Evergreen Falls

by Kimberley Freeman

  “Tearing himself to pieces,” she replied, her voice cracking.

  “But it’s for the best. You said it was for the best.”

  “Yes. Once he’s through it, he can recover. I’m glad for the snowstorm. I’m glad we’re cut off from the world. He can’t get out. He can hardly walk as it is, but the snow and the cold would stop him and he knows it.”

  “You’d be the only one of us who’s glad we’re cut off. Sweetie’s climbing the walls.”

  “Sweetie needs to learn when to surrender to circumstances,” she said with a sniff. “Picking on the waitress because of bad weather is very poor form.”

  Tony narrowed his eyes and blew out a stream of smoke. “You’ve become very defensive of that waitress. What’s her name? Vera?”

  “Violet.”

  “Do you fancy her for a sister-in-law after all?”

  Tony was likely joking to try to lighten the mood, but Flora was too deep in a well to respond. “In a perfect world, Tony, Sam could marry Violet if he wanted. But we all know that isn’t going to happen.”

  The quiet of the corridor was punctuated by more shouts from Sam. “Flora! Flora! Where are you? Make it stop! Make it stop!”

  Flora’s heart iced over. “Oh, this is such a horror,” she cried.

  Tony put his arm around her shoulder. “Come here,” he said. “There, there. It will work out. You’ve said so yourself enough times.”

  She shrugged him off—he reeked of cigarette smoke—and called back through the door, “I’m right outside. You’ll be fine soon.”

  Sam started thumping on the door from the other side. “Let me out. He’s in here with me. He’s in here with me now. Let me out.”

  Flora scrambled to her feet. Tony looked at her, puzzled.

  “He’s hallucinating,” she told him, before opening the door a crack and looking in on Sam’s pale face, his haunted eyes. “It’s not locked, Sam,” she said. “I haven’t locked you in. I’d never lock you in.” In fact, she had thought about it, but his door could easily be unlocked from the inside.

  “He’s here,” he hissed. “Get Violet. Violet makes him go away.”

  “Violet’s busy. Do you want me to come in?”

  He wrenched open the door. He was wearing nothing but a singlet. Below the waist he was completely naked, and as unashamed as a child. “In the corner,” he said to Flora in a low voice. “Can you see him?”

  “I can’t see anyone, Sam. It’s probably just a shadow. Do you want me to get you a lamp to put in the corner?” As soon as she said it she became afraid he’d upend it and set fire to his room.

  “A lamp’s not going to help.”

  “Where are your clothes?” she asked.

  “My clothes? There’s a ghost in my room, waiting to take me with him to meet death, and you care about where my clothes are! Here!” He marched across the room and threw a pile of clothes at her. They were filthy and the stench of them was unbearable. It seemed he’d soiled every pair of trousers he owned. “Enjoy them!” he shouted, before pushing her out and closing the door again.

  Tony eyed her and the clothes. “What are you going to do with those?”

  “Come to the bathroom with me. I’ll soak them in the bath.”

  “Just get one of the staff to do it.”

  “This is too private.” She headed down the corridor to the bathroom—the bathroom in which the unfortunate man had died, the man who was haunting Sam. She had Tony check that nobody was in it—it was the men’s bathroom, after all—and went in to fill the tub and leave the clothes in it. Then she washed her hands as thoroughly as she could and leaned back on the sink. Tony stood in the doorway.

  “At least this way, your father will be happy,” he said. “The visit to the hotel will have cured Sam of his addiction.”

  “His ‘health problems,’ ” Flora said. “Father never called it an addiction.”

  “But he knew?”

  “It’s hard to say. But yes, when all of this is over and we return home, Father will be pleased.”

  “Pleased with you?”

  She laughed bitterly. “In that he’s not overtly displeased, I imagine. He won’t cut me out of his will, if that’s what you mean.”

  “It’s not what I meant.”

  Something about the current awful circumstances, the way the isolation had robbed them of civility, prompted her to say, “Would you still have married me? If he’d cut me off?”

