Evergreen Falls

by Kimberley Freeman

  “Thank you,” she said to him, water dripping off her nose. “Do you know where Clive Betts is?”

  The doorman shook his silvery head. “No, ma’am. I don’t know that name. Is he a guest?”

  “No, he’s a carpenter. A handyman. He started work here recently.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. There’s many of us works here. Nearly a hundred. If he’s new, I mightn’t know him.”

  The doors closed behind her and she found herself standing in an ornate foyer, on a gleaming parquetry floor. Dark red wallpaper, flocked with Oriental designs, covered the walls all the way up to the remote ceiling, with its dazzling white plaster and relief pictures. Despite the miserable weather outside, the high windows were designed to catch and reflect light, especially into the glittering chandelier that hung in the center of the room. A long rug ran from the door to an oak desk, where a distinguished-looking woman sat reading through a large, leather-bound register. Something about her presence compelled Violet to walk towards her: she would tell Violet what to do and where to go.

  “Hello,” Violet said, approaching warily.

  The woman looked up. She had the air of aristocracy about her, with her hooked nose and white hair piled high and severe on her head. She wore an elegant blue dress with an equally elegant gray cardigan over it, and ropes of lustrous pearls. “Oh, you poor child. You’re wet through!”

  “I’m Violet Armstrong. I’m . . . new.”

  The woman rose, beaming, and held out her hand. “So pleased to have you here, my dear. I’m Miss Zander, the manageress.” She made “manageress” sound like an exotic, foreign term. “Clive spoke so highly of you.”

  “Clive. He was supposed to meet me at the train.”

  “Tomorrow,” Miss Zander said. “We were expecting you tomorrow.”

  Violet cursed herself. First impression: mix up the days and turn up soaking wet.

  “It’s of little consequence,” Miss Zander continued. “Here, let me find somebody to watch the front desk and I’ll take you to your new room.” She beckoned a bellboy for Violet’s luggage and muttered a room number to him, then summoned a pretty, red-haired girl to mind the reception desk. Violet admired her smart blue uniform and white scarf and wondered if one day she would be able to work the desk. Already her head was full of dreams. Welcoming the wealthy guests, being admired for the nobility of her smile and the set of her pretty chin . . .

  “Come along, keep up,” Miss Zander said from across the room. “I don’t have the whole day to show you about.”

  Miss Zander marched her down the hall and stopped at a cupboard with a red door. From around her waist she pulled out a long braided rope holding a set of keys. She eyed Violet up and down. “Hm. You’re a little slimmer than Clive Betts had me expect. Still . . .” She yanked open the door and pulled out three uniforms for Violet. “These should fit.”

  Violet took the clothes in her arms: black dresses buttoned at the front with two rows of white buttons, and white bandeau headbands.

  Miss Zander locked the door and marched off again. “It’s bed and board, and we’ll match your salary at the Senator. Let Alexandria know how much you were being paid. Don’t think to lie; she’ll call them on the telephone to check.”

  “Who’s Alexandria?”

  “The redhead at the front desk. My deputy.”

  “How do I get her job?”

  Miss Zander rounded on her, peered at her for a moment, then laughed loudly. “Dear, you’d get her job by being born a different person from a very different family.”

  The comment stung, but Violet smiled through it.

  “Now, follow me. This corridor is used for storage, works, office administration, and, of course, the kitchen. Upstairs are the guests. You never need to go there. Ever.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Downstairs are the staff lodgings and the staff dining room, which is the only place you will ever eat.”

  “Where do the guests eat?”

  “The grand dining room and the ballroom are one and the same space. That’s where you’ll be serving food. You must, under no circumstances, ever take food from the upstairs dining room. Nor can you smoke. Evergreen Spa is a cigarette-free hotel. We are a health resort, you know.”

  “It’s fine, I don’t smoke.” This wasn’t strictly true. Violet always had a shiny case of cigarettes in her bag, for dances or parties or just for flirting, even though she didn’t relish the feel of the smoke scratching her throat.

  “Good. It’s a filthy habit. For training, I’ll put you with Myrtle, who’s very experienced, and she’ll show you what to do. Down here.” They began to descend a staircase. No carpet or rug, just unfinished wood. “Your room is the third on the right. You’ll be sharing with Myrtle and Queenie. Don’t take advice from Queenie. She’s a bit slow.”

  Miss Zander knocked briskly once, then fetched a key to open the room. Three beds were lined up under a window that was at the level of the grass outside. Her suitcase and gramophone waited on one of the beds, along with some folded linen. Through the gauzy white curtain, Violet could see a pair of men’s shoes. She approached the window and peered up. It was Clive.

