The French Perfumer

by Amanda Hampson

  Dinner this evening was excruciating. Knowing Vivian likes to be punctual with meals, I timed my arrival to the minute to avoid being alone with her but came downstairs to find her titivating the floral arrangement in the vestibule. She dropped all floral aspirations as soon as she saw me and enquired as to the progress today. I tried not to appear evasive, explaining that there had been some discussion, we had not started work as yet, but would do so in the morning.

  While she can be extremely charming and convivial, there is another side to her which is quite intimidating. There are long pauses and awkward moments while her mistrustful side silently assesses information. It is as though she’s giving you space to blurt the truth – which plays on my particular weakness. On this occasion, however, she seemed to accept my story. ‘Don’t let him procrastinate. He knows this has to be done, and with some urgency. If he won’t cooperate, then make him walk. He needs to exercise.’ With that, she hurried into the dining room to soothe her guests, all of whom were out of sorts for a variety of reasons.

  Jonathan had apparently fallen asleep on a sun lounge (amusing himself with a bottle or two of wine, no doubt) and appeared at dinner with a wretched hangover, his face a livid shade of rosé.

  It has come to light that our resident lovebirds, Mr Farley and Lady Jessica, are actually on their honeymoon, but tonight they sat side by side wearing identical sullen expressions. I had an insight into this as I had been in my room when the party returned from Nice. I heard the door below me slam hard and soon became aware of a ruckus: raised voices, footsteps running back and forth, heavy objects hitting the walls – a domestic disturbance that clearly had not been resolved.

  Mrs Somerville’s nose was thoroughly out of joint and she made several pointed comments about being stranded here all day with no driver and that she would very much have liked to visit Nice herself had the invitation been extended to her. Vivian soothed her with apologies and promises of inclusion in future excursions.

  Mr Geraldson, of more interest since his presence engendered such fury in Mr Brooke, did not involve himself. In fact, he does not involve himself full stop. Immersed in the meal in front of him, he could be eating alone. Although at one point during Mrs Somerville’s lament, he glanced across at Vivian with an expression of blatant annoyance, presumably at her failure to immediately placate the woman.

  In a craven effort to curry favour with Vivian, I took it upon myself to engage both Mrs Somerville and Jonathan in conversation. But holding court is not my strength and the conversation quickly withered and died. As the evening staggered to a close, Lady Jessica’s curls suddenly flopped forwards of their own accord, concealing her face. Her chin rested on her chest and in the puzzled silence that followed she could be heard snoring quite charmingly like a child. There is copious wine at dinner, although I never touch it, but she had been drinking in a quietly determined way all evening and was likely stewed. Her embarrassed husband tried to rouse her and, when that failed, attempted to lift her bodily out of her chair. But she was as floppy as a ragdoll and it took both Mr Farley and Mr Geraldson to carry her upstairs – needless to say, not in a terribly dignified manner.

  I gathered up her little velvet purse and cashmere wrap, which had fallen to the floor, and followed them upstairs. It was my first excursion into one of the guest rooms and, once inside, I was hit by the peppery odour associated with friction and discord. The room is quite grand, all silvers and greys, dominated by an elaborate cream bedroom suite in baroque or rococo style. The walls feature an overwrought wallpaper pattern similar to that of downstairs; this one adorned with peacocks and palm trees. The Farleys had obviously not been expecting visitors. It seems the hurried footsteps had been a pitched battle in which every possible item had been hurled across the room, presumably at the other party. Mr Geraldson, whose usual expression lends the term impassive another dimension, stared around in wonderment at the sheer scale of disarray.

  The two men placed Her Ladyship on the bed where she lay like a helpless little bird in the nest of satin and lace lingerie flung there. She has a penchant for pretty shoes and these were now spread all over the room but I noticed she was only wearing one of her black velvet slippers topped with the pink silk tea-roses. I ducked downstairs and found it under the table. On the way back up I passed Mr Geraldson on the stairs; he looked quietly amused.

