Poppy caught her thoughts guiltily. Of course it wasn't better with Pa crippled, with no legs and no chance ever of working again. It had damaged his pride enormously, as well as his body, even though he'd been hailed a hero for saving Ivy's life.
Poppy shivered as she recalled that dreadful, appalling homecoming. She'd leaped down from the train eager to greet them all, and found Mary collapsed from shock, Ivy lying bruised but otherwise unhurt on the other side of the track, and her father surrounded by frantic men trying to stop the bleeding from the severed stumps of his legs.
It was a miracle he hadn't died, they'd said. He'd spent months of agony in hospital, Mom had gone white haired overnight, and Ivy was changed utterly. She was no longer pert and selfish, absorbed in her own concerns. For weeks she refused to go to school and clung to whoever had time to comfort her, and she hadn't touched her drawing until Marigold had promised to find a way of sending her to an art school.
That was a ploy, Poppy knew, to get her back to school, but Ivy would demand the promise be kept. Then she might not have spare money for going to the cinema, or even for buying a bicycle, something she was saving for now.
'Excuse me, but are you all right?' a voice opposite asked diffidently.
Poppy looked up, startled. A young man in soldier's uniform was looking at her worriedly.
'Yes. Why?' she asked, genuinely puzzled.
'You were shivering, I thought you might be cold, and then you looked so pale I was afraid you might faint.'
'No, just a horrid memory,' she said and smiled determinedly. 'Are you on leave?'
He laughed ruefully.
'I haven't got as far as France yet. I was at Whittington Barracks, training there, but now we have to move to the transit camps on Cannock Chase. I've just been for 48 hours leave to my home in Walsall.'
'Is it beastly in those camp huts? We saw them being built.'
'I'm not looking forward to it. It's beginning to get cold at night, but we're better off, from all you hear, than the poor devils in the trenches. Have you anyone out in France?'
'My brother, but he's a driver and a motor engineer. He seems to spend his time keeping ambulances and trucks going. And my sister's husband was killed, he was a pilot.'
'A pilot! That's what I wanted to be but I didn't get in. I'm sorry. Had they been married long?'
'Just a few months. Are you married? Do you have brothers there, or anyone?'
'Definitely not married. My two older brothers went a year ago, I had to wait till I was eighteen in the summer.'
'You look older,' Poppy said frankly. He was dark and handsome, with a thin, intense looking face, and a narrow, dashing moustache. 'Yes, but when I tried to enlist two years ago they found out – my older brother told them, the wretch, and ever since I've been given dozens of white feathers by helpful ladies.'
They chatted until Poppy left the train at Hednesford. She marvelled at the freedom which had arisen since the beginning of the war. Beforehand no-one would have dreamed of talking to a strange young man encountered on a train, but now it was normal. The common interest of war, she supposed, as well as the fact women were doing so many jobs they would never have thought of doing until the men all went to France.
As she walked home she hummed a tune she'd heard in Walsall market that day. She didn't often sing, she'd not felt like it in recent years, but she still had a sweet, true voice. She recalled her fervent desire when she was much younger to join a choir and in such a way gain the right to go on exciting outings.
Then the idea hit her, and she stopped so suddenly that a boy walking behind bumped into her. After they'd sorted themselves out she walked on slowly. Several of the local people had formed concert parties and were entertaining the soldiers. She would join one in Walsall. She could sing well enough to be accepted, she was sure, and that would be far more enjoyable than the endless hymns of a church or chapel choir. It would also be something to do which did not cost money. That was always a consideration.
*
He was to go by train and Anna, to her unconcealed delight, was to accompany him. She had asked for a transfer and proposed the plan, once it was agreed to try stimulating the patient's memory by the sight of the only place he appeared to have any recollection of.
'So, Hans, we go in three days, but not by the most direct route.'
Richard stared at her, his eyebrows raised. He dared not admit his excitement at the news.
'Which way do we go then?' he asked quietly.
'Here, let me show you.'
She opened one of the maps lying on the table beside his chair.
'Look, we go first to Frankfurt, with a group of soldiers who are fit enough to return to the army of the west. That will be the easiest part of the journey for me, I shall have no duties.'
Richard was calculating busily. About three hundred kilometers, roughly two hundred miles.
'A day's journey?' he hazarded.
Anna shrugged. 'A long day, for there are many delays on the railways as supply trains are given priority. We shall sleep overnight on the next train, which is a hospital train with berths for the wounded. Then go on the following day when they have been loaded, a slow journey, but not so far, to Munich. We shall be stopping on the way to deliver men to various hospitals. I shall be busy then, looking after them.'
'Have you a map? A bigger scale one than this,' he added hopefully.
'I could get one? But why?'
'If I come from that region, and it seems a possibility, seeing a map and the names of towns and villages might help me remember something else.'
'I'll see what I can do. Now I must go. What will you do today?'
'It's sunny outside, though cold. I'll go for a walk.'
'Don't overtire yourself. You are still far from fit, your muscles are weak.'
Richard knew it only too well. He was working secretly, for hours when they thought he was sleeping or on his solitary walks in the grounds of the clinic, exercising the damaged muscles of his arms to make them stronger. He would need all his strength during his escape attempt.
