The Golden Peaks (13 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Anneliese stood
just inside the kitchen, watching the luncheon-time rush, keeping out of the way of the waitresses who passed her with their full trays, exchanging occasional smiling remarks with the kitchen staff, and occasional quiet comments with Johanna. Everybody was too busy to have time to wonder what she was doing there—
f
or all they knew, Mr. St. Pierre might have asked her for a report on the way things were done in the kitchens—but Anneliese was, in fact, driven there by curiosity about Celia.

It was obvious that Celia was popular with the staff. Gustave and Hans, of course, had constituted themselves an admiration society almost as soon as she arrived, but even the taciturn Willi had a smile for her, and Joh
a
nna, who was not given easily to likes and dislikes, exuded an air of continual approval on her account. Anneliese
h
ad to admit that she was usually bright, and that her gay
sm
ile, was, or could be for most people, a cheering thing,
her
dark red hair, in those soft tendrils, really made her seem much better looking than she actually was; and Anneliese, searching for the source of her attraction, decided that it was a good thing she had come back to the
Rotihorn
at the first possible moment. It had been a shock to her to arrive and hear that Mr. St. Pierre had taken Celia and the small niece out for the day. It was an action so untypical of Kurt, who was always on the easiest terms of friendliness with his staff without allowing the slightest sign of intimacy, that Anneliese was immediately to
rn
by jealousy. She had never known him to do such a thing. He would often put his car at the disposal of the staff—when Lisel’s sister had been ill, he had sent Lisel all the way to Neuchatel in it, because the trains were inconvenient: when Johanna went on her few days' leave, Roberto was ordered to drive her where she wanted to go; there were innu
merable
such instances, but in every case, Roberto was the driver and not Kurt. Why should Kurt have gone? What
h
ad been happening in her absence? Was it possible that, with Celia in the office, thrown into closer proximity to Kurt, they had arrived at a friendship or an intimacy that could threaten Anneliese? If he had wanted to give the child a birthday treat, as the staff had explained, had it been necessary for him to give up a whole day—and in the busy season—himself? So Anneliese stood in the kitchen and watched the staff at work, but particularly Celia.

A little later, she went out into the corridor. She saw Geoffrey approaching, on his way to the dining room. He gave her a cordial smile, and stopped.

“Nice to see you back again, Anneliese,” he said. He had stayed at the Rotihorn so often, and so often when there were few guests in the hotel, that he knew Anneliese well, and had, in fact, spent several cheerful and convivial evenings with herself and Kurt in the chalet.

“It’s nice to
be
back, Mr. Crindle,” she said.

“Things going better at home now? Your mother is improving?”

“
Thank
you, yes. She is out of hospital, and I found a very nice person to come and look after her; and of course our maid has been with us for years and will help.”

“Well, Celia did her best to keep things going for you.”

“She managed very well,” said Anneliese, smiling, knowing that was what he wanted her to say; and at that moment, Celia emerged from the kitchen with a heavily loaded tray.

“Excuse me,” she murmured, since they were standing right in her way. Geoffrey looked at the tray and his face darkened with anger.

“Celia,” he said, “you should not carry so much at once. It’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t usually,” she said. “But Hertha isn’t well today, and Lisel and I are sharing her work for her; and hordes of people are waiting for lunch.”

“Then let them wait a few minutes. It must be bad for you, carrying such heavy loads
...
Don’t you agree, Anneliese?”

“Yes,” said Anneliese, “she is being very silly. Take lighter loads, Celia.” Then, seeing that he still looked
angr
y,
she
said: “Why don’t you take it for her?”

“No,” protested
Celia
sharply, but Geoffrey had immediately r
el
ieved her of the tray, marched along the corridor with it, into the dining room, and dumped it on Celia’s serving table. Then, without a word, he turned away to his own table, and Celia, also without a word, and with no smile on her usually cheerful fact, set about saving the luncheon. Anneliese had followed more slowly, and now she stood in the doorway, looking round the room, and she saw that Kurt was also in the dining room, standing at the table of one of the guests, speaking to him. He had seen the in
ci
dent, but he made no move. Only a few
min
utes
later, when Celia returned to the kitchen once more, he followed her into the corridor.

