Suffragette Girl

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘I’m sorry.’ There was a slight pause before Florrie asked. ‘Have you any family? Children?’

  The woman’s face lit up again. ‘Oh yes. Two sons. They live in Geneva. They’re doing very well,’ she added with a note of pride in her tone.

  ‘So – they’re called Schwarz-Hemmi?’

  ‘Oh no. What a mouthful that would become if their wives then added on their birth names. It could go on forever.’ Frau Schwarz laughed aloud at the thought. ‘No, no, the children of a marriage just take their father’s surname, though the father can be known by the double name. My husband could have been Schwarz-Hemmi if he’d wished, but he preferred to keep it short, so I always say my name is just Frau Schwarz. Do you see now?’

  Florrie laughed. ‘I think so. The custom must be very helpful for anyone tracing their family history.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it must be. I’d never thought of it before, but I see what you mean.’

  There was a knock at the door and Frau Schwarz opened it to see Hans Meyer standing there.

  ‘Enjoy your walk,’ she said cheerfully as the two set out.

  They took a carriage to beyond Davos Dorf and alighted near the lake. The sharp air stung Florrie’s cheeks as she tucked her hand through Hans Meyer’s arm and matched her stride to his. The water of the lake was a smooth grey-blue and the path around its edge was covered with a sprinkling of snow.

  Florrie closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. ‘How fresh and clear the air is and how magnificent the autumn colours.’

  ‘In a week or two it will be even more picturesque, with gold and browns and yet still with the dark green of the firs.’

  They walked and talked, telling each other of their homes, their lives, but the shadow of their sick loved ones was always with them. They returned to their separate lodgings for lunch, but met again to ride up the funicular. They were quiet now, their pleasure in the morning gone as the weight of their shared anxiety descended once more.

  As they approached the entrance, Sister Bergamin was standing on the top of the steps. It seemed she was waiting for them.

  ‘Herr Meyer,’ she said softly as they drew near. ‘If you would like to come with me, I’ll take you to your wife’s room.’

  Hans stood very still for a long moment. Florrie touched his arm gently, but couldn’t find the words to express her feelings for him. They both knew instantly why the sister had been waiting for them. Eva was close to death. For a brief moment Hans grasped Florrie’s hand, but he couldn’t look at her. He moved away, his shoulders hunched and his footsteps leaden. With a heavy heart, Florrie watched him go.

  When he was out of earshot, the sister said, ‘You will find Jacques on the lower sun terrace this afternoon. His temperature is down this morning and Dr Hartmann wants him to get as much fresh air as possible. He is not to mix with the other patients yet and still takes his meals in his room. But he is on the terrace so that you can visit him.’

  ‘May I see Dr Hartmann?’ The words were out before she sought to check them. ‘I mean – I want to ask him the results of the tests.’

  ‘Of course. I will tell him you are here. Meanwhile,’ she gestured towards the lower sun terrace and added firmly, ‘Jacques is waiting for you.’

  ‘Hello, darling.’ Florrie forced a cheerful greeting. ‘How are you feeling?’

  He was lying on a bed chair, wearing his topcoat, a woolly hat and gloves, with warm blankets tucked tightly around him.

  ‘D’you know, Mother, we have to sit outside all day? The whole day. And even if it rains we have to sit under the covered part or on our own balconies.’ There was belligerence in his tone; he was feeling better this morning.

  She was delighted to hear it, yet it amused her too. No one could ever deny he was a Maltby! She sat down on a chair beside him. ‘It’s for your own good, darling—’

  ‘“For your own good” – that’s all I ever seem to hear these days,’ he muttered morosely. ‘How long am I going to be here? I hate this place. And I hate him.’

  ‘Who?’ Florrie asked, but she knew the answer already and her heart began to thump painfully. That was the very last thing she wanted.

  ‘Dr Hartmann.’

  ‘How can you say that, Jacques? You hardly know him. And he’s the one who’s going to get you well again.’

  ‘Really?’ His tone was laced with sarcasm. He pulled his arm out from under his blanket and gestured towards the other patients lying nearby. ‘Look at them all. He hasn’t cured them, has he?’