  “Ah, there he is,” she said.

  Miss Zander furrowed her brow. “Now, I know that you and Mr. Betts are friends, but I expect you to work and not chat. As you aren’t rostered on until dinner tomorrow night, I expect you to leave him be to get on with fixing our kitchen shutters.”

  “Of course.”

  The older woman then reached across and wiped her thumb hard across Violet’s lips.

  “Ow,” Violet said, cringing away.

  “Just making certain your lips are that color naturally. I won’t tolerate my girls wearing makeup. You’re not ladies of the night.”

  “Understood, ma’am.”

  Miss Zander smiled, all high-handedness evaporated. “I do hope you’ll be happy working here, dear. You’ve a sweet face.”

  “Thank you.” Violet glowed a little, and wondered how, on such short acquaintance, she’d decided she very badly wanted Miss Zander to like her.

  “Myrtle is on shift. Get yourself dry and changed. Laundry and bathroom are just across the hall. Here’s your key. If it fines up, get out for a walk. Fresh air is good for the constitution.” She nodded once, then left in a swirling wake of perfume.

  Violet went once more to the window. The room was very dim with so little light, and with the dark clouds outside. But when she looked up, she could see Clive working in the rain, sleeves rolled up to his elbow, his body flexed in concentration on the task at hand. She knocked on the glass but he didn’t hear, so she simply stood for a while looking at his shoes, dripping on the bare wooden floor.

  * * *

  Myrtle was too young to be described as kindly, and yet that was precisely what she was, with her round body and big bosom and soft white hands. That afternoon and evening she gave Violet a speedy induction to the Evergreen Spa. Fortunately, Violet had worked in hotels long enough not to be intimidated by the various rules and things to remember. She was given a five-day roster, all split shifts: eleven until three, and then five until nine. Even though she wasn’t rostered, she worked the earlier shift alongside Myrtle for experience. The lunch tables were all laid out beautifully, with silverware polished to a blaze, and a huge silver platter of seasonal fruit in the center of every one. Violet pinched an orange and hid it up the leg of her bloomers as she was finishing her shift.

  Outside, the sun was shining and the sky was blue and white. It was a day to be outside, preferably singing. She hummed to herself as walked around to the back of the building, where she released the orange from its hiding place and began to peel it. That’s when she saw Clive, still working on the kitchen shutters.

  “Clive!” she called happily, and ran over to him.

  He looked up, puzzled. “Aren’t I supposed to collect you from the station in an hour?”

  “I came a day early. Found my own way. Look, I already have my uniform.” Violet twirl
ed for him.

  “You look wonderful. I’m so glad you’ve come.” He beamed, then she remembered what Miss Zander said, and how Clive had made her promise not to get him in trouble.

  “I’d best not disturb you. Miss Zander said to leave you be while you’re working.” She pocketed the orange peel.

  Clive returned to the shutter, which he was screwing in with a large screwdriver. “Wonders mightn’t cease. Violet’s doing everything she’s told.”

  She brandished her orange. “Almost everything.”

  He laughed. “You be careful.”

  She wandered off, biting into the juicy orange, down towards the escarpment.

  Violet stopped under a swaying gum tree and caught her breath. The view that unfolded before her was spectacular. The ancient valley, carved into sedimentary rock faces of gray, red, and brown, bristling with leaves of every shade of green, stretched in front of her for miles and miles and miles. Clouds made dark shape-shifting shadows in the distance, and she could see the flash of sun off the famous Falls. It would be far too cold to swim. Wouldn’t it? She had hours before her next shift.

  A gentle slope led down into the valley. Myrtle had told her that if she took any path, she would eventually come to a sign that showed which direction to take: to the Falls; to the farms at the bottom of the mountain that sent their fresh produce straight up on a flying fox; or to the next towns along the range.

  “You mustn’t be late for your first proper shift, Violet,” she said to herself as she started down the path.

  Because so many guests at the Evergreen Spa came for the health-giving benefits of spa water, fresh air, and physical activity, good money had been spent making the paths clear and wide. She followed the way down until she came to the painted wooden fingerpost that showed her where to go next. As she finished her orange, she studied the sign. Then she wiped her sticky fingers on the grass and headed off towards the Falls.

  Violet found herself mostly in the shade, and wished she’d brought a jacket. Under the long sleeves of her dress she could feel goose bumps rising on her arms. She hugged herself and rubbed her upper arms, hoping that the path would turn her into the sun shortly.

  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?”