This afternoon I uncovered a box of photographs and we spent a couple of hours sorting through them. Some had notes on the back; a date and sometimes a location. Hammond and Vivian in happier times on their honeymoon in Crete in 1934. There were a couple of his grandparents, Madame and Monsieur Rousseau, and images of Hammond as a small boy with his mother, Camille, and some of the factory staff, some thirty people, assembled in front of Parfumerie Rousseau.
‘What else can you see?’ he kept asking, only to be irritated by holiday snaps of Egypt. Finally I found at least one of the photographs he was looking for. It was of a woman with curly dark hair, attractive but not quite beautiful, with a sincere gaze to the camera. She was alone, so perhaps he had taken the photograph. As I described her, his face softened. ‘That is Sylvie,’ he said. ‘Keep that one aside, I want you to take care of it. Also the one of my grandparents and that one of the staff and my mother. Take care of those ones. She should have those.’
‘Who? Vivian?’
‘Vivian?!’ he barked. ‘I’m telling you to hold onto them. Keep them away from Vivian. Don’t let her so much as know of their existence. She’ll be crawling through here like vermin.’
I reassured him they were safe with me. He calmed down but he was in too much pain to go on. He asked the time and cursed that it was only ten to the hour when Menna would come and give him the next morphine injection. Fortunately she came a little early and he was relieved of his burden of pain for another hour or so. Why on earth doesn’t he just go into the hospital and get it over with? I can’t imagine living with the unbearable pain and the knowledge that my flesh was slowly dying. It’s too awful to contemplate but with this purging of the past it seems as though he is not confident that he will survive.
Dining at the villa has become a terrible strain for a variety of reasons. With the slippery sisters and Geraldson gone, it is now just Vivian, Jonathan, Mrs Somerville and myself. So, it’s not just the ordeal of eating together and making conversation with nothing in common. Now I am often put upon to make up a four for bridge afterwards when I would much prefer to be tucked up in bed with my book – especially as I still have a hundred pages of Madame Bovary to finish.
Vivian yearns to see the back of me and never misses an opportunity to make thinly veiled comments to that effect. She seems to have forgotten that, unlike the other secretaries she hired, I have successfully completed the task. This evening at dinner, Jonathan asked me what I was up to down in the cottage these days. Not because he is interested, but simply sensitive to any irritation suffered by Vivian. I explained that there were all sorts of bits and pieces to clear up, sounding rather lame and apologetic even to my own ears.
‘Just pottering about, are we?’ asked Vivian, her tone aggressively offhand.
‘I expect we’ll be finished very soon.’
‘This week?’ she asked. ‘It really is too much of Hammond to expect —’
‘Vivian, dear, don’t upset yourself further,’ Jonathan interrupted.
‘I am not upsetting myself,’ she snapped.
Mrs Somerville perked up her ears and looked at me sympathetically. ‘Honey, why not come back to New York with me? I could do with an assistant to sort out my affairs.’
‘Mrs Somerville,’ said Jonathan in mock surprise. ‘How many affairs are you engaged in? Do the gentlemen in question know there are others?’
Mrs Somerville squawked enthusiastically; she adores Jonathan’s flirtatious teasing. I was unamused, seething in fact. I loathe the implication that I am some sort of servant to be passed from one spoiled wealthy person to another. Or some nuisance Vivian needs help to unload.
I should add that the highlight of the evening was the appearance of the Corsican walking past the dining-room windows, carrying two mink coats. A surprising development! Vivian rushed off to usher him into her office but the sight of the minks, sans the sisters, had a sobering effect on the remaining party.
While Vivian can do no wrong in Jonathan’s eyes, I could see he was a little embarrassed as Mrs Somerville visibly put two and two together. ‘Oh my, I hope the gals are all right,’ she murmured. She hurriedly finished her meal, made her excuses and went to her room. I doubt she’ll be tempted to leave without settling her bill.
I can hardly bring myself to write the words on this page. Hammond Brooke is dead. Even writing them does not make it real. I feel such pain. Such terrible heartache, but I must attempt to make sense of this dreadful night.
