During their stroll about Frankfurt and a simple dinner in a small restaurant, Richard was abstracted, making plans. Anna was bubbling over with excitement and his silence went unnoticed. As they walked back to the station, however, she grew pensive too.
'This may be our last time together, Hans,' she said at last, halting and leaning back against a wall.
'What do you mean?' Richard was startled. Had she somehow guessed his intentions?
'When we get to Munich, I may not be nursing in the ward where you are,' she replied. 'It may be difficult to see one another.'
'Oh. I see what you mean. But shall I be in a hospital ward? Surely I will have a room of my own?'
He swung round to face her. He was concerned about privacy if he had to delay his attempt to escape until he reached Munich. Anna had different ideas.
'Yes, I expect you will, and if you wish I can come and visit you when I am off duty.'
'That will be pleasant,' he replied automatically, and Anna moved suddenly, reaching out and sliding her hands up his chest and round his neck.
'Oh, Hans,' she sighed, clinging to him.
Richard felt a quiver of desire as he instinctively put his hands on her shoulders. It had been so very long since he had held Marigold in his arms, and Anna was soft and yielding, sweet-smelling and eager.
Then a wave of revlusion swept over him. How could his body betray him so? He pushed her away from him abruptly and almost shook her.
'Nurse! You forget your position!' he snapped in a fair imitation of the Prussian officers he had lived with in the hospitals.
Anna gasped, then turned away, struggling to control her sobs. Richard stepped towards her, appalled at the effect of his words, and realised at the final moment that this development might serve him well. It would rid him of Anna's fond surveillance.
'Go back to the train. I will follow later,' he said curtly, and forgetting that he was her patient, humiliated and rejected, Anna almost ran away.
Richard turned and made swiftly for the centre of the town. He had seen some motor cycles near the restaurant, some with army kitbags tied on the back. If he could steal one he would be well on the way south by morning.
*
Ivy sat huddled in front of the kitchen range. She had a fearful cold and no-one had even suggested she go to school. Mom had gone shopping and forbidden her to go in to Pa.
'You mustn't give him your cold, he's still not well,' she'd said.
'I'm bored in bed,' Ivy wailed. 'It's cold if I sit up and you won't let me have a fire.'
Mary sighed. 'I've too much to do and can't keep bringing up coal,' she said wearily. John had been unusually restless and neither of them had slept much that night.
'But I can't draw lying down. I can't draw and I don't want to read. Why can't I come downstairs?'
'Because you might give your cold to little Dick, and he's only just got over the last one he had.'
Marigold, as so often, had come to her rescue.
'I was thinking of taking Pa's new carvings into Birmingham,' she said. 'I can take Dick, the trip would keep him interested.'
'It's very cold, won't he take harm?' Mary demurred.
'It's frosty, not damp. If I wrap him up well he won't hurt. Then Ivy can spend the day in the kitchen if she wants.'
After an hour Ivy was bored with her own company. Life had changed so much since Pa's accident. She knew everyone blamed her, even if they hadn't said so, and she'd done her best to avoid them all. At school she spent playtime alone, and after a few weeks of taunting the others had left her to her own devices. It wasn't fun when she simply turned her back and never once retaliated.
Why couldn't people love her? First it had been the scars which made even her mother and father turn away from her in distaste, she reflected. Of course they tried not to show it, but she was convinced it made them treat her in a special way. Pa made a great fuss of her, and she knew full well she was allowed more licence than her sisters. It was to make up for the ugliness of the scars, it wasn't because they loved her more than they did the others.
First Johnny had left, and although she could have borne that, for now she was older she could see he'd had to go, she felt betrayed when he married Lucy. He was saying he loved Lucy more than he did his family, more than he did Ivy.
Marigold's departure hurt her even more. At the back of her mind she saw there had been advantages, but she still wished Marigold had loved her enough to find a job in Hednesford and stay at home rather than going to Oxford. She'd thought Marigold was the one member of the family least likely to go away from her, because she had always been able to persuade Marigold to do as she, Ivy, wanted.
