Today, as we walked, he began to talk more about the Villa Rousseau and revealed that the property had been occupied by the Gestapo during the war. I asked where he lived during that time.
‘Before the war I lived in the villa with my grandparents. As I’m sure you know, early in the war the South was in the Free Zone. Later we were occupied by the Italians, who were no bother but then, of course, they swapped sides. Once we had German masters, everything changed dramatically. When the Gestapo came and took our property, my grandparents went to our family in Menton. I moved to a small apartment above the factory.’
‘The factory continued to operate?’
‘To some degree,’ he said. ‘We all make compromises in wartime.’
So, for him at least, it was business as usual during the war. I know from the bills of lading that the raw ingredients had come from all corners of the earth. It is difficult to imagine how the factory could continue to operate without the aid of the Gestapo.
‘It was around then I realised something was wrong with my sight,’ he said. ‘I knew my time was limited. From then it was a gradual decline, almost imperceptible at first but accumulative over the last decade. In some ways I’m fortunate – even a world of shadows is better than complete darkness.’
Thinking about this now, I am fairly sure Aurélie made its debut in the late 1940s. Allowing time for development, one could assume that he created it toward the end of the war, already knowing it would be his last composition. His final symphony.
An aerogramme came in the mail for me today. My immediate hope was that it was from Alan, reassuring me it was all a terrible mistake. I opened it, longing to hear his comforting voice apologising for the misunderstanding but my hopes were dashed when I realised that the handwriting was actually Ruth’s.
Using every inch of the page, she lauded my brother’s career ambitions, emphasised how important it was to create the right image and how vital that they move to a better house and mix with a different class of person. The future of my niece and nephew relied on the schools they attended and classmates they cultivated. Their future was dependent on funds from the sale of Linnet Lane. According to Ruth, my lack of cooperation stemmed from jealousy at my brother’s standing in the world. I have (apparently) achieved nothing because of my wilful determination to be independent. I live only for myself. Now my selfish behaviour was preventing her family achieving their best. She was appealing to my better side. If that didn’t work, they would proceed to court to challenge Father’s will. She closed by explaining that she was writing this letter of her own volition and she would appreciate my respecting its confidentiality.
Once again I’m being put upon to protect someone’s little secret, which presents me with a quandary. Is it fair to reveal information and then demand confidentiality? It’s as though Ruth has struck a blow and then insisted I protect her from reprimand. I believe that I have the right to refuse. In that light, I addressed an envelope to Mr Hubert and penned a quick note confirming that I wished to proceed in defending my father’s will, should it come to that. I enclosed Ruth’s poison-pen letter and sealed the envelope before I lost my nerve.
This afternoon there was a note on the hall table to say that William Beaumont had called and would phone again later in the evening. A postscript from Vivian noted that she was not my secretary and in future would not be accepting my personal calls. Despite that, I felt the most delicious tingling all over my body. The day had been hot, especially so as we are still working in that stuffy back bedroom of the cottage. I usually have my bath before dinner but settled for a quick flannel wash, not wanting to miss his call.
Rather than retire to my room immediately after dinner, I decided to bide my time in the drawing room and found myself rehearsing and editing our forthcoming conversation in my head. While I had found him attractive from the outset, there was nothing to indicate his interest in me until that moment when I became the object of his affections. I don’t want to invest too much in this but he has never strayed far from my mind since that night.
I pottered about the bookshelves, thinking I might dabble in recent French history so I can discuss it more intelligently with Mr Brooke. My knowledge of the whole occupation business is all a little vague now.
The doors to the terrace were wide open and the sounds of cicadas shrilled in the warm night air. Jonathan had pulled an armchair into the doorway to catch a breeze. He cradled a brandy glass, his feet resting on one of Vivian’s antique occasional tables. Geraldson has been away this week and, with Farley permanently indisposed, Jonathan has lost his late-night playmates and any distraction from steady drinking. He begged me to join him, extolling the virtues of a late-night snifter and singing the praises of the balmy night air.
‘What is it you’re looking for, girl?’ He twisted around irritably in his chair and snorted at my explanation. ‘They’re short on facts in this house. It’s all fabrications. Fantastical allusions, or is it delusions?’ He lost his thread for a moment and found it again. ‘They make it up as they go along. Improvise. Whatever suits on the day.’
I went over and sat down near him. He gave me a pitiful look. ‘You’re the only good . . . honest . . . wholesome . . . creature.’ Tears coursed down his raddled cheeks.
While I would never actively desire Vivian’s presence in a room, it would have been useful at that point. She does know how to handle him. I gave him my clean hankie. The pervading smell around Jonathan is of something dusty and forgotten, perhaps like a box of old love letters – a repository of dead dreams and lost hopes.
Dabbing at his eyes, he pressed my handkerchief to his nose, inhaled and gave a ragged sigh. ‘Ask me anything. I have . . . the facts . . . at my fingertips.’ He located these and wiggled them as evidence.
‘Why do you stay here if you’re so unhappy?’ I asked.
‘The answer is, I am more unhappy elsewhere. That is to say less happy. I’m at my unhappiest away from Vivian and slightly less miserable with her. Unhappiness follows me everywhere I go, sniffing at my heels. Inescapable.’
