Evergreen Falls (8 page)

The path wound down, up, and around—through eucalypts and ferns—and she was glad she was wearing her low-heeled work shoes. Bellbirds and kookaburras called from the shadowy growth on either side of her. The day grew very quiet, apart from her footfalls. The activity warmed her, and then the path turned into the sun and she could see the Falls in the distance, gleaming.

She stopped, eyes wide. A man was standing very still in the sunshine on a large flat rock beside the Falls and, unless she was very much mistaken, he was completely naked.

Violet hung back in the trees, heart thudding. Was he some kind of madman? Was he dangerous?

She peeked again. He was still a long way away. He looked young but old enough to know better, and, yes, he hadn’t a stitch on.

Deciding she was well hidden by trees, she moved forwards, in and around until she came out on the next bend, with a clearer view.

There he was, about three hundred yards away across the valley, arms up above his head. He had very dark hair, pale skin, a well-shaped body, a pleasing symmetry about his face, though she couldn’t see any detail in it. She imagined his eyes must be closed, and he was simply enjoying the feel of sun on his bare skin. She envied him his freedom, his lack of care.

But she certainly couldn’t go down to the Falls while a naked man stood there, so, with more than a little disappointment, she made her way back to work.

*  *  *

Flora dressed carefully in a cream wool dress and fur stole. She very much wanted the doctor to think well of her. The shame
of being related to an opium addict was not something she wore lightly.

She fixed her fair hair in the mirror. So many pins. Flora didn’t have a single friend with long hair anymore. They’d all had it cut short, into sharp bobs or chin-length finger waves. Perhaps she was old-fashioned.

Flora laid down her brush and leaned close to the mirror, so close her breath fogged it.
Please let today go well
. She had approached Karl, the Swiss health expert who ran the program here at the Evergreen Spa, and politely inquired as to the whereabouts of a good, discreet doctor in the area. He had recommended Dr. Dalloway, about five minutes away by motorcar, on the other side of the train line, and had duly made her an appointment for today.

Staring into the mirror, Flora frowned, noting how it drew a furrow between her brows. Then she lifted her expression and watched her forehead turn smooth and pale. How like her father she looked, with her straight nose and straight mouth, as if whoever had drawn her had run out of inspiration. Plain. Not a kind way of saying ugly, for she wasn’t ugly. She was just . . . plain. It had always seemed unfair to her that her outward appearance gave nothing away about the treasures within: her intellect, her kindness, her sense of duty.

She sniffed, stood up straight. What did it matter? Beauty wouldn’t attract more good fortune than she already had. She glanced at the carriage clock by the bed. Five minutes after two. Sam was late. Had he forgotten? The car would be waiting.

Flora pulled on a narrow-brimmed felt hat and picked up her leather purse. Sam was on the next floor down, the men’s floor. She didn’t like to go there often. Tony’s thuggish friend Sweetie was often there, despite Tony being back in Sydney, and he was always far too pleased to see her.

She made her way down the stairs and along, then knocked gently on Sam’s door.

No answer.

Louder. Calling, “Samuel Honeychurch-Black. You promised me. You
promised
me.”

Still no answer.

She scrabbled in her purse for the spare key to his room, which Tony had managed to charm out of Miss Zander for her. “I’m coming in, Sam,” she called, hoping he would be dressed. More than once she had walked in on him half dressed or naked. He seemed to care little who saw him.

No Sam.

His disappearance was as predictable as it was frustrating. His suitcase sat open on the Oriental bedspread, clothes were strewn about over the bed and gilded chair, and his tray of opium smoking paraphernalia lay on the carved wooden desk. Flora hesitated. What if she simply threw it all away? What if she simply took it down to the escarpment and let it all tumble down into the valley among the rocks and leaves?

Yes, what if she did exactly that, and then withdrawal from his addiction made Sam so sick he died? She had watched him try to give up more than once, and the fevers and chills that racked his body had been so alarming she had breathed in relief only once he had smoked a pipe. She knew too little about the drug, about what it was doing to him, about whether he might die. She lived, instead, with a constant, quiet buzz of anxiety.