In the end, in big things, she found her power was limited. Marigold rejected her completely when she defied everyone and married Richard. For a long while Ivy simmered, resentful, longing for a way to hit back at Marigold and make her feel as unloved and rejected as she did herself.
Then Poppy had loved that wretched little puppy more than she loved Ivy, and when he was gone it hadn't changed matters. Poppy left home and her parents hadn't turned to her as she half expected, they'd been distraught, unhappy, impatient with her. And this despite Poppy's theft of her money.
Even Sam Bannister didn't want her now. She'd revelled in the power she had over him, although she hadn't understood why stroking the creams into her flesh had turned him from a rough, abrupt lad into a slobbering, pleading creature who quivered and moaned and, during the later times they'd met, declared in broken words, whispered into her hair, that he loved her and wanted her.
She'd offered, after Poppy stole her money, to let him bring his friends again, even soldiers if he could find any who wished to indulge in this strange, inexplicable occupation. She needed to replace her lost money swiftly, and if Sam's friends would pay she wouldn't object.
'But you can't keep most of the money, Sam,' she'd stipulated. 'I want tenpence out of every shilling.'
To her angry dismay he'd refused. He'd offered to pay her a shilling each time, and she had to be content with that. But one or two shillings a week nowhere near began to replace her previous hoard.
Then suddenly he vanished from Hednesford.
'They pushed 'im inter army, rotten coward!' Billy explained. ' 'E dain't wanner goo. They won' 'ave ter mek me, when I'm ode enuff.'
With him vanished Ivy's income, and before she could think of a way to get some of Sam's cream and suggest to Billy that even without his brother something might be arranged, Pa was injured. She'd been too withdrawn since then to care and then, miraculously, Marigold offered to pay her art school fees. There was no more need for contrivance, for enduring Sam's rough hands as he rubbed in useless creams.
She ceased to believe the scar ointment was any good two or three months after Sam's treatment began. And since he'd left her bosoms had grown at a faster rate than before. That seemed to prove the other cream had been useless too.
Ivy sighed. In one way it was a pity for she enjoyed the feeling of superiority over these silly boys. They became slavering, quivering jellies just through stroking cream into her body. She couldn't imagine losing control of herself for such a reason, it was laughable.
Her thoughts were suddenly distracted as Jim, the postman, came whistling through the yard. He'd been doing the job for just three months, when he'd been dismissed from the army because he suffered from chest injuries.
'Gas, it were, mekin' us all choke ter death, we couldn't breath, 'ardly,' he'd explained cheerfully one day when he came in, as he occasionally did, for a cup of tea. 'Still, it got me outa there, perishin' mud an' freezin' cold. They thought I oughta get a job outdoors, good fer me chest. 'Ow breathin' in smoke from factories an' pits is good fer me, I dunno, but it's a better way o' spendin' the days than down pit.'
She ran to the back door. To receive a letter was always an occasion. She'd waylaid the postman for years on her way to school just to see what letters there were. This one might be from Johnny, or Lucy
with news of him.
' 'Oo do yer know wi' thick paper an' envelopes fit fer Buckingham Palace?' Jim said jokingly as he handed over the single letter. 'Why ain't yer at school?'
'I've got a cold,' Ivy explained, and sneezed several times as if to prove it.
'Aye, well, best shut door an' get back in front o' fire. 'Ow's yer Pa?'
'A bit better now he's started carving again.'
'Good, gi' 'im me best wishes. Tara!'
He went off, whistling, and Ivy looked at the letter. It was addressed to Marigold and Ivy recognised the writing, spiky and elongated, with flamboyant flourishes on each capital letter. It was Mrs Endersby's, for she wrote occasionally demanding to know when Marigold intended to return to The Place.