The following day Anna brought him a map, apologising that it was on a smaller scale than she thought would be useful.
'No, it's fine, it shows all the route from Frankfurt to Munich,' he reassured her.
Inwardly he was gloating. The map also showed parts of Austria, Switzerland and France, and would be of immense value whichever of those countries he managed to reach.
His next task was to plan where best to make his bid for freedom. He could wait, and hope to vanish from the clinic in Munich. But then a search might be made, swiftly and locally before he could get far enough away.
The alternative was to attempt to leave the train at some intermediate station, and hope he would not be missed immediately so that they did not know where to begin a search. They might not even bother in those circumstances. It could be assumed he had simply got on the wrong train and would be discovered before long. Whereas in Munich it would be thought he had gone to find a place he knew, and they would feel more obliged to start searching for him.
He would have to leave the train, but where? Certainly not before Frankfurt, which was close to the French border. He might be able to give Anna the slip then, where there would be some confusion and he might be thought just to have gone on with the party of soldiers returning to the front.
Afterwards there would be many stops, but with wounded men on stretchers to be dealt with there would be many people milling about on each station, and he could not decide whether it would be easier or more difficult to slip away in the confusion.
If he were seen walking in any German town in his officer's uniform, it would be regarded as odd. He would be noticed and remembered. Officers had privileges and rode in motor cars. The first priority would be to exchange his uniform for the clothes of a civilian or a lowly private.
He pored over the map that night, once more thankful that his officer's status had provided him with a single ro
om. If he left at Frankfurt he could follow the Rhine valley, and when the river crossed the Swiss border he would be close to France, beyond the end of the trenches. From there it would be simple to get back home.
He found himself dwelling on thoughts of Marigold. She was always there, spurring him on in his long, tedious contriving, but he dared not often permit himself to think in detail of the joys they had experienced together, her sweetness and loving tenderness. His child would be almost eighteen months old, he realised with a shock, and he didn't even know if he had a son or a daughter.
Such thoughts would be dangerous. Firmly he thrust them away. If he talked in his sleep or permitted his longings to control him, he could so easily betray himself. Only when he crossed the border to freedom would it be safe to give rein to his frustrated need to think of her, to look forward once more to the bliss of holding her in his arms.
*
'Look, Pa, I've found a piece of wood that's almost the shape of a fish,' Marigold said cheerfully, going into the parlour which had been turned into a bedroom for her parents when her father came home.
He was propped against the pillows, the blankets pathetically flat where his legs should have been, and she had to swallow hard. Even after all these months it hurt with renewed pain each time she saw the wreck he had become.
He made a pitiful attempt to smile.
'Hello, love. Where's my grandson?'
'Mom's taken him down to the shops. Do you want a cup of tea?'
'I'll wait till she gets home.'
'Why don't you see if you can make a proper fish out of this?' Marigold persisted, holding out the wood.
'I lost my pocket knife – along with my legs,' he replied with a wry grimace.
'I wondered where it was,' Marigold said as matter of factly as she could. 'I bought you a new one, but was waiting till I found a suitable bit of wood before I gave it you. Do you think you can do anything with it? The man in the shop said people often swore by the one they'd been used to for years, claiming they couldn't manage with another even if it was better.'
'I suppose that's true,' John said. 'I haven't felt like carving anyway.'
'Surely you're good enough to adapt to a new knife? Mom has to start with a new kitchen knife when the old one's lost or broken. Cooks have no choice,' she added lightly.
'But what's the use? I don't feel like carving.'
'You did it all the time before and always gave the best away,' Marigold reminded him. 'You did it for pleasure then, but I've got a scheme.'
'A scheme?'
'Yes. There's a shop I know in Birmingham, I often used to go in when I was staying with Lexie. They sell all sorts of things and I'm sure they'd love to have your carvings.'
'That's nonsense, girl!' John interrupted. 'Who in their right mind would pay good money for a bit of carved wood? I've had no training, like Ivy wants. I don't know how to do it properly.'
'That's where you're wrong,' Marigold said with satisfaction. 'I went there the other day, I took them all the carved animals you'd ever given me, as well as everything Poppy and Ivy had, and they agreed to take a dozen to try them. They would pay you if they sold them, and they said it would be about half a crown a time.'
'Half a crown! But it only takes an hour or two to do them, if the wood's already roughly the right shape!' John said in astonishment.
'So instead of lying there feeling useless, you could help earn the money we need to send Ivy to art school,' Marigold told him, and to her secret relief he reached out a hand for the piece of wood. 'I can hear Mom now, I'll go and make some tea,' she added, putting the knife down beside him.
That was one small success, one step forward, she thought later that night as she lay sleepless in the bedroom above the parlour, which had once belonged to her parents but was now for her and Dick.
She was determined somehow to get her family out of the poverty they seemed destined to inhabit. They were vastly fortunate compared with some, she admitted, but she wanted so much more for them. Her marriage to Richard, although she had never once considered it as a reason for marrying him, would have enabled her to help. It made the present situation possible, when Mary and she could both stay at home caring for Pa and Dick, living mainly on her income from her widow's pension and Richard's small private fortune. But having tasted luxury she desperately wanted to give them all a better life.
