Squashed watches and crushed expectations
Two hours later, the girl, the dog and the writer walked out of Hotel Schloss der Freude and down the stone staircase. Tobias was still muttering and chuckling about the flaming palm tree and wondering how he might best use it in a novel. The dog carried his beloved stick, his ears and tail poking proudly up into the air. Freja patted her scrapbook where it sat tucked beneath her arm and marched towards the little red funicular train, her chin held high, her jaw clenched tightly.
It was most unlike Freja to behave in such a bold and soldierly manner, but today she felt as though she was going into a very important battle, a battle for the truth. And she was determined to win.
If Clementine was not forthcoming with all of the family secrets today, then Freja would lead the way by example. She would start by sharing the bits of her scrapbook that she had completed when living in the Arctic wilds with Clementine. But then, no matter how painful it might be, she would point out all the things she had done over the last half-year in Clementine’s absence. She had rehearsed an entire speech. ‘Clementine,’ she would say, ‘it may sadden you that I have done lots of new and exciting things in Rome and Provence without you. And the truth is that there are many things that have happened in my life since the start of the year which I will never remember to tell you. But here, today, I will share all the important bits — even the bits that might upset you a little, like the time I was locked in a cupboard by a dangerous jewel thief, or the time I fell into the river and thought I would drown. Because that’s what a mother and daughter should do. They should share everything. The good and the bad and the embarrassing — their secrets, big and small — and not hide anything important from each other, no matter how awkward the sharing may feel.’
Freja was just running through this little speech in her head for the fifth time that morning when something caught her eye. Something brown and round and flat was squished on the pathway up ahead. The object seemed somehow familiar, so she ran towards it. Finnegan galloped after her.
‘I say!’ cried Tobias. ‘You both seem to have shot past the station. We’re heading down the hill on the little red train, remember?’
Freja squatted down and reached for the flat brown disc, but it crumbled as her fingers closed around it. It had been crushed — ground beneath someone’s boot, perhaps. She rubbed one of the crumbs between her finger and thumb and it melted into a brown smear.
Finnegan snuffled about her hand and licked her thumb. ‘Boof!’
‘Yes,’ agreed Freja. ‘It’s chocolate!’
Looking further along the path she noticed several brown shards. One by one, she picked them up and placed them in the palm of her hand.
‘Look, Tobby!’ she called back over her shoulder. ‘Chocolate. Bits of broken chocolate!’ Sitting her scrapbook on a log, she scooped the front of her dress up into a pouch and wandered further and further along the path, into the forest, until she had gathered all the bits of broken chocolate she could find — enough to fill a soup bowl. Returning to Tobias, she held one of the shards up to the light, examined it from all angles, sniffed it, licked it, then popped it into her mouth. The creamy goodness spread across her tongue and filled her head with a delicious buzz.
‘Well?’ asked Tobias.
Freja nodded. ‘Margrit Milk.’
The girl and the writer sat side by side on the log. One by one, Freja removed the shards of chocolate from her dress and sat them on the open pages of her scrapbook.
‘There are numbers on some of the pieces,’ said Tobias.
‘And this one looks like an arrow,’ said Freja.
Then, both at once, they flung their arms wide and cried, ‘Fob watches!’
Freja fiddled about until she had pieced an entire chocolate fob watch together. She stared up into Tobias’ face. ‘Oh, Tobby. They would have been so very beautiful. Why would somebody do such a wicked, destructive thing after the chocolatier went to so much trouble to make something pretty to look at and delicious to eat? It’s just crazy.’
‘Or spiteful,’ said Tobias.
‘Or maybe . . .’ Freja scratched her head and wrinkled her nose.
‘What is it, old chap?’ Tobias rested his hand on her shoulder.
Freja chewed her lip. She tugged at her ear. Something was poking at the back of her mind. But it just didn’t make sense. Why would she be thinking about swans, here in the forest, far from the river, at a moment like this?
Freja marched into the clinic, rehearsing her little speech in her mind once more. The mystery of the crushed chocolates could wait. Her own life’s mystery was due to be solved. Today she would find out if Tobias Appleby was her father.
By the time Freja reached the staircase, she was feeling quite determined and took the steps two at a time. She almost stomped along the final stretch of corridor to room five, her scrapbook pressed to her chest like a shield. Tobias and Finnegan followed behind, trotting to keep up.
But upon reaching the doorway, the scrapbook slipped from Freja’s hands and fell to the floor. Her legs turned to mush, her tummy did a somersault and her mouth, which had been fixed into a determined pout, collapsed and wobbled.
Clementine was surrounded by doctors and nurses, touching, squeezing, murmuring, writing on charts. A bag dripped pale pink fluid into her arm.
