Suffragette Girl (2 page)

Indeed, the rows of balconies stretched the whole length of each of the upper three floors, and even on the ground floor, a covered veranda was crowded with cane day-beds for the patients.

‘They lie outside all day – even in the winter.’ He glanced up and to the left. ‘That is my Eva’s room. I wonder . . .’

Florrie wasn’t really listening now. Despite the dreadful reason that had brought them to this place, she couldn’t help gasping with sheer delight as she stood in front of the
imposing building and looked out over the valley to the magical mountains beyond. Below where she was standing, a forest covered the steep slope down to the town where the houses, and even the
white church with its square tower, looked like tiny little boxes far below. On the opposite side, grass swathes rose gently up the lower slopes of the mountains, where isolated homes were dotted
here and there. Cattle roamed the hillsides, the bells around their necks clanging as they moved. It was so peaceful and the air so clean and fresh. Surely, in a place like this, Jacques would be
cured.

As they went up the steps into the entrance hall, Florrie held out her hand. ‘Herr Meyer, it has been a pleasure to meet you, though I wish we could have met in happier
circumstances.’

He took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘So do I, dear lady. And I wish you and your son good health and all the happiness in the world.’

Florrie nodded, tears springing to her eyes at his thoughtfulness when he was bearing such grief himself. Good health for Jacques? Yes, oh yes, but dare she even hope for happiness for
herself?

Her voice was husky as she said, ‘And I wish you well. I – I hope things are not as bad as you fear.’

He patted her hand, gave a sad little smile and turned away.

As she watched him go, a nurse came bustling towards them, carrying a sheaf of papers. She paused briefly as she passed Hans Meyer to greet him and then approached Florrie and Jacques. She was
small and slim and quick in her movements. Her shining black hair was tucked neatly beneath her white cap. Her blue eyes twinkled and when she smiled her cheeks dimpled prettily.

‘Ah, you must be Frau Maltby.’ The nurse spoke in German, but both Florrie and Jacques could understand her. Thank goodness, Florrie thought, that Jacques’s school taught both
French and German, despite the latter language still not being a popular choice, even after fourteen years of peace. ‘And this is Jacques?’

The nurse turned to the boy with a smile, but Florrie could see that her professional eye was already appraising him. The young woman held out her arm, ushering them forward. ‘I am Sister
Emmi Bergamin. I work with Dr Hartmann and he asked me to watch out for your arrival. When Jacques has settled in, Dr Hartmann would like to see you both.’

Florrie nodded, unable to speak for the mixture of fear and excitement that rose in her throat.

‘I’ll take you to Jacques’s room, Mrs Maltby, but then that is the last time you will be allowed there. You can visit your son, of course, but always it must be out in the
fresh air. Visitors are not allowed to mix with the patients indoors – only in exceptional circumstances.’ For a moment her eyes clouded, then briskly she changed the subject, but
Florrie had understood the sister’s meaning. Only when a patient was seriously ill – perhaps dying – would relatives be allowed to visit them in their rooms. Like poor Hans Meyer.
The sister had made no attempt to stop him going up the stairs.

Her voice interrupted Florrie’s unhappy thoughts. ‘You have accommodation in Davos?’

‘Yes. In a pension. I – I’ll see it later. I want to see Dr Hartmann first.’

The sister nodded understandingly. ‘I’ll show you around down here first and then I’ll take you up to the bedroom.’ She glanced at the white-faced boy. ‘Perhaps you
should rest before you see the doctor.’ She turned to Florrie. ‘You could sit on the balcony of his room with him – just this once.’ Her manner was brisk and authoritative,
yet kindly. Florrie had no qualms about leaving Jacques in this capable young woman’s care.

Sister Bergamin led the way to the right of the entrance hall into a magnificent dining room, where long tables were set with white cloths and napkins in front of each place setting. Florrie
glanced around the light, airy room. On the right-hand side long windows, looking out onto the covered veranda, stood open to the warm day. Panels, painted with tranquil scenes of lakes and lilies
and gliding swans, decorated the room and huge mirrors dominated one wall.

