Suffragette Girl

by Margaret Dickinson

  Margaret Dickinson

  Suffragette Girl

  PAN BOOKS

  For my grandson, Zachary John,

  whose smile lights up my life

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Acknowledgements

  Welcome Home

  One

  Switzerland – September, 1932

  ‘How much further is it, Mother?’

  Florrie glanced at Jacques. He was sitting in the corner of the compartment, huddled into his thick overcoat, white-faced and shivering. His dark-blue eyes were pools of weariness in his gaunt face. His black hair was dull and lifeless. When he’d coughed the only other occupant of the carriage had risen and left, fearful of the deep, hacking sound and suspicious of the way the boy held his handkerchief to his mouth.

  ‘Not long now, darling.’ Florrie put her hand on his arm. ‘We’re just drawing into Landquart, where we have to change trains and then we’ll soon be in Davos Platz.’

  Jacques closed his eyes. ‘Not another change!’ he whispered.

  ‘We have to. It’s a different-gauge rail track and these trains . . .’ Her explanation faded away. She’d sought to interest the boy, but she could see that he couldn’t summon up even the pretence of curiosity.

  Florrie bit her lip. The journey had been a long one, even though they’d broken it into four days by staying overnight in London, Paris and Zurich. But today – the last leg from Zurich to Davos – seemed to be taking its toll on the sick boy.

  Had she been right to bring him? With customary candour, Florrie questioned her own motives. Had her overwhelming desire to have an excuse to see Ernst Hartmann again made her risk the boy’s health – perhaps even his life? But no. The Harley Street physician had suggested Switzerland without any prompting from her.

  ‘Davos,’ he’d said, making his swivel chair creak as he’d leaned back in it, rocking it gently. He’d steepled his fingers, regarding her over the top of his spectacles. ‘That’s the place. They’re doing wonderful things there. It’s become a centre for the treatment of tuberculosis. There are some very clever doctors at the sanatoriums there—’

  She hadn’t been able to prevent a gasp of surprise. Of all the places in the world, he’d chosen Davos.

  ‘Jacques may be there for weeks, even months,’ Dr Harris had warned. ‘You do realize that, don’t you? Your family can afford it, I presume?’

  He knew the family lived at Candlethorpe Hall surrounded by its vast Lincolnshire estate of hundreds of acres farmed by tenants, whilst Edgar Maltby and his family lived in idle splendour on the rents, untouched as yet by the unstable economy and its hardships.

  No, Florrie thought as the train rattled nearer and nearer their destination, she should not feel guilty that their privileged position enabled her to bring Jacques here. But perhaps what she should be feeling guilty about was the excitement that surged through her with every mile that brought her nearer to Ernst Hartmann.

  As the train drew out of Landquart, Florrie settled Jacques in a corner seat near the window and tucked the travelling rug around his knees. Then she sat down in the opposite seat and looked out of the window, soaking up the sight of the snow-capped mountains with their sharp, pointed peaks. This was Ernst’s beloved homeland.

  The train rattled past steep-sided cliffs, the trees clinging to the bare rock. For a few seconds, she glimpsed a stream and then the train plunged into a tunnel. As they emerged into the light once more, she saw the river again, its water a strange opaque bluey-grey.

  ‘Why’s that river such a funny colour, Mother?’

  Florrie turned towards him and smiled, relieved to see that he still had the energy to take a little interest in the scenery. ‘I’m not sure, I—’

  The only other traveller in the compartment – an elderly bearded gentleman dressed entirely in black and sitting in the corner near the corridor – emerged from behind his newspaper and glanced towards them. He was thin, hunched over in the seat, his overcoat seeming to swamp him, but his pale eyes behind his spectacles were friendly.

  ‘It’s a glacial river, my boy.’ His English was perfectly pronounced, but spoken with a strong German accent. Hearing it – even after all these years – still gave Florrie a shiver and brought back memories of those terrible days . . .

  Her thoughts were dragged back to the present.

  ‘We are climbing gradually and when we reach Davos—’ the stranger was explaining. His glance turned away from the boy to Florrie for a moment. ‘You are going to Davos?’

  She nodded. Was Jacques’s condition so obvious – even to a complete stranger? She sighed inwardly. Maybe so. Perhaps the local people who travelled on this train regularly were used to seeing the sick and could recognize the outward signs of the illness at once.

  The man was leaning towards her, holding out his hand. ‘My name is Hans Meyer.’ He smiled wryly as if anticipating a reaction. ‘From Germany.’

  The outstretched hand wavered slightly, but Florrie didn’t hesitate. She put her hand into his and shook it warmly. ‘Florence and Jacques Maltby. Pleased to meet you,’ she said and her tone was genuine. Time to put aside the dreadful memories and the bitterness. She’d never forget – that was impossible – but she could move on. ‘You live here?’ she asked. ‘In Switzerland?’

  Hans Meyer shook his head. ‘I am coming to see my wife. She is in the Schatzalp Sanatorium.’

  ‘Why – that’s where we’re going.’