  I knocked gently at the Farleys’ door. Hearing no answer, I assumed Mr Farley was tending to his wife or had perhaps gone to the bathroom which is accessed from the hall. Opening the door slightly, I bent down to slip the shoe just inside and was struck by a palpable stillness in the room and the fermenting odour of resentment in the air. I glanced up to see Mr Farley kneeling on the bed at his wife’s feet, unbuckling his belt. I felt a rush of protective fury that he would take advantage of her while she was comatose – or perhaps because she was comatose! One moment the shoe was in my hand and the next it was hurtling across the room toward the back of his head. I heard him grunt as I quickly pulled the door closed. In a blind panic, I opened the nearest door and threw myself inside. Needless to say, when I set off this morning with such high hopes, I did not expect to end the day hiding in a linen hamper having assaulted a paying guest.

  Before the house awoke this morning, I gathered all the newspapers I could find and took them across to the cottage. I spent the morning sitting in the sun with Mr Brooke and reading The Times aloud. He made the odd comment or grunt here and there. On and on it went and I knew another day would pass without any progress. Finally, I put my foot down. ‘Sir, perhaps we should go for a walk.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, stop calling me “Sir”!’

  I felt myself becoming quiet and small – as I had learned to deal with Father’s outbursts – and struggled to shake this feeling as I listened to Mr Brooke explain at some length that, unlike the main house, his house was classless, egalitarian. He couldn’t stand all the hobnobbing and kowtowing that went on up there. ‘It’s the last bloody bastion of the British empire. Fools with titles and money. Fascists. Self-satisfied bourgeoisie.’

  ‘You might then be interested to know that my father was a Marxist,’ I said in a bid to align myself with his ideology.

  ‘Was?’

  ‘He died last year. Still a Marxist.’

  ‘I was apolitical before the war. I enjoyed a privileged life, had no need of politics. The war changed all that. I don’t know what I would call myself now. I’d like to think I’m a humanist.’ We sat in the stillness of the day, lulled by the sun and the low hum of bees going about their business in the garden. ‘Did he fight in Spain?’ he asked.

  ‘My father? No. I suppose he was an armchair activist, a vocal observer and commentator of the Spanish war. Besides, the Somme left him unfit for active duty. His gas mask was punctured by a bullet. The gas leaked in and burnt the side of his jaw and affected his lungs.’

  ‘He was lucky to survive that,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not sure he always saw it that way.’ I folded up the newspaper briskly as if to imply it was time to get on with some work.

  ‘And your mother?’ he asked.

  I sighed. Partly at the mention of my mother, but mostly because there seemed to be no end to his determination to create interminable delays and distractions. The sun was now high in the sky. I was hungry and tired after a restless night worrying about the potential repercussions of my assault on Mr Farley. ‘It’s a long story but, if you’re interested, I could tell you when I come back this afternoon.’

  ‘Anything to alleviate the boredom of my existence,’ he said gloomily, but I felt quite pleased at having deftly engineered a return visit.

  It has just now dawned on me that Vivian knows perfectly well that her brother doesn’t want me here and that he has no plans to cooperate. She’s waiting to see if I can bridge his resistance. All I can do right now is play for time. Somehow, I have to make this work. I am nothing if not persistent.

  When Mr Farley appeared for lunch, I n
oticed a slight pinkness at the top of his ear. Nothing wrong with my bowling arm! I doubt there was much force behind the blow. It simply clipped him in a tender spot. No regrets on my part, especially since I am almost certain now that he won’t make a complaint, although he must suspect me since Mr Geraldson is hardly the shoe-hurling type.

  We all sat down to an overly rich casserole with copious onions and beans and it was as though nothing untoward had occurred the evening before. Everyone behaved perfectly. This is one of the joys of being British; discretion is our national strength. Adverse to any sort of awkwardness, it comes quite naturally to us to pretend all is well. Nothing has changed. Unless I am misreading this and unconscious guests are regularly hefted up the stairs?

