‘They’re changing the beds, Mother,’ he greeted her with a smile. ‘They do it every day. Every day! Can you imagine the work that would cause Beth and the others if we did that at home?’
Florrie, heartened to see him more cheerful today, laughed, thinking of the clouds of steam, red hands and sweating faces that ‘wash day’ caused their servants. And then she remembered the laundering of bedding that Ernst had insisted be done in the field ambulance, even when the guns pounded and shells burst nearby. No doubt it was here at the sanatorium as a young doctor that he’d learned the value of strict hygiene.
There were few other visitors, but Florrie braved the cold to sit for an hour or so with Jacques. Snowflakes danced on the breeze and settled on the blankets covering the patients.
The man sitting a few feet away from Jacques called to her, ‘Good morning, Mrs Maltby. I’m Philip Henderson from Yorkshire. I wish I could shake your hand, but it’s not allowed.’
Florrie smiled at him, pleased to hear another English voice. Though Jacques could speak both French and German, it would be less taxing for him, she felt, to be able to chat in his native tongue.
‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Henderson.’ She hesitated to ask questions, not knowing how ill the man was or what his prospects were. He didn’t look too sick – not like some of the others. Further along the veranda two women sat side by side and one, Florrie thought, looked dreadfully ill. Her thin face was flushed as if she was feverish and her cheekbones were sharp beneath the paper-thin skin. Her hands, when she took them out briefly from beneath the covers, looked skeletal. But Philip Henderson, a man of fifty or so, Florrie guessed, had a lightly tanned skin. His grey eyes did not yet have the hopeless, defeated look. He was tall and thin, but not unhealthily so. His next words explained. ‘Like your son, Mrs Maltby, I’m a recent arrival and still awaiting a diagnosis. That’s why me an’ Jacques here can’t sit with the rest of ’em.’ He winked saucily at her. ‘Still, I don’t mind if it gives me a chance to talk to a pretty lady.’ He laughed, but the joyful sound turned into a cough that was altogether different – a juicy splutter that had him reaching for his handkerchief to hold to his mouth. When the spasm had passed, he lay back for a moment and closed his eyes as if exhausted. She could hear his rasping, painful breathing and she shuddered inwardly, fearing that the poor man was sicker than she’d thought. The sound reminded her of the gas victims she’d nursed. And there’d been little hope for most of them.
A few moments later, he raised his head again. ‘By ’eck, it’s a bugger – this!’
Florrie pretended she hadn’t heard his muttered oath, but silently she agreed with him wholeheartedly.
She turned her attention back to Jacques but, with a glance, she included Philip Henderson in her question. ‘What did you have for breakfast?’
‘It was huge,’ Jacques said. ‘I couldn’t eat it all. Oatmeal, yoghurt, scrambled eggs and cold meats, cheese and fruits and then coffee or tea.’
‘And dinner last night was seven courses, would you believe?’ Philip, feeling better, put in. ‘Wonderful food, mind you, even better than my missis cooks. But don’t tell ’er I said so.’
‘Is she here with you?’
The man’s eyes clouded. ‘No, we couldn’t afford for ’er to be here an’ all.’ He lapsed into silence again, while Jacques returned to the subject of food.
‘We had soup, Mother, then—’ he hesitated. ‘What was next, Mr Henderson?’
‘Do call me Philip, young feller, and you too, luv. We’re all in the same boat out here. Might as well be friendly.’ He wrinkled his forehead, trying to recall the previous evening’s fare. ‘Stuffed tomatoes, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes – yes, that’s right. Then roast beef with loads of vegetables.’
‘No Yorkshire pudding, though,’ Philip added indignantly. ‘How can you have roast beef and no Yorkshires?’
Florrie smiled. ‘Then what?’
‘Roast goose—’
‘Two roast dishes?’ Florrie exclaimed.
‘Then apple pie followed by cheese and biscuits.’
‘That’s only six,’ Florrie said as she counted the courses.
‘Well, there was fruit and coffee after that, so I suppose that counts as the seventh.’
