Suffragette Girl
Authors: Margaret Dickinson
Suffragette Girl
PAN BOOKS
For my grandson, Zachary John,
whose smile lights up my life
One
Switzerland – September, 1932
‘How much further is it, Mother?’
Florrie glanced at Jacques. He was sitting in the corner of the compartment, huddled into his thick overcoat, white-faced and shivering. His dark-blue eyes were pools of weariness in his gaunt
face. His black hair was dull and lifeless. When he’d coughed the only other occupant of the carriage had risen and left, fearful of the deep, hacking sound and suspicious of the way the boy
held his handkerchief to his mouth.
‘Not long now, darling.’ Florrie put her hand on his arm. ‘We’re just drawing into Landquart, where we have to change trains and then we’ll soon be in Davos
Platz.’
Jacques closed his eyes. ‘Not another change!’ he whispered.
‘We have to. It’s a different-gauge rail track and these trains . . .’ Her explanation faded away. She’d sought to interest the boy, but she could see that he
couldn’t summon up even the pretence of curiosity.
Florrie bit her lip. The journey had been a long one, even though they’d broken it into four days by staying overnight in London, Paris and Zurich. But today – the last leg from
Zurich to Davos – seemed to be taking its toll on the sick boy.
Had she been right to bring him? With customary candour, Florrie questioned her own motives. Had her overwhelming desire to have an excuse to see Ernst Hartmann again made her risk the
boy’s health – perhaps even his life? But no. The Harley Street physician had suggested Switzerland without any prompting from her.
‘Davos,’ he’d said, making his swivel chair creak as he’d leaned back in it, rocking it gently. He’d steepled his fingers, regarding her over the top of his
spectacles. ‘That’s the place. They’re doing wonderful things there. It’s become a centre for the treatment of tuberculosis. There are some very clever doctors at the
sanatoriums there—’
She hadn’t been able to prevent a gasp of surprise. Of all the places in the world, he’d chosen Davos.
‘Jacques may be there for weeks, even months,’ Dr Harris had warned. ‘You do realize that, don’t you? Your family can afford it, I presume?’
He knew the family lived at Candlethorpe Hall surrounded by its vast Lincolnshire estate of hundreds of acres farmed by tenants, whilst Edgar Maltby and his family lived in idle splendour on the
rents, untouched as yet by the unstable economy and its hardships.
No, Florrie thought as the train rattled nearer and nearer their destination, she should not feel guilty that their privileged position enabled her to bring Jacques here. But perhaps what she
should be feeling guilty about was the excitement that surged through her with every mile that brought her nearer to Ernst Hartmann.
As the train drew out of Landquart, Florrie settled Jacques in a corner seat near the window and tucked the travelling rug around his knees. Then she sat down in the opposite
seat and looked out of the window, soaking up the sight of the snow-capped mountains with their sharp, pointed peaks. This was Ernst’s beloved homeland.
The train rattled past steep-sided cliffs, the trees clinging to the bare rock. For a few seconds, she glimpsed a stream and then the train plunged into a tunnel. As they emerged into the light
once more, she saw the river again, its water a strange opaque bluey-grey.
‘Why’s that river such a funny colour, Mother?’
Florrie turned towards him and smiled, relieved to see that he still had the energy to take a little interest in the scenery. ‘I’m not sure, I—’
The only other traveller in the compartment – an elderly bearded gentleman dressed entirely in black and sitting in the corner near the corridor – emerged from behind his newspaper
and glanced towards them. He was thin, hunched over in the seat, his overcoat seeming to swamp him, but his pale eyes behind his spectacles were friendly.
‘It’s a glacial river, my boy.’ His English was perfectly pronounced, but spoken with a strong German accent. Hearing it – even after all these years – still gave
Florrie a shiver and brought back memories of those terrible days . . .
Her thoughts were dragged back to the present.
‘We are climbing gradually and when we reach Davos—’ the stranger was explaining. His glance turned away from the boy to Florrie for a moment. ‘You are going to
Davos?’
She nodded. Was Jacques’s condition so obvious – even to a complete stranger? She sighed inwardly. Maybe so. Perhaps the local people who travelled on this train regularly were used
to seeing the sick and could recognize the outward signs of the illness at once.
The man was leaning towards her, holding out his hand. ‘My name is Hans Meyer.’ He smiled wryly as if anticipating a reaction. ‘From Germany.’
The outstretched hand wavered slightly, but Florrie didn’t hesitate. She put her hand into his and shook it warmly. ‘Florence and Jacques Maltby. Pleased to meet you,’ she said
and her tone was genuine. Time to put aside the dreadful memories and the bitterness. She’d never forget – that was impossible – but she could move on. ‘You live
here?’ she asked. ‘In Switzerland?’
Hans Meyer shook his head. ‘I am coming to see my wife. She is in the Schatzalp Sanatorium.’
‘Why – that’s where we’re going.’
He glanced again at Jacques. The boy was huddled down into his seat, his head lolling to one side as he fell asleep. The man nodded sympathetically. ‘It is a good place. Your son –
he has every chance. Every chance. But for my wife . . .’ He shook his head sadly. ‘They say I must take her home. They can do no more for her.’ There were tears in his eyes and,
impulsively, Florrie leaned forward and touched his hand. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered. Silently she shuddered, realizing afresh just how dangerous this dreadful disease was.