Ivy turned it over and found the flap was stuck down very loosely. Within seconds she had it open and took the single sheet of paper out. She wished she could write like that, so different from the plain, rounded letters they were taught at school. It looked distinguished, somehow. She seized her drawing pad and sat at the table, the letter spread out in front of her. Without troubling to understand the meanings of the words she concentrated on copying the form of the letters.
By the third time she was satisfied with her efforts. It was hard, apart from the different paper, to tell her copy from the original. She read out certain phrases under her breath, careful not to let Pa hear her.
'My beloved son Richard is dead, lost to me. You stole him from me, and now it appears you mean to steal my grandchild, the heir to our property, also. Our precious Henry is dead too, and little Dick is all we have, and you mean to deprive me of the joy of seeing him grow up. You have not been to visit us once since you returned to Hednesford, despite my letters.'
There was more, but Ivy heard Mary's footsteps as she came slowly along the yard. Hastily she put the original letter back in the envelope, sealed it, and propped it up on the mantlepiece against the clock. By the time Mary came in she was sitting beside the fire again, the pages of her pad turned over, and apparently so absorbed in drawing from memory a portrait of Dick playing with his toys that Mary had to speak to her twice before she realised her mother had returned.
*
They were gone. Just when he began to allow himself to hope freedom was within reach, the means was snatched away from him.
Richard walked slowly along looking for other motor cycles or cars he might steal. By now his scruples had vanished. He would take any means of escape that presented itself. None did. He raged inwardly, impotently. Surely in so large a town as Frankfurt there would be an unattended car or motor cycle somewhere!
He was standing in front of the Cathedral, oblivious to the incongruity of plotting a theft virtually within its portals, when someone touched his arm. Lost in his bitter thoughts he'd heard no sound, and started in surprise.
'Hans, I'm sorry! I should have known better. It won't happen again, I promise. I could have wrecked the progress you've made. I was distraught when I discovered you hadn't come back to the train. Oh, please will you forgive me? I'll go back to Berlin if you wish. I won't speak to you again, if only you'll come back to the train with me!'
By the time she had sobbed out all her apologies and self-recriminations Richard had recovered his wits. He would find it more difficult to elude her anxious vigilance now, and if she followed him and saw him stealing a vehicle the alarm would be raised immediately. The train would take him southwards, nearer to freedom although further from home. If he remained cool towards Anna he would be able to make plans once they got to Munich.
A spark of an idea came to him. If they thought he might recognise places round about, they might permit him the use of a motor cycle in order to explore the area. Even a horse or ordinary bicycle would be an advantage. With much greater cordiality than he had been feeling a few moments earlier he turned to Anna and nodded briefly.
'I needed some time alone,' he said, making his voice curt. 'I shall walk back along the riverbank. You may accompany me if you choose, but I prefer not to talk. Is that understood?'
She nodded, and as he turned away fell into step a yard or so behind him. All Richard's natural inclinations warred against the image he must present. Now their relationship was reversed. Instead of being her patient he was her officer, and he must make sure he retained this authority.
Later, as he undressed on the train, he was able to smile at the astonishment she would have felt had she been permitted to undo the buttons on his shirt, only to find another underneath. Poor Anna, he thought. She had been useful, but was unlikely to be so in the coming weeks. He salved his conscience by telling himself she would soon transfer her affection to someone else.
By the following night he was installed in the Munich house which had been converted into a convalescent home. To Richard's astonished disgust the journey had exhausted him. He was still far from well. He wondered whether he would have been capable of riding a motor cycle far, and set himself with grim determination to restore his strength as quickly as possible. He must make an attempt to escape before the winter came.
