03.5 Visitors for the Chalet School (12 page)

“I see our guide has a mind above the beauties of nature,” Joan Hatherley remarked, one eyebrow raised in a characteristically quizzical expression.

“Well, we might all live to be grateful for that.” Patricia glanced upwards, a sparkle of anticipation in her grey eyes. She was looking forward to the difficult climb, both as a challenge to be met and because it was likely to fill her thoughts and exclude personal worries.

Inside the wood it was eerily dark. Then, as the sun rose higher, its rays began to slant through the pines, throwing the tree-trunks into sharply angled relief, and casting a canopy of sunbeams across the path.

At first, there was plenty of talk and laughter, but soon the climbers began to get to grips with the gradient and a comparative silence prevailed.

“Gosh, this is going to be quite a climb,” Joan muttered to Pamela. She received only a nod and a grunt in reply.

Their route was probably not one that an experienced climber would have called difficult. But is was rough and twisting and steep enough to give the expedition the status of a real mountain climb, quite different from any they had tackled so far.

Today Miss Mortlock was in sole charge of the party – with Fritzel’s assistance, of course – for Miss Bruce, declaring herself too old for a climb like the Schneebergspitze, had decided to remain at the hotel in Briesau for the day. Of course it might have been that a particularly tricky passage in the Anglo-Saxon translation, on which she was working, had claimed her attention; for Miss Bruce could well have managed the climb had she wished it. Miss Mortlock had simply accepted the senior mistress’s decision with her usual amiable readiness.

She was anxious to discharge her duties efficiently and was insistent that the party take rests at regular intervals. To begin with, the girls were inclined to grumble at the frequent halts, but after a while the situation was reversed and there were protests when the signal to move off again was given.

This brought the scornful comment from Veronica Cunningham: “Really, you are a feeble lot!” And she added, bitterly: “It’s no wonder we lost the hockey match to the Chalet School when you’re all in such poor condition.”

No one bothered to answer this jibe; they were wisely saving their breath for the climb. Joan, Pamela and Patricia did, however, exchange meaningful glances; they felt it particularly exasperating that Veronica herself did not show the slightest sign of fatigue or breathlessness.

The hockey match had taken place the previous week, and Joan Hatherley’s prediction of a win for the Chalet School had been fulfilled. Grange House’s team had managed to give the Chaletians a good game and to keep them working hard for their victory. But the Londoners had been at some disadvantage because, with only twelve girls in the entire party, all but one were obliged to join the team whether they played hockey well or not. And, as Veronica had pointed out in confidence to Kirsty Robertston, who was vice-captain of games at Grange House: “If there’d been any choice, no one could have dreamed of putting Marion Fielding, or that lazybones Daphne Lewis, into a hockey team. Why they’d never even be picked as reserves for our Third Eleven!” Veronica, like many people who excel at games, attached great importance to winning; she had not relished Grange House’s defeat by a smaller, less established school, even with all the extenuating circumstances.

The Chalet girls had been delighted at the result, although, as Joey remarked, “a little surprised”.

Up and up toiled the party, higher and still higher, moving gradually more slowly and with still more frequent pauses for rest. At one point the going became so steep that they were forced to move in single file, using the trunks and branches of the trees to heave themselves upwards. The girls all laughed when Fritzel demonstrated in dumb show the possible dangers from rotten branches or tree-roots; but they did take seriously Miss Mortlock’s urgent warning to test each foothold and handhold before trusting their weight to it. So, for a while, progress slowed to a crawl.

At long, unbelievably long, last, more than three hours after they had entered the dark woods at the foot of the mountain, the party emerged from the trees into the sunshine, and found to their joy that the top part of the mountain was covered in snow. It was only a shallow carpeting, but it helped to add a final touch of adventure to their expedition. Many of the girls stamped their feet just for the pleasure of seeing the feathery whiteness scatter. There was a chorus of delight and surprise, with only one dissentient voice: “But you must have
known
there would be snow up here,” Veronica, the matter-of-fact, protested. “I mean, you can see from Briesau that there’s snow on all the mountain tops now.”