  “I would,” Tony said without hesitation.

  “Why?”

  “Do you want me to tell you I’m crazy for you? That you’re irresistible and you make the heavens bright?”

  “I want you to tell me the truth.”

  He shrugged. Smiled. “A man needs a wife. He needs a woman with a good name and a good heart, somebody who will stand by him and not fuss and carry on. You have a strong moral compass, Florrie. You know what to do. You will be a good wife, and for that I love you.”

  Another cry rose from Sam’s room, and Flora pushed past Tony to hurry back. Sweetie emerged from his room at the far end of the corridor and called out gruffly, “Can you not make him quiet?”

  “He’s very ill,” she protested. “Have a little pity.”

  “Pity is for women and weaklings,” he retorted, and slammed his door shut.

  She looked at Tony meaningfully.

  “I’ll talk to him,” Tony said. “He’s frustrated, that’s all. We all are, cooped up in here.”

  “Have a little pity, that’s all I ask,” she said again, quietly, indicating Sam’s room and the groans emanating from within. “He’s my baby brother.”

  * * *

  Violet was crazed from lack of sleep. She’d been up all night in her room with Sam. He’d only left when he heard Flora in the bathroom that morning. Violet had then slept for an hour before being roused by Cook, who told her he was now unwell and that meant Violet had to make and serve breakfast single-handedly.

  Clive was weak, but he rose to help her and then went straight back to bed. Miss Zander was alarmingly pale but determined that this would be her last day in bed. At her request, Violet told the guests at breakfast that the hotel was officially non-operational. She would do her best to make biscuits and sandwiches that she would leave in the kitchen for them, but that for the next twenty-four hours they could expect no more than that of her.

  Lord Powell and Sweetie shouted her down, but she simply told them, as Miss Zander had instructed, that there would be no charge for staying here this week. “Might I remind you,” she said, indicating the falling rain outside the window, “you are free to walk to the village in the hopes of finding a different place to stay.” Miss Zander had definitely not told her to say that, but she enjoyed the look on the men’s faces as they understood that all the shouting in the world would not improve their situation.

  After breakfast Violet tried to check in on Sam, but once again Flora was sitting outside his door like a particularly zealous guard dog. Violet tried to keep a lid on her anxiety as she made biscuits and bread in the kitchen, the wood-burning stove keeping the cold at bay. But her mind returned repeatedly to Sam, to the grotesque dance the spasms made him perform, and to her own certainty that she would find something to help him.

  She would need different clothes. Her fashionable winter boots would not be warm enough or dry enough out in the snow. Her destination was about two miles away, and she estimated the snow would be thigh deep. She’d need a walking stick of some kind. A waterproof coat. Her plans whirled around her head as she mixed and kneaded and baked and left the food in the kitchen for the guests to help themselves.

  Then she put on her warmest clothes, wrapped all her scarfs around her, pulled on gloves and a hat, and headed out the kitchen door to Clive’s workshop.

  The snow was ankle deep in some places, thigh deep in others. It seemed to take her an age to trudge across, and she began to doubt very much that she could get to Malley’s house. What if she did? He likely wasn’t ther
e, and even if he was he might not have any opium for Sam.

  She considered turning back but then she remembered Sam begging for death, convinced he would die of the pain. She believed him. He already smelled like death. His eyes had already dimmed. She wouldn’t be like Flora, doing nothing more than sitting and watching as he slowly died. The thought galvanized her, and she pushed herself through the snow until she arrived at the workshop.

  Miss Zander had given her the keys to everything now that Cook was ill in bed, and she unlocked the door and pushed it open. A mound of snow fell in as she did so, and she stepped over it and into the workshop, her eyes scanning the room. She knew she’d seen it somewhere . . . ah, yes. With the fishing equipment. A pair of waterproof overalls, and scuffed Wellington boots. She shrugged out of her coat and pulled them down from the hanger.

