CHAPTER ONE
-
Marigold squatted on
the edge of the fender, huddled as close as she dared to the banked
up fire. Despite the heat from the coals which warmed her face and
chest, and her thick flannel nightgown, she shivered
uncontrollably. Twisting round to warm her back, she clutched her
thin arms about her body in a vain attempt to dispel the bewildered
emptiness within her.
- When would Johnny come home? What would Pa say if he came home to find the table still littered with dirty plates, and no dinner cooked?
- At this thought she shook still more. Pa loved them. He wasn't cruel, not like Mr Potter next door, who took off his belt to thrash Fred and Tom and little Betty for the slightest offence, and could be heard through the thin walls beating his wife regularly every Saturday night when he staggered home from the Cross Keys.
- Pa only smacked them when they'd been very naughty. And he'd never smacked Mom. But it was naughty not to have dinner ready for him. Mom said that, so would he smack Mom? Slow tears began to slide down Marigold's plump, rosy cheeks.
- Her tears, and thoughts of dinner, made Marigold sniff. She longed for the comforting smells of the stew her Mom normally kept simmering in the big black pot, but today the pot was empty.
- She was cold, bewildered, and hungrier than she could ever remember. The chenille curtain was caught up on a nail instead of falling over the door, and a bitter cold draught whistled through from the scullery. She wanted Mom, but Mom was upstairs, and someone upstairs was groaning, occasionally crying out with pain.
- 'When can I have my breakfast?' she'd timidly asked Mrs Whitehouse on one of her sudden appearances hours ago.
- 'Don't myther me now, chick. I need this quick,' Mrs Whitehouse replied fretfully, swinging the trivet out from above the fire. She lifted the huge kettle and poured boiling water into the old tin ewer. Then she refilled the kettle in the scullery and heaved it back onto the trivet.
- 'Goo an' find a noggin fer yoursen, an' keep out me way,' she said over her shoulder, disappearing through the narrow doorway and clumping up the stairs.
- Marigold shivered even more. The bread was in the dark, dismal pantry under the stairs, and Johnny had whispered to her one night in bed that wolves hid there in wait. She dared not venture into the pantry. She'd rather die from hunger than let wolves eat her.
- She wasn't entirely sure what wolves looked like, except they were bigger and fiercer than old Mr Farraday's dog, Towser. Towser growled and snarled at everyone who walked past his house, and all but the bravest or most foolhardy children went the long way round rather than pass that gate. It had been left open once and Towser had escaped. He'd bitten Joe Tasker, the biggest man in the street, and Joe had been off work for a month, Pa said. If wolves were worse than Towser they must be dangerous, terrifying creatures.
- Marigold sighed, and rubbed her eyes with the edge of her nightgown. She would just have to stay hungry until someone came to help her. Johnny might be home from school soon.
- But he'd jeer to find her still in her nightie. Another tear slid down her cheek. It really wasn't her fault. They wouldn't let her get dressed. Mrs Whitehouse had shouted at her when, feeling guilty at her unwashed, uncombed state, her nightie unbuttoned, she'd tried to creep upstairs to fetch her clothes.
- Bewildered, she thought back over the very peculiar day. What had she done to make everyone forget her? It had started when Mom, instead of dressing her as usual, crept back into bed after giving Johnny a piece of bread and dripping, packing up another for his dinner, and sending him off to school.
- Half an hour later as Marigold, puzzled and frightened, had been sitting quietly on the end of the big bed, Mom had gone stiff and cried out. 'Go and fetch Mrs Tasker!' she gasped.
- 'I haven't got my frock on,' Marigold said, shocked. You never went out into the yard in your nightie, not even to the lavatory.
- 'Put my shawl round you, but mind you don't trip. Hold it up.'
- Mary Smith paused and closed her eyes, biting down on her lower lip to suppress the pain. After a minute the spasm passed and she smiled weakly at Marigold.
- 'Can you pull your boots on by yourself? They're in the scullery where Pa blacked them last night. Don't try to fasten them. And don't wait to put stockings on. Marigold, be a good girl and go quickly!'
- Terrified by the groans her mother didn't seem able to suppress, Marigold fled. She forgot the shawl and discarded the boots when they proved too tight for her trembling hands. She ran barefoot through a thin sleety drizzle towards the end house of the yard, crying so much she couldn't speak coherently.
- Mrs Tasker seemed to know what was wrong, however. Pausing only to throw a few words over her shoulder to someone in the house, she waddled as fast as her considerable bulk allowed along the path between the houses and gardens, and vanished up the narrow stairs.
- Marigold had seen her no more, and didn't dare go upstairs to discover what was happening.