I had got to bed quite early and was almost asleep when there was a tap on the door. I opened it to find Menna there. She beckoned me to come with her, whispering, ‘C’est Monsieur.’
I slipped on my shoes and jacket and followed her down the back stairs and across the orchard, wondering what on earth could have happened. Once in the cottage, she ushered me into Mr Brooke’s room which was strangely chapel-like, lit by candles and filled with great bunches of flowers from the garden.
Father Furolo, Monsieur Lapointe and the old doctor were all in the room. Mr Brooke lay so quietly in his bed I thought he had already gone but he beckoned me to come closer. The stench of his wounds was overwhelming but I didn’t hesitate to accept his offered hand.
‘Iris. My dear. I’ve never said this to you, but now is the time to say what we must say. You’ve made my last days much happier than they would have otherwise been. I was waiting for a messenger. One I could trust. You were sent to me.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘It has to some extent restored my faith in God and just in the nick of time.’
Thick grief rose in my throat. I was choking back tears and mumbling disjointed sentiments but he stopped me. ‘I mentioned that I have one last task for you.’ He felt around on his bedside table until he found an envelope that he pressed between his palms to check the contents. ‘In here is a key and the address of my bank; there’s a letter instructing them to allow you to access my safe deposit box. Everything you need is there. I beg you, don’t discuss this with anyone. The only people you can trust are in this room. Apart from Sylvie. You can trust Sylvie; tell her everything that has happened. I have every faith in you, Iris Turner.’ He leaned back on his pillows. ‘There’s nothing more to be done now.’
Father Furolo moved to the bedside and I stepped back to stand beside Menna, shocked to realise that he was administering the last rites. He said his goodbyes to Mr Brooke with obvious deep affection. Dr Renaud spoke quietly to Menna and then to Mr Brooke. He and Father Furolo left the room and moments later I heard the front door close.
‘You don’t have to stay, Iris,’ said Mr Brooke. ‘But I’d like to have you here. There’s no risk of you being implicated.’ Monsieur Lapointe knelt at his bedside and wept. Mr Brooke touched his friend’s head and they spoke together in low voices for a long time.
Menna put on a pair of cotton gloves and spent a few moments preparing something from the medical kit I had previously seen in the kitchen. She returned to Mr Brooke’s bedside with a hypodermic syringe and carefully placed it in his hand. He spoke to her with warm affection as she opened his shirt and laid his belly bare in readiness. She kissed his forehead and whispered her goodbyes.
Mr Brooke pushed the needle into his flesh and slowly depressed the syringe plunger. He lay back and sighed. He smiled and closed his eyes. His breathing, low and even, became shallow. Within an hour he had passed away and in the moment of his passing the wretched smell of the last weeks gave way to a tide of scents; joyous harmonies melded together in a fragrant symphony. The parfumeur was at peace.
Once he had gone, we went our separate ways. Each of us knew that the day ahead would be difficult as we fabricated our response to the news that our master had passed away in the night.
It was his choice, his timing, his need to control the situation and I respect that. There was nothing left for him in this world. But I feel so utterly bereft. He was a difficult, cranky old thing but for all his faults and frustrating ways, I came to love the man.
Today was more testing
than any of us could have anticipated. I was woken by the sound of Vivian’s screaming which swept through the house like a siren. I threw on some clothes and ran downstairs, passing Mrs Somerville, who stood outside her room in a robe and curlers. ‘Oh my lord! What on earth’s happening?’
I could hear Vivian shouting hoarsely, ‘Le salaud! The bastard! Bastard!’ She began wailing and shouting in French. Jonathan was trying to calm her but it was having the opposite effect. We arrived in the entry hall to the sight of him trying to physically restrain her. Monsieur Lapointe stood in the doorway. It must have been he who broke the news. His expression was one of distaste. The job done, he turned and walked away. Vivian caught sight of Menna leaving the kitchen and began shouting at her. Amandine hovered in the background until Madame Bouchard came out and pulled her back into the kitchen.