Flora resolved she would visit Dr. Dalloway anyway. She could use the time to ask him all the questions for which she needed answers, and it would probably be better if Sam wasn’t there for some of them.

She locked the room behind her and made her way down the
stairs, checking in the library just in case—Sam often hid in there—then across the parquetry foyer and out into wintry sunshine. The sky was as pale as watercolor, and the sun a long way off. The car was waiting, and she gave the driver the card with Dr. Dalloway’s address and sat back on the long leather seat to watch the scenery speed by.

Shortly, they were outside the doctor’s surgery. She instructed the driver to wait for her and took a deep breath before heading up the path. The doctor’s house was a pretty painted cottage with roses in tidy pots crowded on the patio. There had been a time when Flora had wanted to be a doctor. Her father wouldn’t hear of it, of course, but nonetheless she had made inquiries at the universities and built the fond fantasy of a life helping others, unlocking the puzzles of illness, using the sharper edges of her mind. But she was far too rich and well bred a woman to be allowed to study medicine.

She rang the bell, expecting a maid or a wife to answer the door. Instead, a young man greeted her. He was an inch taller than her and stocky, with curling auburn hair, and dressed beautifully in white serge trousers and a striped silk shirt. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, the kind known as Harold Lloyds, after the famous comic actor.

“I’m here for Dr. Dalloway,” she said.

“That’s me,” he replied.

She had to stop herself from saying, “You’re very young.” She’d expected a crusty father figure, and wondered if she would be able to be honest and plain with a man her own age. Especially one with such a warm smile.

“You must be Miss Honeychurch-Black,” he said, extending his hand. “But where is Mr. Honeychurch-Black?”

She shook his hand firmly. “He’s . . . ah . . . May I come in?”

“Certainly.”

Flora followed him into an entranceway. “I do thank you for making time to see me, Dr. Dalloway,” she said.

“Please, call me Will.”

The closed door to her left had a
PRIVATE
sign on it, and she presumed it to be his living quarters. To her right was a small waiting room, through which he led her into a surgery that smelled of lye soap and tea-tree oil. Charts and diagrams of bodies were pinned to the walls. Only once she was sitting down and the door was closed behind him did she finally explain.

“My brother has disappeared. Oh, don’t look concerned. He often disappears. He’s most in danger when he’s in his room . . . I think.”

Will cocked his head. “I don’t understand.”

“No,” she said. “I’m explaining all this rather awkwardly, aren’t I?”

He smiled. “Take your time.”

She was struck again by the warmth of his smile. It reached all the way to his eyes and beyond. Within. Her discomfort edged away a little every time he did it. “All right, then,” she said. “My brother is . . . He uses . . .” Her mouth was dry. “He smokes opium.”

Will picked up a pen and started to write. “I see.”

“Karl, the health director at the spa, he said you would be discreet.”

“Absolutely, Miss Honeychurch-Black.”

“Flora.”

“Can I ask you, Flora, how long he has been smoking opium?”

“At least a year. He went to China with a friend for several months and brought the pipe back with him.”

“How much does he smoke?”

“In a day? A week?”

“Let’s say a day.”

“Well, given I’m not with him all the time . . . I’d say it might be anywhere between ten and twenty pipes.”

“How early in the day does he start?”

“I don’t know for certain. His mood alters throughout the day. Manic some mornings, maudlin on others. He’s often further away in the afternoons, then angry at dinner. I think he smokes himself to sleep.” Her voice trailed off to a whisper. The shame. “I should add, he’s always been moody. Eccentric. Even before the . . . you know.”

Will was still writing. “To your knowledge, has he ever tried to stop?”

“Oh, yes, several times. But it’s horrid. He gets fevers and his guts turn to liquid and he moans and shakes. I’m so afraid he’s going to die.” Her voice dropped low. “Will he die if he stops?” she asked.

He looked up and frowned. “Coming off the drug is awful, it’s true, but it won’t kill him. No, the far greater danger is that he keeps taking it. Quite apart from the fact that he is much more likely to have an accident, to take too great a dose and stop breathing, to damage his brains and his organs, the addiction uses up the spirit. Many opium addicts grow so unhappy that they eventually self-murder.”