- After a while Mrs Tasker called down to her. 'Run an' fetch Mrs Whitehouse, quick,' she ordered, and once again Marigold fled, too frightened by now to object to going down the narrow ginnel and across the street in her nightgown in the middle of the day. She was past caring whether people saw her and laughed.
- Then there had been nothing but Mrs Whitehouse's forays downstairs. Nothing to hear from the bedroom apart from the occasional groan, and once a high, piercing scream. Too terrified to think clearly, Marigold shrank into herself, shivered, and gave the occasional hiccuping sob.
- But hunger gradually overcame her other fears. There was bread in the pantry. Johnny had put it away while Mom smeared the dripping on his piece, and he hadn't pushed the door to. She could see the slight gap. She'd be able to open it without fetching a stool to reach the latch. If she left the door open surely she'd be safe. Wolves didn't like the light.
- Marigold glanced anxiously out of the window. The short winter day was almost over and darkness would soon fall. If she wanted to eat she'd better brave the pantry now or daylight would have gone.
- Slowly, fearfully, she rose from her cramped position and took a couple of steps across the room. Then two more. A short run and she was grasping the edge of the door, which hadn't been properly closed. Trembling, Marigold pulled it open further and peered inside.
- There didn't seem to be any wolves, or none that she could see. The loaf was in the cracked old earthenware bread crock which had belonged to her granny. Marigold was reaching for it when she became aware of a far more enticing smell.
- She licked her lips. On the slate shelf was the remains of a meat pasty. Now she remembered Mom saying last night she didn't feel hungry and would finish the pasty later, when the children were abed.
- Tempted, Marigold stretched out her hand. A sound from above made her pause. The hesitation gave her time to think. The pasty was Mom's, she'd had her own share of half a one last night. It would be stealing to take this.
- As hunger battled with conscience, and Marigold's hand reached slowly, inevitably, towards the pie, she heard Mrs Tasker's voice in the kitchen behind her. ' 'Er'll do now. But I asks yer, what an ockerd name!'
- 'Daft, in' it. But childbirth meks some women befumbled.'
- ' 'Er wants the gels called after flowers! Says wi' a name like Smith they need summat diff'rent.'
- Mrs Whitehouse sniffed. 'Allus did think too much on 'ersen. If 'er wants flowers why not summat dacent like Rose or Daisy or Lily then? Instead o' some 'ighfalutin' 'eathen name. Mark my words, 'er'll regret it!'
- Marigold heard but understood nothing. She was petrified of being caught stealing from the pantry. There wasn't time to get out. What could she do? In desperation she tried to pull the door to. They might not notice it was open. She hovered, balanced precariously on the narrow step inside the door, clinging to the crossbar, all fear of wolves for the moment banished from her mind.
- 'Where's that dratted Marigold got to? Out in fode, playin', desay. Well, 'er'll cum back when er's clemmed. I've got my Joe's tea ter get, an' these 'ere sheets ter put in soak.'
- Mrs Tasker heaved the bundle of sheets past the pantry door. Her superfluous fat brushed against it, and it swung to. As the latch clicked home Marigold lost her perch and fell down the steep step into the black hole, landing with a thump on the sack of potatoes which was propped against the tub of salted beans.
- She let out a shriek of alarm, but the door was made of thick planks and Mrs Whitehouse was laughing, a loud, raucous guffaw. No one heard the child sobbing convulsively at her sudden terrifying descent into this dark place she dreaded even in the brightest daylight.
- For an unknown length of time Marigold lay where she'd fallen, quivering with anguish. Johnny had locked her in once when she'd plagued him to take her out to play with his friends, and she knew she couldn't hope to open the latch. It was high on the door, way beyond her small reach even without the high step, and that was too narrow to stand on when the door was fully closed.
- Eventually she lay quiescent, almost asleep, but then she heard a low rumbling noise. Wolves! They were coming for her! It was like a dog's growl but many times worse. How big were wolves? Would they swallow her whole like the whale had swallowed Jonah? Or would they nibble her bit by bit, as Johnny said rats ate people?
- It was too much. Marigold began to scream hysterically, beating her puny fists against the unyielding door until a blessed oblivion overtook her. She slid down onto the floor, her arm trailing over the side of the egg bucket, her hand in the opaque, sticky water-glass.
This is first of my Birmingham sagas. I hope you enjoyed it and want to find out what happens. If you want to read on, order from a bookstore or ask at your local library. I have copies at a big discount if you would like to e-mail me for details.
- Michael Joseph 1994
- ISBN 0-7181-0037-9
- Magna Large Print 1994
- ISBN 0-7505-0729-2
- Signet 1994
- ISBN 0-45-117823-8
- Pan Books 2000
- ISBN 0-330-39682-X
- Riverside Books
- ISBN 1-904154-53-0
- © 1994 Marina Oliver