  ‘It takes a long time, but this sanatorium has a very good record here. That’s why I – I chose it.’ She bit her lip at the partial lie.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it has, but do you know why?’

  ‘Because they cure people.’

  ‘Some – yes. I’m sure they do. But the reason they don’t record a lot of deaths here is because they send them home to die.’

  Florrie stared at him. She was thinking of what Hans Meyer had said. As if reading her mind, Jacques said, ‘They wanted to send Frau Meyer home, but she got too sick to travel, so she’s going to die here. But if they can still travel, they ship them out. It’s common sense, if you think about it. It would be harmful for their reputation to have a catalogue of deaths, wouldn’t it?’

  Florrie stared at him. ‘Oh, Jacques, I’m sure you’re wrong. Ernst – I mean, Dr Hartmann – wouldn’t do such a thing.’

  So intent on his theory was he that Jacques didn’t seem to notice her slip of the tongue. She would have to be more careful, Florrie reminded herself. She plunged on, babbling to hide her mistake. ‘It’ll be because – if they can do no more for them – the patients will want to be with their own families when – when—’

  ‘Well, you can think what you like, but that’s what the other patients say. I can still talk to them, you know, out here in the open air.’ He laughed wryly. ‘Trouble is, if we’re being sent home, we’re not going to be sure if it’s because we’re cured or because there’s no hope for us.’

  Florrie sighed. How sad it was to see such bitterness and fear in the young boy. And worse still, she could think of nothing to contradict him. Ernst, she remembered bitterly, would do anything to safeguard his reputation. She gazed at the mountains across the valley, but today their beauty had turned sour.

  Fifty-Two

  ‘May I see Dr Hartmann?’ Florrie asked the sister again as the afternoon of sitting out on the sun terrace came to an end.

  ‘He has asked me to tell you that he will come to the pension this evening to tell you of his findings.’ She turned to the boy. ‘Now, Jacques, you must return to your room.’

  ‘Can’t I go into the dining room with all the others?’

  ‘Not until Dr Hartmann says so.’

  ‘Dr Hartmann – Dr Hartmann,’ he muttered. ‘I seem to hear nothing but that name.’

  But Emmi Bergamin only smiled. ‘Now, say “goodbye” to your mother. No physical contact,’ she said sharply, as Florrie held out her arms to embrace Jacques. ‘I’m sorry,’ she added, softening. ‘I know how hard it must be.’

  As they were about to part at the foot of the entrance steps, Florrie asked, ‘How is Frau Meyer?’

  The sister stared at her for a moment and then shrugged and grimaced. ‘Not good, I’m afraid. It’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘And – and Herr Meyer?’

  ‘He will stay with her now.’ She didn’t add ‘until the end’, but Florrie knew that was what she meant.

  As she went down the mountain in the cabin, she missed Hans Meyer’s quiet companionship, and only the thought of facing Mrs Milner’s inane chatter over the dinner table made her relish these moments of quiet solitude.

  After dinner she watched the road from the window of the sitting room, waiting for the first sight of him. Her heart was beating foolishly like a young girl’s. And then she saw him, striding along, purpose in every step as he came towards the place where she was waiting for him. For a fleeting moment, all her anxieties left
her: the anguish of their parting, the loneliness of the years that had followed – even her fear for Jacques – all were swallowed by her joy at seeing Ernst and knowing that he was coming to see her and her alone.

  She was trembling as she opened the door herself and led him into the sitting room. Mercifully, they could be alone.

  She turned to face him and held out her hands to him. After a moment’s hesitation, he took them. The warmth of his touch sent a thrill coursing through her. The years between had not lessened her desire for him. They sat down side by side, staring at each other.

  ‘You haven’t changed at all,’ he murmured. ‘You’re still just as beautiful.’

  ‘Why did you never write? Not once?’ she whispered.

  He sighed and shook his head, avoiding her direct gaze now. ‘It – wouldn’t have been right.’

  ‘Because of your wife, you mean? I take it you married your fiancee?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said hoarsely.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And – what?’ He met her gaze once more, but now his eyes were wary.