Seeing Florrie gazing at them, the sister laughed. ‘It’s not a matter of vanity, Frau Maltby. Well, not really.’ She moved closer and lowered her voice so that Jacques,
who’d wandered a little away from them, wouldn’t hear. ‘One of the symptoms of this disease – as you will know – is severe loss of weight, so our patients must eat
huge meals. A big breakfast with a five-course midday meal, bread and milk in the afternoon and then a seven-course meal in the evening.’ She chuckled. ‘The mirrors are for them to
check if they are putting on weight. If they think they can see an improvement, it gives them hope. And here, determination to get well is half the battle.’

Florrie nodded.

Back across the entrance hall, Emmi Bergamin showed them the lounge area, furnished with deep leather sofas and chesterfields. Oil paintings hung on the walls and there was a large bookcase
crammed with books. An ornate fireplace and stained-glass windows brought colour and light and harmony to the room. A few patients were seated in the room reading. In the far corner a section of
the room had been set aside as a games area, where three or four men were playing cards and dominoes. But the majority of the patients were out on the veranda or the grass terraces or lying on
their bed chairs on their private balconies.

‘Dr Hartmann’s room, the X-ray room and treatment rooms are through there—’ Sister Bergamin waved her hand towards the end of the long room. ‘But come now, I will
show you your bedroom.’ She led the way up the stairs, which wound around a huge wooden lift.

‘That’s a big lift,’ Jacques remarked, using his schoolboy German as he panted his way up the stairs. All the time, Florrie noticed that the sister was assessing the boy. It
was the first time he’d spoken since their arrival.

‘It’s so we can take patients up and down in their beds if we have to. For X-rays, treatment and so on.’ Her smile broadened. ‘But you, young man, don’t look as if
you need a lift.’

Jacques paused a moment, clinging to the banister rail. He grinned weakly at her. ‘Not if I can help it, Sister.’

They came to the first floor and stepped into a corridor running the full length of the building, with doors on either side. They turned left to the room at the very end. Opening the door, Emmi
Bergamin said, ‘All the rooms on this side are at the front of the building and each room has its own balcony. The rooms on the other side do not. They are usually for staff or for visitors,
though we discourage family or friends staying here. The disease is infectious, you know. Here we are. This is one of our very best rooms.’

As they entered the room, Florrie looked about her. This was where Jacques would get well. She had to believe that.

The bedroom at the very end of the corridor was furnished for single occupancy. The walls were panelled in white, with pictures dotted here and there. Pristine white sheets covered the
hospital-type bed. There was a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a bedside cabinet, a table, and two chairs and a daybed. The floor was covered with linoleum. More hygienic, Florrie supposed. Sunlight
streamed in through the window and the door leading onto the balcony, making the room light and airy and cheerful.

The sister opened a door to the left. ‘This is your bathroom.’

Jacques stepped inside, turning slowly to look around him, whilst Florrie peered in from the doorway.

‘It’s very – luxurious,’ the boy murmured. Indeed it was. The walls and floor were of pale-grey marble. Even the side of the huge white bath was panelled with marble. A
white-painted chair stood at the end of the bath with a towel rail above it. Fresh white towels were folded neatly on it and to the right of the chair was a radiator. In the opposite corner was a
square washbasin with a glass shelf and a mirror above it.

‘The lavatory is through there.’ Emmi pointed to another door leading off the bathroom. As they all moved back into the bedroom, the sister put down her papers on the small table and
opened the door leading onto the balcony. ‘Come, Jacques, you can begin your treatment right away. Sit out here whilst your mother and I unpack your things. Then, when you’ve rested,
I’ll take you both down to see Dr Hartmann. He is expecting you.’

The boy sat on one of the cane bed chairs and stretched out. From one of the cupboards, the nurse pulled a thick blanket and tucked it around him, saying, ‘You’re lucky it’s
such a nice day.’

Florrie was unpacking his clothes as Emmi Bergamin picked up the sheaf of papers again and flicked through them. ‘I need to take down a few details . . .’ She began to move towards
the balcony to speak to Jacques.

Florrie’s head snapped up. ‘What sort of details?’

Emmi half-turned towards her. ‘Oh, just full name, date and place of birth, parents’ names. That sort of thing. Just for our records. And, of course, most importantly, if there is
any history of tuberculosis in the family.’