“Come to my office when lunch service is finished,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” she replied without looking at him, walking away from him into the kitchen. She knew what was wrong. She knew that waitresses did not allow guests to carry trays into the dining room. She knew that it was another breach of Kurt’s rules, and that he would not tolerate it in his hot
el
s. Anneliese knew it, too, yet she had suggested it. Geoffrey knew it, but perhaps there was more
excuse
for him, since he was genuinely concerned for her. Anyway, she thought, now I’m for it again.

Perhaps he would tell her that she was no use to him as a waitress; he had had to speak to her, or get Johanna to do so, on several occasions. And, she thought with a moment of despair, if he doesn’t want me any longer, whatever shall
I do?

When she was free,
she
went to the office, and his voice
called
her in. She stood before his desk, her face pale and serious, her eyes enormous. Kurt looked at her in silence for a few moments; then he said:

“You know what this is about,
Celia
, don
’
t you
?”

“Yes, sir," she said.

“What am I going to do with you,
Celia
? You don
’
t
seem
to realize what is correct or incorrect for you to do.
”

“I do,” she said. “I didn’t want Mr. Crindle to carry the tray.”

“He wouldn’t dream of doing so, for any of my other waitresses. The trouble is you’re not the right person in the right job.”

Here it is, she thought. This is where I have to get out.

“And if the guests do have such an instinct to protect you,” he said (and his voice was dry with a hint of sarcasm, Celia thought), “and look after you, then you should have the ability to put them off—and the common sense to know what is normally done.
”

She waited in silence, her eyes downcast, looking so sad and forlorn, without knowing it, that Kurt could feel no anger.

“Well?” he asked, at length.

She looked up at him.

“I won’t let it happen again,” she said.
“
It never happened before. It was only because my tray was unusually loaded—because Lisel and I w
e
re sharing Hertha’
s
work.
”

“Why?”

“Hertha has a bad sick headache. And it’s awful dashing about with heavy trays if you feel ill.”

“Is the work too much for you, Celia?”

“Oh, no,” she cried quickly. “I am never ill myself, I was thinking about Hertha.”

“All the same,” he said, “it isn’t a suitable job for you.”

He
is
going to say he doesn’t want me any longer, she thought with a moment of panic. Oh, Anneliese, why did you suggest this unorthodox thing, and why, Geoffrey, must you cut in on my affairs? She said:

“Mr. St. Pierre, please ask Johanna about my work. I know she is pleased with me. Ask any of the staff. You seem to see every little slip I make: it’s a sort of Nemesis on my trail. Really, sir, I don’t do a lot of unorthodox things. Short of struggling with Mr. Crindle in the corridor, I couldn’t stop him taking the tray; but he won’t do it again.”

Kurt felt a moment’s amusement at the thought of what Mr. Crindle
was about to hear from Celia
.

The next day, Celia received a call from Dr. Sturm.

“
No,
no,
nossing
is
urgent. Do not worry yourself. It is I who wish to talk to you. I think the time is come to discuss progress—to make a little plan.”

“Oh, I thought perhaps Dorothy was ill again—that the birthday treat was too much for her.
”

“Yes, I told you, it was perhaps a strain. But come first to me, tomorrow afternoon, and we have a talk.”

“Yes, yes, I will, Dr. Sturm. Thank you.”

She rang off, and stood looking absently down at the desk. She had forgotten Kurt for the moment. She was trying to sort out what Dr. Sturm had said and what he meant. Dorothy was not so well, that was obvious. She had overtaxed her strength probably. Why did he want to talk to her? What little plan had he made? Celia felt anxiety gnawing again at her, worry rearing its ugly head in her mind.

“Is it all right?” asked Kurt, watching her.

She lifted her head to look at him, assuming a smile for him, because there was no reason why her worries should be his worries, but, unconsciously shutting him out of her problem; so that he straightened his shoulders and let her go out of the office, wondering if she took all her problems to Geoffrey Crindle.

Next afternoon, Celia climbed the mountain road to the rest centre and waited to see Dr. Sturm. When she went into his office, he greeted her with a beaming smile.

