Suffragette Girl

by Margaret Dickinson

  He’d aged over the years. The dark hair was still thick and smoothed back, but now it was liberally flecked with white. He was no longer clean-shaven, but had a small goatee beard and was wearing glasses. Deep lines of worry were etched into his face and his eyes had lost some of their brightness. That sparkling joy of living that she’d seen, even amidst the horror of the front-line hospital, was no longer there. He’d not put on any weight that she could see beneath the long white coat he wore. The longing to be held in his arms again flooded through her and she was sure he must hear her heart pounding. He was turning to her now and she almost put out her arms in expectation of his embrace.

  ‘You’ll be allowed to visit every afternoon if you wish, but not to enter the building again. You must meet Jacques outside on the veranda or on the sun terraces. After this first visit, we do not allow families to come into the building. It is for their own good.’

  Florrie frowned. ‘But – but how will I see you? I mean—’ she added swiftly, conscious of the listening nurse. ‘How will I know how he is? About his treatments and—?’

  ‘Oh, I will see you. I will come to where you are staying.’

  Her heart lifted and it was only with a supreme effort that she stopped herself from reaching for his hand and clasping it to her breast. She realized, with sudden startling clarity, that this was the reason for her restless behaviour. She’d been living in limbo, waiting only for a word, a sign from him, and she would have come running. But they’d parted in such bitterness and deceit.

  And always there’d been the spectre of the fiancee waiting innocently back home in Switzerland.

  But now, for her at least, it was as if they’d never been apart. As if all the intervening years had never happened. She could not hide her love for him from showing in her eyes. And she knew he could see it. He must see it. For a long moment he stared at her, then he turned his head away, cleared his throat and shuffled his papers.

  ‘And, Jacques, you will not be permitted to mix with the other patients until I have had a chance to reach a proper diagnosis of your condition. You will have your meals in your room for the time being.’

  Florrie could not prevent a little gasp of surprise and disappointment from escaping her lips. Ernst was like a stranger. He was speaking as if they’d only just met, as if they’d never shared the dangers and horror of the front-line hospital, as if they had never lain in each other’s arms . . . Then she shook herself mentally. He was being professional. In front of Jacques and his nurse, he could be nothing else.

  ‘Now,’ he was saying briskly, yet not unkindly, ‘say your “goodbyes” – no,’ he added swiftly, as Florrie held out her arms to embrace the boy. ‘No more hugs. I’m sorry, but until we know . . .’

  Florrie and Jacques smiled a little uncertainly at each other as she tried to joke, ‘We must do as we’re told now, darling.’

  ‘Go with the sister now, Jacques, and I’ll see you in the morning.’

  When the door had closed behind them, Florrie turned to Ernst and held out her hands. ‘It’s wonderful to see you again. How are you? How have you been all this time?’

  After a moment’s hesitation that Florrie couldn’t miss, he took her hands in his. ‘My dear, it’s good to see you again, though I could wish it were in happier circumstances.’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, her eyes drinking in the sight of him. She touched a scar on his forehead, just above his left eyebrow, with the tip of her finger. ‘When did that happen?’

  ‘When Dr Johnson and Grace were killed. One or two of us were injured too.’

  ‘I didn’t know. It must have been deep to still be so visible.’

  ‘There are some scars that will never fade.’

  Hoarsely, she whispered, ‘Broken hearts, for example?’

  He shook his head sadly and, with a deep sigh, pulled her to him. ‘Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. I blame myself. I should never have—’

  She put her finger on his lips to silence him. ‘Shh,’ she whispered. ‘I was a big girl. I knew the score. None of us knew if there was ever going to be a tomorrow. We took our brief happiness where we could.’ She put her arms around his neck and rested her cheek against his. ‘But I’ve missed you so.’

  Fifty

  As she took the funicular back down the mountainside, she could still feel Ernst’s arms around her, his breath on her neck. Reaching the exit, she walked a short distance along the road and found the pension easily.

