The French Perfumer

by Amanda Hampson

  ‘I can’t see any reason why I wouldn’t see it through,’ I assured her.

  ‘You will need to be extremely discreet. If you reveal that you are working with my brother to the likes of Her Ladyship or Mrs Somerville, you’ll find yourself under scrutiny – which may make things awkward for us all. Jonathan is aware of the situation but please don’t discuss it with him.’ I found myself nodding stupidly at this complicated explanation.

  ‘My brother does not care for visitors. He does not want to be the subject of curiosity or even a topic of conversation among guests here. We value our privacy above all else.’

  With growing trepidation, my gaze was drawn to the open window where the sheer curtain fluttered on the breeze, revealing glimpses of the garden and, beyond the orchard, the cottage.

  ‘Do you understand?’ she asked.

  ‘What if guests see me going to or from the cottage – what should I say?’

  She looked at me as though now having doubts. ‘They mustn’t see you, obviously. You are simply another guest here.’

  Despite my confusion, I continued to nod agreeably.

  ‘You can rest today and start tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Do I simply arrive there at ten?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, he’s aware you’re here. He’s expecting you.’ Vivian rose from her seat. ‘We’re very glad to have you here.’ I took that as my cue to thank her and leave.

  After the meeting, I came back to my room to sit down and think and write. There is a drowsiness in the air and the house is quite silent apart from the sound of intermittent snoring in the distance somewhere, perhaps the room below. I will need to do some reconnaissance to work out how to get to the cottage unobserved from the house. It seems ridiculous that this is a necessary part of the job but don’t want to find myself, as Vivian implied, a source of interest nor to be cross-examined – let alone by Mrs Somerville! I am looking forward to ending this period of limbo and actually starting work.

  I’m back from my mission. While everyone napped, I went downstairs and wandered around the terraced gardens but the house has a dress-circle view of these gardens. I walked around to the back of the house to the kitchen garden I can see from my bedroom window. At the rear of the building there are stairs leading down to a rather sinister-looking cellar, perhaps where the wine is kept as the windows are all barred. Beyond the garden is the rock face. I walked up the driveway and located the track running parallel with the rock face and was able to follow it all the way across the width of the property. The path then continued further up the hill, perhaps a short cut to the road, but the bank itself sloped gently into the garden behind the cottage, so this will be quite satisfactory.

  That task completed, I am back in my room reunited with my notebook, my only friend and confidant in this strange – and growing stranger – place. Soon I must prepare for dinner. I almost never dine out and have so few suitable clothes. Normally the highlight of my evening is listening to The Archers and 7 p.m. news by which time I have had my supper, popped into my pyjamas and curled up in the armchair with Mitzi on my lap. That all seems a million miles away. And nothing can ever be the same. Mitzi is gone and there is now a worrying development in the wind that I haven’t wanted to think about.

  My last conversation with Alan was profoundly disappointing. I had arranged to meet him for a farewell drink a few days before I left. From the moment my dear brother arrived, there was a sense that he had been allotted limited time and was channelling his bossy wife, Ruth, even borrowing her trademark expressions; for example, adding ‘as such’ to the end of a sentence, a phrase she utilises to soften a blow or underline her latest edict.

  Glancing at his watch, he murmured about plans to move to a larger house in a better part of Kingston so the children had more room to run around. I managed to resist suggesting they could use a little restraining – they show off in the most precocious manner. What he was explaining was, that although he had so far protected me from Ruth’s avaricious claims on our family home, since I would be away for a period, it was a ‘perfect’ opportunity to sell the property and split the proceeds which would allow his family to move up a rung or two on the social ladder. As such. I reminded him that Father had made it clear he wanted me to be able to continue to live in our home until I married or some less desirable fate befell me. But he shrugged helplessly.

  I am resisting this strenuously not only because it’s our family home but because I won’t be able to afford another house on half the funds. Alan and Ruth have an extremely comfortable detached house in Kingston; they may have a mortgage but at least they are eligible for one – no bank would lend money to an unmarried woman.

