The Golden Peaks (2 page)

“I must
thank
you,” said Celia, “for coming to my help
so promptly.”

“There will
n
ot always be somebody at hand to come to your help,” he said, his voice still strongly disapproving. “When you are in the mountains, you must think and act for yourself. A false step may mean death—but you do not
seem to realize it.”

“You see,”
she
said apologetically, I have only just
arrived in Switzerland.”

“That is obvious. But now you are no longer in an
English
meadow, it should be obvious to you, too, that you
need a different technique.”

Celia felt
very much like a reprimanded schoolgirl.

“Let me give you a little advice,” he said. “You must not let your high spirits get the better of you. The mountains need a cool,
cl
ear head and plenty of common sense— and the right kind of boots or shoes.”

Celia said, feeling that she owed him a little gratitude:

“Yes, I am sure you are right” But she felt that she would like to tell him, too, that this was the first time she had been in high spirits since her overpowering anxiety about Dorothy had set in motion the giving up of her flat, the selling of her furniture, the undertaking of this journey.

“If you are going down to the valley, you will go more quickly this way,” he said, pointing out a second path, less rough than the one she was on. “It will bring you to the road below the pines. It is a little slippery because of the shade of the trees—I beg you to remember it, and not to try to run.”

“I have already thanked you for coming to my h
el
p,” said Celia. “I thank you again, and assure you that I have already learned my lesson this morning.” She spoke stiffly, stung by his impersonality and the fact that he obviously thought her foolish and scatterbrained. She turned away from him, and took the path that he had indicated.

After a f
ew seconds of walking with her h
ead held high, she could not resist the impulse to turn back to see if he were still there. Her path was descending, and he was now high above her, standing on a shelf of rock, outlined against the sky and looking over the valley. She had a momentary impression that he and the mountain were one, possessed of the same strength and power, the same reserves of
s
ilence.
The rough
cl
oth of his clothes, the heavy
cl
imbing boots, the dark hair blowing slightly in the wind, all h
el
ped to add to the ruggedness of his appearance. A lord of the mountain, she thought. At that moment, he turned and saw that she was watching him. The hand that h
el
d his battered green
felt
hat with its cluster of feathers, moved slightly in a gesture of farewell, and Celia, her cheeks burning at being discovered watching him, went on her way.

How stupid I must have seemed to him, she thought, as she hurried along the path. How childish and irresponsible! Of course he was right in telling me to treat the mountains with respect. What good will I do to anybody by getting myself involved in an accident just now? Or as he was not slow in hinting—in getting myself killed? How would Dorothy fare in that case? She would probably be left to
lang
uish
,
unvisited, in the rest centre, until Hilda chose to take her back to England, where she would
languish
in still more boarding schools. If for Dorothy’s sake alone, Celia decided, she must proceed with care.

That afternoon, she approached Anneliese, and finding that she had time to spare, put her problem before her; how to eke out her currency to make it last as long as possible; or, how to find a job which would earn her enough money to enable her to stay. She had, she said, thought of giving English lessons perhaps.

Anneliese shook a most decided golden head. There were several things against that. For one, while she stayed here on the mountains, pupils were far away; she would have to be in a town. For another, pupils had usually to be gathered together, and that took valuable time, when Celia would be spending valuable currency; and for yet a third, there were already so many people teaching English. Altogether, Anneliese did not advocate such a course.

“Mmm,” said Celia, “that is awkward. What else is
there that I can do?”

“How are your languages?” asked Anneliese
.

“French and German good, but not very fluent, through of practice.
”

“I wondered about hotel hostess, but then there are so many girls wanting such a job, that that is difficult, too. Of course, there are more situations in hotel work than any
thing
el
se.”

“Well, you know, I would try my hand at anything.”

“Any
thing
? You would not consider such work as waiting, or
room maid
? But of course not.”

Celia laughed.

“Well, I’d
make
a very poor room maid, I
’
m afraid, l m not at all used to housework. But waiting—did you mean waiting at table?”