“Now come in, my dear young lady,” he said. “Come in and sit down. I am sorry you have had to wait.”

“It doesn't matter at all,” said Celia. “Only, of course, I am a little anxious.”

“
Na
t
urlich, nat
ur
lich.
We are all a little anxious, but we must not be
too
anxious. There are always moments of anxiety in these cases. We get them continually, but we get over them.”

“I suppose,” said Celia, “the birthday treat was too much for her?”

“Indeed yes. It was too much. I have put her on absolute rest.”

“Oh, dear,” said Celia in quick dismay, for absolute rest at the centre was absolute in the full meaning of the word, and Dorothy would be lying flat and making no more movement than was absolutely necessary.

“Now
that,
again, is not to alarm you,” said Dr. Sturm, a
n
d although he directed another beaming smile at her, it was
beginning
to be obvious to Celia that these
smiles
were to encourage her. “It is a precaution. But I must tell you, Miss Dorrelson, that Dorosee does not make the progress I had hoped for. Her resistance seems to be nil. She is all right when she is in bed; the temperature comes down, the pulse is good, she eats fairly well, and perhaps puts on a little weight
.
She gets up for a few hours; still good, but she doesn’t put on any weight; she gets a little excited, and the temperature jumps about
...
Now I wanted to see what a variation in the routine would do. I had already seen what the concert did to her. So I spoke to my young friend Kurt on the telephone, and he had instructions that Dorosee was to be in no way strained or exhausted.”

Celia
stared at the doctor wide-eyed, unable to grasp for the moment that the birthday treat had been planned for her, that Kurt and the doctor had been in league together.

“
And what happens?” went on the doctor, “when we
make
a variation in the routine? At once, quickly, she is down. The temperature soars, she has a fever, and we are back almost to the beginning ... I must tell you, Miss Dorrelson, that if you had not brought Dorosee to us when you did, her life would have been a very short one.
”

“But now?” asked Celia anxiously. “Does she stand a
chance now?”

“Oh, yes, indeed. We make progress, but we make it very slowly. Very slowly. It is a question, Miss Dorrelson, of building up her strength; and we start on a very small, very shaky, foundation. But I think the foundation is there. This is what I must tell you—the six months she
came
for, will be no good at all. She
must
stay longer. At least a year—perhaps two.”

Celia sat silent thoughtful, dismayed, g
ri
ef-st
ri
cken.

“You see,” went on the doctor, “with zis child, it will be very slow. From now, she will be most carefully watched, most severely controlled. We have to build up, bit by bit,
and making sure as we go, that we are building permanently. Nothing can be rushed. She must be encouraged to make this sanatorium her world for the next year or two. The child’s attitude of mind will be very important; she must not fret to get away, to get back to England. She must be encouraged to make herself happy here, to focus her attentions on things here, in the centre, and not outside. In fact, she must be
willing
to stay. If you think she is old enough, and
I
think
she is, she must be included in this fight for her health—know what she is doing and why. And this is where you can be most useful to us. You must give her this encouragement to stay.”

“Yes, I see,” said Celia thoughtfully.

“You had not planned for so long a stay?”

“No. I thought the six months would be enough.” Her mind glanced briefly at financial problems, and tucked them away for later considerations. “You think at least a year?”

“At least. Most probably longer.”

“And eventually—recovery?”

“Ah, indeed, I hope so.”

“You hope so?”

“Perhaps I may say I think so. Perhaps always it will be necessary for her to be a little careful. We cannot say at this stage. All we can do now is to start on the job and hope for that eventual recovery.”

“Well,” said Celia, “I will do everything that I can to keep her here as long as you think necessary.”

“Good. You must let me know what you can arr
ange
. Now I think you should go to see Dorosee. You will come to see her as often as you can, and try to keep her always cheerful
...
You will not go to see her with so anxious a face, will you?”

Celia smiled.

“Of course not,” she said, though it was an effort to produce a smile. “Thank you, Dr. Sturm, you have been very good to tell me all this; and if I can work with you to make her better, I’d be glad to.”