  However, my opinion of Mr Farley has undergone a complete reversal. I had accepted his superior ways as a prerogative of his class but it is now clear that his attentiveness to his wife is less an expression of adoration than a means to control her. I now see that the poor woman can barely lift a finger, let alone offer an opinion, without his interference. He has a repertoire of subtle glances and expressions; a tiny questioning frown that makes her hesitate; an infinitesimal shake of the head that makes her falter. Perhaps she enjoyed his attentions initially but I now see a tension in her that I didn’t notice before. Her pointless laughter is a nervous reaction; there’s a slight desperation in her pearly smile. One senses that they haven’t known each other terribly long.

  Vivian and most of the guests observe a rest period after lunch, although it’s difficult to imagine that they could possibly need any more rest. I am not in the habit of napping and today have brought my journal to the drawing room despite the slight risk of running into Jonathan, given this is where the drinks trolley resides. Despite its ostentation, I do like this room. The library beckons with a vista of possibilities and, if I can hold on to my position here, I hope to take full advantage. What a comfort to wander the length of the shelves, to caress the spines of old friends – Jane Austen, Thomas Hardy, George Eliot – and endeavour to make the acquaintance of new ones. True nourishment for my soul.

  I also plan to brush up on my pitiful French. I was sadly dis­advantaged by the fact that our French teacher, the tyrannical Mrs Barker, didn’t care for the language (or the French themselves, for that matter) nor speak it. So lessons were dreary rotes of verb conjugations from recordings that made no sense at all to us. I am starting to recognise words I hear regularly and will try to make a note of these and check the spelling and meaning in my French–English Dictionary. One word at a time.

  Yesterday finished disastrously, infinitely worse than the previous evening.

  I had been back at Mr Brooke’s at precisely 3 p.m. I felt it important to continue to be businesslike and professional, although that has completely flown out the window now. As I made my way to the cottage, dark clouds hung low overhead. There was a brisk breeze and flecks of rain stung my cheeks. While my past visits have found Mr Brooke in the garden, today I would cross his threshold for the first time and must confess I was very curious. I knocked at the door and waited. He’s so mercurial, I half expected him to shout at me to go away but he called out to come in.

  Stepping into the house, I was assaulted by a veritable cascade of smells. It was as though every flower in the world had come here to die, the fragrances composted and fermented, distilled down into a dense rancidity that was absorbed through my every pore, so overpowering that I could barely breathe.

  ‘Are you planning to stand sentry all afternoon?’ he asked. ‘Sit down, for God’s sake.’

  I sat in the armchair opposite him and glanced around at the clutter. Hundreds of books tumbling from shelves, dozens of paintings, some hung and others stacked against the walls. Artefacts in brass and copper, perhaps from North Africa, and piles and piles of papers, none of which he could see any more. The house is an obstacle course completely unsuited to a blind person, yet clearly he is intimately acquainted with this terrain and can navigate his way, even in his darkness.

  ‘What is that . . . strange . . . odour?’ I asked.

  ‘Odour?’ His tone was scathing. ‘If you mean smell, why don’t you just come right out with it?’

  ‘All right, what is the queer smell?’

  ‘What do you smell?’ he asked.

  ‘Frustration,’ I said before I could stop myself.

  That gave him pause for thought. He tilted his nose and drew in a long measured breath, explored that breath at some length and exhaled in a dismissive burst. ‘Did any more papers arrive?’

  ‘No, and no new guests either.’

  ‘Geraldson left yet?’

  ‘He’s still there. He seems to be enjoying himself a little more.’

  ‘Enjoying himself!’ he spluttered. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  Having further infuriated him, I found myself telling the story of Lady Jessica falling into drunken stupor (phrased more delicately) and Mr Geraldson’s role in helping carry her upstairs, but naturally left out the entire shoe-throwing incident.