  Sitting on the wooden floor, Violet unlaced her own boots—now wet and cold—and pulled on the overalls. Her skirt rode up, and she tucked it awkwardly into the legs, then pulled the bib of the overall up and fastened it. It gaped. She pulled her coat back on and fastened it as tightly as she could. Then she slid her feet into the Wellington boots. They swam on her, so she removed the boots and put on the two spare pairs of men’s socks she’d found in the laundry. Once her feet were padded the boots were still far too big, but they would have to do. She pulled the overall legs down over the boots and tied them tightly at the ankles. Then she grasped a broom from the stand and prised off its head.

  Using the handle as a walking stick, she took her first few steps out into the snow.

  She waded away from the workshop, away from the hotel. She couldn’t see where the roads were, so she looked out for other landmarks. Trees, street signs, the train station. Her thighs began to ache while the hotel was still in sight behind her. The cold penetrated even the waterproof overalls, and her feet chafed in the boots. Still she pushed on, lifting her feet through heavy snow, pushing herself forward while her hips groaned and her knees burned, hoping against hope that she was going the right way. Sometimes she would come to a short stretch where the snow was only up to her knees, giving her some respite. In places, though, it was almost up to her waist, and she leaned heavily on the broomstick to drag herself through. A light rain started then stopped again, but she barely noticed. Teeth gritted, she pushed on, towards the only thing that could make Sam feel better.

  There was nobody at the train station. Nobody moving around outside the small houses that lined the street.

  The last time she’d come to Malley’s house with Sam, it had taken a little over ten minutes. This time, it was an hour and a half before his house was in sight. Her heart was thundering and her lungs bursting from the effort. But she recognized the house easily enough. The long couch was still on the veranda, and she hoped this meant that Malley was home.

  She gratefully shook herself free of the snow as she stepped up on the veranda, taking a moment to catch her breath before knocking hard.

  She waited. Her breath made fog. The cold silence spun out.

  She knocked again. Nothing.

  A loud meow gave her a start. She looked around and saw a ginger cat padding around the veranda. She crouched. “Hello, Puss. You must be hungry.” Then she spotted several mouse skeletons under the couch and decided perhaps Puss was not hungry at all. Violet eased herself onto the couch and put her head in her hands. She hadn’t come all this way to leave empty handed. She’d hoped for it to be easy, but nothing about this expedition was easy. She lifted her head. All that mattered was Sam. She knew what she had to do next.

  She stood and walked to the corner of the veranda, where a lamp stood. Its base was heavy brass. She loosened the glass bowl and took the base to the door. With all her might, she slammed the lamp base down onto the door handle. It made an enormous crack that seemed to echo off every snowflake piled around her. She waited, her heart thudding, for somebody to notice. To come out and call to her.

  Nobody did.

  She lifted the base and cracked the handle again. This time it came loose. One more blow and it was off, clanging to the floor and narrowly missing her foot.

  She kicked the door gently, and it swung in. The house smelled musty and damp, as though it had been locked up for a year, not a week. Deep inside was the faint smell of something rotting. It was silent inside but for the tick of a clock on the mantelpiece.

  The night she’d been here with Sam, Malley had retreated to a back room for opium, so Violet went through into a lightless corridor with a threadbare runner, which led off to two small rooms and a bathroom.

  She had no idea where to start looking. The bedroom was filthy, with clothes strewn about and a strong smell of cat urine. The curtains were closed, faded to a color between beige and gray. She opened them, and dust floated in the weak daylight. A wardrobe sat unevenly on its legs, the door hanging ajar. Violet opened it and looked inside. More clothes, balled in the bottom. Empty hangers. She searched through the clothes—they all looked like Chinese pajamas—but found nothing.

  She searched the scarred dresser next, but again without success, so she moved to the next room.

  This room looked promising. Collections of the kind of things Sam used for smoking opium were stored in drawers and cupboards. Trays and lamps and pipes and tweezers and matches. But no jars. She was aware time was ticking on, and she still had to manage the long walk back. Miss Zander would be furious. Violet was the last able-bodied employee, and she’d already been gone nearly two hours. Her hands became desperate, too hasty, rifling through drawers and throwing things out of the way in frustration.

