Authors: Kimberley Freeman
Flora was confused. “Using the ladies’ bathroom?”
“Yes.”
“On this floor?”
“So they say.”
Had Sam smoked so much opium he couldn’t find his own bathroom?
“I’d approach him myself, but . . .” Miss Zander trailed off. “I’m unsure how to broach the topic sensitively, and I know you are very protective of him. He’s much younger than you, isn’t he?”
“Five years,” she muttered. “But yes, he lacks maturity. I will certainly speak to him. It’s probably a simple mistake. My brother’s sins are more often of omission than commission, Miss Zander. Try not to think too ill of him.”
“I think nothing but good things of your family, Miss Honeychurch-Black,” she said. “Good day.”
Flora took a moment to gather her thoughts. Tony. Sam. Both gave her nothing but sorrow; why did she love them both, then?
Down the stairs she went to Sam’s room. He wasn’t there. She hardly saw him about anymore, and she found it curious that he had discovered the pleasures of nature and the outdoors at precisely the time the weather had turned too bitter to leave the hotel.
She returned to her room for hat, coat, and gloves, and after an hour wandering around the grounds and shallower mountain paths, trying to clear her head, she made her way back, past the coffeehouse. As she glanced in the window she was surprised to see Sam sitting alone at a table, gazing out. Gazing right through her. She waved, and the movement caught his eye and he half smiled, but she could tell already he had been smoking. His mind was roaming a long way away.
Rather than invite him out where he might stumble and fall, she went in. The heating was up very high, and her skin prickled under her warm blouse. She hung up her coat and glanced about anxiously for Tony’s mob, but they weren’t there. She slid into the seat opposite Sam, wondering how he’d managed to find his way here without her help.
“Sam, are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been smoking.”
“An hour ago. Coming down now.”
“Why aren’t you in your room? It isn’t like you to come out . . . in this state.”
He shrugged.
“Sam, Miss Zander came to see me. She said there have been complaints about you using the bathroom on the ladies’ floor.”
His head snapped up. “It was only once!”
“Why on earth were you up there?”
“I don’t want to use the bathroom closest to my room. The other bathrooms on the men’s floor were occupied. So, I went upstairs.” He dropped his voice. “I really needed to go, Sissy.”
“Why don’t you want to use your bathroom?”
“Because that man died in it, and now it’s haunted.” He said this matter-of-factly, as though he’d described it as dirty or too small.
“Haunted?”
He nodded.
“But you don’t believe in ghosts, Sam. Why would you think it’s haunted?”
“Because he died in there.”
“Great-grandpapa died on the sofa in our sitting room back home, and you were always happy to be in there. And to sit on the sofa, for that matter. I remember finding you there in an embrace with Mrs. Hanover.”
“Great-grandpapa didn’t
haunt
the place, Flora. It’s different altogether.”
Flora spread her hands on the table. The noise of men talking and the smell of coffee brewing whirled around them in the heated room. “You’ll need to explain. What have you seen or heard?”
“Nothing. I haven’t seen or heard anything. But I can
feel
it. I can feel my skin prickling. It’s cold in there. The sensations echo about.”
Even though it wasn’t rational, Flora’s own skin came out in goose bumps. What dark imaginings he was capable of. “It’s a bathroom,” she said forcefully, as much to reassure herself as him. “Bathrooms are always cold.”
“I’m not going back in there.”
“Just promise me you’ll stay out of the ladies’ bathroom.”
He shrugged.
“Miss Zander can decide we are too much trouble and send us home, you know.”
“She wouldn’t do that.”
“What if she did?”
“All right, all right. I’ll stay away from the ladies’ floor.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I haven’t been sleeping right. I’ve been having dreams. Ever since he died.”
“It’s the shock. We were all upset by it. You’ve always been more sensitive.”
“Yes, yes. That’s it. That’s it and nothing more. Thanks, Sissy.” He covered her hand with his. “How are
you
?”
Should she tell him? No, he already hated Tony. She made herself smile. “I have your Christmas present in my room.”
“Christmas isn’t for months.”
“Christmas in June, remember?”
“Oh. I’d best find something for you, then.” It had always been the way with Sam. She lavished him with gifts, and he would give her an old book he’d found under his bed or buy the first ugly thing he saw.
