It was as well she realised that, Liz thought grimly, remembering how Sue and Jan had held hands under the table in the nightclub the evening before.
‘I wonder how Fiona is today,’ she said. ‘She must have a mammoth hangover.’
‘She looked about forty last night, didn’t she, ginned up to the eye-balls,’ Sue said. ‘I suppose she’s only about twenty-four really.’
‘If as much,’ said Liz. ‘Well, are you going to go to ski-school? If you are, I’ll walk down with you.’
‘You’ll be too early for your date. Don’t be so eager,’ Sue said.
‘I want to buy some postcards,’ Liz answered, coldly. Sue could be very trying.
‘O.K. Come on then,’ Sue agreed.
They put on their heavy boots, zipped up their anoraks, made sure they had money, goggles and gloves, and clumped downstairs. There were two entrances to the ski-room; a swing door from the hall led down some stairs and into it at one end, and there was an outer door from the lane. They took the latter, leaving the hotel by the main entrance and pausing outside to look at the barometer on the wall. It was colder, but the pressure remained very low. Though it was still snowing, the flakes were much smaller and less dense, and it was possible to see more of the village than had been visible for days. The chair-lift, with only a few passengers, was working steadily.
The ski-room was deserted. It was lit only by one electric bulb, and as it was an L-shaped, narrow apartment, it was quite difficult to find the right skis in the gloom. Racks ran along the walls on both sides, and by the number of skis still stacked there, it was clear that few of the Gentiana’s visitors were braving the day. Some toboggans were untidily stowed at one end of the room, and pools of water from melting snow gathered on the floor.
They walked down the hill together. A new track had been cleared in the snow and it was easy to see what a huge amount had fallen in the night: almost a foot. At the wooden bridge, they parted. Sue crossed over to the ski-school assembly point, where there was only a meagre attendance so far, no doubt partly due to the weather, but Sundays were always slack owing to the changeover of visitors. Most weekends, skiers came up to Greutz from towns in the valley; they crowded the lifts and runs, and filled the hotel bars. None would get in today, with the roads blocked. Liz stood by the river bank and watched Sue stride over to join her group; she was easy to pick out in her rust-coloured outfit. A huge man detached himself from a waiting cluster of people, all standing with skis stuck into the deep snow beside them, and greeted her with a hug; it was Jan. Liz turned back to the village and went into the newsagent’s. She spent some minutes choosing several postcards, but at this rate she would be back in England herself before they could arrive, since there was no transport out of Greutz. Emerging from the shop, she saw both the Whittakers and Frau Hiller entering the Silvretta hotel on the other side of the street.
Liz had left her skis propped against the wall of the shop. She picked them up and hoisted them over her shoulder, balancing them so that she needed only a touch to keep them in position with her left hand, and began to walk slowly down to the chair-lift terminus. Francis was presumably escorting his wife and Frau Hiller to a bridge appointment; he would catch her up.
Before he did so the Derringtons overtook her, striding briskly, each carrying a smart pair of Head skis and looking very professional in their all-black outfits complete with goggles. They were not talking, and they did not recognise Liz.
Francis carried her skis up on the chair for her.
‘This is for fun, remember,’ he said. ‘Would you like me to come behind and pick up the bits, or shall I lead the way?’
‘You go first, please,’ she said. She would have to follow, then, and perhaps the sight of his broad back ahead would give her courage.
When they had both been swept over the wide, dark cleft of the river he turned to wave to her. Greatly daring, she waved back. It was still snowing, but with fine cold flakes, not huge blobs like those that had fallen through the night. In places the snow had blown in drifts close to the chair, so that there was no great distance in the drop. But if you fell, what depths you would be buried under, Liz imagined with a shudder. In some places the piste wound between the supporting pylons and passed below; the skiers coming down were quiet, not shouting to each other as they might have done in sunny weather.
Up on the Schneiderhorn, Professor Klocker and Dr. Patrick Grant were also out skiing that morning. Patrick wore borrowed boots and skis from an array the professor kept in the cellar of his chalet for visitors. They went down the White Run for their first descent, so that Patrick could get the feel of the skis before tackling something harder, and the professor could assess his ability. Professor Klocker led the way, a neat, compact figure in his dark outfit, turning and swaying with economical movements.