  He glanced again at Jacques. The boy was huddled down into his seat, his head lolling to one side as he fell asleep. The man nodded sympathetically. ‘It is a good place. Your son – he has every chance. Every chance. But for my wife . . .’ He shook his head sadly. ‘They say I must take her home. They can do no more for her.’ There were tears in his eyes and, impulsively, Florrie leaned forward and touched his hand. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered. Silently she shuddered, realizing afresh just how dangerous this dreadful disease was.

  Hans Meyer blew his nose noisily. ‘Ah well,’ he said bravely. ‘It will be good to have her back with me, even if – even if – I am taking her home to die.’

  Now Florrie could think of nothing to say.

  For a while they were silent. Hans observed the young woman covertly, forgetting his own sorrow for a brief moment. He guessed her to be in her late thirties, for her so
n looked fifteen or sixteen years old. He smiled a little to himself. To him, she was still a young woman. She was certainly a beautiful one, with flawless skin and only the hint of discreetly applied cosmetics. She was wearing a dark-purple crossover coat with a fur collar that gave her both warmth and comfort. He imagined she was slender. Her stockinged legs were definitely shapely, her ankles slim. She wore a close-fitting cloche hat that covered most of her hair, but a few wayward strands of brown curls touched her cheeks. But it was her eyes that drew him back, time and again, to her face. Dark-brown pools of dread as she watched over her boy, and yet. . . ? And yet, he mused, there was a hint of excitement in their depths.

  He leaned towards her again and, whilst Jacques slept, they talked in low voices. He pointed out all the places they passed through, marvelled with her at the wonderful scenery that for both of them was so poignantly beautiful.

  ‘I love the wooden houses perched high up on the mountainsides,’ Florrie said. ‘With their balconies and shutters on the windows.’

  Herr Meyer nodded wisely. ‘They’re useful when the snow comes and it’s very cold.’

  Now, though, the shutters were wide open, and window boxes still overflowed with the last summer flowers.

  ‘How pretty they are,’ Florrie murmured. ‘And look,’ she pointed, ‘some have the dates on when they were built. That’s nice. I like that.’

  ‘This is Grusch,’ Meyer said. As they gathered speed, Florrie saw men and women and even a young boy working in the fields, turning the cut grass that she imagined would be fodder for their cattle through the winter.

  The train began to climb again.

  ‘We’re still going up.’ For a brief moment, Florrie was able to laugh, even though the terrible anxiety never left her completely.

  ‘Davos Platz lies at the same height as the top of your Ben Nevis, and then the mountains are higher still.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘That is why the air is so good for—’ He tapped his chest, but said no more.

  The train paused briefly at Schiers and then rattled on beside the glacial river once more. From Küblis it travelled on a twisting track with a steep drop on the right-hand side. Florrie glanced across at Jacques, wondering if he would be alarmed if he looked out of the window.

  ‘He’s not used to hills and mountains,’ she explained.

  ‘Where is it you live? You are English?’

  Florrie nodded. ‘In Lincolnshire. It’s very flat. There are gentle hills in the Lincolnshire Wolds and where the county town of Lincoln lies, but near the coast where we live it’s flat as far as you can see.’ She smiled. ‘So Jacques has never seen a proper mountain.’

  ‘Ah,’ Hans nodded. ‘Your Lincolnshire is like Holland, yes? I know Holland, but I’ve never been to England.’

  Florrie’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Never? Then – then how do you speak such wonderful English?’

  ‘My brothers – I have two – and I had an English tutor.’ Hans smiled wistfully. ‘A long time before our two countries were so foolishly at war with one another.’

  They sat in companionable silence whilst the train rattled on through tunnels, past more houses dotted on the slopes, past square-towered, white-painted churches with spires. Through Klosters-Dorf and Klosters.

  ‘I’m sure I’ve just seen that church a minute ago.’ Florrie laughed. ‘But it was on the other side of the train.’

  ‘Of course it was,’ Hans smiled. ‘We’re going zigzag up the steep mountainside.’ He traced the path of the train on his knee, looping backwards and forwards. ‘So – that is the same village we keep seeing, but sometimes it is on the left and then sometimes on the right.’

  ‘Oh.’ Florrie was thoughtful for a moment and then she nodded. ‘Yes – yes – I see what you mean.’ She glanced towards the sleeping figure in the corner. ‘I wish Jacques could see it all.’

  ‘Leave him to rest,’ Hans said gently. There was a pause before he asked, ‘Whom are you going to see? The doctor, I mean?’

  ‘Dr Hartmann. Dr Ernst Hartmann.’

  Even to speak his name aloud made her heart beat a little faster.

  ‘He is very good. He will help your son, I’m sure.’ Tears welled again in his eyes. ‘But for my Eva—’ He lifted his thin shoulders in a helpless shrug and left the end of the sentence unspoken.

  He asked no more for they were drawing near their destination. Florrie was thankful. She didn’t want to have to explain that, yes, she knew Dr Hartmann. Knew him very well. She turned her head away and looked out of the window as the train passed by a lake surrounded by dark pine trees. Higher up the mountainside, snow still nestled in crevices in the bare rock and mist shrouded the topmost peaks. Then they were pulling into Davos Dorf and finally into Davos Platz.