A chill ran from Flora’s toes to her scalp. Her stomach felt hollow.

“Unfortunately, there is no easy way for him to stop. I suspect, since he isn’t here with you, he’s not particularly motivated to stop.”

“How can I make him stop, then?”

“You can’t.”

His words were delivered gently, but she felt their cold, cruel edges in her body. Her eyes pricked with tears, and she dropped her head in embarrassment.

“Here,” he said, pressing a handkerchief into her fingers.

“Thank you,” she managed, balling it into her palm and letting the tears fall as quietly as she could. A minute passed. She gathered herself, dabbed her eyes, and offered him the handkerchief.

“You keep it,” he said.

She folded it and slid it away in her purse.

“Flora,” he said, “the toll of opium abuse is usually felt very strongly on those closest to the addict. You must take care of yourself.”

“Thank you.” She stood, determined not to meet his eye again, nor see that warm smile tinged with pity. “If you send the account to me at the Evergreen Spa, I will post you a check.”

“Any time I can be of assistance—”

“Thank you,” she said more firmly, then hurried outside.

In the car, she took a deep shuddering breath and laid her upper body down on the seat. What a horror, to love somebody so much and be doomed to watch him destroy himself. And by destroying himself, destroy her chances of happiness, too. Because if she couldn’t get him off the drug, Father would disinherit them both. Would Tony still marry her without her family connections? She had eyes in her head, and she could see he was handsome as clearly as she could see she was plain.

She opened her purse and pulled out Will’s handkerchief, which she pressed to her too-warm face. The car bumped over the rail tracks. Her brain felt crowded.
You can’t make him stop.

No, she wouldn’t accept that. Somehow, she would reach him. He was still her darling Sam, her baby brother. She would find his heart, and she would make him see what he was doing to himself. What he was doing to them both.

*  *  *

Violet loved the way the dining hall looked at dinnertime. The chandeliers, which hung dormant all day, were switched on to their full, dazzling brightness. Each table was lit by a wheel of candles, and an orchestra played quiet music as the guests filed in, dressed in their beautiful evening gowns. Violet hated to admit it, but she was starstruck by many of the guests. The newly crowned Miss
Sydney was here, a tiny flat-chested beauty with a heart-melting smile and bright blond curls. Accompanying her was a man Violet assumed was her father until he dropped his hand in full sight and squeezed Miss Sydney’s bottom. Also here was the famous opera singer Cordelia Wright, a blinking, mole-like woman with powdery skin and a sharp tongue. At another table sat the curmudgeonly poet Sir Anthony Powell and his novelist wife Lady Powell, who was renowned for writing stories so highbrow nobody could understand them. Violet had read more than a few of Sir Anthony’s poems in school, and had found them a little dull. Myrtle told her that these few minor stars were not as spectacular as some of the guests she’d seen over the years, including American film actors and English royalty.

The dinner bell rang, and Violet started to run between the beautifully lit dining room and the harshly noisy kitchen. The kitchen manager and head waiter, Hansel, was an ill-tempered German man and the second in charge an equally ill-tempered Austrian man. They ruled the other waitstaff with a rod of iron, shouting and clanging in the kitchen, but silent and obsequious in the dining room. The two seemed to hate each other, and argued much of the time in hot German. Luckily, the cooks were always friendly, particularly the older gentleman everyone simply called Cook, with his round red face. In the dining room, Violet picked up snatches of conversation between guests.

“It’s well past time when I should return to New York.”

“So I said,
I won’t take a penny less than ten thousand for it
.”

“No, it’s a big Studebaker car. I’m not a peasant.”

Their voices and sentences whirled past her, and she was more aware than she had ever been of the difference between herself and the very rich. These people made even the guests at the Senator seem humble. They lived a life her imagination could not grasp.

After the main course, things slowed down a little. Guests began to move onto the dance floor, and the orchestra played a lively waltz. Violet longed to dance but had to content herself with tapping her foot as she collected plates. Many of the diners skipped dessert, so she returned to the kitchen with a tray of fruit salads that she knew would end up in the pig bucket. Too difficult, though, to hide a fruit salad up the leg of her bloomers.