She'd made this resolution before, she thought ruefully, and had not as yet achieved anything. Fate seemed against her. Then she berated herself. It was weak to blame fate. If she sought for a solution hard enough she would find one.
*
There had been no opportunity to leave the train before Frankfurt. It was crowded with men returning to the front. Many were reluctant to face the mud and boredom of the trenches, a few were frankly afraid, but the vast majority were eagerly looking forward to joining in the fighting which had become more intense.
'We'll push those damned British back into the sea and watch them drown!' one of the more bellicose gloated. 'The ones we don't shoot like wild ducks or spit like chickens first!'
For the thousandth time since he'd been injured Richard thought of the fate which would undoubtedly be his if his identity were discovered. If he were fortunate and there were officers around who wished to and could restrain the men he might be shot quickly and cleanly by firing squad. The dire alternative of being torn apart by an enraged enemy who would assume he was a spy was too horrible to think about.
Eventually the train rolled into Frankfurt, and Richard thankfully got out of the cramped carriage and began to stroll along the platform. He needed money and civilian clothes, and had decided that in a large city it would be easier to obtain both than in the smaller towns between Frankfurt and Munich.
Long ago he had argued with his conscience about the necessity of stealing money. It was enemy money, probably earned by making war. He was already stealing by accepting food and clothing and medical care from his enemy, of a standard they would not accord him as a prisoner of war. So why did he shrink from stealing money to finance his journey to freedom?
It belonged to an individual, his conscience reminded him. It might leave that person in difficulties. In that case he had to steal from a shop or a bank, he replied, and that had quieted his conscience as much as it was prepared to be subdued. It made his task harder, though. He might easily filch a wallet left carelessly in view, but he could not imagine himself rifling the till of a shop. Besides, shops belonged to people too, and they were individuals.
He had a small amount of money provided for the essentials of the journey. The authorities, with relentless logic, had decided that they could not pay an officer's salary to a man with no name.
'How could we enter it into the records?' they asked when Richard had tentatively mentioned his wish to make a few modest purchases. 'All your needs are being met in the hospital. If they are not you must inform us and we will do our best to provide whatever you want.'
They had given him a small amount for the journey, enough to travel a few miles on a tram, perhaps. Not enough to get to the Swiss border.
'Hans, there you are.'
It was Anna. She had travelled in a different compartment with the other nurses, for several of them were transferring from hospitals in the north to the south.
'What happens now?' Richard asked.
'The train we are to sleep in, the one we will use tomorrow, is already in the sidings for the night. Let's take our luggage across and settle in.'
It was not going to be possible to walk away and lose himself in the crowd. Anna treated him as her personal property and Richard, with a mixture of amusement, pity for her, and growing fear that her presence would hamper his attempt to escape, resignedly picked up his valise and followed her.
'Let's go and explore the town after we've found where we are to stay,' she suggested, linking her arm possessively in his. 'We could even have dinner in a restaurant. That would be a change from hospital food!'
'I have very little money, as you know,' Richard reminded her.
'I have plenty and it is my present to you. For your birthday, whenever it is,' she added swiftly, forestalling his protest. 'You have been lost for well over a year now and may have missed two birthdays. How old are you?'
Richard grinned inwardly. She never gave up her attempts to shock him into some recollection.
'I'm not a horse,' he replied. 'You can't look at my teeth. I assume I'm over twenty and under forty.'
'About my age, I would guess,' Anna said cheerfully. 'You are not much above twenty-five. I am twenty-three.'
He asked polite questions and she seemed more willing to talk freely than before. It had been a largely professional relationship of nurse and patient at the hospital. Perhaps she was in a holiday mood.
'Here is our train,' Anna said at last, having led the way along a narrow, curving platform that snaked off into the sidings.
'How do you know?' he asked curiously.
'We had instructions on the other train. This first carriage is for the nurses, but you may choose a bunk in the next one which will be loaded with the wounded tomorrow morning.'
'Where are they now?'
'In a hospital nearby. And some will be coming on an early train from near the Belgian border.'
Briskly she led the way and Richard meekly followed, allowing her to select a bunk for him, but saying he would prefer to unpack later on. If he saw an opportunity to escape he didn't want to have his few possessions scattered all over the carriage.
'I'll go and claim my bunk then come back for you,' Anna said. 'In about half an hour.'
Richard was beginning to appreciate the problems of getting away. It would not be possible, as he'd hoped, just to walk away and mingle with the crowd. Anna was determined to spend all her free time with him, and if he vanished would give the alarm at once. He might have to take a sudden opportunity at any time.
Swiftly he abstracted the most essential items from his valise and distributed them about his pockets. Comb, soap, toothbrush, razor, handkerchiefs and spare socks were easy. A spare shirt and collar were necessary but would be bulky and sadly creased after any time in his pockets. But he could wear two, and two sets of underwear. Having made that decision he donned them rapidly, and decided they didn't make him look unexpectedly plump. He hoped he might soon revert to a more normal amount, and that the weather would remain cool.
The Cobweb Cage Page 30