  I’ve been aware for some time that it’s better not to remind Ruth of my existence but I do love to see Alan. His presence is such a comfort to me. The last time I was invited to their home was for his birthday, a few months after Father passed away. It was a party of sorts, rather uncomfortable as most people seemed associated with his work and I knew no one apart from his family. I had several glasses of unpleasantly sweet white wine and, unused to alcohol, immediately felt a little woozy. I sobered up quickly when I overheard Ruth – who also can’t hold her liquor, it seems – telling a guest that Alan was hopelessly unbusinesslike. Very disloyal of her, I thought, and untrue – he’s a solicitor, for goodness sake! She explained that he had allowed his sister to remain in the family home. ‘His sister is terribly selfish.’ She glanced around but still didn’t notice me standing nearby. ‘She could easily live in a little flat somewhere. It’s just her and a dreadful old cat.’

  It was the ‘dreadful old cat’ that upset me more than anything else.

  Ruth enjoys a heated argument which apparently ‘clears the air’ but Alan and I grew up in a household where speaking up could have disastrous consequences, so our natural instinct is to slip away and wait for things to sort themselves out. That evening at the pub, this worked in my favour and the promise that I would think about it was enough for Alan to down his pint, deliver an awkward one-armed hug and lumber off into the night. I am well aware that’s not the end of it, though. The minute Ruth decides to charge ahead with her plans, Alan will be dragged along behind.

  Dinner this evening was in the formal dining room, all very grand, decorated and embellished at every turn. Two huge chandeliers are suspended over the polished oak dining table which was beautifully laid with white linen and copious heavy silver cutlery and glasses at every setting.

  It is all terribly elegant but I have begun to observe that, although the icing on this cake is impressive, beneath it there are signs of decay. Behind strategically placed furnishings can be seen cracks in the wall, the odd patching here and there, and during my reconnaissance this afternoon I noticed the smell of sewage, leaking perhaps from broken pipes behind the house. I’m wondering if Vivian is in something of a bind. It seems to me that she is struggling to woo these wealthy guests with the best of everything but the house is quietly disintegrating around her – before she has even finished renovating it.

  It was a bit of a shock this evening to discover that guests ‘dress’ for dinner; men in tuxedos, Vivian resplendent in a navy floor-length silk gown with a diamond and pearl necklace. So much for not standing on ceremony! I felt terribly out of place in my black wool, and certainly no one would mistake my paste brooch for diamonds. It is a preposterous idea that anyone would believe I am a guest here; one can only imagine the tariffs that provide for this level of luxury.

  Thankfully the evening meal was an altogether quieter affair, less combative than lunch, partly as the result of a new guest. Just as we commenced our soup course a rather dashing gentleman, whom Vivian introduced as Mr Geraldson, arrived. He apologised briefly for his late arrival and sat down at a place that had been laid for him. Although not in uniform, his posture and presence were that of a commanding officer, borne out by the fact that everyone seemed to snap to attention when he appeared. Mr Farley placed his arm protectively alon
g the back of his wife’s chair. Jonathan gave Geraldson a courteous, if indifferent, nod. It would seem they are previously acquainted. Strangely, although he was seated next to me, I had no sense of him – he gave out nothing but coldness. Clearly a man of great emotional control, no inkling of his internal state seeps from his pores.

  Vivian had shrewdly seated Mr Farley and Mrs Somerville at diametrically opposite corners of the table which placed Mr Geraldson directly across from Mrs Somerville. She eyed him with suspicion. As her spoon moved from bowl to mouth in a steady rhythm, there was a predatory alertness about her.

  Vivian brightly suggested that Monsieur Lapointe could take anyone who would like to go on an excursion into the nearby town of Grasse for market day on Saturday. Jonathan, seated on my other side, thought this a grand idea. He snatched up my hand and pressed it to his florid cheek, gazing at me with bloodshot eyes. ‘I hope my young bride-to-be will join me.’

  Everyone, apart from Vivian, turned to stare at me. ‘He’s joking,’ I assured them, reclaiming my hand. ‘We just met this morning.’

  ‘This morning? It feels like a lifetime ago,’ Jonathan sighed.