‘You are good, Patrick. You have done a lot of skiing, I see,’ he pronounced as they unclipped their skis at the bottom of the run, ready to take the chair up again. ‘What a pity the weather is so bad. One can do so many expeditions from the top of the Schneiderhorn; there is a big network of lifts that link up with it. It is too bad to risk going down to Kramms and back by cable car.’
It was obvious that his host enjoyed skiing, which was a relief to Patrick, who did not want to feel the outing had been undertaken merely for his entertainment.
‘Are you very annoyed at not being able to get back to Innsbruck?’ Patrick asked.
‘No.’ The professor shook his head. ‘I have a lecture on Wednesday, and it will be a pity if my pupils are deprived of it, but at the moment I am more concerned with finishing my book than with my teaching. Lamentable, is it not?’ He looked at Patrick quizzically. ‘I do much less teaching nowadays, and more research.’
When they reached Obergreutz for the second time, they found that the anchor drag lift was operating, and they rode on up to the summit. With the snow coming down gently and the thick cloud on the mountain, it was like being in dense fog. Patrick knew that in Oxford on a day like this, he would do everything possible to avoid having to put his nose outside the comfort of St. Mark’s, yet here he was, happy enough to follow the professor’s lead.
‘What a pity you can see nothing,’ cried Max, waving a ski stick around as they rode up side by side, skis cutting smooth parallel tracks in the soft new snow. ‘In good weather the mountains of three countries are visible from the top.’
‘I didn’t realise Italy was so near,’ said Patrick.
‘It’s closer than Switzerland by the direct route,’ Max answered.
‘Can you ski across?’
‘No. The north face of the mountain is too steep to climb. But in summer rich tourists come up by helicopter to ski on the glacier. I prefer to walk, myself, in that seasPatrick was sorry to miss the panorama of the mountain peaks. As things were, it was not too easy to keep the professor’s back in sight as they skied down, for he set a brisk pace. It would be a simple matter to lose one’s way in this weather; few people had come up to the top and there were not so very many tracks to follow. Patrick had not done much skiing in deep snow, and he felt quite pleased with himself when he regained the beaten piste without misadventure.
‘We’ll take the Red Run this time, Patrick,’ Max said, as they curved round the shoulder at Obergreutz below the restaurant. Here the cloud was much less thick, and they could see groups of skiers making their way down. He started off, and Patrick followed. Where the runs divided the professor waited for Patrick to catch him up; he stood resting, leaning on his sticks, looking down the mountain. Patrick, over-confident, missed a turn and fell; the soft snow found its way up his sleeves and down his neck as he got to his feet again.
‘There has been an accident, I think,’ the professor said, pointing below, when Patrick joined him.
Patrick looked in the direction he indicated, and saw a knot of people gathered round someone on the ground.
‘Oh dear. Shouldn’t we go down and help?’
‘There
seem to be plenty of people on the spot already, and since our subject is literature, not medicine, we might not be much use,’ said Max. He looked back up the mountain. ‘There must be a stretcher at Obergreutz. We’ll wait a few moments to make sure it goes down – that is, if it’s needed. Perhaps the victim is merely winded and will soon be on his feet.’
They were still standing there, watching, a few minutes later when Francis Whittaker and Liz reached them, going down the White Run for the second time. Liz had her goggles pushed up over her forehead, and her cheeks were flushed with exhilaration. She recognised Patrick and the professor just before she drew level with them, and stopped with a flourish that drew praise from Patrick.
‘What are you staring at?’ she asked, and then saw the group of people clustered below. ‘Someone’s hurt?’
‘Must be. Here’s the blood-wagon,’ said Francis, and past them, travelling fast, came a ski-lehrer pulling a sledge.
‘But the snow’s wonderful. What rotten luck to have an accident today, and on a gentle slope like that one,’ Liz exclaimed. ‘Oh, I bet it’s that girl.’
‘What girl?’ asked Patrick.