‘But don’t you have a wife back in England?’
‘Ex-wife by now, I expect. Ex-wives plural. All three paled by comparison to her. You see, I told you. I am the only one capable of delivering the facts, telling the honest unadorned truth of the matter.’
‘And I appreciate your candour.’ I smiled, attempting to lighten the mood.
‘I had her once, you know,’ he said, a creamy gaze softening his features. ‘When I was young and lovely . . . in a field of buttercups . . . she wore a white cotton frock . . .’
This sounded rather whimsical to me, more like something he had seen in a film. Vivian has a knack of walking in on this sort of moment but fortunately she missed her cue because things then got much worse.
‘She’s screwing the kraut. She thinks no one knows.’ He gave a bitter laugh and watched for my reaction over the rim of his brandy glass. ‘You don’t seem surprised. She’s frightfully indiscreet. Anyway, don’t go tattling to your chum – he might use it against her.’
‘If the “kraut” you’re referring to is Mr Geraldson, I thought he was a chum of yours?’
‘Hardly. I tolerate him. With a measure of charm. I would prefer to challenge him to a duel at dawn. Pistols. Perhaps not dawn, more around mid-morning, when I’m at my peak.’ He drained his glass and sunk further into his armchair.
‘What line of work is Mr Geraldson in, do you know?’
‘More British than the British, eh? Ever wondered why?’ He stared gloomily into the night. ‘He’s in a trade of some sort. No, he’s ah . . . God, what did Viv say? A broker of some sort. Not stocks, something else. Businesses.’
‘Is he working for Vivian?’ I was now keeping a very sharp eye on the door in case she appeared.
‘She doesn’t tell me much. Most likely. He’s a wheeler-dealer I think. Here, don’t say anything to Viv about our little conversation. What do you want to know all this for?’
> ‘Just curious,’ I said, standing up. ‘It’s late, I should go to bed.’
‘Are you in love with him?’
‘Who?’
‘The Nose.’
‘Mr Brooke? No, of course not —’
‘Because he’s old and tired and angry, like me?’
‘Not at all. I hold him in very high esteem —’
He sat up, angry and surprisingly alert. ‘Do you now? You don’t know a damn thing about him. That bastard has more secrets than all of us put together. Not quite British, not quite French. Not quite married. Not quite divorced. Not quite sighted or completely blind for that matter. Sees what he wants to. He’s . . . he’s . . . like an emperor, toppled from his throne, living in a pleasantly scented exile, loyal to nothing but his art. Ask him what he did in the war. In fact, next time you have your pretty little nose in that dictionary, look up the word passeur. Might change your view somewhat. I’ll save you the bother – he was a people-smuggler. Not to be trusted.’ He lifted my hankie to his face, inhaled and closed his eyes. ‘Extraordinary,’ he sighed.
Drained of vitriol, he drifted off into a snoring slumber. As I got up to leave an acrid smell filled the air and a dark stain crept across the front of his trousers. The air was dense with lonely disappointment.
No word from William. I had almost forgotten about him – but not quite.
There’s something mysterious going on at the cottage that will no doubt soon be causing a storm – one I do not want to get caught in. Over the past few weeks I have documented hundreds of Mr Brooke’s little bottles and packed them in straw in small crates. In order to be thorough, I took it upon myself to number the crates and keep note in the ledger, cross-referenced to the contents. As instructed, I have been putting the packed crates into the storeroom beside the cottage but I now realise that the crates are gradually disappearing. Someone is spiriting them away in the night.
It’s possible Vivian’s involved – clearly she’s the one who wants this done. But if that were the case, why the secrecy? Or am I the only one who hasn’t been told? The other possibility is that Mr Brooke – perhaps with the help of Monsieur Lapointe – is removing the crates to another location. It would be helpful to know who and why, preferably before the other party finds out. I am torn as to whether to bring it up or not.
Postscript for today: William telephoned this evening and has invited me out for supper on Friday!
After three weeks away, Mrs Somerville arrived back at the villa this afternoon like a weary old soldier. She greeted me warmly but I could tell by Vivian’s vexed expression that her reappearance was unexpected.
The minute Mrs S went up to her room, Vivian turned to me and said crossly, ‘Not a word until this morning. There was talk of them going to New York on the Queen Mary after the funeral. I naturally thought — Blast! I’ve made a mess of this! The sisters arrive at the end of the month, and now I’ll be a room short. Where’s Didier gone?’ Without waiting for a response she stamped off, slamming doors all the way to her office.
Mrs Somerville came down to supper this evening tastefully bejewelled and upholstered in a green satin sheath she picked up in Paris. Contrary to her previously poor opinion of the British, as a result of her hobnobbing she seems to have acquired more respect. ‘Jessie’s family owns a huge spread,’ she told us. ‘Entire villages, enormous great house, stables of horses. But not a luxury in sight. Threadbare rugs. Not even electric heating. And the draughts through the place in the middle of summer – imagine winter! You’d have to sleep in your furs. Quite an eye-opener for a pampered Yank, believe me!’
