The Coral Tree (5 page)

“Just one thing more—” he called, and after a hesitation she turned. “I would not ski from the summit again if I were you. I would return to the nursery slopes.”

Angrily she flung: “I have graduated from the nursery.”

“That graduation is withdrawn,” he said evenly but meaningly. “You understand?”

She could not fail to understand. She could not fail to gather that if she did not do what he said, he would see to it that she was made to do it.

CHAPTER FIVE

AFTER THAT episode Cary did not ski again.

This was not because of the man into whom she had nearly collided at the foot of the Horn, for the doctor, the hotel grapevine reported, had departed as soon as the child had been declared sufficiently safe to leave in the care of his mother and nurse.

There was a small but gay Fancy Dress Ball one night. Cary wore a yellow scarf, yellow shirt, a cap borrowed from Jan and her own corduroy trousers. She painted on a little moustache and emerged the perfect apache.

Most of the guests contented themselves with comic hats, but Jan attended in his own intricately embroidered alpine suit. He looked tall and handsome, and Cary was proud to dance with him. “How are the runs going, Miss Porter?”

She did not like to tell him that for her all of the spirit of ski-ing had disappeared, so she smiled brightly, and said: “Just grand. I
’
m leaving at the end of the week, however, so I think I shall explore Mungen for the remainder of my time.”

Jan
’
s face fell at her announcement that her vacation was up. Cary thought ruefully that had the doctor been present he would have found something sardonic to remark.

It was curious, she thought, though without any regret, that in all the animated chatter concerning the return to health of small Paul Masser, not once had she learned the doctor
’
s name. It was always “our excellent friend”, “our fine fellow”, and the Misses Whitney spoke with typical extravagance of “our fellow Britisher”. To Cary he remained “that man”.

In the middle of the accelerated gaiety she found herself thinking of graver issues. She found herself facing the fact that she had now only four days left before she announced her decision to Mr. Beynon.

What would it be? Would she accept the money and stay on in England, take a secretarial course, find work, save up for more holidays like this one?—Or would she return to Australia and Clairhill and work without any reward, only the reward of her heart and the knowledge that at last Mrs. Marlow
’
s house had blossomed?

Abruptly she became aware of Jan telling her different routes to take.

“There is a steep slope above the railway,” he described. “You follow the upper trail to a fine view of the valley below. In the distance you will see Grindelwald and Jungfrau, and you can have hot chocolate and pastries in a sun-trap in the little shop.”

“That sounds enticing,” smiled Cary. She asked for more routes to take.

The next morning she went shopping. It came forlornly to her that she had no one for whom to s
h
op. On a sudden impulse she bought a ruby-red sweater for the wife of Mr. Beynon. She did not know whether Mrs. Beynon would be the type to wear ruby-red sweaters, but buying something to take home for somebody made her feel warm and “family.”

“That
’
s what
’
s wrong with me,” she realized, drinking a grapillon before she trudged back to the Palace. “I need someone of mv own.” In her heart she realized that she would not find that in a bachelor room in Kent, but she put the thought aside. Would she find it in a big lonely house miles away in Australia either? she asked.

After breakfast the next morning she put on her thick Buchanan skirt and several sweaters and topped it all with a huge camel-hair coat.

“You look like a Polar expedition,” laughed Alice Whitney.

“I shan
’
t be ski-ing to whip up the circulation,” said Cary, “so I thought I had better wrap up.”

It was a lovely morning. Cary knew that if she took the railway track there would be a fine panorama.

Perversely, not knowing why she did so, she took the opposite direction and climbed the hill past the little church. She was in a world of towering mountains, white slopes and thick woods, yet, for all the snow, she found the path as easy to follow as if it had been spring.

She ha
d
been walking only half an hour when the little valley confronted her. It was not so much a valley, she decided, as a shallow saucer of cleared land. In the middle of it stood a small lodge, and around this lodge a number of timber cabins.

She stared at the collection of buildings. What was this place? A boarding school? A holiday camp? With interest she climbed down into the saucer and advanced.