‘A girl who arrived from England last night on her honeymoon. She’s never skied before, and when we went down earlier, we saw her husband giving her a lesson just about where all that commotion is.’
‘You mean he brought her up here on her first day on skis?’
‘Yes. How crazy can you be? He said the nursery slopes were much too crowded and the snow up here’s so perfect now. She seemed to be sliding along quite nicely.’
‘How was he planning to get her to the bottom?’ asked the professor. ‘She couldn’t have skied all the way down.’
‘They said they were going to climb back to the restaurant and go down in the chair,’ said Francis. ‘The fellow’s mad, of course.’
‘Some climb,’ said Patrick, looking back the way they had come.
‘I shouldn’t care to do it,’ said Liz, whose muscles always screamed after only the shortest stretch of side-stepping or herring-bone climbing.
“Well, whoever it is, there’s sure to be a doctor among those people gathered round,’ said Francis. ‘I’ve seen plenty of skiing accidents, and each time someone you’ve never noticed before turns out to be a doctor.’
‘Everything seems to be under control, certainly,’ said Patrick. The sledge had reached the scene now, and the little crowd of people had moved back. It was possible, even through the snow that still fell lightly, to see the activity round the recumbent figure on the ground.
‘Are you coming this way, Mrs. Morris?’ the professor asked Liz, pointing to the start of the Red Run. His beard was covered in snowflakes, giving him a Santa Claus look.
‘Good gracious, no! That would be asking for trouble,’ Liz said. ‘The White Run for me.’
‘You could easily manage the Blue,’ said Francis. ‘And the Red, come to that.’
‘I don’t want to end up on a stretcher too,’ said Liz.
‘You wouldn’t,’ Francis told her, laughing. ‘We’ll do them before the holiday ends. Come on, then. Shall I go first?’
He started off, and Liz followed, wavering a bit while she felt that Patrick was watching, but soon steadying.
‘A charming woman,’ said the professor.
Patrick supposed that she was.
He enjoyed his own trip down the Red Run. It was quite challenging, since Max went very fast, but the snow was good and his skis bit sharply into it; areas that would have been ice traps in other conditions were not alarming. It was quiet in the woods, with just the sound of the snow hissing beneath their skis. Patrick concentrated on his movements, not wanting to fall again. They crossed the hanging bridge above the Gentiana and skied on, past the hotel and into the village, until the slope ended. Then they stopped, unclipped their skis, shouldered them, and walked towards the centre of Greutz. By this time it was warmer again, and the snow was falling more heavily.
‘How about a beer?’ Patrick suggested. ‘Let me buy you one. Where shall we go?’
They went into the Silvretta bar, and found Sue and the Dutchman seated there already, looking rather glum; Jan was drinking beer and Sue had a gluwein before her. Max and Patrick joined them.
‘What’s up, Sue? You do look miserable,’ Patrick asked.
‘June Foster, that English girl who arrived last night, has broken her leg,’ Sue answered. She was playing with a packet of sugar, a small square of sealed paper printed with a picture of edelweiss. ‘Jan and I met the blood-wagon outside the clinic.’
‘So Liz was right. We met her up at Obergreutz,’ said Patrick. ‘We could see someone had had an accident. Liz was afraid it might be this girl.’
‘Sue, you have so tender a heart,’ Jan told her, patting her hand and gazing earnestly into her eyes. Patrick thought it was as well Liz was not there to witness this touching scene.
‘What a misfortune,’ said the professor. ‘But the patient will be in good hands in the clinic. Dr. Wesser is expert with fractures.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ said Patrick, feelingly. He must get plenty of practice.
‘How did it happen, do you know?’ asked the professor.
‘She ran off the piste into the deep snow,’ said Jan. ‘And she was very tired, too.’
‘Oh, is that what happened?’ asked Sue.
‘I heard the lehrers talking,’ Jan explained. ‘They were angry because she was up there, a beginner. She had got tired, of course, as one does. And I suppose no one told her to be careful to stay on the piste. I, alas, am always running off it and falling down, but I bounce.’
‘I’d forgotten you speak German,’ Sue said.
‘Most Dutch people do,’ said Jan. ‘And English, too. Our country is so small, and our own language is so difficult, that we have to learn others.’