“Don’t worry about it, Sam. The best gift you can give me is to keep smoking less, and stay away from the lass.”
“You can count on me,” he said, unconvincingly. But today, too
many other worries took precedence, and she could not bring herself to probe him further.
* * *
Flora wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing outside Will Dalloway’s house, but now she was here she may as well go in. It was freezing on the street, and she knew he wouldn’t turn her away.
Inside, three patients waited on the long wooden bench. One of them coughed violently as Flora took a seat at a distance, trying not to show she was leaning away. She left her gloves and hat on, in case she decided this was a bad idea and fled.
Will emerged after a few minutes with an elderly woman who was thanking him profusely. His eye caught on Flora, and he lit up. “Miss Honeychurch-Black,” he said, reverting to her formal name in front of his patients. “What a delight to see you. I can take you in straightaway if you need me to.”
Flora looked at the wretched patients ahead of her and shook her head. “I shall wait my turn, Dr. Dalloway. It isn’t urgent.”
He smiled, and she saw that he was pleased that she hadn’t jumped the queue. She felt the particular warm glow that came from gaining the good favor of somebody important, and settled in to wait her turn.
A loud clock ticked away the time, and she wished she’d brought a book to read. One by one, the patients went through and more arrived, though Flora shuffled up to the end of the bench closest the surgery door to make it clear she was next. Finally, Will showed her through.
She sat on the other side of his desk while he settled into his chair and opened his notepad.
“How can I help you today?”
Flora picked up the rope of beads around her neck, worried them between her fingers. “It’s Sam.”
“Go on.”
“He’s seeing things. Well, he says he’s not seeing things but
feeling
things. He talks about a ghost in the bathroom where that man died, about awful dreams. He seems afraid to be in his room, and once he’s there it’s almost impossible to get him out without him shaking and turning pale.”
Will put his pen down and joined his fingers in a steeple, leaning his forehead on them.
“Is it the opium doing this to him?” she asked.
He looked up. “It’s hard to say. The drug affects people differently. They say that under the influence it’s possible to feel strange things, but they are usually nice things. Opium is associated with euphoria.”
“He said he’s cut down.”
“That might have something to do with it. As I said, it’s hard to say. We haven’t nearly enough studies on opium. We really only know it’s very addictive and eventually turns ordinary people into desperate wretches.” He checked himself. “I’m sorry.”
“Could it be sending him mad?”
This time he chose his words carefully, forming his lips several times before actually speaking. “He may have already been on the way, if you take my meaning.”
“I don’t.”
“The very thing that drew him to opium—to that euphoria, that escape from everything—might have been an underlying lack of mental stability.”
“Are you saying . . .” The awful weight of her worry threatened to crush her.
“He may have started talking about ghosts anyway. But certainly, yes, the opium makes such things seem acute to him. It can take whatever dread is natural to a man and amplify it.”
Flora thought back over her life with Sam. He had always been
odd, out of step, off with the pixies. “Is there anything we can do? Could you give him some medicine for it?”
“There are specialist doctors who treat disorders of the mind, but none up here in the mountains. I can give you the names of some in Sydney, but your problem, once again, is getting Sam to attend his appointments.”
Flora slumped forwards in her seat, letting her forehead rest on Will’s desk.
“Flora?”
“I am so overburdened, Will.”
“Take heart. He’s young. He may recover.”
“It’s not just that.”
Don’t tell him. Don’t tell him just because he has warm eyes and says he cares.
“Then, what else is wrong?”
She sat up again. The sun through the leaves outside the high window dappled onto his shoulder. Through the glass she could hear a bird calling, and she was taken by a longing to be a bird. Carefree, flying away up high above the buildings and streets and the people and their endless neediness.
He dropped his voice low. It was no longer a doctor’s voice; it was the voice of a confidant, and Flora registered the moment as one of potential danger. The crossing of a ship into uncharted waters. “You can tell me anything.”
“But I oughtn’t.”
“But you can.”
“It’s about Tony. My fiancé.”
He nodded.
“He’s been . . . seeing prostitutes.” The words, in escaping, churned up nausea in her throat.
Will blinked, clearly struggling for the right words. “This makes you unhappy.”
