Suffragette Girl (45 page)

Emmi went out onto the balcony and touched Jacques’s shoulder gently. ‘I’m so sorry to wake you, but we must go to see the doctor now.’

As he pulled himself up, he began to cough and scrabbled in his pocket for his handkerchief. The spasm over, Emmi led them from the room and along the corridor. This time they used the lift to
travel back down to the ground floor. She led them through the hall and into the lounge area.

‘This is where the patients can enjoy a relaxing time,’ she explained, waving her hand to encompass the empty room. ‘But of course, everyone is outside now enjoying the
sunshine. And that,’ she indicated an area in the corner of the large room, ‘is the games room. Perhaps you play chess, yes?’

Jacques, still holding his handkerchief to his mouth, nodded.

Florrie glanced at him, knowing that he, like her, was thinking of the many games he’d played with Gervase. How sad that it had never been his grandfather who’d played the game with
him. How much they’d both missed. She thought briefly of how Edgar’s attitude had begun to change towards the boy since he’d learned of his illness. She shuddered. But would that
tenuous bond be severed irrevocably when Edgar Maltby learned the truth?

They climbed a few steps and came to a door. Here, Emmi paused. ‘This is the X-ray room, but it is also where Dr Hartmann has his office.’ She knocked and, for the first time in
sixteen years, Florrie heard his deep voice say, ‘Come in.’

Emmi opened the door and went in, but then she stepped to one side, holding the door for Florrie and Jacques to enter. He looked up as they walked the length of the room towards him and then
came round his desk, holding out both his hands.

‘My dear Florence, how wonderful to see you again.’ She put her hands into his and the old thrill surged through her at his touch. He raised her hands and gently brushed her fingers
with his lips. ‘As beautiful as ever,’ he murmured. As he released her and turned his attention to Jacques, Florrie felt foolishly bereft, yet she managed to say quite steadily,
‘This is Jacques.’

Of course he hadn’t seen the sister’s notes. She watched Ernst shake the boy’s limp, slightly clammy hand and say, ‘Come and sit down – both of you – and I
will explain what we are going to do.’ She couldn’t help wondering what Ernst must be thinking and feeling as he met for the first time the boy he believed to be his son.

Florrie scarcely took in the details of the room: the heavy desk and chairs, the glass panels on the walls, which lit up to enable the doctors to study the patients’ X-rays. There were two
switched on now, lighting up the negatives, the dark shadows of both lungs denoting a very sick patient. Florrie shuddered, praying she would not see such a picture of Jacques’s thin
body.

‘Now, my boy,’ Ernst’s whole attention was on his patient. After his first warm greeting, it was as if Florrie were not even in the room. She gazed at him, drinking in the
sight of him and hardly hearing what he was saying.

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.’

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 hands. ‘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.