“Yes.”

Celia shook her head. “Well, no,” she said, hesitating, “it’s not really my line, you know.”

“I can see that. But you said anything. And you know, here in Switzerland, it is not unusual to find girls of quite good families learning the hotel business from the bottom. We have here, Inga, Lisel and Hertha, and all three of them are quite charming. We do need another waitress and that is why I mentioned it; but I see that it would not do for you, so please excuse me.”

Celia sat in thought.

“Of course,” added Anneliese, "you would be near to your niece; and you would have enough spare time to be able to go and see her. Also, you would live in the hotel as staff,
a
nd therefore not have to pay. In any other situation, you would still have to pay your hotel. It has some points, you know.”

“Yes, I see that,” said Celia. "May I have a little time to think it over?”

“Of course. I think it might help you very much.”

“It’s very kind of you. I do appreciate it. But I don’t even know if I would be any good at the job.”

“It is not difficult to learn,” said Anneliese.

Celia went away and thought about it for the rest of the day, and, after dinner, seeing Anneliese in one of the public rooms, she went across to her.

“I have decided,” she said, with her warm, friendly smile.

“And what have you decided?” asked Anneliese.

“
That I will be glad to take the job, if you are prepared to run the risk of taking me.”

“I think you are very sensible. In the ordinary way, only Mr. St. Pierre engages the staff, but in this case he has given me power to act for him. Come into the office, and we can talk.”

In the office, Anneliese sat in the armchair at the big desk, and Celia took a smaller chair that Anneliese indicated. Suddenly, she felt like a schoolgirl again, to be in the position where Anneliese could question her and engage her. For a few seconds, she resented this; but as Anneliese smiled at her, the feeling evaporated.

“Mr. St. Pierre left for Lake Lucerne this afternoon,” said Anneliese. “His hotel there, the Bellevue, is being decorated before opening at Easter, and he will be away for a few days. But I mentioned you to him before he went, and he is willing to take you on my recommendation; so I hope you will not let me down.”

“I shall try not to,” said Celia.

“You will be engaged on the same terms, naturally, as Lisel and Hertha. Inga is our senior waitress. Inga will
tak
e
you in hand, and show you what you have to do. Mr. St. Pierre is very generous about free time, and you will find you have plenty of time to visit your niece. These are the wages, the working hours and free times
...
”
Celia found them agreeable, and Anneliese went on: “There is the question of your room—you will, of course, move from the one you are in now.”

“Of course,” said Celia.

“You are really rather lucky. All the maids or waitresses
see
m
to be sharing rooms just now. Johanna, the housekeeper, has her own room, naturally. Let me see
...
Lisel is with Hertha, Inga is with Marianne, one of the room
maids...”
Anneliese went down the list. “So,” she concluded, “we have arranged for you to have a small room to yourself right at the top of the hotel.”

“Oh, that
is
good of you,” exclaimed Celia, who much preferred to have a room to herself.

“It has a little balcony and wonderful views—I believe there is still an old chaise-longue there, which I am sure you will need when you have been waiting at table for a while. Now, to get back ... we are not at a busy season just now. The winter sport is over, the summer rush not started. We shall be busy at Easter, so you will have time to get used to the work before then. Inga will teach you, but you will be under the authority of
Johanna
the housekeeper, and any problems you have should be taken to her. If necessary, she will pass them on to myself or Mr. St. Pierre.”

“Thank you,” said Celia. “And when do I start?
”

“Ah, that is another thing. We need somebody right away. I know it is rather sudden for you, so soon after your arrival; but if you will start at once, it would be better. You will go to Johanna about uniforms, and she will see you are fitted out.”

Celia was about to protest, but she thought better of it, and quietly agreed to Anneliese’s suggestion. She had hoped for a few days of grace; a few days to become acclimatized, to explore her surroundings, to visit Dorothy and see how she was settling down. But she had already gathered the impression that Mr. St. Pierre was rather a formidable person, and she was in no position to
a
sk
,
or expect, favors. So she said she would see Johanna in the morning, and take up her duties straight away.