“Desperately. Desperately unhappy.” She glanced away, not wanting to see the pity in his eyes. “Is it normal? Do most men—?”
“
I
certainly don’t,” he said hotly. “If I were engaged to be married to a good-hearted, intelligent woman such as yourself, I would count my blessings and treat her like a queen and not subject her to the risk of certain diseases that—” Then he dropped his eyes. “I’ve said too much,” he continued, shuffling the papers on his desk. She could see his pulse flicking at his throat. Her fingers itched.
“No, you said just the right thing,” she replied softly. “Thank you.”
She rose, and he stood quickly and blurted, “Will you still marry him?”
“I suppose I must,” she replied. “But I will make my terms very clear to him.”
“Good,” he said.
“I’ve held you up long enough.”
“You are always welcome. At any time.”
Her eyes met his, and warmth passed between them wordlessly.
“I know,” she said.
* * *
Miss Zander called a staff meeting on Friday afternoon at three o’clock, and Violet dutifully filed in with her workmates to the guest dining room, where they took seats around the gleaming tables under the chandelier.
When all were settled, Miss Zander called them to attention with a short series of sharp claps. She waited for perfect quiet. Violet glanced over at Clive, but he was looking the other way. Myrtle sat with her, giving her a broad smile, all animosity over missing out on winter work forgiven.
“Now,” Miss Zander started. “I’ve called this staff meeting to discuss our Christmas-in-June celebration, which is coming up in five days.”
She held five fingers aloft theatrically. “Most of the preparation is under way, but I need two male volunteers to help erect the tree with Mr. Betts, and six female volunteers to help me decorate the long room.”
Hands shot up all around her. Violet wondered if she should volunteer, but it was all over quickly. Miss Zander took down names on her clipboard, then quieted the group once more. “Next, I need ideas for activities throughout the day. I already have a full schedule of games and so on, but I wondered if any of you know how to read fortunes or draw portraits or some other bit of fun the guests might like to indulge in.”
There was much head scratching and murmuring.
“It’s worth a Christmas-in-June bonus,” Miss Zander said.
Violet raised her hand. “Clive Betts can draw portraits.”
“Thank you, Violet. Clive, you weren’t going to tell me?”
“They’re not very good, ma’am.” He deliberately avoided Violet’s gaze.
“They don’t have to be, but please don’t insult the guests by making them look too deformed.”
Thora volunteered to read gypsy cards, and Miss Zander offered her a real gypsy costume, with ribbons and bells. Others got into the spirit, offering everything from fortune cookies to French braiding, and Miss Zander happily took down all their suggestions and promised to call them in if she needed to discuss it further.
“Finally,” she said amid the excitement, this time bringing quiet to the room with more difficulty, “you are all invited to the Christmas-in-June celebration. The roster will be up tomorrow, and you will work short shifts so you can attend at least an hour of the activities. Of course, the Christmas lunch in the afternoon will be for guests only, but the events are open to all of you. Consider it my way of saying thank you before the winter break.”
A cheer of many voices and a shimmer of applause went through the room.
“Sh, sh,” Miss Zander said, palms up. “Great responsibility comes with this invitation. You are all ambassadors for the hotel. You will wear your uniforms. You will not drink a drop of liquor. You will be polite and mingle with the guests, but you will not flirt with them, ask them for money, offer nor ask for any confidences. Behave at all times as though I am standing directly behind you, with this expression on my face.” Here she drew her eyebrows down in such a glower that everybody laughed uproariously, Miss Zander included.
“Any questions?”
Happy silence.
“Very well. I look forward to celebrating the day with you.”
Myrtle squeezed Violet’s hand. “What fun!”
Violet turned Miss Zander’s warning over in her mind.
Mingle, don’t flirt.
How she longed for her relationship with Sam to be out in the open, not hidden away and guilty. She would love to wear a beautiful frock and attend the Christmas dinner with him. But the past two nights he hadn’t unlocked his door for her. Had he not seen her carving? Or had he seen it and cared nothing for it? She read and reread his love letters, searching for answers to questions she couldn’t articulate. All were full of promises, but she was starting to wonder if he was even capable of keeping such promises—so readily bestowed by him, and so desperately grasped by her.