The month of May here is like late June back home but reliably sunny. By the middle of the day the sun is quite intense and the afternoons linger hot and sultry. Despite the heat this afternoon – or perhaps because of it – Mr Brooke decided he wanted to see his rose garden. This is the first time we have undertaken any sort of excursion. It felt a little strange but he seemed comfortable as he slipped his hand inside my elbow, as though escorting me into the theatre. He instructed me to take the path through the garden behind the cottage and then we followed the track that leads up to the road. A high wall runs for some distance alongside the road. I had noticed it on my occasional rambles but took it to be a neighbouring estate. But today, as we approached, I could smell the heady fragrance of the roses in the air.
He unlocked the gate and had me lock it behind us. ‘Tell me what you see,’ he said.
I looked around in delight. ‘Roses. Hundreds and hundreds of beautiful pink roses.’
He smiled, happy to have it confirmed although the overwhelming scent should be confirmation enough. There was only the one type of bloom and it grew in low unruly bushes, not at all like the standard rose we see at home. These plants, he explained, are Rose de Mai, sometimes known as Rose de Grasse as this variety thrives on the combination of soil and air here. The fragrance was voluptuous, heavenly. The air seemed to sing with a sweet honeyed scent as if we were swimming in it, tasting, breathing, absorbing it through the skin.
Mr Brooke reached into one of the bushes, felt around for a bloom and tore it from the bush. He caressed it roughly but I realised he was assessing the stage of the flowering. ‘My great-grandfather built this garden,’ he said. ‘The original cultivar was brought over from Turkey and propagated here.’ He took my arm and we walked up and down the rough ground between the rows of bushes. He asked me questions such as how many blooms were visible on each bush, the condition of the plants and so on. He was so lively and talkative. ‘I didn’t harvest last year, I’d lost the heart for it,’ he said. ‘This year I will. This year will be my last harvest.’
‘Why the last?’
‘They need replanting every ten years. This will be the end of it for me.’
Then he was suddenly in a rush to return to the house, saying he needed to speak to Didier – Monsieur Lapointe – to arrange for pickers. The minute we got back to the cottage he telephoned and was assured that pickers could be brought in as early as Sunday morning. He was most pleased and insisted we have a drop of champagne to celebrate.
I had the one small glass, not wanting a repeat of the last disaster, but still felt cheerfully tipsy as I took my bath before dinner and wafted down to the dining room. So it was a nasty shock to be confronted by the sight of Vivian beetling furiously up the hall toward me. ‘How did you get into Mr Farley’s room? Do you have a key? Who gave it to you?’
‘It was unlocked,’ I said (technically true). ‘I just went in to see —’
‘You seem to have no sense of decorum at all. I made it clear to you from the outset that I had to have implicit trust in you. You have now breached that trust. I am very, very disappointed in you. One more incident and your post here will be terminated immediately without notice.’ With that, she stormed off into the library where the guests were having their pre-dinner sherry and moments later I heard her tinkling social laughter.
Today was the harvest and Mr Brooke had asked if I could come before dawn to take him up to the fields. It was dark as I made my way across the orchard; no need to be discreet at that hour of the morning. I noticed someone moving near the cottage and thought Mr Brooke was likely waiting impatiently for me, although I was early. But the figure was walking toward me and I soon recognised the slow, even gait. It was Menna leaving his house. To avoid me seeing her there? If so, I had thrown the timing out with my promptness. I don’t know who I was more disappointed with – she has such dignity and grace – but what do I really know about him? He takes the high ground on issues and seems above reproach. Given his egalitarian claims, you wouldn’t pick him as a man who slept with his servant. As it was, she made no effort to avoid me. Our eyes met briefly, as though there is some silent understanding between us. Not a word spoken.
