, stop! That's enough! John, your leg's bleeding, you've done more damage! Oh, please, don't make it all worse!'

  'Get back, woman! Get out of the way! I'll beat some sense into the lad if he won't learn it any other way! I should have done it long ago!'

  *

  'I won't go, so there!'

  'But you've got to go, Ivy, love,' Marigold said wearily, while Poppy flung Ivy's coat on one chair and herself into the other.

  'I won't! Don't make me go, Marigold! Please.'

  'She's a spoilt brat,' Poppy declared petulantly. 'Ever since you left school she's whined and fussed and been mardy as hell every day.'

  Marigold frowned, pushed her thick fair plait out of the way, and squatted down to Ivy's level.

  'Why don't you like school?' she asked patiently.

  Ivy glanced through her long dark lashes, first at Poppy who looked cross and fed up, then at Marigold, who always smiled at her and let her do what she wanted.

  She bit her bottom lip between small white teeth and gave a heartrending sob.

  'Janie,' she whispered, slipping her plump arms round Marigold's neck and hugging tightly.

  'Janie Whitehouse? What's she been up to? What's she said?' Marigold demanded, her protective instincts rearing up at the sound of that name.

  'She calls me names. I hate her!'

  'But she's not in your class, she's older. And Poppy's always with you on the way to and from school. She wouldn't dare call names in front of Poppy.'

  'She doesn't,' Poppy said shortly. 'And I stay with the brat till the bell's rung, and get there as soon as I can at hometime,' she added resentfully. 'She's mollycoddled and it's time she stood up for herself.'

  It rankled that since Ivy had started school she hadn't been able to stay with her own friends, but had to take care of her little sister.

  'In the playground,' Ivy sobbed. 'She calls me "scarface" and says I'll never get a sweetheart!'

  'That's bad talk! You're too young to think about sweethearts,' Poppy said selfrighteously.

  Marigold didn't hear her. She'd caught her breath in dismay. This was something she'd been dreading for more than two years. Gently she pushed Ivy's dark hair aside to reveal the ugly, puckered flesh across her temple, the only scar visible as a result of that terrible day.

  'Nobody can see a scar when your hair's hanging over it,' she said softly. 'Look,' she added, and picked Ivy up to carry her across to the small mirror beside the scullery door.

  Ivy buried her head in Marigold's shoulder and sobbed convulsively.

  'They can! Janie says they can!' she wailed. 'And everybody can see my arm and my shoulder, she says!'

  'That's a lie, and you ought to know better than believe that little tyke,' Poppy said angrily. 'Hush, baby, no-one can see your arm or your shoulder under your dress and your pinafore sleeves,' Marigold tried to console Ivy, who by now was heaving great tearing sobs.

  'They can! They can!' Ivy screamed. 'Janie says they laugh at me behind my back.'

  'That's rubbish, and if you don't come soon you'll be late,' Poppy warned, picking up Ivy's coat. 'I'm not going to wait for you and be late myself.'

  'No, you go on. I'll bring her later when she's feeling more like it,' Marigold said, and Poppy, scenting an hour of liberty, scampered out of the door almost before she'd finished speaking.

  Sitting in the big rocking chair beside the fire, Marigold fretted. Ivy was curled up on her lap, fast asleep after her tantrum, her thumb in her mouth.

  She hadn't realised until recently how the scars from that dreadful day were still affecting Ivy. The child had been badly hurt. Marigold still smelt in nightmares the stench of burning wool, and worse, and heard the screams of agony as the hot metal bars of the grate burned Ivy's tender flesh. The flesh had healed rapidly, leaving scars, it was true, but by great good fortune in places where they didn't show. What of a deeper effect on the little girl?

  In some ways, Marigold thought guiltily, the rest of the family had been hurt just as much. Pa had wrenched open his own wound again and had even more dreadful headaches. He hadn't been able to return to work for another month. He still limped and couldn't go back to his old job underground. He'd had to accept a worse paid one at the pithead, and was often in too much pain from the dreadful headaches he suffered to go to work.

  Everyone had suffered from the lack of money. Of course he'd ripped the half-healed muscles still more when he'd beaten Johnny and he needn't have done that. She bridled her thoughts guiltily. Even such mild criticism of her father made Marigold wince inwardly at her disloyalty. You didn't even think such things, parents were always right.

  She shuddered at the recollection of that lamentable, never to be repeated, row. Ivy had still been whimpering, in agony despite the salves they had applied. Poppy cowered under the table. She and her mother had both been crying and pleading with Pa to stop. Johnny had howled with a mixture of anguish at the unaccustomed pain of the belt his father wielded, and the indignity of such a proceeding in front of his sisters. Above the tumult her father had for the only time Marigold could remember lost his temper with Mary and shouted at her.

  Johnny had been moody ever since. Sometimes he accepted the blame and in recompense brought home small delicacies from the grocer who employed him. It made up a little for things they could no longer afford with Pa's lower wages.