‘And chocolate. Don’t forget the chocolate,’ Philip teased. ‘Made a right pig of ’imself, so I heard. Don’t know where he put it all after that huge meal.’
Florrie laughed. ‘Jacques can always make room for chocolate.’
There was a moment’s pause before Jacques said more seriously, ‘I had an examination with the doctor today. He taps you – well, almost thumps you at times – all over your back and then your chest. Then he listens with his stethoscope and you have to take deep breaths and cough every so often.’
‘Did he – say anything?’ Florrie had to ask, even though she was fearful of the answer.
Jacques shrugged. ‘Not to me. He said things to Sister Bergamin and she wrote it down, but it was all medical jargon. I couldn’t understand a word. Then I had to have X-rays. I’m to have more in a week’s time.’
‘For comparison?’ Florrie asked, but Jacques only shrugged. ‘Dunno. But Sister Bergamin’s taught me how to take my own temperature several times a day and keep a note of it.’
A movement in the doorway caught Florrie’s eye and she glanced up to see Ernst Hartmann come out onto the veranda. He was wearing his white surgical coat this morning and moved amongst the patients, talking to each one of them in turn, unhurried and as dedicated as she remembered. He made each patient feel that they were his only concern. It was a gift, she mused, as she watched him.
He came towards them and though he nodded briefly to her, Florrie could see that his attention was still focused on his patients. When he’d spoken to Philip, he came to stand near Jacques. ‘How are you feeling today?’
‘A little better, thank you, Dr Hartmann. My breathing feels easier.’
Ernst nodded. ‘That’s a very good sign, especially as you have only been here a matter of days.’
At last, he turned to Florrie. ‘Mrs Maltby, it is almost lunchtime and Jacques will have to return to his room. It’s also time he took his temperature again.’ He gave a curt little bow that included both Jacques and Philip Henderson, and then turned and walked back along the veranda.
‘I think,’ Florrie murmured, ‘I’ve been dismissed.’
‘Shouldn’t let it worry you, luv,’ Philip said cheerfully, heaving himself to his feet. ‘He’s a moody bloke. Clever, mark you – I’ll not deny that. But you never know how you have him from one day to the next.’
Florrie’s gaze still followed Ernst’s retreating figure.
Oh, how true that was and didn’t she know it! But she was sure too that he still hadn’t fully read the sister’s notes. She rather feared his mood would be all too easy to read then.
Fifty-Three
Since Herr Meyer’s departure, Florrie had felt very much alone. She avoided Mrs Milner as much as possible. The Russian had left, so there were only the two of them in the pension for the moment.
‘How is your husband?’ Florrie felt impelled to ask out of politeness.
‘A little better today,’ Mrs Milner answered. ‘His doctor is very pleased with him.’ She leaned towards Florrie. ‘I heard that your son’s doctor came to visit you here. That was very kind. Does he do that for all his patients?’
‘I – I don’t know. Perhaps. He’s a very dedicated doctor.’
‘They all are.’ Mrs Milner was still eyeing her with something like suspicion. ‘But not all of them visit the relatives where they’re staying.’
Though she longed to give the woman some explanation, Florrie was silent. Mrs Milner was a gossip and not to be trusted. Whatever she told her, the woman would likely make more of it. Even so, Florrie couldn’t help hoping that Ernst would visit her again – and not just to tell her about Jacques. She was angry with herself. Why, when he had made it so obvi
ous, did she still hanker after a kind word from him, the touch of his hand?
You’re pathetic, she told herself. Though she’d always been rebellious and strong-minded, where Ernst was concerned she was weak. She despised herself for it, yet still she yearned to be near him.
After dinner, the two women sat together in the lounge, Florrie in the window seat, watching the road. But Ernst didn’t come. By ten o’clock, when she could stand Mrs Milner’s inane chatter no longer, Florrie excused herself and retired to her room. But she spent a restless night and awoke the following morning heavy-eyed and with a slight headache.