I did feel distinctly odd about it all. I fervently hope that I am not developing feelings for Mr Brooke. I am inclined to harbour secret passions, sometimes without my heart’s desire even being aware of my existence. Before the war, the department was populated by young men of varying degrees of attractiveness. I was easily smitten back then. The slightest attention, a kind word or a smile, and I was vividly imagining our courtship and life together. Sooner or later the object of my affection would say or do something disillusioning. Perhaps speak curtly about a tiny typing error (petty) or comment on the size of someone’s bosom (vulgar) and our imaginary relationship would be terminated without fuss.
Early on there was a fellow who worked in the auditing section of the department. He invited me to a film on the pretext that the heroine’s name was Iris. It was a romantic thriller everyone was talking about at the time called The Lady Vanishes directed by Mr Hitchcock. We had a lovely evening and talked about the film for ages in the pub. Then the next week we saw an exhibition at the Tate. So it seemed to be going well. I was not yet twenty with no real experience with men and I yearned to be kissed. I had high hopes that our relationship would blossom and dreamed of the day he would take me in his arms and we would be swept up in our passion. When he did finally make his move it was clumsy and fierce, more like a precursor to a wrestling hold and I resisted – perhaps a little too forcibly. He was shy and took it badly. We walked home in embarrassed silence. It was as though he had done something untoward instead of something quite natural but poorly executed. I didn’t know how to clear up the misunderstanding. There were no further invitations and, the next thing I knew, people in his section were going for drinks to celebrate his engagement. It was disappointing but it wasn’t the end of the world. I thought there would be other eligible men but the great tide of war came and swept most of them away.
Back to the harvest. I arrived at the cottage to find Mr Brooke pulling on his jacket and raring to go. He was in fine spirits as we set off with a torch up the path toward the rose fields. We could hear the sounds of a truck and voices before we reached the road. Monsieur Lapointe held a lantern to direct a van reversing through the gates into the field. A truck arrived carrying a couple of dozen people, gypsies by the look of them, with ragged children and dogs tagging along. They climbed down, throwing sacks off the back, lighting lanterns, calling out to each other in an exotic-sounding language I didn’t recognise.
Monsieur Lapointe came over and talked briefly to Mr Brooke. I gathered that he had inspected the crop yesterday and was enthusiastic about the quality. Although they speak too rapidly for me to follow, I could tell by the warmth in Mr Brooke’s responses that he was cheered by this report. Monsieur Lapointe went off to supervise the pickers while we made our way through the gates and found a bench against the stone wall.
Mr Brooke was keen to know what was happening and I attempted to describe the unfolding scene, hoping my commentary in some way resembled his memories of all the harvests he must have witnessed. The flickering lanterns suspended on poles and scattered through the meadow like tiny stars in the pearly grey dawn were quite enchanting. The first blush of light in the sky revealed the pickers in more detail. The women, in long skirts and headscarves, had spread themselves evenly throughout the field. With casual expertise they worked each bush over thoroughly, rapidly plucking blossom after blossom with one hand and pushing a handful at a time into burlap bags slung around their waists. As soon as the bag was full they would untie it and hand it to one of the men, who passed it onto a big fellow with a handlebar moustache who seemed to be in charge and swapped the full bags for empty ones. He took the bags of roses and emptied them into sacks in the back of his van.
By the time the morning sun tipped over the trees it was finished. The gypsies, th
eir children and dogs wandered out and climbed onto the back of the truck. The sounds of their laughter and chatter gradually dwindled as they drove off into the dawning day. When they were gone, the moustached man secured all the sacks in his van and came over to pay his respects to Mr Brooke. Finally he too drove off and the only thing remaining in the garden was the fragrance, thick and opulent in the morning air.
Still no sign of Her Ladyship, which does concern me. On the upside Mr Brooke has been in good spirits since the harvest last week. The roses are now being processed in a factory in Grasse and in time will be returned to him as rose absolute.
Yesterday he decided we should take a break from the endless paperwork and audit the storeroom behind the cottage. We spent several hours ensconced in there, him perched on a high stool directing me to reorganise and document the various raw materials: containers of oils and boxes of equipment such as empty bottles, vials, pipettes and the like. The more light in a room, the easier it is for him to discern shapes but in the dim storeroom he was quite lost and quickly frustrated.