  ‘You must be Frau Maltby? I am Frau Schwarz-Hemmi.’ The woman was welcoming and friendly and spoke only in Swiss German. She was plump and plainly dressed in a black skirt that reached her ankles and a white blouse. ‘You are very welcome. I will show you to your room.’ As she led the way up the stairs, she said over her shoulder, ‘Most of our visitors are people with a relative in one of the sanatoriums.’

  ‘You don’t mind then?’ Florrie asked. ‘I mean – I thought perhaps you might be worried about infection.’

  Frau Schwarz shrugged and waved her hand. ‘Ah, some are, that’s true. But I don’t take the sick themselves. I have no facilities, you see, but I don’t mind the relatives. They need somewhere to stay.’ She paused and then asked kindly, ‘Who is it you have brought?’

  Florrie hesitated fractionally. Soon it would be time to tell the truth, but not now. There was no need for this woman to know. But, as she always had, she avoided calling him her son. Instead she said, ‘My boy, Jacques. He’s sixteen.’

  The woman’s face was sympathetic but she said no more as she opened the bedroom door and stood aside for Florrie to enter.

  The room was light and airy with light-blue painted panels on the walls, pictures, a patterned rug near the bed and white-painted furniture.

  ‘We have running water in all the bedrooms,’ Frau Schwarz said proudly, indicating the large washbasin in the corner of the room with a mirror above it.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Florrie said in German.

  ‘I hope you will be comfortable,’ Frau Schwarz said as she left. ‘Dinner will be at seven o’clock.’

  She found the dining room just before seven. There were four long windows giving plenty of light, carpet on the floor and a bracket clock on the wall. Each table was covered with a white cloth, in the centre of which stood a vase of flowers. The small tables were set for one or two, but were positioned close enough if the diners wished to converse. However, it would be easy, Florrie thought, to nod politely to the other guests, then avoid eye contact if one wished to sit quietly. As she entered the room, two other guests were already seated at separate tables.

  ‘I’m Mrs Milner from Kent, England.’ The woman spoke loudly, enunciating every word.

  Florrie smiled and held out her hand. ‘I’m English too. How do you do?’

  The woman beamed. ‘And this is Mr Petrov,’ she said flapping her hand towards the gentleman sitting at a nearby table. She leaned forward as if confiding in Florrie, but did not lower her voice to say, ‘He’s Russian and can’t speak a word of English, and I can’t speak German or Russian, so we just smile and nod to each other.’

  To demonstrate, she smiled coyly at the man and inclined her head. He was a tall man with broad shoulders and a thick beard and moustache that seemed to cover more than half his face. His mouth was invisible beneath the whiskers and only his eyes gave away any expression. As he rose from his seat and bowed his head towards Florrie in polite greeting, she noticed that his grey eyes were sad. It was an expression she was likely to see in many of the visitors to Davos, and she thought it a shame that such a beautiful setting should be the gathering place for such anguish. And yet, by coming here, surely some of them had hope for their loved ones. Just as she had for Jacques. Ernst would help him – she believed that with all her heart.

  She held out her hand. ‘I’m sorry I don’t speak any Russian,’ she said slowly in German. ‘Only German and French.’

  She heard Mrs Milner give a girlish cry of delight and the woman actually clapped her hand
s. ‘Oh, how clever you are, you can speak to him.’ Though she hadn’t understood a word of what Florrie had said, she could see that the man had done so. He replied in German. ‘And I too speak German, a little French and even less English, I regret to say. But your German is very good, madam. Come, let us sit down and partake of Frau Schwarz’s excellent dinner.’

  Florrie sat down at a separate table, but close enough not to appear stand-offish. Mrs Milner talked continuously, even between mouthfuls, whilst the other two listened politely. Most of her chatter sailed over the Russian’s head, though Florrie was not so lucky!

  ‘It’s my husband who’s ill,’ she began. ‘He’s in the sanatorium just down the road from here, so I’m nice and close. And Mrs Schwarz,’ she pronounced the name ‘Short’, ‘is such a good, kind woman. But, oh my dear, there are so many sick here, aren’t there? But do you know,’ she leaned across the table and touched Florrie’s hand, ‘there are a lot of skiers too. That’s a strange mixture, don’t you think? The very sick and the very fit all coming to the same place? Of course, a lot of the pensions and the hotels won’t take even the relatives of the sick. Don’t you think that’s unfair?’