What she found on nearer examination surprised her. The little centre was a hub of activity. Despite the snow, half a dozen well-groomed, cocky little ponies were being walked round a small arena by as many attendants, and on their backs were children, both boys and girls.

Curiosity now got the better of Cary. Climbing over the railing, she went up to the arena. She noticed the first child being led past. She was a girl of no more than seven, and she had braces on her legs.

Several boys were next. One of them could trot without a guide to restrain the pony and he had an ecstatic look on his face—yet he also wore a brace.

A child came past in a spinal harness right up to his small neck, a young boy in irons on a quiet chestnut which a tall woman led by a long
l
ead
in
g-rein.

Cary felt ashamed of her curiosity, but she could not contain herself.

“You must forgive me,” she called, forgetting that the woman would not understand her.

But she did understand her. She smiled, and it was one of those rare smiles that really reach the eyes.

“Good morning,” she said. “You are very welcome.”

Cary was surprised at her ease with English. “I didn
’
t want to intrude,” she called.

“You do not intrude. Please come into the arena. I would like you to join us, please.”

Later—much later—Cary tried to pinpoint which of the many subsequent satisfying moments was the moment when she reached her decision.

The woman introduced herself as Jan Bokker.

“Jan?” Cary thought of Jan Luknit and looked inquiring. “Janet,” smiled the woman. “My maternal grandmother was English and I was given her name, but I
’
ve always been called Jan.”

She then introduced the boy whose pony she led. “This,” she said, “is Christian.”

The boy grinned.

“Can he understand us?” asked Cary tactfully.

“No.”

“Then tell me why he is in irons.”

Jan Bokker said briefly: “Polio.”

“All these children are polio victims?”

“No, some are arthritic patients; some muscular; some results of accidents. This little one advancing now is blind.”

“Blind?”

“She is our only blind child. Mostly our
guests
”
—she said
‘
guests
’
deliberately—“are physically incapacitated, but little Helge here has no sight, although her limbs are firm and sound. She is well catered for manually and mentally, but her parents have decided that actively she is missing a lot of happy thi
ngs—
So they contacted my hostel, and now Helge, also, is a little guest.”

Cary had drawn a deep breath. “I want to hear all about it,” she implored. “I want to understand it from beginning to end.”

“Why, of course—but let us first speak with Helge.” She nodded towards the approaching child sitting firm and upright on a well-groomed grey that moved round without being le
d
.

“Is she safe?”

“Harry is a well-disciplined pony. Halt, Harry.”

The grey stopped.

Jan Bokker spoke to Helge and the child answered, but Cary, of course, did not understand. The tall woman turned and explained.

“I have told her that a visitor is watching and the visitor says that Helge rides well.”

The little blind girl, eyes as blue as the winter sky above Lannwild Mountain, leaned forward to touch Cary. She babbled something to Jan.

“What is it?” asked Cary.

“She says you are a lady and that you must be walking, not ski-ing, because you are wearing a skirt, not trousers. She says it is a pretty skirt of many colors.”

“It
’
s a plaid,” nodded Cary, “but how would she know?”

“I think they feel color with their fingers.—On you go,
liebchen
,”
and the little girl and the little grey were prompted off.

There were tears in Cary
’
s eyes, but they did not prevent her from meeting Hans with the lolling head and Karl with the palsied arm.

“Our only trouble,” she heard Jan Bokker murmur, “was the finding of a suitable house with much land around it, you understand.”

“I have a house. A fine big house. There are miles of paddocks around it.”

Was it
her
voice speaking, wondered Cary.

Afterwards she believed that that must have been the moment when she
knew.
As in a dream she followed Jan Bokker, listening intently as the other woman talked.

“One morning five years ago,” she told Cary, “my daughter Else woke up paralysed. It was a bad case of polio, the doctors told me; in that type, even if the patient recovers she will be completely or partially crippled for life. Recently I had read of an instance in Copenhagen—perhaps you know of it yourself. There, too, a young woman was struck down, but by exercise, mainly”—and Jan indicated the horses—“equestrian, she recovered. She even succeeded later in the Helsinki Olympic Games.”