The next day she moved from her room to a fresh one at the top of the hotel, she was fitted with
uniforms
by Johanna, she was taken under the wing of
I
nga,
and given a preliminary briefing on her future duties. “Tomorrow,” said Anneliese, “you start work.”

As soon as Celia started, she discovered one very agreeable thing—that the rest of the staff was completely unselfconscious with her, and treated her with a natural friendliness that was very cheering. The politeness that comes so naturally to the Swiss resulted in so many good mornings that Celia, afraid of appearing curt or cold, thought she must have duplicated hers many times. It quickly apparent that the whole staff worked together in a friendly atmosphere, under the genial but thorough supervision of Johanna, the housekeeper.

Johanna was a middle-aged woman of
some
presence. She was responsible for the actual running of the hotel, excepting only the cooking and the bar. There were three male cooks, Gustave, Hans and Willi, supreme in the kitchen, with girls under them who prepared vegetables, washed up, and did a thousand odd jobs.
Willi
was quiet and self-effacing and rarely spoke. Gustave and Hans were jolly, and very soon constituted themselves a
small
admiration society for Celia. The room maids and waitresses came under Johanna’s authority, but of the four waitresses, Inga enjoyed the privileges of seniority, having been much longer at the Hotel Rotihorn than the others.
Inga
was very considerate of Celia in the first tiring days, and showed her how she could save herself work by thinking ahead.

This,
Celia
was soon very glad to do, for, as she had expected, the work was extremely tiring at first, and the most tiring thing was the continual carrying of trays backwards and forward from the kitchen to the dining room. Breakfast was a comparatively easy time, since almost everybody took only the Continental breakfast, and the meal was spread over the two hours between seven-thirty and nine-thirty. Only two girls were on duty at that time.
Lunch
and dinner times were the busiest and the hardest, and Celia at first found the serving difficult, balancing a dish on one hand, while she captured the food between spoon and fork with the other, and transferred it to the plates. Two afternoons a week she was on tea duty, and this was also light, since many guests did not take tea at all; two afternoons were free for her; and on the remaining days she cleaned silver, arranged flowers, helped the sewing maid mend linen, or folded napkins into glasses for dinner time. Laying tables took a large part of the day, and sorting table l
in
e
n
for the laundrymaids was also a daily task.

At the end of a week, Celia’s arms and legs ached so badly that she began to wonder herself if she could stand it. Her tired muscles, unused to the kind of strain put upon them now, protested at the lightest load, the shortest walk. At every possible opportunity, she went up to her room and stretched herself on the bed, or on the old chaise
-
longue which Anneliese had so thoughtfully left on the balcony for her. She was so tired that she dropped off to sleep as soon as she lay down. She bought herself an alarm clock to wake her at the appropriate times, not trusting herself to be able to do so. She had telephoned to the rest centre, giving messages for Dorothy to explain her absence, but at the end of a week, she decided she must make the effort, and attempt the climb to the plateau.

It was pleasant to leave the black dress of her uniform
behind
,
and to put on a grey dress and short, loosely swinging grey coat, leaving her head bare to the sun and the wind. It was less pleasant to face the upward walk, for every step reminded her sharply of her aching thigh muscles. Several times, she stopped, to rest them. There was a cold w
in
d today, blowing down off the snow, but in the sheltered spots the sun was wonderfully warming. When she reached the narrow path that had tempted her to explore before, she could not resist a swift upward look as she passed it. Not that she expected to see anybody there; yet she felt that she would scarcely have been surprised had a rugged figure been silhouetted against the brightness of the sky. The man had seemed, thought Celia as she plodded upwards towards the plateau, as if he belonged to the mountain. It was difficult to think of him living in the valley, working like other men, doing the things that ordinary people did—he had seemed so much a part of the snow peaks, the forests and the crags.