  ‘It must be very difficult for them,’ Florrie murmured. ‘I suppose they’re worried that they might contract the disease.’

  Mrs Milner gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘I suppose you’re right, dear. But we really have to be near our loved ones, don’t we?’

  ‘Of course,’ Florrie nodded.

  ‘And this gentleman, Mr Petrov, can you ask him why he’s here?’ She smiled brightly at the Russian. ‘I don’t think he’s a sportsman, do you?’ she added, assessing the middle-aged, round-shouldered, bulky figure of their dinner companion.

  Florrie hid her smile. Phrasing her question politely, she said, ‘Mrs Milner is asking if you are here for the sport, or if you have someone in one of the sanatoriums?’

  For a brief moment there was a spark in the dull eyes, as he exchanged an amused glance with Florrie, but it was gone in an instant as he said in a voice that was heavy with sadness and halting as he fought to find the right words, ‘It is my daughter who is ill. She has been here a year and I cannot visit often. It is too far and I have to work long hours to pay for her treatment.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Florrie said huskily.

  ‘What’s he say?’ Mrs Milner tapped her arm impatiently.

  ‘His daughter is here for treatment.’

  ‘How old is she?’ the woman demanded.

  Florrie repeated the question.

  ‘Nineteen.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘So young and she is all I have. Her mother died when she was born.’

  ‘What’s he say?’

  Now the questions and answers continued throughout the remainder of the meal, though Florrie edited some of the man’s answers. She’d quickly recognized Mrs Milner as a gossip. Good-natured and good-hearted though she undoubtedly was, the woman would prattle to anyone and everyone.

  As soon as she could, Florrie excused herself on the grounds of tiredness after the long journey and went to her room. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it for a moment and breathed a sigh of relief.

  The following morning, Florrie breakfasted early before either of the other two guests in the pension made an appearance. The day was bright and sunny and, whilst she knew she couldn’t visit the sanatorium until afternoon, she wasn’t going to sit indoors all day when such marvellous scenery awaited her. Dressed in hat, coat, gloves and sensible walking shoes, she left the pension and walked along the main street. Davos was set in a valley, with mountains rising on either side.

  She set off along the road, taking a path into the trees just behind the pension and walked towards Davos Dorf, following the winding trail and smiling as she heard the distant sound of cowbells. It was cool and shady beneath the trees and she tracked down the sound of rushing water, coming upon a stream bubbling over boulders and rushing on down the stony bed into the valley. She dabbled her fingers in the water, revelling in its clear, clean freshness.

  Florrie sat a while beside the stream. It was so tranquil, the only sounds around her the babbling water and the clanging cowbells. She felt herself relax a little, but the anxiety over Jacques’s health could never leave her, and now there was the growing fear that had been present ever since she’d decided to bring him to Davos.

  What was Ernst’s reaction going to be when he learned the truth?

  Despite the invigorating walk in the clear, pure air, Florrie was anxious to return to the sanatorium. She wanted to know how Jacques was. It was the first time since his illness had been diagnosed by the consultant physician in London that she’d been separated from him, and she hated not knowing how he was every minute of the day – and the night too, if truth be told. And she could not deny that she wanted to see Ernst again.

  After a light lunch at the pension, she took the funicular up the mountain and walked the few yards to the gracious building. The communal veranda at ground level was crowded with day-beds, most of them occupied by patients. A few walked slowly up and down on the two levels of grass sun terraces. Florrie scanned the faces, but Jacques was not amongst them, so she climbed the steps towards the main entrance. As she was about to step into the hallway, she heard someone calling her name.

  ‘Frau Maltby, you cannot go in.’ She turned to see Hans Meyer hurrying towards her across the terrace.

  ‘Ah, yes. I remember now. How foolish of me.’

  He looked at her with sympathetic kindness. ‘It is only natural you want to see your son.’

  ‘You’re with your wife? She’s out here on the terrace?’

