A Retreat

The young woman, standing at the end of my bed, rocked a sleeping baby wrapped in a shawl. Suddenly she held out the baby and turned her head away. Horified, I saw blood flow down from a wound in her plaited hair, staining her sleeve and the baby's face.

With a start I opened my eyes and sat up. The room was empty, the window open.

"Jonathan, I can't stand this. Why aren't you here?" I mumbled at the telephone. My hand lifted towards it, pulled away. In this hotel, at this hour, I'd never get through. Then I punched in the numbers, hung up and lay down again, Jonathan's parting words, spoken with such fury only days before, still echoing within me. My stomach heaved. I shut my eyes and curled up around the pillow.

My hotel, a large chalet really, had cloistered paneled rooms where time had stopped just when woodcuts, lace curtains and crocheted doilies were at their most fashionable. In the morning Mr. Donatsch, the owner, stood as usual at the bottom of the dark pine staircase. Retired, he spent most of the day asleep in his garden, although he still escorted guests to their breakfast tables.

"Good morning," he said, stepping forward to greet me. "It's a beautiful day again."

"Yeah. I think I'll visit that chapel you've been talking about."

"May I suggest you take the path through the forest. The butterflies should be hatching any day now.

"Oh - like in the lobby painting?"

The water colour fascinated me. A determined butterfly struggled for release from its chrysalis as raindrops fell, tearing holes in its unfolding wings. I had discovered the same sort of painting all over the chalet, each a realistic study of nature's violence, all signed Margaret, the capital M round and full above the other letters.

"You promised to tell me more about the artist," I reminded Mr. Donatsch as he held out my chair.

"Today you seem to have time to listen," he remarked dryly and sat down next to me.

"Margaret arrived just after the Great War in I92 I," he went on, frowning at a coffee stain oozing into the tablecloth. "I understand she was the last member of a colonial family, married to an army officer. She was expecting her first child and wasn't very well so she came to Switzerland as it was considered a respectable haven in those days."

"Was her baby born in the hotel?"

"Yes, upstairs. But she often finished her paintings here in this dining room."

He lifted his hand as if to show her sitting at the next table where a young family were eating their breakfast. I remained silent, surprising myself Every where I turned there was a mother and child.

As I hiked up through the forest Margaret accompanied me. I imagined her peering into the undergrowth, pushing aside her thick skirt to seek out the microscopic dramas beneath the leaves. How did she manage with her large belly while she crouched to sketch her models? I rubbed my hand against my abdomen; the flatness no longer seemed appropriate.

The shelter of the larch trees gave way to an open field. I continued to climb. Sloping out below my feet, beyond the village roofs, lay the valley where farmers and their families still turned the newly-cut grass by hand so that it dried evenly in the sun. The smell of hay lifted on the breeze.

The chapel was built on a plateau tucked under a natural wall of rocks which offered protection from avalanches. I tried to open the door. It was locked. I laid my cheek against the rough wood and ran my fingers down a crack. So much for the old man's ideas.

A small graveyard extended beyond the chapel. The epitaphs, written in many different languages, recorded an international community of the dead. A name caught my eye.

In Memoriam
MAISIE
Beloved wife of
Captain Peter Leslie Stillman
of
Singapore
who died suddenly on August 2 8, 1921

The gravestone with its polished granite and gothic gold lettering, seemed ridiculous in these mountains. Even the abbreviated Christian name was out of place. My throat tightened.

The words began to blur so I sat down on the grave. Margaret, I thought. Margaret, Maggie, Meggie, Maisie - I recited the names as if I was counting the distant clouds which drifted around the alpine summits. Margaret Stillman, once known in the Singapore barracks as Maisie, wife of the Captain, was an artist who confirmed Darwin's theory in all its ferociousness.

I reread the engraved words.

"..who died suddenly....... I spoke out loud, glad to hear the sound of my voice. "Wild flowers. That's what you need. I'll bring them tomorrow." The decision calmed me. Even though I was leaving the next day a walk in the morning would be good.

I was trying to settle my evening soup with a slice of bread and butter when Jonathan phoned. He hoped I was enjoying my holiday. He missed me but his icy tone of voice refused to close the distance between us. I put the receiver down and went out into Mr. Donatsch's garden. The night swarmed with shadows. Exhausted, I dragged myself to bed but sleep came much later.

Once again the woman stood next to me, her baby against her chest. In a low voice she recited a poem that my grandmother used to say.

Its funny how often they say to me, "Jane ?
Have you been a good girl ?
Have you been a good girl ?"
And-when they have said it, they say it again,
"Have you been a good girl ?
Have you been a good girl *

The jagged line of mountains was softening to pastel when I packed my suitcase. I hurried out the back of the hotel, through the forest, stopping only to pick some flowers in the high field. I was out of breath when I turned the corner of the chapel and caught sight of a bouquet of roses on Margaret's grave. I glanced down at my flowers : Queen Anne's lace and daises mingled with scabious. I looked again at the fragrant tea roses. They were just like the ones in the hotel garden. Only Mr. Donatsch grew roses like that. I placed my gift next to his and stepped back.

"Margaret, I don't understand what you want from me, but I know where to go to find out."

I found him sitting on a bench by the espalier pear tree, rose bushes blooming nearby. He was not at all surprised by my question.

"Maisie Stillman? Hmmm. She preferred Margaret," Mr. Donatsch said. "So you've found her.

I sat down next to him. He looked at the ground then started speaking.

"When Margaret came to this village she was six months pregnant. It seemed that the Captain ordered his wife to find a foster home for the child in Europe until he received a new posting."

"You mean separate Margaret from her baby?" I exclaimed. Mr. Donatsch ignored me.

"We don't know why the Captain didn't want the child.... maybe he thought it was too difficult to care for a baby in the army quarters, maybe the war had traumatised him, but in this hotel, far from her husband, Margaret made her own decisions."

He lifted his head then closed his eyes briefly against the glare of the sun. I waited. Something more than just his age or using a foreign language was slowing down his words.

"Soon after their son's birth the Captain announced his arrival. Margaret met him at the train station and they walked to the chapel as Margaret first wanted to be alone with him. It was there that a stone fell and hit her. At the inquest the Captain repeated his story. He was the only witness.

Margaret was buried and the Captain left, after arranging with the Donatschs to look after the boy...... to look after me," he rectified.

"To look after you," I jumped up and turned to Mr. Donatsch. He had bowed his head again. He might have been praying. I stared at the bent, white-haired figure as if I had never seen him before. Of course it was possible. Why hadn't I thought of it?

"But she was murdered, I know she was. She offered me...... you." We looked at one another.

My tears fell on the old man's woollen jacket when he took me in his arms, his gentleness comforting me more than any other gesture of love had ever done.

"Your train is leaving soon," he spoke so tenderly.

Upstairs, my bag had been placed in the corridor. I peered inside the room. The shutters were latched and a faint light illuminated the embroidered curtain frills and the white satin duvet folded neatly across the bed. A retreat, where blood, semen, vomit and tears were filtered down to dust, then swept away. Leaving space for a new life, I thought, as I sat in front of the mirror. The woman in the glass smiled back at me.

*Have You Been A Good Girl - When We Were Very Young - A.A. Milne.

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