‘Who helped him? Who? Who?! Someone helped him!’ Vivian looked straight at me. ‘It was you!’ She broke Jonathan’s hold and launched herself at me. Grabbing me by the shoulders she shook me hard. ‘It was you! I know it was you!’
Mrs Somerville shouted at her to stop. I tried to break away but she had a tight hold on me and I was disoriented by the shaking. Jonathan gave up trying to reason with her and attempted to pull her away. ‘Vivian, dear – calm down.’
Menna entered the fray, grasped Vivian’s wrists and dragged her off me. In a blind rage, Vivian swung around and struck Menna hard across the face. ‘Get out! Get out of this house! Va-t-en! Sors d’ici – maintenant!’ Menna walked away, down the hall and toward the back of the house.
‘Vivian, Vivian, please. It’s all right.’ Jonathan, looking thoroughly shaken, put his arms around her. The fight had gone out of her and he was able to half carry her into the office and shut the door. Mrs Somerville and I were left alone, too stunned to speak. We could hear Jonathan’s soothing tones and the sound of Vivian’s uncontrollable sobbing – shocking in itself. Before we could escape, Jonathan reappeared. ‘You’ll have to forgive her, she’s in shock. It seems Mr Brooke died in his sleep last night. Please forget what she said. In fact, just forget this happened. Don’t speak of it to anyone. Perhaps call the doctor – could you?’ He directed this request at me.
‘To see Mr Brooke – or Vivian?’ I asked.
‘Well, both, but no rush to see Hammond, obviously. Ask him to bring something for Viv. Then he can sort the other business out.’ He took a deep breath and went back into the office. There was something new in his bearing; a sense of purpose. A man whose time had come.
I called Dr Renaud from the hall phone. Fortunately his English is better than my French. I explained the situation, telling him the news he already knew.
I went down to Menna’s room where she was neatly packing her few clothes into an old cardboard suitcase and trembling from head to foot. I had no idea what to do but I knew we both had to leave, immediately. Where could we go? What would Menna do now? I hardly knew where to start but began to quickly formulate a plan. I asked her to wait for me. She nodded and I left her there and hurried to my room. Having half packed my suitcase on several previous occasions due to Vivian’s mercurial temperament, it wasn’t difficult to quickly complete the job.
I left my suitcase in Menna’s room and went off to find Monsieur Lapointe, who looked as miserable as I felt, and asked him to drive us to Nice. He set off to fetch the car while I rushed back upstairs and said my goodbyes to Mrs Somerville. We would find an inn or cheap hotel somewhere in Nice, I told her, just until I could work out what to do. She cut a tragic figure, sitting on her bed still in her robe, headscarf askew, curlers unravelling. She scrabbled through her handbag, all the time murmuring about how dreadful the situation was, and finally pulled out a thick roll of francs in a rubber band that she pressed into my hand.
‘Thank you, Mrs Somerville, but I don’t need this.’ I handed it back. ‘I have money.’
‘Give it to the black girl, then – she’ll need something to keep her going.’ She was right and so I took the money and thanked her.
I was torn as to whether to tell Jonathan that we were leaving but, as it was, he was still in the office with Vivian and I didn’t want to risk another kerfuffle. I dithered for a moment outside the door and could hear him speaking slowly and calmly to her. ‘It could take years to settle it all.’ Vivian’s response was muffled but Jonathan continued. ‘Viv, you need to be careful what you say. Don’t start something that could get out of hand.’ I slipped away then; I had nothing to say to either of them.
Monsieur Lapointe had brought the car around and put our suitcases in the front seat. Menna looked so frightened, I wondered how long it had been since she left the property. I opened the door for her to get in. She glanced around anxiously as though some alternative might present itself but it didn’t and, with heavy reluctance, she got in the car.
Although I was preparing myself to leave in the not-too-distant future, the circumstances and the speed of the exit were shocking. As we left the villa behind, it tore at my heart that Mr Brooke still lay in his bed, neglected but not forgotten. Now he has gone, my loyalty to him burns brighter than ever. Whatever his final wishes are, I will dedicate myself to completing them in his honour.