  A horse-drawn carriage took them from the station to the funicular that hauled the single cabin up the steep mountain. Alighting, they walked the short distance to the sanatorium and Florrie found that her knees were trembling. In a few moments she would see Ernst. After sixteen long years she would be with him again.

  ‘It’s such a beautiful place,’ Hans remarked. ‘And such a magnificent building, don’t you think?’

  Florrie looked up at the four-storey building towering above her.

  ‘The best rooms are here on the front,’ Hans explained. ‘And, as you see, each room has its own balcony for taking the air.’

  Indeed, the rows of balconies stretched the whole length of each of the upper three floors, and even on the ground floor, a covered veranda was crowded with cane day-beds for the patients.

  ‘They lie outside all day – even in the winter.’ He glanced up and to the left. ‘That is my Eva’s room. I wonder . . .’

  Florrie wasn’t really listening now. Despite the dreadful reason that had brought them to this place, she couldn’t help gasping with sheer delight as she stood in front of the imposing building and looked out over the valley to the magical mountains beyond. Below where she was standing, a forest covered the steep slope down to the town where the houses, and even the white church with its square tower, looked like tiny little boxes far below. On the opposite side, grass swathes rose gently up the lower slopes of the mountains, where isolated homes were dotted here and there. Cattle roamed the hillsides, the bells around their necks clanging as they moved. It was so peaceful and the air so clean and fresh. Surely, in a place like this, Jacques would be cured.

  As they went up the steps into the entrance hall, Florrie held out her hand. ‘Herr Meyer, it has been a pleasure to meet you, though I wish we could have met in happier circumstances.’

  He took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘So do I, dear lady. And I wish you and your son good health and all the happiness in the world.’

  Florrie nodded, tears springing to her eyes at his thoughtfulness when he was bearing such grief himself. Good health for Jacques? Yes, oh yes, but dare she even hope for happiness for herself?

  Her voice was husky as she said, ‘And I wish you well. I – I hope things are not as bad as you fear.’

  He patted her hand, gave a sad little smile and turned away.

  As she watched him go, a nurse came bustling towards them, carrying a sheaf of papers. She paused briefly as she passed Hans Meyer to greet him and then approached Florrie and Jacques. She was small and slim and quick in her movements. Her shining black hair was tucked neatly beneath her white cap. Her blue eyes twinkled and when she smiled her cheeks dimpled prettily.

  ‘Ah, you must be Frau Maltby.’ The nurse spoke in German, but both Florrie and Jacques could understand her. Thank goodness, Florrie thought, that Jacques’s school taught both French and German, despite the latter language still not being a popular choice, even after fourteen years of peace. ‘And this is Jacques?’

  The nurse turned to the boy with a smile, but Florrie could see that her professional eye was already appraising him. The young woman held out her arm, ushering them forward. ‘I am Sister Emmi Bergamin. I work with Dr Ha
rtmann and he asked me to watch out for your arrival. When Jacques has settled in, Dr Hartmann would like to see you both.’

  Florrie nodded, unable to speak for the mixture of fear and excitement that rose in her throat.

  ‘I’ll take you to Jacques’s room, Mrs Maltby, but then that is the last time you will be allowed there. You can visit your son, of course, but always it must be out in the fresh air. Visitors are not allowed to mix with the patients indoors – only in exceptional circumstances.’ For a moment her eyes clouded, then briskly she changed the subject, but Florrie had understood the sister’s meaning. Only when a patient was seriously ill – perhaps dying – would relatives be allowed to visit them in their rooms. Like poor Hans Meyer. The sister had made no attempt to stop him going up the stairs.

  Her voice interrupted Florrie’s unhappy thoughts. ‘You have accommodation in Davos?’

  ‘Yes. In a pension. I – I’ll see it later. I want to see Dr Hartmann first.’

  The sister nodded understandingly. ‘I’ll show you around down here first and then I’ll take you up to the bedroom.’ She glanced at the white-faced boy. ‘Perhaps you should rest before you see the doctor.’ She turned to Florrie. ‘You could sit on the balcony of his room with him – just this once.’ Her manner was brisk and authoritative, yet kindly. Florrie had no qualms about leaving Jacques in this capable young woman’s care.

  Sister Bergamin led the way to the right of the entrance hall into a magnificent dining room, where long tables were set with white cloths and napkins in front of each place setting. Florrie glanced around the light, airy room. On the right-hand side long windows, looking out onto the covered veranda, stood open to the warm day. Panels, painted with tranquil scenes of lakes and lilies and gliding swans, decorated the room and huge mirrors dominated one wall.

  Seeing Florrie gazing at them, the sister laughed. ‘It’s not a matter of vanity, Frau Maltby. Well, not really.’ She moved closer and lowered her voice so that Jacques, who’d wandered a little away from them, wouldn’t hear. ‘One of the symptoms of this disease – as you will know – is severe loss of weight, so our patients must eat huge meals. A big breakfast with a five-course midday meal, bread and milk in the afternoon and then a seven-course meal in the evening.’ She chuckled. ‘The mirrors are for them to check if they are putting on weight. If they think they can see an improvement, it gives them hope. And here, determination to get well is half the battle.’