  Florrie lifted her shoulders. ‘Have you any children?’

  He hesitated before being forced to reply. ‘Yes. Three. Two boys and a girl.’

  It felt like a betrayal. It was one thing to make a suitable marriage – wasn’t that exactly what her own father had wanted her to do? But to have children, to raise a family with another woman, after everything he’d said to her, was something else. So that was why he’d never written to her, had never contacted her, had never wanted to carry on their love affair, even though he’d felt obliged to honour his promise to another woman. Hadn’t he realized that he’d only had to call and she’d have come running? She would willingly have become his mistress. She’d have been content to live nearby quietly and unobtrusively. She was finding now that there were many English people living in Davos. They were like a community within a community. They even had their own church, St Luke’s. No one need ever have known about their secret life. But it was not what he’d wanted. That was becoming obvious.

  ‘So – until I contacted you about – about Jacques – you’d forgotten all about me.’

  He squeezed her hands. ‘I have never forgotten you. There has never been a day that has gone by that I haven’t thought about you. But it was not meant to be. Our love grew out of a terrible time, a time when we never knew if there was to be a tomorrow for us. We lived with danger and death all around us. We – we snatched at our happiness. But the real world – our real world – awaited us back home. If we survived. And we did.’

  ‘You regret everything that happened between us?’

  He held her hands tighter. ‘No, never. I should, but I don’t.’

  ‘And your wife? She – she knows about me?’

  ‘Monika? Of course not. No one knows.’

  He’d called Florrie ‘the love of his life’ and yet he’d never spoken of her – to anyone. No doubt he’d tried to forget her, along with the horror of the trenches. She didn’t believe that there was any regret.

  She swallowed, suddenly feeling very foolish. Somewhere, deep down, she’d hoped this visit would rekindle their love; a love so strong that even the years in between, his wife and family, would all fade into nothingness before the strength of their passion. But it was not to be.

  ‘You want to know about Jacques?’ He was bringing her back to the present, back to painful reality.

  ‘Of course,’ she whispered hoarsely.

  ‘I’m afraid today there is nothing much I can tell you. I still have more tests to do and I must observe him for several days before I know.’

  ‘Can’t you tell me anything? Can’t you give me some hope?’

  Ernst smiled – that funny, lopsided smile that twisted her heart. ‘There’s always hope. Especially here in Davos.’

  Briefly, Hans Meyer’s face came into her mind. There was no hope for him, not now. But she remained silent. Ernst had unshakeable faith in his vocation. He’d given his life to it – and hers. He’d sacrificed their love for his career, for his reputation and to honour his promise to the girl he’d left behind.

  Slowly she withdrew her hands from his grasp.

  ‘Thank you for coming to see me,’ she said stiffly. ‘I realize how busy you are.’

  Ernst shrugged, and it seemed the lines on his face deepened. ‘Not so busy as we used to be. The economic situation has meant we don’t get so many patients now.’ He smiled wryly. ‘People are still sick, but they cannot afford to come here. Even the rich are feeling the – how do you say – the pinch? And besides, I prefer to visit the relatives where they are staying. Too many prying eyes and listening ears at the sanatorium. The patients seem to find out everything that goes on. But as for Jacques, we have already put him on a strict daily regime. Plenty of fresh air, a little exercise – there are some beautiful walks in the mountains – good food, especially milk. Lots of milk. There’s every reason to be hopeful, my dear.’

  Fervently she prayed there was hope for Jacques, for now she knew there was none for her.

  It wasn’t until he’d left that she realized he’d never mentioned reading the notes that the sister had made. The notes that would tell him the truth about Jacques.

  Standing on the upper sun terrace at the sanatorium the following afternoon, Florrie glanced up at the first-floor windows.

  ‘Jacques, do you know which is Frau Meyer’s room?’

  ‘Who? Oh, the wife of the man we met on the train? No – but it doesn’t matter now. I think she died last night.’

  Florrie looked down at her son. ‘Who told you?’

  ‘No one. They don’t broadcast any deaths, Mother.’