‘I expect they’ll lash out on some draught excluders with Farley’s money,’ said Jonathan.
‘The funeral was all very awkward,’ continued Mrs Somerville. ‘I got the impression people were just making an appearance. No love lost for the guy, that’s for sure. Turns out he has a son from his previous marriage but Jessie will get a few bucks out of it.’
‘She’s fortunate the deceased was British,’ said Jonathan. ‘In France the children are the protected heirs by law – not the wife. Regardless of the will, the son would automatically get half the estate, the wife only a quarter, perhaps less if there were a number of children.’
‘Poor maman raises the ungrateful little wretches only to have them steal her home out from under her,’ said Vivian.
‘And what about the other quarter?’ I asked.
‘It’s termed quotité disponible. In other words, you can leave it to whomever you wish,’ said Vivian. ‘The dogs’ home, for example.’
‘Fortunately I have none of those problems,’ said Mrs S. ‘My money is my own. I made every cent through my own labours and no one can take that away from me.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Jonathan playfully. ‘You’re an oil tycoon. No? A . . . beet farmer. Oh, I have it – a madam!’
Vivian frowned at him but Mrs Somerville responded with a screech of laughter. ‘Brassieres! I had a little dress shop and top-heavy women often came in looking for a good comfortable brassiere. So I sat down and designed a little something and then I found out how to manufacture them. And pouf ! They flew out the door. Somerville Brassieres: you’ve probably heard of them. It’s a huge business now, too big for me. My two sons run it all.’
Vivian no doubt considers the whole endeavour vulgar but I found myself smiling at this wonderful tale. After dinner, I sat with Mrs S in the garden and we chatted a little and gazed at the stars together. On her own she is less bumptious and I wonder if she feels the need to put on a show. Perhaps someone told her that one needs to be controversial and entertaining when one dines with company in France.
‘I can confide in you, honey,’ she told me. ‘You’ve never been anything other than sweet with everyone. You’d think butter wouldn’t melt in Lady Jessie’s mouth, but I was chewed up and spat out by that girl.’
‘In what way?’ I asked.
‘Well, once we arrived in Paris, she started to misbehave. Badly. Drinking far too much wine at dinner, as she did here, but so much more embarrassing in a high-class restaurant. Picking arguments with me about every little thing – three miserable days.’
‘But you still went back to England with her?’
‘I felt obliged, with her being recently widowed. I’d been in touch with the family. I couldn’t just dump her. Besides, she didn’t seem to be at all aware of how upsetting her behaviour was to me. Her family were extremely courteous and made me very welcome, but all the same . . .’
‘I’m sorry you had to go through all that. She seemed so fond of you.’
‘I thought so too. I loved her like a daughter,’ she said almost tearfully. ‘Actually, now I’m relieved she’s not my kin. She’s a real handful. The family are eccentric and crazy indulgent about her wacky behaviour. Tantrums – oh my lord!’
‘Maybe they feel guilty about trading her off to Farley?’
‘I’ve thought about that. I don’t believe that was true any more. Or probably anything she said about his . . . predilections. Who knows, maybe he was after his conjugal rights.’ We both shuddered at the thought. ‘Actually, I wouldn’t put it past the little minx to have drugged herself.’
Oh strange and wondrous night! I will start at the beginning and savour every moment.
William collected me in his smart grey Wolseley and we motored up to Valbonne, a small village perched on the steep hills above the Côte d’Azur. Our conversation was a little forced at first. We asked each other questions, answering them meticulously as though being interviewed. There were missteps as we rushed to fill silences and then apologised, urging the other to go first. After a time, our unease became a source of humour and we found ourselves more relaxed and casual with each other.
On the walk from the car to the restaurant, he offered me his arm in a most chivalrous manner. I felt quite the part in a cream dress with matching bolero jacket, compliments of Lady J’s trunk. We wandered the cobblestoned streets looking for all the worl
d like a genuine couple, which I confess to have thoroughly enjoyed. I felt excited and fluttery in his presence but not really nervous – quite natural and content. Everything seemed so vivid and I felt alive to all that was about me.
He had booked a table in a restaurant in the main square. We were to dine en plein air under a clear starry sky. Although William is quietly spoken and reserved in his ways, when the waiter came to our table he discussed the menu and asked questions confidently in enviably fluid French. The waiter treated him with due respect, or less scorn than one comes to expect, and William consolidated their relationship by ordering on the fellow’s recommendations.
Out of duty I asked after Topsy and Sebastian and he said they were fine; he had seen them earlier in the week. ‘Do you often go to Le Negresco?’ I asked. ‘It’s terribly posh.’
‘Occasionally. Topsy likes it there. She craves the society of the types who inhabit the place. I don’t really care for those sorts myself.’ He glanced at me quickly. ‘You know I’m not referring to you.’
I laughed. ‘I don’t see myself as inhabiting the place, just passing through.’
He toyed with his napkin, flipping it back and forth. ‘You should know I’m not wealthy like Sebastian. I’m from the poor side of the family. Our mothers are sisters; his fortune comes from his father’s family. I’m just a bean counter for an accountancy firm in London.’
‘Oh, I thought you lived here.’
The French Perfumer Page 13