He had in the end persuaded the hospital authorities that sitting in a house or walking in the garden would do little to bring back any possible memories of the area. They shook their heads firmly when he suggested borrowing a motor cycle, saying truthfully that there was no such thing available. Then the gardener, Gerard, an elderly gnome-like man who came every morning on an ancient bicycle, offered it to Richard while he was at work. The Matron had reluctantly agreed they might try it. Richard found the exercise beneficial, apart from the freedom to explore and find ways of possible escape. The nearest border with freedom was at Lindau, at the eastern end of Lake Constance. The borders of Germany, Austria and Switzerland were very close together around the town of Bregenz. He had only to cross into Switzerland and his problems would be over. He could wait there while he arranged for money to be sent, and then travel home.
He even had civilian clothes and a map. Pointing out that it was not suitable for an army officer to be seen on an ancient bicycle, he had been provided with riding breeches and a jacket. He had a small amount of cash, jealously hoarded, and was almost ready to make the attempt.
He might take the bicycle and sleep rough for a couple of nights, but the terrain was hilly, the bicycle old and ramshackle, and the gardener his friendly benefactor. With a car or better still a motor cycle he could cover the hundred or so miles in a day. He would not be missed until he had left German soil.
He knew of a motor cycle always left unattended at a nearby house. He could even walk there so that he would not have to abandon Gerard's bicycle. Then on one of his intended final cycle rides a new possibility presented itself.
At the beginning of November, on a gloomy but so far dry day, he was riding along a narrow, unfrequented track. It led only to a couple of farms but was a short cut to another road. He skidded to a halt when he saw a small aeroplane sitting in a field. There was a barn nearby, not large enough to be a hangar, and the farmhouse was some distance away, invisible behind a low hill. This field was the only one flat enough for landing in.
After a hasty look round to ensure no-one was in sight Richard thrust the bicycle into the cover of a clump of trees, and cautiously crossed over to the barn. The door was unlocked and inside he found a stack of tins full of petrol. On a peg nearby was a flying suit and goggles. His heart beating furiously he went to the plane and inspected it. It was in good condition, a newish two-seater bi-plane.
He had to go now. The low cloud made flying conditions hazardous, but he did not need to reach a high altitude and in an hour or so the aeroplane might have vanished.
Working feverishly Richard fuelled the plane to capacity, then he retrieved Gerard's bicycle. Although returning it would give away his own actions, he wrote Gerard's name and the address of the hospital on a piece of paper and left it attached to the bicycle in the barn. He dragged on the flying suit, found gloves in the pockets, and hung the goggles round his neck.
No-one was in sight. Praying the engine would start first time he swung the propellor. It fired, spluttered, and fired again, and in seconds Richard clambered aboard.
He taxied round until he was facing into the wind, blessing his good fortune that this gave him the full length of the field in front of him. He would not have to remain on the ground for any longer than necessary.
As the aeroplane lifted, clearing a small wood at the end of the field, Richard could see the farmhouse on his left. Two men had emerged from a doorway and were pointing excitedly at him. Richard waved back, and full of exhilaration turned towards the west.
He soon picked out the railway line which led towards Lindau and followed it. He was singing at the top of his voice, feeling a little mad both at being in the air again and the prospect of freedom, so suddenly presented.
It took two hours to reach the lake. He saw it as the railway turned southwards for Lindau, a long narrow stretch of grey water, grey clouds scudding along above. He flew over it midway along, where the two arms of the lake divided, and although his map did not extend so far he knew that he was heading for Zurich. So long as he kept to the south of the Rhine and landed in one piece, he would within days be holding Marigold in his arms once more.
He glanced at the fuel gauge and saw it was still reading full. That could not be right, and he tried to calculate how much further he could go. Without any idea of the capacity of the tanks or the wind speed, however, this was an unprofitable exercise.
Richard debated inwardly. Should he come down as soon as he saw a suitable field, or try to get nearer Zurich and risk running out of fuel in an impossible area? He glanced down. At the moment he could see a fairly large number of possible landing sites. The hills here were low and there were plenty of meadows. It was probable he still had a good amount of fuel left, and he wanted to get as far away from Munich as possible.
The Cobweb Cage Page 31