‘And you were occupied during the war,’ Patrick observed.
‘That too,’ Jan agreed. ‘I was a child then. My friends and I put sand in the petrol tanks of German lorries.’
‘Did you? Weren’t you caught?’
‘Luckily not. I was not so large in those days,’ he said.
Sue glanced at Max, and with the bluntness that was the despair of her friends said, ‘You must have had a terrible time in the war, Professor.’
‘I did, Miss Carter,’ Max said, simply. ‘My wife was Jewish, and I had many Jewish friends who disappeared. I was imprisoned for a time myself, because of this, but later I was released because my knowledge of England was useful.’
If Sue were not so pretty, she would never get away with her naivety, thought Patrick, racking his brains for a way of changing the subject before she went too far.
‘You didn’t want to get away after the war?’ asked Jan.
‘I spent two years in the United States,’ Max answered. ‘Then I came back. I wanted to repair some of the damage. One has great influence when one comes in contact with the young, as I have done all this time. The future belongs to the young now.’
Max’s young wife and baby daughter had been killed in Ravensbruck, Patrick knew. He had never really got over this tragedy, any more than a man who lost his sight got over that, though he might accept it.
‘Max and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves last night, Sue,’ Patrick said firmly. ‘Didn’t we, Max ?’
‘Indeed it was a great pleasure,’ agreed the professor. ‘You were all so hospitable. I wonder if you would give me the pleasure of returning your kindness by coming to my chalet this evening? You, Miss Carter, and Mynheer van Hutter, and Mrs. Morris, and all your charming friends whom I met last night.’
‘What, all of us?’ Sue asked.
‘Yes, indeed. Mr. and Mrs. Whittaker, is that correct? And the German lady; and Mr. Irwin, the actor. And the young lady in the green mantle too, if she would care to come. Your courier. Patrick and I met her in the hall.’
‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Sue. ‘I’m sure we’d all love to come. May I accep
t and bring as many people as are free?’
‘Do so, please. And the unfortunate husband of the invalid, too, if he would like to join us,’ said the professor.
‘I expect he’ll be with June at the clinic. But I’ll pass on your invitation, with pleasure,’ Sue said. How nice. A little jaunt to bridge the gap between tea and dinner. ‘Here comes Roy Foster now,’ she added, gazing past Patrick to the door. ‘And my goodness, look who’s with him! Some people don’t waste any time.’
Patrick glanced at the two newcomers. He had not met Roy, who at first cursory inspection looked rather ordinary, like plenty of other young men: slightly shaggy about the head, a bit too heavy for his age, and physically robust. But there was no doubt about the identity of his companion. There could not be two red heads like that in Greutz today; it was Fiona.
II
Liz was in a bad temper by the evening, when it was time to go to Professor Klocker’s. She spent half an hour in the hotel lounge after lunch, with a book. In their corner, the usual bridge four of the Whittakers, Sam Irwin and Frau Hiller had settled for the afternoon; her eyes were drawn to them as if by a magnet, and she wondered about Francis. She still did not know what work he did. Was he enjoying himself now, intent on the cards, or was this the price exacted for the morning’s freedom? Having failed with her own marriage, she was morbidly fascinated by the management of other people’s, and his conversation had made her still more curious. After a while she could bear it no longer, so she went upstairs and lay on her bed, reading. Sue was out, swimming with Jan at the Grand Hotel.
Liz grew drowsy over her book; it was snug in the warm room, with the snow coming down hard outside, and soon she could not keep her eyes open. She slept for over an hour, and woke feeling heavy in the head and thoroughly depressed. The return of Sue in giggly high spirits did not improve Liz’s humour.
The village looked ghostly as they walked through it to the professor’s chalet. The snow still fell, soft and silent; it was warmer again and through the huge white flakes lights shone out from windows on their way. At the sides of the road, the great banks of snow left by the ploughs towered above their heads. Near the church, Liz and Sue caught up the Whittakers and Frau Hiller, who was out of breath with the climb, panting and laughing. She said something in German as they all met.
Silent Witness (Dr. Patrick Grant) Page 6