  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

  What a mistake it had been to come here. She stalked into the hallway in her too-big Wellingtons, nearly in tears contemplating the long walk back, the possibility that Sam would die because she couldn’t find the drugs he needed. Yes, he had to come off them one day, but slowly and gently with a doctor on hand, when his body wouldn’t shake to pieces and send him to an early grave.

  The bathroom. It was the only back room she hadn’t checked.

  A smell of mold. Hair in the sink. A cabinet by the bath. She opened it. Bottles, dozens of bottles. She reached for them, saw again and again that they were empty. Then she saw something she recognized: a green leather pouch. That night they had come to Malley’s, he had given Sam something from that pouch, and Sam had immediately been cured.

  She pulled it out, unfolded it. Medical things inside. A small, half-full bottle.

  “Oh, thank God,” she breathed as she refolded the pouch and tucked it inside her overalls. Her body protested the idea of heading out into the frigid world again, but now she had Sam’s cure, she had to hurry.

  * * *

  Flora was guarding his door still. Violet could have screamed with frustration. Her blood was icy from the long trudge back through snow. Her hair was damp from the drizzle, and her heart was still thudding from exertion. Flora glanced up as Violet came to the top of the stairs, but Violet backed away quickly before she was spotted. She returned to the kitchen to wait, trying to keep busy peeling and washing vegetables and baking more bread. All the meat had run out and they were down to their last dozen eggs. She had no idea what to offer the guests for dinner, so she made cucumber-and-watercress sandwiches, all the while waiting for night, when Flora would sleep and Violet could get to Sam.

  She didn’t have to wait for night. At six o’clock, Tony came to the kitchen door and asked about dinner.

  “This is all we have,” she said, indicating the plate of sandwiches.

  “There are five of us for dinner,” he said. “That will do. Make us tea to go with it.”

  They were down for dinner—that meant Flora had left Sam’s door. Violet boiled the kettle and served the tea and sandwiches in the dining room, then ran for the stairs.

  She knocked quickly at Sam’s door.

  “Go away,” he said weakly.

  “It’s Violet,” she called.

  He opened the door. “
Violet? You’ve come! Why didn’t you come before?”

  “Your sister wouldn’t let me see you.”

  He collapsed back onto his bed. “I’m as weak as a baby. I’m in so much pain.”

  “We don’t have much time,” she said quickly. “Flora will be back as soon as she’s eaten. But Sam, I’ve been to Malley’s.”

  He sat up, his whole body tense. “Was he there?”

  “No, but I found this. Do you remember?” She held up the green pouch.

  He snatched it from her hands. “Violet. Violet. My love. My redeemer.” He kissed her, and his mouth tasted sour. “You went out in the snow for this?”

  She nodded proudly, then started when she heard footsteps on the stairs. “I have to go. Do you know what to do?”

  “I think I remember. Ah, I feel better already, just knowing there’s an end to it. Thank God. There’s an end to it. Quick. Go. I’ll come to see you in your room tonight.”

  “I can’t wait to see you well again.” Then she could finally tell him about the baby.

  “You saved me,” he said.

  “I love you.”

  “And I love you. I always will.”

  Violet exited the room and hastened to the stairs so she wouldn’t be found near Sam’s room. But it wasn’t Flora coming up: it was Clive.

  “Ah, there you are,” he said.

  “You’re up and about.”

  “I feel a lot better.”

  “You still don’t look well. One more night in bed, eh? There are sandwiches in the kitchen. I’ll bring a tray of them and some tea down to your room.” She had a spring in her step as they returned down the stairs together. Sam would be better soon. Just for now, nothing could trouble her.

  * * *

  Flora’s stomach was still growling after the light dinner. She had skipped lunch and had rather hoped for something cooked and filling. But she wouldn’t complain, not to Tony and certainly not to Sweetie, who accompanied her back upstairs to the men’s floor. Through Violet, Miss Zander had sent assurances that this hardship wouldn’t last much longer. Besides, Sam hadn’t eaten for days and was in far greater distress than she was.