She would go for yet another lonely walk, she told herself. At least the sharp, clean air would clear her head.
To her surprise, as she was finishing breakfast alone – Mrs Milner did not rise until after nine o’clock – Frau Schwarz showed Ernst into the room. Florrie glanced up, her heart thumping when she saw the serious – almost angry – expression on his face.
She half-rose. ‘What is it? Is it Jacques?’
‘Yes – and no.’
‘What – what do you mean?’
‘Come, we will go out. I have a morning off. I will take you up the new Parsenn that has opened recently.’ He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. He was still angry. Florrie was afraid. Was this how he looked when he had to tell a relative that there was nothing he could do for the patient? Is that what he had to tell her now? She was trembling as she put on her hat and coat.
As they walked side by side, Ernst said nothing. She longed to question him. The suspense was unbearable, but they needed to be somewhere secluded, somewhere quiet, where he could take her hands and gently tell her the worst . . . A lump rose in her throat. Oh, Jacques, darling Jacques, surely she wasn’t to lose him too?
He took her to Davos Dorf to the Parsenn cable railway.
‘We’ll only be going up in the car as far as what’s known as Mittelstation,’ he explained. ‘The upper section is almost complete, but it isn’t due to be opened until December. If you’re still here,’ his black mood lifted for a moment and he actually smiled, ‘I’ll bring you to travel right to the Weissfluhjoch station at the very top.’
Still the same Ernst, Florrie thought, with his unpredictable temperament: sunshine one minute and thunder clouds the next.
The red railcar glided smoothly upwards and in ten minutes they were stepping out into the stone-built station and then onto the mountainside.
Ernst swept his arm in a wide arc. ‘Is it not beautiful, this homeland of mine?’
‘Yes – yes, Ernst, it is,’ Florrie said flatly, but this morning she could take no joy in the magnificent panorama before her. Tears blurred her vision. Why didn’t he tell her? She could hardly bear the suspense.
‘We can climb to the top, if you like,’ he offered, ‘though the path is rough and stony and there are still workmen up there. It may be dangerous – but then you were never one to shy away from danger, were you?’
Her nerves were in shreds. She couldn’t stand it any longer. ‘Ernst, what is it you want to say to me?’
He didn’t answer at once, but led the way along a narrow pathway for a short distance until they came to a rock. They sat down, side by side, looking out over the valley below them. She could see the lake where she’d walked with Hans Meyer and then beyond it, the darkness of the forests climbing halfway up the mountainside giving way to green swathes, then bare rock and finally the snow-capped summits, sharp against the blue sky.
‘Tell me,’ she whispered.
He turned to face her, but there was no sympathy in his eyes, no gentle touch.
‘How could you do that to me, Florence? After all that we had meant to each other? How could you let me go on thinking – all these years – that I had a son by you?’
She lifted her chin higher and defiance flashed in her eyes. ‘And how could you make love to me, make all those sweet promises, when you had a fiancee waiting for you at home?’
He had the grace to look ashamed and glanced away. There was a long silence between them before he said heavily, ‘So, it was revenge, was it? A game of – how do you say it – tit for tat?’
‘No, it wasn’t – at least—’ It was time for honesty, an end to all the lies and deceit. ‘At first it wasn’t. I was going to tell you everything, but when you wouldn’t give me a chance, when you blurted out that you were to be married after the war, well, then . . .’
She bowed her head. Even if she’d allowed him to believe it at first, there was no excuse for having let bitterness and disappointment keep her silent all these years.
‘I see,’ he said flatly, his tone giving nothing away. Then he sighed heavily. ‘I was wrong. I’m sorry. You were only young and I should not have taken advantage of you.’
‘You didn’t.’ Florrie sought his hand and held it. He did not pull away. Huskily, she said, ‘I wanted it as much as you did. More, probably. I thought at last I had found true love. I thought you were the love of my life. I believed you when you said you loved me.’