  ‘Sadly, no. She – she is in her room.’ His voice dropped and shook a little. ‘She is very ill. She suffered a very bad haemorrhage last night. They want me to take her home – but she is too sick to travel now. She – she will die here.’

  ‘Oh, Herr Meyer, I’m so sorry.’ Impulsively, Florrie touched his arm. ‘Is there no hope?’

  He shook his head, unable to speak for a moment.

  ‘And they won’t let you see her?’ She was appalled to think that this nice man was being kept away from his dying wife.

  ‘Oh yes, but I have just come out for a breath of this fine air. It is very – how do you say – harrowing to sit there. And she is sleeping just now.’ He pulled in a deep breath and tried to smile, despite the terrible sadness that was weighing him down. ‘But you – we must get someone to help you find your son.’ He waved behind him towards the open-air terrace. ‘There is a nurse down there. Come with me. She will help you.’

  Florrie turned and followed him back down the steps.

  As they approached the nurse who was attending to one of the patients lying on a bed chair in the sunlight, Hans Meyer said, ‘Excuse me, Nurse, Frau Maltby has come to see her son. Is that possible?’

  As the woman straightened up, Florrie saw that it was Sister Bergamin. She smiled as she greeted Florrie. ‘Good afternoon, Frau Maltby. Jacques is with the doctor now. Dr Hartmann is carrying out all the usual tests for a new arrival and arranging X-rays and so on. I’m afraid it won’t be possible for you to see your boy today. It is best that we don’t interrupt the tests.’

  Though disappointment flooded through her at not being able to see not only Jacques but Ernst also, Florrie nodded. ‘How is he?’

  ‘A little better this morning. He slept well last night after the journey and he has been out on the balcony of his room all morning.’ She waved her arm to encompass the glorious scenery all around them. ‘I’m sure our wonderful air will soon begin to work its magic’

  ‘So – like me, you have the rest of the day to fill, yes?’ Hans Meyer said.

  ‘So it seems,’ Florrie murmured.

  ‘Then will you permit me to take you to a little cafe I know for afternoon tea?’

  Florrie forced a smile. ‘That would be very nice.’

  He gave an old-fashioned courtly bow and held out his arm. She took it and together they
walked back towards the funicular, but not before she’d glanced towards the windows of the X-ray room. Jacques was in there with Ernst and how she longed to be with them both.

  Fifty-One

  As they began to descend in the cabin, Florrie sighed. ‘It really is a beautiful place.’

  ‘It is, and it seems so sad that there is so much sickness here.’

  ‘I know what you mean – it’s a sort of cruel irony, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, yes – that is what I mean.’

  ‘But it’s becoming a centre for sports too, so a woman at the pension where I’m staying was telling me.’

  Hans Meyer smiled, though the sadness never left his eyes. ‘Yes, it is good to see the young ones enjoying themselves, but, like you say, it is a strange mix.’

  He took her to a restaurant in one of the smart hotels and ordered afternoon tea. ‘Like you have in England, yes?’ he teased her gently.

  Florrie laughed. ‘Almost.’

  They chatted, though now and again they fell into silence, but the long pauses were companionable. There was no compulsion to speak if they didn’t feel like it. There was a mutual understanding of the personal anxiety that was never very far away.

  As they rose to leave, Hans said, ‘Tomorrow morning, will you walk with me? May I suggest we take a carriage to Davoser See and walk around the lake? We saw it from the train.’

  He touched her arm. ‘We will visit the sanatorium in the afternoon. By then, they may have some news about your son. And perhaps you will be able to see him.’

  Florrie smiled weakly and nodded. ‘Perhaps,’ she whispered, not daring to hope too much.

  The morning was bright and clear, but cooler.

  ‘Wrap up well, my dear,’ Frau Schwarz said as she saw Florrie’s sturdy shoes and the walking stick.

  ‘I will, Frau Schwarz-Hemmi.’

  The woman smiled. ‘“Frau Schwarz” will do,’ she said. ‘“Hemmi” was my maiden name. It is the tradition in Switzerland that when a woman marries she adds her maiden name to her husband’s. My husband was “Schwarz”.’ Her face fell. ‘He died two years ago.’