Dead of Winter - James Goss [2]
What I meant to say, dear Mother, is that I don’t LIKE to talk to them. Of course, they are all very ill and should not be disturbed unless they ask to be, I know that, but… they are different now.
If you have a moment I shall tell you how. But if I do, then I should like you to be brave for me. You might find what I say frightening, but I don’t wish you to.
Dr Bloom continues with his Fresh Sea Air Cure for the worst patients – you remember how it was in summer? The parade of nurses wheeling everyone down to the beach and leaving them? Well, it’s still the same, even in winter. Madame Bloom says that the chill freezes the bad out of the lungs, but it can’t be good, surely, to leave them sat there from dawn till dusk, can it? The light is so meagre and the fog is so thick. They look like the Dead. I can’t help it – I know you told me not to call them that. The Dead sitting waiting on the beach.
But that is not the frightening thing, Mother. Sometimes I go down to them, to keep them company. But the Dead are not alone. For there is something in the mist and it talks to them.
There! I’ve said it.
Oh Mother, it scares me dreadfully. Please let me come home. Write soon with news.
Your ever loving
Maria
What Amy Remembered
I woke up. I immediately wished I hadn’t. My head spun and it took a while before I could see where I was. It was a very white room, and there was a little girl sat on my bed. She was dressed like she was in Cranford, only without the bonnet.
‘Ah!’ she exclaimed, clapping delightedly. Houston, we have a clapper. Could be exhausting. ‘You’re awake! I’m so pleased, Mademoiselle.’ She sounded French. Interesting.
‘Yes,’ I croaked. My throat was dry.
She passed me a glass of water.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, her eyes as wide as curious spoons.
That floored me for a second. I was not entirely sure. I could remember… hmm. Not much, actually. Oh dear.
‘I’m Maria,’ announced the girl importantly, chewing at her hair, which was really, really long and golden. Like she did adverts. She stared at me. ‘I am 11.’ She waited for me to say something.
‘Right.’ I sipped the water and played for time. I was feeling a rising panic. What was my name?
‘You can’t remember, can you?’ Maria smiled slyly. ‘They said you might not.’ She giggled like it was funny.
‘Who said I might not remember?’
‘People,’ she shrugged. ‘I heard people talking in the corridor. You’re new here. We don’t have many new visitors. So there is bound to be talk. But I’m ever so pleased you’re here. I do hope you’ll be fun. Do you like to play games?’
I was a bit fazed by that. Frankly, the sense of rising panic wasn’t really helping. I tried smiling at her, but it all went a bit wonky.
‘Yeah,’ I said eventually. ‘I do like games. Did they say what happened to me?’
Maria tilted her head to one side. ‘Your carriage crashed, apparently. They brought you in this morning.’
That made sense. Kind of. I could remember something vaguely about that – about the world turning over and a big thump but… that wasn’t everything. There was something else. Wet sand.
I craned to look out of the window. I could only see grey sky and a few twiggy trees blown about in the wind. But I could hear…
‘Are we near the sea?’
Maria nodded, solemnly. ‘Oh yes. St Christophe is a resort. It is very fashionable and most expensive. People come here from all over France and Italy.’
I struggled up in bed. ‘So this is a hotel?’
Maria giggled, her hand clasped over her mouth, ‘Of sorts, yes. A hotel for the dead.’
Well, that floored me. It did not sound good.
‘What do you mean?’ I narrowed my eyes until it hurt my head, so I stopped.
‘The dying come here.’ She pulled a face. ‘I mean, they hope to get better. But they’re dead, really. Some do go home, they’re the lucky ones. Mother did. She’s back in Paris. Did I tell