  ‘So how—’

  ‘I was awake in the night and I heard a lot of scuffling. I peeped out of my door and saw them carrying a coffin out of a room at the far end of the corridor. They took it down in the lift. I expect it was being taken to the cellars. They have a tunnel to the funicular, you know.’

  Florrie shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t know.’

  ‘That’s how they take the dead out, and at night so no one knows.’

  ‘Have you seen Herr Meyer?’

  Jacques shook his head. He leaned back and closed his eyes. He wanted to rest, so Florrie tiptoed away. She went in search of Sister Bergamin, but knew she mustn’t go into the building. She paused near the steps leading up to the covered communal balcony.

  ‘You look a little lost,’ one of the patients lying on his day-bed near the steps spoke to her in German.

  ‘I was just wondering if you had seen Herr Meyer this morning.’

  ‘Ah, the man whose wife died last night?’

  So, Florrie thought, the patients were not supposed to know when there had been a death, but they all did. She remembered Ernst’s words the previous evening.

  ‘No, I haven’t seen him this morning,’ the man went on. ‘But I believe he stayed here the remainder of the night after she – well, afterwards. He’ll no doubt be making arrangements. It’s a sad thing for our relatives to have to do.’ He lapsed into silence.

  Gently, Florrie said, ‘How long have you been here?’

  The man wrinkled his forehead. ‘A year, I think.’

  ‘No, you haven’t,’ the patient lying next to him said. ‘You were here when I got here and I’ve been here fourteen months.’

  ‘Oh yes. I forget,’ the first man smiled. ‘One loses track of time here.’

  The front door opened and Florrie looked up to see Herr Meyer emerge. His face was grey with fatigue, his shoulders hunched with sorrow. He came down the steps towards her, but he didn’t appear to notice her until she touched his arm.

  ‘Herr Meyer, I’m so very sorry.’

  He blinked and looked round at her. ‘Ah, Frau Maltby. Thank you. It has been a difficult time, but Eva is at peace now.’

  Tactfully, Florrie drew him out of earshot of the other patients. ‘You – you’re taking her home?’

  He nodded. ‘
Yes, all arrangements have been made. It will be very expensive, but she would like to be buried at home, amongst her family. If – if I don’t take her home, she will be cremated here. I don’t want her burned. I – I know it’s the sensible thing, but I can’t bear to think of it.’ Tears filled his eyes and ran down his cheeks. Feeling helpless, Florrie patted his arm. ‘You must do whatever you feel best – for both of you.’

  Fear clutched at her heart. What if she had to make the same dreadful decision over Jacques?

  ‘What makes it worse, dear Frau Maltby, is that I have just been presented with a bill for the cost of burning all her possessions, all the bed linen – even the mattress she died on – and for fumigating the room before another patient can occupy it.’

  ‘Oh, how dreadful!’ Florrie was appalled. It seemed heartless and yet she could understand it. There were cases of mis-diagnosis. It would be dreadful if a patient who hadn’t actually got the disease already were to contract it by occupying a room where someone had died of it. But she couldn’t say all this to the poor man. It was the hope she was still clinging to – that perhaps Jacques hadn’t really got tuberculosis. That was why she was prepared to see him kept apart from the other patients – and even from meeting her, other than in the open air – until Ernst had carried out all the tests.

  She put her arm through Herr Meyer’s. ‘Come, I’ll go back to your lodgings with you. Is there anything I can do to help you?’

  He covered her hand with his own. ‘Dear lady, how kind you are. But I fear there is nothing anyone can do. Not now.’

  Florrie awoke the following morning to find that snow had fallen during the night. She was filled with a mixture of apprehension and delight. Fear because she might not be able to travel up the funicular, and joy because the scenery that had been beautiful before was now breathtaking.

  But she found that a light covering of snow did not bring life to a halt in a land where the residents were used to it. She travelled up the funicular, half-expecting that she’d not be allowed to see Jacques until the afternoon. No doubt he’d be on his balcony and out of bounds to her. But she found him on the covered veranda on the ground floor, sitting a little apart from the other patients, but still near enough to engage in conversation.