‘History?’ Florrie’s voice rose a little. ‘Why – why do you need to know about his family?’

The nurse turned back and sat down on one of the two chairs. ‘Come, sit down. I will explain.’

Florrie sank onto the chaise longue and clasped her hands together to stop them trembling. Wide-eyed, she stared at the nurse, her heart thumping and fear rising in her throat.

‘Dr Hartmann believes that although this disease is not hereditary as such, there may be a weakness within a family that makes them susceptible to contracting it. He would be the first to
say that it is only a theory at present, but he is making a study of family histories and hopes to write a paper for the medical journals one day.’ Emmi Bergamin smiled and her eyes were
afire with something akin to adoration. ‘Dr Hartmann is making it his life’s work.’

Florrie continued to stare at her in silence.

‘So, you see,’ Emmi went on. ‘All the details we collect from families will form part of his study.’

Florrie turned pale. ‘And – and must you have everyone’s?’

‘Oh yes,’ Emmi was firm. ‘It is a condition of your son being here.’

‘I – I didn’t know.’

‘You should have been told. I am sorry if it was not made clear to you.’ Her pen was already poised over a blank sheet of paper. ‘Now, shall we begin?’

Florrie’s mind was in turmoil. What could she do? How could she possibly tell this girl everything when Jacques himself didn’t even know the truth? She should have told him, Florrie
castigated herself. She should have told him as soon as he’d been old enough to understand. And now she was caught in a trap. She couldn’t get up, repack his things and whisk him away.
He needed to stay here. He needed treatment. And she? Well, she had to see Ernst Hartmann again.

Begin? Where should she begin? The war? No, no, before that. When had it all started? And then she remembered.

It had all started the day she’d refused to marry Gervase.

Lincolnshire, England – New Year’s Eve, 1912

Edgar Maltby thumped the desk with his fist. He rose slowly and menacingly to his feet.

‘If I say you will marry Gervase Richards, girl, then marry him you will.’

Florrie faced him squarely. Her knees were trembling and, behind her back, her fingers were twisting nervously. Even at eighteen it was bold, perhaps even rash, to go against her father’s
wishes. But outwardly she was calm.

‘I don’t love him, Father, and I won’t marry someone I don’t love.’

‘Love! Don’t be so foolish, girl. He’s the sole owner of the whole of the Bixley Estate since his father died. How can you possibly refuse him?’ Edgar shook his head.
‘I don’t understand you sometimes, Florence, really I don’t. You’ve been friends for years. You and Gervase. You’ve been inseparable. And even your brother, young
though he is, has idolized the man. So, why—?’

‘Perhaps that’s why, Father. He feels like another brother to me. Not – not a husband.’

‘Well, you’d better start thinking of him as just that. He’s asked my permission to propose to you and I don’t want to hear that you’ve refused him. Or
else—’

Now Florrie’s brown eyes blazed with anger. She stood tall and straight-backed, holding her head proudly and defiantly, but without arrogance. ‘Or what, Father? You’ll cast me
out? Send me to the workhouse?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, girl,’ Edgar growled. He sat down in his chair again and leaned back, regarding her through half-closed eyes. He was a big man – tall and broad
– and now, in middle age, he was acquiring the rotund shape that came with good living. He was a serious man, smiling rarely and laughing even less. Even as a child Florrie had wondered what
it was in his life that made him seem so cross most of the time. And at this moment the frown lines on his forehead were even deeper than normal. His mouth tight beneath the dark moustache, he said
slowly, ‘If you refuse Richards you will seriously displease me.’

Florrie softened a little. Despite his dictatorial manner, she respected her father and disliked making him angry. Yet there was a streak of stubbornness in her that wouldn’t allow her to
let him ride roughshod over her and direct the rest of her life. She believed she’d the right to decide her own future. Fond though she was of Gervase – he was a good, kind man and she
knew he’d be her lifelong friend – she couldn’t imagine herself married to him.

‘Florence, listen to me—’ Edgar spread his hands, palms upwards. In anyone else the gesture might have been seen as a sign of weakness or submission – but not in her
father. ‘Richards loves you very much. He’ll give you everything. You’ll want for nothing. Can’t you see that?’

‘Of course I can, Father. But I’m not in love with him.’