I have never before spent so much time alone with a man in such close proximity. The day was hot and, despite the door being open, we were soon both perspiring. The smell of his masculine sweat was a little intoxicating and in some way disturbed my perception of him. I found myself acutely aware of him physically. He would get up from his perch, feel around in various boxes, impatient to know what the contents were. Our bodies touched as we brushed past one another. Fumbling through boxes, our hands would meet. It was a relief to get out of there into the open air, and escape the strange, disturbing intimacy of the confined space.
Working closely with him, I have now come to realise that he is, in fact, extremely orderly and fastidious and the reason for the disorder in his home is solely his blindness. It must be quite discouraging and unsettling for him to know that he exists in a sea of chaos that he is powerless to control.
Once the work was over, I made some tea and we sat in the garden in the late afternoon sun. As we edge into full summer the garden is increasingly fragrant and I keep him up to date with the latest blossoming and the profusion of wildflowers that now carpet the garden.
‘It was my great-grandmother who planted this garden,’ he volunteered. ‘I expect you know that story.’ I said I did not and he gave a grunt either of approval or disbelief, but went on to explain that his great-grandfather, Monsieur Rousseau, had built the villa in 1862 when he established the perfume business. When he died the property and business passed to his son (Mr Brooke’s grandfather), who built the cottage for his widowed mother while he and his family occupied the main house. The cottage was her home for thirty years and the garden her passion.
By virtue of remaining quietly interested, I was then provided with more information. Mr Brooke revealed that he had been born in England, where his British father had a successful spice importing business. Although his mother died when he was only seven years old, he had vivid memories of her laboratory in their Richmond home and the strange and wonderful smells that emanated from it. Having the misfortune to marry an Englishman, his mother had lived in London under sufferance. She loathed everything about England, but particularly the smells. She loved to motor and several times a year would make the arduous journey from London to the South of France, driving herself and taking the young Hammond with her. It was on one of these trips that she was killed in a motoring accident. Asleep at the time, he escaped unharmed, physically at least.
‘My father had been sent away to school at a similar age,’ he said. ‘I expect he wanted me to suffer the same indignities. Every term break, my grandfather would send a driver for me. So all my summers were spent here.’
‘It’s a wonderful place for a child,’ I said, imagining the fresh and fragrant air as opposed to the dreadful ‘pea soup’ smogs we have in London now.
He gave a dry laugh. ‘I wasn’t here to enjoy my childhood, I was here to learn the family trade. Once I turned twelve, my grandfather took me to the factory every day.’
‘That doesn’t sound terribly much fun for a child.’
‘Yes and no. It was in my blood. At the risk of sounding arrogant, I already had the gift, so I was interested. I hated school and preferred it here where I was treated like a little prince – the heir to the throne, so to speak.’ He smiled a princely smile. ‘I was fourteen when the Great War broke out, and my grandfather refused to send me back to England so I stayed on in France then.’
‘What about Vivian?’ I asked.
‘What about her?’
‘Was she sent away to school?’
‘How the devil should I know?’ he snapped. ‘Ask her!’
It really doesn’t pay to ask questions, particularly about Vivian. The second my curiosity gets the better of me he gets so furious. I need to watch myself; stay alert.
I’m still shaking as I write this. The most horrible, frightening incident this evening.
After dinner was over, I had only been in my room a few minutes when there was a gentle tap on the door. I opened it to find Lady Jessica half sliding down the door frame. I helped her across to my bed. She looked terribly wan, and was begging pitifully for help.
Any thoughts of the trouble I could be in for harbouring her – when I had been told quite clearly not to involve myself – flew out of my head. She had come to me so I was duty-bound to help her. But this was the first place Farley would look for her. Before I could point this out, she fell instantly back to sleep. It was up to me to think of a solution. My first thought was the linen hamper where I had found refuge from Farley, but that was a short-term remedy and even I know that dumping a marchioness in a hamper is inappropriate. Who could I possibly turn to? Menna was obviously already concerned about Lady Jessica but it would be too risky to involve her. The other possibility was Mrs Somerville, who has a soft spot for Lady J.