  Judging by her expression, I am certain Vivian feels – as do I – that this silly pantomime has already gone on too long. Although I could hardly be described as a ‘woman of the world’, if nothing else, seventeen years in the civil service has to some extent prepared me for men like Jonathan. When I was younger, my resistance to making a fuss made me easy quarry. For years I tolerated suggestive comments, pats on the bottom and worse in polite silence. Transgressions ignored simply emboldened another more daring infringement on my person. If anything it got worse as I got older. Some of my colleagues seemed to think I would be grateful for a clumsy grope. Making a fuss often had a habit of backfiring and over the years several girls left the department to escape unfairly damaged reputations. Eventually I discovered that deflecting this type of behaviour with tact and firm good humour somehow defused the situation. I do hope that a day in Grasse will alleviate Jonathan’s boredom and give him something else to focus his attentions on.

  I’m quite nervous about meeting Mr Brooke tomorrow. Even more so now that I realise he is not only blind but something of a recluse. I don’t believe Vivian is being deliberately obtuse or mysterious – probably the last thing she wants to do is to pique my curiosity. I’m almost certain there is an impending crisis that she is desperately trying to avert.

  Today started well enough, then it all got horribly complicated. Most guests seem to rise closer to lunchtime than breakfast, so it was a simple matter to slip out of the house undetected. I set off with my stenographer’s notebook and pencil tucked in my handbag, my tummy roiling with nervous anticipation. I followed the track behind the trees, arriving in the back garden of the cottage as planned. Monsieur Lapointe and another man, whom I took to be Mr Brooke, sat out on chairs in the sun. Pungent smoke from their cigarettes lingered in the still morning air. Monsieur Lapointe saw me approach through the garden and alerted Mr Brooke, who turned in my direction.

  ‘It’s Miss Turner, sir! Good morning!’ I called out as though he were actually deaf. And when he didn’t respond, added helpfully, ‘Your secretary!’

  He gave a harsh laugh. ‘What the bloody hell would I want with a secretary?’

  ‘You are Mr Brooke?’

  ‘How many blind Englishmen do you think there are in Grasse?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course, I do apologise.’

  Monsieur Lapointe stood and stretched. He murmured to Mr Brooke, who nodded, seemingly irritated that their conversation had been interrupted. He laid his hand on Mr Brooke’s shoulder in a gesture that spoke less of an employee’s regard than of something more resonant; a comradeship, perhaps. I stood there awkwardly and watched Monsieur Lapointe walk through the orchard to the house, wishing I could follow.

  ‘Who’s up at the house now?’ Mr Brooke asked tersely.

  ‘Oh, ah, Mrs Somerville, Mr Farley and Lady Jessica —’

  ‘Geraldson?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Geraldson arrived last night.’

  ‘It’s no coincidence that bastard’s here,’ he fumed.

  ‘I am sorry, sir. I’m confused. I understood —’ Approaching him I picked up on the acrid fume of bitterness, which I have come to believe is more acidic than pure anger. His particular bitterness was complex, mixed with something else that ran counter; possibly a deep sense of despair.

  ‘Vivian’s set you up, girl.’ He gave a grunt of amusement. ‘A blind date.’

  ‘I don’t understand —’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t expect you to.’ He rubbed the stubble on his face thoughtfully. It’s not immediately obvious that he is blind, but it’s soon evident in that he doesn’t look directly at you but in the vicinity. He has been a striking man in his youth but now in his fifties, hair grizzled grey, features craggy, he looks worn out, like a stately building fallen into disrepair. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  I took this as an invitation to slip onto the chair beside him. ‘Miss Turner, Sir. Iris Turner.’

  ‘Iris. Messenger of the gods.’ He pondered that for a moment and, a trifle less hostile, asked, ‘And do you have a message for me, Iris Turner?’

  ‘From the underworld?’

  He gave a bark of laughter. ‘This is the underworld, Miss Turner. And now you’re trapped here with the other damned souls.’ He closed his eyes and raised his face to meet the sun. ‘Who’s idea was it?’