  'I get them cut-price,' he'd say brusquely. 'They'd be thrown out, like as not, if I didn't have them.'

  Most of the time, however, he bitterly resented being made to feel guilty and as often as he could slunk off to join his friends.

  Marigold blamed herself entirely despite her mother's at
tempts to convince her otherwise. She shouldn't have spent so long upstairs, and when she'd seen what Ivy was doing she shouldn't have shouted at her, startling her and causing her to topple over.

  'Better now?' she asked as Ivy stirred into wakefulness.

  Ivy smiled brilliantly. 'I love you best of all, Marigold. Can I play with Goldie?'

  'But you have to go to school, Ivy. You can't stay at home all day playing with your dolly.'

  Ivy pouted. 'Janie will laugh at me, call me names,' she sniffed dolefully, tears threatening once more.

  Marigold sighed. Already half the morning had gone and she was dreadfully behind with the work. If she had to spend time convincing Ivy and then taking her to school and explaining to the teacher why she was late she'd never catch up.

  'If I let you stay here today promise you'll go without a fuss tomorrow?' she said at last, pushing down the suspicion that by tomorrow Ivy would have forgotten her promise.

  With barely a nod Ivy was already scrambling off her lap and running to the cupboard between the window and the chimney, where her toys were kept in the bottom shelf. Goldie was her most precious possession, a beautiful china doll with delicate clothes Mary had fashioned out of scraps of silk and lace Mrs Nugent gave her. Ivy would play contentedly for hours, dressing and undressing Goldie, combing the real hair, and crooning gently some wordless tune.

  When Poppy came home for dinner Marigold waylaid her in the yard.

  'Don't set her off again,' she begged. 'I've let her stay at home today, and she's promised she'll not make a fuss tomorrow.'

  For once Poppy didn't argue. She preferred the freedom to dawdle with her friends on the way home, giggling and teasing, eyeing the big boys from Standards Six and Seven, and shrieking with pretended fear when one of them left his friends to chase after them. And if anyone got into trouble it would be Marigold. She could hardly be blamed for her sister's actions. Mom had made it clear even Poppy, though a mere three years younger, had to do what Marigold said while she and Pa were at work.

  *

  'That's good!' John said, surprised.

  Ivy preened, scrambled onto his lap as he sat beside the bright, cheerful fire, and began to point out all the subtleties of the drawing he held in his hand.

  'Miss Riley says I'm the best in the whole school at drawing and painting,' she boasted.

  Marigold glanced at Mary and they exchanged relieved smiles.

  'It was a blessing when Miss Riley came,' Mary said quietly, sorting out the embroidery threads for the traycloth she was doing for one of Mrs Nugent's friends.

  'She never moans about going to school now,' Marigold replied softly. 'I thought we'd have the attendance officer round more than once, but I doubt even Mr Purslow could make her go if she didn't want to.'

  'It was too much responsibility for you to cope with on your own, love.' Mary sighed. 'I should never have left you.'

  'Now you're not to go blaming yourself, Mom,' Marigold said quickly. 'You know it was the only way or we'd have been crowded into one of those back-to-back hovels near the pit, sharing a lavatory with a dozen other families and not even a tap in the house.'

  'Maybe, but I'd set my heart on you going on to the higher standards at Chadsmoor. Why, you could have been a teacher yourself one day, you're bright enough.'

  'It was my fault Ivy got burnt and Pa didn't get right, and I never wanted to be a teacher anyway,' Marigold protested swiftly.

  'Of course it wasn't your fault, love. Accidents happen. And your Pa – well, never mind.'

  Marigold glanced across at her father, but he was still absorbed in Ivy's drawing.

  'I didn't mind leaving school, honest. I wish I could have gone out to work instead of you having to, that's all.'

  Mary shook her head. 'You know we agreed. You couldn't have earned much, especially part time. Children get paid so little, not nearly as much as I can earn, but you can do everything in the house for me. When Poppy's old enough to leave school she can stay at home while you get a job. What a thing it would be if you got a place in a shop, a nice ladies' outfitters perhaps.'

  'I don't mind doing the house, really I don't.'

  'You're a good lass but it's only fair you should get out and meet people, have a bit of money of your own, and find a lad.'

  'Oh, Mom!' Marigold wriggled, embarrassed, and tried to change the subject. 'Why a ladies' outfitters? Don't they want girls who've been to the secondary school and speak nicely if they're going to be serving the gentry?'

  'It's a clean, easy job, better than service. And you do speak properly, and you can sew. That would help a lot. You could start as an alteration hand and when you're a bit older serve in the shop. You might be able to get things cheap. You'd look lovely in some of those dresses. The long straight skirts would suit you, you're tall and slim.'