He squeezed her hand and groaned. ‘Oh, Florence. I did – I still do. I meant every word I said. And sometimes, I believed that perhaps – when the war was over – I could come back home, explain everything to Monika, she would release me, and we – you and I – could have been together. But it was only a foolish dream of something that could never be. When you came back to the field hospital with the child in your arms, I – I panicked. I knew I would be in disgrace. I realized just how much I had to lose. Not only the humiliation of being sent home from the Front, where I felt – no, I knew – I was doing so much good, but also the thought that they would get to know at home. Monika and her father would hear and my future would be in ruins.’
Florrie frowned. ‘Why? Oh, I realize he would have made her break the engagement, but surely you’d still have had a career?’
‘Maybe, but not the one I wanted. Not here in Davos. Monika’s father was a leading figure in the town. He’d invested money in the building of the sanatorium along with my own father. They were partners, but he would not have hesitated to have had me dismissed from my post, and without any kind of reference. I would have been hard pressed to have found a position anywhere in Switzerland.’
They sat side by side, still holding hands, but in silence now. There was nothing left to say to each other. They’d both been at fault.
Florrie sighed and suddenly, amidst the splendour of the mountains, it was as if a great weight had been lifted from her heart. She was free from the bitterness and resentment she’d carried for years. And strangely, from the hope too. She squared her shoulders. It was time to start afresh. She’d tell Jacques everything, and all the family too, when she got back home. Since hearing of Jacques’s illness, there’d been a noticeable change in her father’s attitude towards the boy. Perhaps, faced with the thought that he might lose him, Edgar had been forced to examine his true feelings for his grandson. She was sure that now was the time that he would accept the truth. As for Augusta, Florrie had always wondered if she guessed more than she ever divulged
For a moment, her mind was wandering, but it was brought back sharply to the present by Ernst’s voice. ‘I did love you, Florence. Please believe me. I still do and I always will, but it was a passion born amidst horror and tragedy and we grasped at whatever happiness we could. Just as your brother did. But he paid the ultimate price.’
Florrie nodded, unable to speak. Now she just felt a deep sadness for a love that was lost, for what might have been, but never could be. And she had to face it now with as much fortitude and bravery as she’d faced everything else in her life. It was a love that was never meant to be.
‘And Monika,’ she asked softly at last. ‘Do you love her?’
‘Yes, I do. But in a very different way. It’s a gentle kind of love. Because of her, I have the life I always wanted. The life I still want. And – she’s the mother of my children.’
She turned to look at him, searching his face. He
smiled – a little sadly – as his gaze met hers. ‘You thought I was too,’ she reminded him softly.
‘That’s true,’ he admitted. ‘But I could never have acknowledged an illegitimate child.’
So, now she had the whole truth. His career, his standing in the community of his home town, meant more to him than anything else. More to him than his love for her. She realized now, with sorrow, that he was not the man she’d thought he was.
Unbidden, Gervase’s face came into her mind. The man who’d risked his reputation to rescue her from prison and his life to try and save her brother, and who’d selflessly offered to marry her to give a name to the child he thought to be hers. Tears came to her eyes, but they were not now for the man beside her, but for the wonderful, caring, loving man she’d taken so much for granted all their lives.
She leaned forward and gently kissed Ernst’s cheek. It was a kiss of goodbye, tinged with regret for what might have been, but, in a way, she was released at last from the heartache. She too would always love him – in a way. But it was not the way she wanted to love and be loved now. Their time together had been heady and exciting. Fraught with the danger of discovery and the closeness of death, it was a passion that had burned itself out, a love that could not stand the test of ordinary, everyday life. A brief affair that had no future.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, ‘that I didn’t tell you the truth about Jacques sooner. I’m glad you know now, but I’m ashamed that it took his illness to bring me here.’
Ernst nodded.
There was a long silence between them before she asked tentatively. ‘About Jacques? Have you – any news for me?’
He squeezed her hand. ‘I don’t want to say too much yet. I don’t want to give you false hope.’
‘You mean – you mean you can cure him?’
Suffragette Girl Page 38