Once again no one bothered to dispute the point. The beauty of the snow-covered mountain landscape and the delicious wine-sweet tang of the air combined to produce a magical atmosphere in which argument with Veronica was simply not worthwhile. There would have been no comment; but Veronica suddenly realized that in not joining in the hymn of praise she might appear to lack artistic appreciation. Hastily she changed her tune and declared in tones of false enthusiasm: “But of course it does look very pretty; and the snow shows up all the other colours so nicely, doesn’t it?”

Now these two particular words, “pretty” and “nice”, with their undertones of cosy suburban teaparties, were unbearably irritating in the present context to Joan Hatherley. She gave way to a temptation to trap Veronica; and with an expression of utter innocence on her round face, she said: “Oh, yes, indeed, the coulours are really
very “pretty”
, aren’t they? And doesn’t it all remind you of those pictures by Prandello that we saw in Paris?”

Veronica failed to notice the dry tones and the curious glint in Joan’s blue eyes. She did not recall a painter named Pirandello, which is hardly surprising, but nothing would have induced her to acknowledge this. And so she swallowed Joan’s bait, saying with tremendous heartiness, “Oh, yes, it
does
remind me, too; it’s really awfully like; just the same colours.”

When Veronica had moved ahead again and was out of earshot, there was a moment’s silence. Then Pamela said, with a certain gentle reproof, “That was a bit naughty, you know, Joan. I haven’t an idea myself who Piran-what’s-it is – though I bet he’s not a painter – but it’s just too easy to catch that one out.”

Joan had the grace to look a little ashamed. “Well, I know you’re absolutely right, but she really does get my goat sometimes with all that pseudo-arty nonsense. Still, she’s not a bad old stick in some ways; I suppose it’s not fair to tease her.”

“Don’t worry,” Patricia said over her shoulder, as she started to lengthen her stride in order to keep up with the line. “Nobody else heard her making herself look silly, so there’s no great harm done.”

The path had become much less sheer and they could now see the top of the mountain, which was encouraging; even though, in the curious way mountains have, it seemed to retreat further away each time they got to the top of a ridge. In a happy, almost dreamlike state they continued scrambling on upwards.

Nearly an hour and a half later, breathless but triumphant, they reached the summit.

Now they could enjoy the spectacular views presented to their gaze, ranging in every direction for mile after mile over the mountains and valleys. Far below lay the Tiernsee, blue and sparkling, while the houses of Briesau looked like a child’s sampler worked in the tiniest of petit-point stitches.

“It really does seem like looking through binoculars the wrong way,” Joan pronounced as she screwed up her eyes in an attempt to distinguish the various houses in Briesau. “I’ve always thought that was a rather stupid comparison before. Now there’s the Kron Prinz Karl, you can’t mistake it, so that one’s the Stephanie and that’s the Chalet School. Wheat’s that one?” She pointed to a larger building to the south of the Stephanie.

“It can only be the Post Hotel, surely,” said Patricia, when she had made out where Joan was pointing.

“Come on, do, Joan! I’m beginning to feel famished.”

It would have been too cold, even in the sunshine, to sit outside and eat; so, after a short pause for everyone to exclaim about the scenery, the party hastened for the shelter of the nearby mountain hut. Fritzel pushed open the door, and they all crowded inside. Everyone suddenly realized just how hungry she was feeling, and no time was wasted in opening up the packets that contained their lunch.

“Goodness, I don’t know when, if ever, I’ve ever felt so ravenous,” declared Pamela, tucking into yet another roll filled with a delicious egg-and-cheese mixture. Frau Dobler had provided a noble picnic meal, and no one was failing to do it justice.

“Now I’m not starving anymore, I’m beginning to dread going down that ghastly path.” Patricia was cradling a cup of steaming hot coffee in her long slim hands and taking an occasional appreciative sip.

“Oh, why can’t some kind person just come and build a lift to take us down?” sighed Pamela.

“Pair of wings would do nicely for me,” said Joan. “Mountains are most deceiving creatures, you know.

On the way up it seems that nothing could possibly be worse than staggering to the top. But then, lo and behold, coming down is revealed to be harder beyond compare – a far, far, ‘worser’ thing, you might say!”