Hans Meyer blew his nose noisily. ‘Ah well,’ he said bravely. ‘It will be good to have her back with me, even if – even if – I am taking her home to die.’
Now Florrie could think of nothing to say.
For a while they were silent. Hans observed the young woman covertly, forgetting his own sorrow for a brief moment. He guessed her to be in her late thirties, for her son looked fifteen or
sixteen years old. He smiled a little to himself. To him, she was still a young woman. She was certainly a beautiful one, with flawless skin and only the hint of discreetly applied cosmetics. She
was wearing a dark-purple crossover coat with a fur collar that gave her both warmth and comfort. He imagined she was slender. Her stockinged legs were definitely shapely, her ankles slim. She wore
a close-fitting cloche hat that covered most of her hair, but a few wayward strands of brown curls touched her cheeks. But it was her eyes that drew him back, time and again, to her face.
Dark-brown pools of dread as she watched over her boy, and yet. . . ? And yet, he mused, there was a hint of excitement in their depths.
He leaned towards her again and, whilst Jacques slept, they talked in low voices. He pointed out all the places they passed through, marvelled with her at the wonderful scenery that for both of
them was so poignantly beautiful.
‘I love the wooden houses perched high up on the mountainsides,’ Florrie said. ‘With their balconies and shutters on the windows.’
Herr Meyer nodded wisely. ‘They’re useful when the snow comes and it’s very cold.’
Now, though, the shutters were wide open, and window boxes still overflowed with the last summer flowers.
‘How pretty they are,’ Florrie murmured. ‘And look,’ she pointed, ‘some have the dates on when they were built. That’s nice. I like that.’
‘This is Grusch,’ Meyer said. As they gathered speed, Florrie saw men and women and even a young boy working in the fields, turning the cut grass that she imagined would be fodder
for their cattle through the winter.
The train began to climb again.
‘We’re still going up.’ For a brief moment, Florrie was able to laugh, even though the terrible anxiety never left her completely.
‘Davos Platz lies at the same height as the top of your Ben Nevis, and then the mountains are higher still.’
‘Really?’
‘That is why the air is so good for—’ He tapped his chest, but said no more.
The train paused briefly at Schiers and then rattled on beside the glacial river once more. From Küblis it travelled on a twisting track with a steep drop on the right-hand side. Florrie
glanced across at Jacques, wondering if he would be alarmed if he looked out of the window.
‘He’s not used to hills and mountains,’ she explained.
‘Where is it you live? You are English?’
Florrie nodded. ‘In Lincolnshire. It’s very flat. There are gentle hills in the Lincolnshire Wolds and where the county town of Lincoln lies, but near the coast where we live
it’s flat as far as you can see.’ She smiled. ‘So Jacques has never seen a proper mountain.’
‘Ah,’ Hans nodded. ‘Your Lincolnshire is like Holland, yes? I know Holland, but I’ve never been to England.’
Florrie’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Never? Then – then how do you speak such wonderful English?’
‘My brothers – I have two – and I had an English tutor.’ Hans smiled wistfully. ‘A long time before our two countries were so foolishly at war with one
another.’
They sat in companionable silence whilst the train rattled on through tunnels, past more houses dotted on the slopes, past square-towered, white-painted churches with spires. Through
Klosters-Dorf and Klosters.
‘I’m sure I’ve just seen that church a minute ago.’ Florrie laughed. ‘But it was on the other side of the train.’
‘Of course it was,’ Hans smiled. ‘We’re going zigzag up the steep mountainside.’ He traced the path of the train on his knee, looping backwards and forwards.
‘So – that is the same village we keep seeing, but sometimes it is on the left and then sometimes on the right.’
‘Oh.’ Florrie was thoughtful for a moment and then she nodded. ‘Yes – yes – I see what you mean.’ She glanced towards the sleeping figure in the corner.
‘I wish Jacques could see it all.’
‘Leave him to rest,’ Hans said gently. There was a pause before he asked, ‘Whom are you going to see? The doctor, I mean?’
‘Dr Hartmann. Dr Ernst Hartmann.’
Even to speak his name aloud made her heart beat a little faster.
‘He is very good. He will help your son, I’m sure.’ Tears welled again in his eyes. ‘But for my Eva—’ He lifted his thin shoulders in a helpless shrug and
left the end of the sentence unspoken.
He asked no more for they were drawing near their destination. Florrie was thankful. She didn’t want to have to explain that, yes, she knew Dr Hartmann. Knew him very well. She turned her
head away and looked out of the window as the train passed by a lake surrounded by dark pine trees. Higher up the mountainside, snow still nestled in crevices in the bare rock and mist shrouded the
topmost peaks. Then they were pulling into Davos Dorf and finally into Davos Platz.
A horse-drawn carriage took them from the station to the funicular that hauled the single cabin up the steep mountain. Alighting, they walked the short distance to the
sanatorium and Florrie found that her knees were trembling. In a few moments she would see Ernst. After sixteen long years she would be with him again.
‘It’s such a beautiful place,’ Hans remarked. ‘And such a magnificent building, don’t you think?’
Florrie looked up at the four-storey building towering above her.
‘The best rooms are here on the front,’ Hans explained. ‘And, as you see, each room has its own balcony for taking the air.’