  Mr Brooke asked what I knew of Mr Farley, a name he thought familiar. I have gleaned a few pieces of information. He appears to be in banking and has on occasion referred to his London house and an estate in Dorset. He is always evasive about anything related to the war, so his rank and where he served (of keen interest to Mr Brooke) has not been revealed. Warming to the subject, I described his character and relationship with his wife in some detail. In my experience, males are seldom interested in minute observations of another’s character – they want to know what a man does and who his family are – but Mr Brooke was very attentive. He was determined to know Farley’s connection with Vivian but I couldn’t work out quite what he was alluding to – whether he thought the man had some kind of history with Vivian or if he was a business associate of some sort. He hinted that I could possibly find that infor­mation out.

  ‘Are you suggesting that I spy on guests and report back to you?’

  ‘It may not be quite how Vivian envisioned it – but it would be useful, yes.’

  ‘She’s going to ask me what we did today and I am almost certain that gossiping about guests is not what she wants to hear.’

  ‘Try not to think of it as gossip,’ he said. ‘More as reconnaissance.’

  It was raining heavily outside now. The wind gusted against the house, rattling windows, and the room had grown dim. Although only the middle of the afternoon, outside it was twilight.

  ‘Look at the bright side. You’re in here talking to me. That’s more than the others managed,’ he said.

  ‘Others?’

  He swiftly changed the subject. ‘Let’s have a drink.’ I made it clear that daytime drinking is not something I indulge in, but offered to get him one.

  ‘There’s a box near the door,’ he said. ‘Bring two glasses. And turn some lights on. I can’t see a damn thing.’

  I did as he asked and found the box which contained half-a-dozen bottles of red wine that I reluctantly brought over with the two glasses. I had a sinking feeling that this was another of his delaying tactics and would eat up what was left of the day. He had me take each bottle out and read the label aloud, to which he said yes or no. I brought him a corkscrew and he deftly opened one and poured two glasses of wine, his finger delicately tipped just over the rim to prevent spillage. Throughout the process, he acted, as he always does, as though fully sighted. He does ask to be handed or passed things but more as a convenience, to save himself the bother. To do all this with only shadows to guide him seems extraordinary to me.

  He proffered an almost full glass and I really had no choice but to take it. ‘Tell me what you can smell,’ he said. He lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair as though preparing to be entertained.

  I breathed in, first short and gentle and then long and deep as I had seen him do earlier. ‘Soil . . . wood . . . chalk . . .’

  ‘No, go deeper, beyond the literal. Find the tones.’

  I
tried again, closed my eyes and allowed the smells to flood my senses. ‘Nutmeg?’ I ventured. ‘Cloves.’

  ‘Yes, continue,’ he said impatiently.

  ‘Exactly how many secretaries have you had?’

  ‘What? Just a couple – perhaps three or four. Never mind about that. What else?’

  ‘Pepper.’

  ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Now take a small mouthful, hold it in your mouth and draw some air through it. What do you taste?’

  ‘Berries?’

  He took a swig of his wine and laughed. ‘Nutmeg; berries!’ he snorted. ‘You were right the first time. Earth and grapes – peasant pee. Vivian keeps the decent stuff up at the house. You’ve got a good imagination, I’ll give you that.’

  In fact, it tasted rank and bitter as ink to me, red wine having never touched my lips before. Hot with humiliation, I took an angry gulp. ‘So were your previous secretaries also subjected to these games?’

  ‘Silly little things. Brainless debutantes sired by Vivian’s expat pals, scourge of the Côte d’Azur. Hardly worth the effort.’

  ‘So why am I still here?’ Holding back hot tears, each gulp increased my recklessness incrementally. We were going nowhere. I had nothing to lose.

  He pondered the question. ‘You’re observant.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Miss Turner, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m blind.’

  Rather than feeling chastised, presumably his strategy, the way he played his blindness as a trump card had the opposite effect on me. Vivian wants me to record something that he doesn’t want to divulge. He wants me to spy on her and her guests. They are both so determined. She pushes forward, he sidesteps and, when cornered, uses his blindness as a foil.