“Shut up and don’t be so jolly morbid!”

“It couldn’t be worse than that bit where Evelyn nearly slipped.”

“Oh, couldn’t it just?” Joan seemed determined to persist in her Cassandra-like role. “I must point out to you, dear girls … Oh, sorry, Miss Mortlock! Did you want our talented interpreter?”

In the absence of Miss Bruce, Pamela was the only one of the party with enough German to hold any sort of conversation, and she was in great demand today.

“Yes, could you come over and talk to Fritzel for a moment, please, Pamela?”

A short discussion took place, and no one was sorry to learn that Fritzel proposed that they should make their return by a much easier path. This descended over the shoulder of the mountain by slow stages and joined the Tiern valley road three or four miles above Briesau.

It proved a delightful journey. As the path wove gently downwards the landscape was constantly changing: at one moment they were looking down on the distant Tiernsee and, at the next, right up the valley to where the Tiernjoch stood, majestic in its snow crown. For below in the valley a few deciduous trees, glorious in russet and gold, blazed out against the darkness of the prevailing pines. It took only a little over two hours to reach the Tiern valley road, and here they were met by an unexpected and fascinating sight. A long, seemingly endless, procession of cows was making its way along the valley road towards Briesau. There were several herdsmen in traditional Tyrolean dress; and a few dogs were also helping to guide the herds and to bring any would be stragglers back to the proper path.

The cows, great gentle-looking beasts, mostly creamy-brown in colour, moved slowly and inevitably down the road; some were gaily decorated, either with a few late flowers or with elaborately twisted straw ornaments. The air was filled with an unceasing symphony from the bells hung round their necks, the sounds varying greatly in pitch and tone, for the bells were of very different sizes: some were as small as eggcups, while others were huge, and one particular monster looked almost as though it had come from a church tower.

The girls could not help laughing at the sight of these enormous bells, although they felt sorry for the cows that were patiently carrying them.

“Will you look at that poor thing!” Pamela pointed to one cow with a specially heavy bell. “That object round its neck looks just like our school bell.”

Joan Hatherley nodded agreement. “Yes, and it sounds like it as well. Poor creature!”

“And it’s quite the wrong sound out here.” Patricia was listening, fascinated, to the vast bell. Its sound was clearly distinguishable even in all the surrounding clangour. “Why do you suppose there are so many cows today, all here at the same time?” she asked after a moment. “It’s like some kind of fair. Anyone know what it’s all about?”

Nobody did know; but Pamela was persuaded to make use of her German again and ask one of the herdsmen. She had a little difficulty in understanding his replies, for his accent was unfamiliar to her and his German sounded very different from that of Fraulein Hasse who taught at Grange House. However, Pamela did manage to tell the others something about the custom that obtains in some mountain regions of taking cattle to spend the summer up on the high pasture-lands. Each year, she explained, the herds would leave the valley in early June, and return during October. This year they were unusually late in leaving the high alms.

It was good fortune indeed, the herdsmen assured them, when
“der liebe Gott”
sent a mild autumn such as this one had been; it helped to shorten the long waiting through the winter months, always a difficult time, with food scarce and work impossible to find.

“I think they have the same sort of arrangement in parts of Ireland,” Pamela commented, when she had translated the herdsman’s information to the best of her ability. “I can remember being told about it. And they have little stone houses built up on the mountainsides, where the cowherds live during the summer; they’re called ‘Booley’ houses in Irish; the word’s spelt rather oddly but that’s how it’s pronounced.”

“Can you speak Irish, then, Pam?” Joan asked curiously; but Pamela shook her head.

“Only a few words; I’ve always lived in London, you know, except for holidays. My grandparents do speak Irish, but for some strange reason they didn’t want my mother to learn it; and in any case she went to boarding school in England when she was only about eight or nine years old.”

“Poor little thing! I think boarding schools are miserable institutions,” was Joan’s comment. But there was no time for any argument to develop about the merits, or otherwise, of a boarding school education, for at that moment Miss Mortlock called a brisk order to the girls to get going again, as quickly as possible; Fritzel Pfeifen had just given warning that they would need all the time they had and more if they were to reach Briesau before dark.