Cary nodded. “Yes, I have read of that,” she said.

“I bought all the literature I could, I applied its texts faithfully. Else had therapy, massage, electric treatment, she learned to pedal on a gymnasium bicycle, she even had to learn to crawl. Then one day she took a single step. One month later she could walk with canes.”

“And now?” breathed Cary.

Jan Bokker smiled. “That girl is a good rider, don
’
t you agree?” she said as though changing the subject.

Cary turned in the direction to which she was pointing. A lovely slim young woman sitting perfectly upright in a saddle was going through a series of walks, trots and pirouettes to the loud delight of the children.

“She is wonderful. Who is she?”

Jan Bokker said proudly: “Else.”

After Cary had been conducted round the lodge, examined th
e
timber two-bed cabins, listened a while to a nature-study class
,
watched a craftwork class—“they cannot exercise all the time,
”
explained Jan—she accepted an offer of morning coffe
e
.

Else came in, and Cary plied her with questions.

“You are very interested,” returned the girl in as fluent Englis
h
as her mother
’
s. “Have you someone with a disability, too?”

“No,” said Cary, “but I have a house with land around it, then are at least ten ponies and”—she flushed warmly—“the one thin
g
I
can
do, and I had forgotten it till now, is ride.”

“So,” said Jan Bokker, and she clapped her hands.

Else held up her coffee-cup to Cary. “Good luck,” she wished.

In the end Cary stayed all day, only tearing herself away fo
r
dinner in case the Misses Whitney became alarmed at her absenc
e
and alerted the hotel.

“God bless you,” said Jan Bokker.

“You did promise I can write for more information,” repeated Cary anxiously.

“We shall write before you do,” assured Else. “You have given me your future address. We shall write everything of help we can think of,
a
nd we shall send it as soon as we can.”

The trudge home was unnoticed. The cold, which by this hour was very bitter, did not seem to penetrate to Cary.

Just as well she had not left it any later, for the elderly ladies were watching anxiously for her return.

“My dear, we were worried,” fretted Miss Alice.

“Miss Porter, where have you been? And you missed your meal, too.” That was Miss Maud.

“I didn
’
t miss it, I ate it at a lodge.”

“Really? Was it nice?”

“I don
’
t know.”

“Don
’
t know!”

It was no use, the thing inside Cary could not be kept to herself. Not knowing whether she made sense or not, she told her experiences to the two ladies. She recounted the story of the recovery to health of the girl, Else, how that had started her mother
’
s idea—how today another idea,
her
idea, had been born. She told them of Clairhill, of Mrs. Marlow
’
s will, and what she intended to do. Then—feeling their bewildered eyes upon her—she fled.

Yet she must have made sense, after all.

She only had time to change into the soft jersey dress she reserved for wear at night when there was a tap on the door and there stood Miss Alice and Miss Maud, and they were beaming.

“My dear, we are going to ask you to accept a donation from us. We were very touched by your story. We, too, want to help.”

Cary hesitated. “I couldn
’
t, really,” she told them, “I mean, not until I was established. But the thought is lovely, and if you really want to do something you could get in touch with Jan Bokker.”

“We
’
ll do that as well, of course, but
you
—
”

Cary
’
s eyes pricked. She felt as touched by their generosity as they had been by her story.

“
I shall let you know from Australia,” she said, inspired. “Perhaps you will even come and visit Clairhill.”

They looked at each other, a little startled at the idea.

“It
’
s a long way,” demurred Alice.

“And hot,” said Maud.

Eventually they went to change for dinner, promising boldly that they would not dismiss the proposal without some serious thought.

At the end of the corridor Miss Maud Whitney turned. In that clear, rather strident voice she called: “I think you are very brave, very courageous, my dear.”

Cary remembered the last time she had announced this, and that man who had turned back from his scrutiny of the Horn. She remembered what had happened afterwards; the near-collision, the episode in the lounge. But most of all she remembered his cool regard of her as Miss Maud had kept on her extravagant enthusiasm, she remembered his sardonic speculation, the twist to his sarcastic mouth.

I
’
m glad our paths will never meet again, she thought.