Locking my door behind me, I rushed downstairs. Mr Farley was still enjoying his nightcap with Jonathan and the place now reeked with the pong of cigar smoke. There was no sign of Mrs S downstairs. I knocked at her door and she called out, ‘What is it?’ in her usual peremptory tone.
‘It’s Iris.’ After a puzzled silence, I added. ‘Miss Turner.’
The door opened and she was no less intimidating in a robe with half a head of curlers. She read something in my expression and invited me in. I quickly described the situation and my suspicions about Mr Farley keeping his wife drugged and captive. Her face darkened. ‘Bring her here. I’ll take care of her.’ When I explained that Lady Jessica was barely conscious, Mrs S, quite the woman of action, threw a coat over her robe and with stealth and speed we rushed up to the top floor.
Lady Jessica remained in a deathlike slumber as we manhandled her out of my room and onto the landing. Mrs Somerville propped her up while I checked the coast was clear. In her pink silk gown, she was like a floppy, slippery sack as we carried her down the stairs to Mrs Somerville’s room. We deposited her on the chaise lounge which was a perfect fit. I was surprised by Mrs Somerville’s tenderness as she tucked one of her pillows under Lady J’s head and drew a blanket over her. Realising Farley would soon be on his way upstairs. I ran back up to my room, pulled on my nightgown and slipped into bed.
I soon heard the doors of empty rooms down the hall slamming, one after the other. He was looking for me and in a temper by the sound. I opened my door, feigning sleepiness, to find him incandescent with rage. He shoved me into the room, pinning me against the wall with his hand tight around my throat – choking me! I was paralysed with terror. ‘Where is she? Where is she?’ After a moment, I felt almost calm; more than anything, struck by the irony that his nasty face would be my last sight of this world. All strength drained from my limbs. An inky blackness flooded my vision as though falling asleep. All at once his head jerked toward me. His eyes bulged in shock. The hand on my throat fell away as he slumped to the floor. I collapsed, gasping lungfuls of air and coughing – my windpipe still felt compressed. In
the silence that followed, I sensed the presence of someone else in the room and looked up to see Menna standing there, her hand still balled in a fist.
So, for the second time tonight, I was helping carry an unconscious person downstairs. The Farleys are not exactly an advertisement for the joys of marriage. Although he was heavier than his wife, Menna is strong – strong enough to knock a man out, so it appears – and we managed him fairly easily. Without ceremony, we took off his clothes and rolled him into bed in his underwear. I tucked him in tightly in the hope he would wake up tomorrow and think it had all been a bad dream. Horrible, horrible man.
I feel such overwhelming gratitude to Menna. He had taken leave of his senses. She saved my life. As we parted on the landing, I caught her wrist. ‘Merci. Merci, mon amie.’ She stared at my hand with a worried expression. She looked up at me and smiled. We shared a moment of silent understanding between two women for whom there is little comfort and affection in this world. I suspect she has been through something dreadful. Something that tore her voice from her throat. I feel such a sense of compassion for her. I will be a friend to her.
Truly, what a night! Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
Today began peacefully with only myself and Mr Geraldson at breakfast, which suited me after the drama of last night and disturbed sleep. I suspected this would be my last meal here. Farley may not have known who knocked him out cold but there was no question I was the chief suspect in his wife’s disappearance. I knew there was no way to escape Vivian’s wrath and my dismissal was looming. But that was not the way things turned out.
The first sign of what was to come was a disturbing tension in the air followed by a complex amalgam of smells that could have been interpreted as distress – hysteria, even – or anger and exasperation. I wasn’t overly concerned; the latter are emitted by Vivian regularly over the course of a day. But then came a distant scream from the direction of the kitchen. A glimpse of Vivian’s ashen face as she rushed past the door – followed by Dr Renaud. Menna appeared in the doorway like a shadow. I saw the terror in her eyes.
The French Perfumer Page 9