To find a hotel that would accept Menna as a guest was much more difficult than I imagined. It was obviously no surprise to Monsieur Lapointe, who waited patiently outside each establishment. In the end, I asked to use a hotel telephone and called Alexander. He urged us to come immediately – he had more than enough room and would be delighted to host us. I gave Monsieur Lapointe the address and he drove us to the village of Mougins in the hills above Cannes. My French was not up to the task of explaining to Menna where we were going. She sat quietly with no apparent expectations. It seemed that she too has faith in me.
We arrived at Alexander’s somewhat disoriented but he is an overwhelmingly kind host and his house comfortable and spacious without being ostentatious. I gave him the barest explanation of the events leading up to our departure and he was very solicitous of us both, making sure that Menna also felt welcome. He had his rather stern Scottish housekeeper, Mrs K, show us to our rooms. She didn’t blink an eye at having a coloured guest but I expect she would need to be fairly liberal-minded to run this household. After a long bath and a brief nap before dinner, I feel better equipped to discuss the situation and make some plans. It will be a relief to dine with a friend this evening.
Menna insisted on eating in the kitchen this evening which is understandable. It all became terribly awkward and I am just not sure what is right. She had such a bond with Mr Brooke, not to mention losing her home and job on top of everything else. I have no idea how long she worked there; possibly years. Nor do I know what will become of her now – or even if I can help.
Alexander sat down at the kitchen table and patiently asked her questions, hoping to find out where her family were or even if she had family in France. She kept her gaze trained on a point over his shoulder, only once glancing across at me. I gave her a reassuring smile but her eyes slid away and she maintained her silence. You have to hand it to her for self-discipline.
Freddy had been expected for supper but in the circumstances Alexander kindly telephoned and put him off until tomorrow evening. It was nice to share a quiet meal and discuss what had happened with Vivian. Naturally I did not mention being present at Mr Brooke’s passing.
‘Well, your solicitor fellow’s comment about it being an odd situation has come to pass in more ways than one,’ Alexander said. ‘If there were more sex and less death, it would qualify as a French farce.’ I asked what he thought about Menna’s situation and if we could help her find work. ‘Algerian, you said. Sans papiers, no doubt. There are tens of thousands of undocumented Africans in France, especially since the war. Without knowing where her family is . . .’
‘I feel partly responsible for what happened.’
‘I don’t see why. It sounds as though Vivian was determined to be rid of you both. It was only Brooke holding
you there.’
I assured him that we would be leaving as soon as possible but he insisted we should stay as long as we wished. He would ask around discreetly about work for Menna. He suggested I place a call to Mr Hubert and have him organise my passage home, which seemed sensible since it was part of the agreement. I made some excuses to get down to Cannes tomorrow from where I will take the train to Monaco to deal with this business for Mr Brooke. Then I would be free to go home.
These next couple of days will almost certainly be my last in France and I wanted to see William one last time. I found his name easily in the phone book and telephoned him at home. He sounded subdued but agreed to meet me tomorrow morning in Nice. I was trembling as I hung up the phone. I only wish I knew what had happened between us and why it is so difficult. Even if tomorrow is the last time I will ever gaze on his dear face, I am so looking forward to it. Just to be with him for a few minutes.
As I was preparing for bed just now, I realised I still had the money Mrs Somerville had given me. I knocked on Menna’s door. She opened it nervously and I could see she hadn’t touched a thing in her room or even sat on the bed by the looks of it. I stumbled through an explanation and placed the thick roll of notes in her hand. She stared at it with alarm and pushed it back to me but I insisted. She slipped it in her pocket and whispered, ‘Merci, ma sœur.’
If only we could communicate. I sense such grief and sadness in her, I am almost certain she has been scarred by some tragedy. She is so alone in the world. We are both so alone in the world, but the difference between our situations is immense.
The French Perfumer Page 16