  Marigold smiled at her mother, but as she hemmed the edge of some napkins to go with the traycloth her thoughts whirled. She'd never really considered what she would be doing in a few years. It had been enough to get through one day at a time, doing all the scrubbing, polishing, washing, ironing and cooking for the family. If Poppy could do this the world would open up for her. She might even leave Hednesford one day, perhaps go on the train as far as Birmingham.

  She was lost in thought, trying to recall everything she'd ever been told about Birmingham, the huge buildings and wide streets, the thousands of workshops producing everything anyone could ever want. For the first time Marigold began to contemplate a future away from the endless grind and dirt and smell of a pit community. Why, she might even travel to London one day and see the enormous palace where the new King George lived, and the cathedrals which were bigger, even, than the one at Lichfield. She'd seen that once when they'd all been taken to the town on a Sunday School outing.

  She came to with a start as Johnny, always noisy, burst in through the door.

  'Wipe your feet and take off your jacket, it's wet,' Mary said automatically.

  'Not much, it's been drizzling a bit, that's all,' Johnny replied, but he shrugged off his jacket and hung it and his cap to dry on a nail in the passageway between the kitchen and scullery. 'Here's some meat,' he added, coming back into the kitchen and dropping it on the table.

  'Mind my sewing!' Mary exclaimed, and picked up the meat. 'This is best roasting beef,' she added as the paper round the meat slipped.

  'I know, special treat,' Johnny said.

  'But surely Mr Todd didn't give you this? It's usually the scrag end or bits left over,' Mary said, puzzled.

  'I bought it. Tip from a customer. I told you old Toddy let me have it cheap,' Johnny explained, raking his hand through his hair, making it stick up more than it usually did.

  'Don't speak like that of your employer, son,' John put in, but Mary was ignoring this lapse. Sometimes she thought Johnny was concerned only with his own comfort, then he'd do something generous like this. Often he brought home small packets of tea, a pat of butter, or a few biscuits. She didn't understand him.

  'Johnny, that's kind, spending your money on us. Look, Ivy, some lovely beef. We'll have it for dinner on Sunday.'

  'Johnny, look at my drawing,' Ivy commanded, ignoring the promised treat. Somehow she always seemed to get the things she liked best and didn't find it strange, had indeed come to expect it. She thrust the drawing under Johnny's nose and he sat down at the table, staring at it.

  'It's the Drill Hall in Victoria Street,' he said in surprise. 'Look, Dad, she's got the front of it just right. Are you sure you did this all on your own?' he asked Ivy suspiciously.

  'Course I did,' Ivy said indignantly. 'Miss Riley showed me how, but I did every bit of it!'

  'I wish she'd been there to teach me,' Johnny said wistfully. 'Dad, I heard Bill Jenkinson saying his older brother, you know Teddy who works on the maintenance at the pit, well, he's going to evening classes to learn drawing. Can I go too?'

  'What good would drawing be to you, lad? It wouldn't help you get a proper job. You can draw
any time without lessons.'

  'Not that sort of drawing,' Johnny said quickly. 'Not like Ivy does. This is for drawing machinery, or – or buildings, things like that. Bill says Teddy's going to make things when he's got some letters after his name.'

  'What sort of things?' Mary said quickly. 'I've never heard of people being paid to draw – not unless they were teachers like Miss Riley, and she teaches everything else as well.'

  'Things, machines, I think,' Johnny said vaguely.

  'Well, it's no use dreaming, son, there's no money to spare for drawing classes. It's time you decided whether you're going down the pit or staying with Mr Todd. You've learnt to drive the cart and could take over from Sam Peters when he can't do it any more, and by the look of him that won't be too long.'

  'Driving that old nag round and round the same streets is dead boring,' Johnny said sulkily. 'I'd earn more money down the pit.'

  'Only at first,' Mary put in quickly. She dreaded the thought of her only son going down into the pit which had harmed his father. 'You were lucky to get taken on by Mr Todd. It was only Mrs Nugent putting in a word for you got you that job, but it could lead to better things. Mr Todd's got no-one to take over the shop, only two daughters, and they can't run it on their own. He'll need someone to manage it for him in a few years.'

  'He'll choose a smarmy type from behind the counter,' Johnny said dismissively. 'They're bound to think they'll have a chance if they make up to one of those pasty-faced girls.'

  'That's no way to talk,' his father said reprovingly, but Johnny scarcely heeded him.

  'I don't want to sit behind a smelly horse all my life, neither. Horses are finished, in a few years everybody'll be driving motor trucks.'

  'Mr Nugent's got a motor car,' Poppy put in.

  She'd been sitting in the corner, peeling potatoes for the next day's dinner, apparently lost in her dreams. Hopeless with her needle, always pricking her finger and spilling blood onto the linen, she couldn't help with Mary's sewing, but she quite cheerfully did as much as she could of the cooking.

  'How do you know? Have you seen it? What sort?' Johnny demanded eagerly.