  ‘Idea? There was an advertisement —’

  ‘The name. Iris. You obviously know your Greek mythology.’

  ‘My father was a school teacher; he taught ancient history. My brother was to be named Asopus but my mother won the day with Alan.’

  He laughed. We fell silent for a few moments and then he said, ‘Tell me what you see in this garden of mine, Iris Turner.’

  This part of the property is at the end of a wide plateau after which the land falls away gradually, tapering into the hillside. To the south is the view down the valley to the sea. The dense garden surrounding the cottage is a riot of spring flowers, planted higgledy-piggledy like an English cottage garden: violets, daffo­dils, irises, poppies, primrose, lily-of-the-valley, all muddled together. I enumerated these to Mr Brooke, who nodded as though in time to a musical beat, occasionally interrupting me to ask if the crocus had flowered or if the gold tulips were in bloom.

  ‘What did Vivian tell you?’ he asked.

  ‘Simply that I would be working for you. That you had some aspects of your work that you needed recording.’

  He pulled a packet of French cigarettes from his shirt pocket and, in a seamless action, selected one with his lips, exchanged the pack for a lighter, lit up and inhaled deeply. ‘What else do you know? About my work?’

  ‘Nothing but I . . . I overheard Jonathan referring to it as your “hocus-pocus”. ’ I don’t know why I blurted that out, perhaps in the hope of making him laugh – making him like me a bit more. But it had the opposite effect. He expelled an angry plume of smoke.

  ‘Don’t tell me that bloody idiot’s still here. How long’s he staying?’

  ‘I’m really not privy to that sort of information. I’m not a guest.’

  ‘And you don’t speak French, I hear. That would suit Vivian very nicely. What else are they talking about up at the house?’

  I mentioned the forthcoming wedding of Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier as a major topic in the London papers Mr Farley had brought. He emitted that contemptuous expulsion of breath the French do so well. I added that there had been discussion about Suez and he asked me about the mood in England; whether people realised the potential impact on Britain. Not being an arbiter of public opinion, I cast around for a suitably non-partisan response. I had listened to my father’s politically biased commentary – which sometimes bounced off the walls – all my life and had in the past made the mistake of parroting his opinions in the outside world with catastrophic results. These days I cultivat
e a position of neutrality.

  I asked Mr Brooke how long it had been since he was in England. He said several years prior to the war and he had no desire to go back now. Despite that, he listens to the BBC World Service regularly and is much better informed than myself. We got into a general discussion during which I seemed to be holding my own when, quite to my surprise, he got up, announced he was tired and walked off toward the cottage. He guided himself confidently, touching the back of the chair lightly, tapping his foot to locate the edge of the terrace, and found the door without hesitation.

  ‘Mr Brooke, what about the work?’

  ‘Don’t tell me your troubles, Miss Turner. I expect you have worked out by now that I didn’t employ you.’ He walked inside and shut the door. It was barely 11.30 a.m. I had no idea what on earth to do. What to tell Vivian? My spirits lifted briefly as the door reopened. ‘If she doesn’t send you packing, you can visit again.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘If you must. And bring those newspapers.’ He stood at the door waiting for me to leave, well aware that I was still standing there, but I seemed to be rooted to the spot. ‘I’m not a guest here either, Miss Turner. I’m a prisoner,’ he said. Then the door slammed hard.

  As luck would have it, Monsieur Lapointe took Vivian and the Farleys to Nice this morning and they won’t return until early evening. I have managed to maintain a low profile this afternoon with everyone, apart from Menna. She never uses the main stair but appears and disappears, silent as a shadow, via the back service stair. There is nowhere to hide from her all-seeing gaze. She knows I was home mid-morning and didn’t return to the cottage. The question is, will she tell Vivian? Should I tell Vivian that I don’t have Mr Brooke’s cooperation? I can’t decide. A frank admission from me would be better than a report from someone else. But what if she sends me home? Having turned my back on ‘home and hearth’ to gallop off on my ‘little adventure’ (as it became condescendingly referred to in the department) and then limp back a week later would be mortifying.