Doctor Claudia looked across at Freja and shook her head. ‘It is not a good day for your mother. She has a fever and is very weak. I do not think she will wake up today. Perhaps you should give her a kiss and then leave her to rest.’ She paused as though choosing her words very carefully. ‘Perhaps you can visit for a little longer tomorrow . . . Perhaps —’
‘But she’s getting better,’ said Freja. She turned to Lady P. ‘She is, isn’t she, Lady P? You saw how happy and strong she was yesterday . . . and the day before. Her cheeks were rosy and she could see. It was a miracle.’ Freja walked over to Doctor Claudia and said more loudly, ‘A miracle! I’ve been hoping for a miracle for ever so long. I’ve been praying for a miracle. And with Herr Berna’s beautiful chocolate and the fresh mountain air . . .’
‘I’m so very sorry,’ whispered Doctor Claudia. Then, taking Clementine’s hand, she placed it in Freja’s and said, ‘Why don’t you tell your Mami you love her?’
Freja stared at Doctor Claudia, eyes wide. So very sorry? Why was the doctor so very sorry? And why should Freja tell Clementine she loved her when she was asleep? There was no point. Unless it was just to make Freja feel better. Unless . . .
Freja wrinkled her nose. She looked down at Clementine’s pale thin fingers. Her throat ached and her eyes burned with unshed tears.
‘No, thank you,’ said Freja, placing Clementine’s hand gently back on the bed. ‘I think I will wait until she wakes up and can hear me. I might even wait until we’re sitting together on top of a mountain once more.’ And, turning around, she walked out of the room, ignoring Tobias and Finnegan and their kind eyes, then carried on out of the clinic, down the hill and back towards the castle. She would spend the day with Manfred and Wilhelm Tell. Yes, that’s what she would do. She could arrange flowers and water palm trees and greet the new hotel guests and drink hot chocolate and gobble Raclette and talk to Manfred about things like suitcases and bed linen and after-dinner mints and whether Madame Belmont was reading French fashion magazines or superhero comics and how many schnitzels Vipp, Vopp and Vupp had eaten this week and how much Frau Isch’s pearls were truly worth.
Freja nodded, satisfied that she now had her entire day planned so that it would be full of simple, harmless activities. She stepped onto the Spreuer Bridge and gazed down at the frothing water as it flowed through the weir. She looked up at the bridge’s roof and noticed the paintings on the gables below the ceiling. Truly noticed them for the first time.
Freja gasped. ‘They’re horrible!’
A woman carrying a basket full of groceries stopped and chuckled. ‘But of course they are horrible,’ she said with a strong German accent. ‘They are Totentanz — The Dance of Death. The pictures are old, painted in the 1600s when death was an everyday occurrence — accidents, hunger, war, plagues, even the common cold.’ She walked beside Freja, pointing up at each painting as they passed. ‘See the skeleton. Here he is talking to the fisherman . . . the priest . . . the lady. He is the Grim Reaper, Death, and he wants everyone to dance with him. Everyone! Both young and old, rich and poor, male and female, Swiss and English.’ She smirked a little at these last words.
Freja stared up into the woman’s cold blue eyes and shuddered. ‘Well, I don’t like dancing!’ snapped Freja. ‘And nor does my mother!’ And without another word, she ran the rest of the way across the bridge. But instead of heading for the funicular train that would take her back up the hill to Hotel Schloss der Freude, she followed the River Reuss past the grand old banks, theatres and museums, until she ran out of breath and had to stop.
Freja wiped her sleeve across her eyes and stared up at the Jesuit Church. It was big and white, its two towers topped with exotic onion-shaped domes. It was different from the churches in Rome and Provence, but still, God would probably be somewhere nearby. She pushed open the heavy timber door.
Inside, the church was bright and white, the curved ceiling covered with curly-scrolly gold bits and pretty paintings that might have been of saints and angels, or they might have been of people like Nonna Rosa and Pippin and Manfred. She didn’t mind which. What mattered was that, unexpectedly, they made her feel safe and calm. They reminded her of friendship and kindness and love and miracles.
Freja slipped into one of the pews, closed her eyes and pressed her hands together. ‘Dear God,’ she whispered, ‘I have chocolate to make Clementine strong. Doctor Claudia has medicine to make her see. And the mountains have the marmots to make her laugh. So if you could just help out a little bit too . . .’ She sniffed. ‘Nonna Rosa said you’d hear me anywhere. But I’m here in your house to save you the bother of straining your ears over the wind and the rushing water and Tobias’ typing and Finnegan’s barking and the piano playing in the Palm Room.’ She plucked a loose thread from the hem of her dress. ‘I suppose what I mean is . . . what I’m asking is . . . Please, God, would you help the medicine and the chocolate and the marmots and me to make a miracle? A miracle for Clementine?’ She realised that tears were now streaming down her face. She wiped them with her sleeve, then whispered, ‘Because, to be honest, I think that skeleton on the Spreuer Bridge might be headed up the hill towards the clinic.’