The Perfume Collector

by Kathleen Tessaro

  Grace stopped, too shocked and frightened to make another sound.

  Catherine stood up. ‘I won’t have this sort of thing, do you understand, Lena? The greenhouse is off limits for a reason. Don’t take her there again.’

  Turning abruptly on her heel, she marched back to the house.

  Jonathan Maudley sat at his desk, staring into nothingness. Outside, the cool spring day softened. But he was far away, in another time and place.

  Please don’t make me go! Please!

  Help me! Please!

  He closed his eyes. But the voices persisted.

  Opening his desk drawer, he reached for a bottle of whisky. Struggled to get the top off. Tipping his head back, he took a long swallow. Then he pulled a roll-up from his shirt pocket and lit it.

  He inhaled hard, holding on to the lighter, pressing it into the palm of hand. He ran his thumb along the inscription. Always and Evermore, it read – a gift from Catherine when he’d joined up. But still the memories unfolded like an unstoppable newsreel in his head.

  Here was an open field, a gentle green hillock. The expanse of brilliant blue sky above. Dawn had risen over the valley of the Somme as gently, gracefully as on a page from Genesis, unfolding into a beautiful morning, cloudless, hot.

  And young men, passing cigarettes and flasks, joking; laughing at their own nerves.

  Then it began, out of nowhere.

  Someone shouted an order; others followed.

  Shells whistled through the air… there were the cartwheels – horizontal, with machine guns… swinging round, a belt of fire on the hill, filling the air with black smoke and noise.

  Jonathan took another swig.

  Here were the faces he didn’t want to see.

  Men twisting, dancing, arms outstretched – body parts exploding in mid-air, showering down in sprays of guts, sinew and bone. The ground beneath them turned greasy, slippery with blood

  And the roar. The unholy, ceaseless sound of terror.

  ‘Please! Please!’

  The dying dangled in the sea of barbed wire, caught mid-air. Like men praying, falling to their knees, only the wire wouldn’t let them.

  They just hung there.

  ‘Please! Please, sir! Don’t leave me, please!’

  Jonathan staggered past them, half-blind, deafened; his right arm shattered open.

  ‘Help me, sir! Please!’

  Half a man’s face was gone, an eye swinging from its socket, yet his mouth still moved.

  Jonathan shot him with trembling hands. His own man.

  The boy slumped forward, a marionette, strings cut.

  ‘Fall back! Move! Move, you bastard! Move!’

  Someone was waving, shouting; hauling him up by the collar of his jacket.

  Looking over his shoulder, he saw the long lines of Germans sweeping along the brow of the hillock, four hundred yards away. They were marching slowly, shoulder to shoulder; a solid grey wall of men and ammunition.

  He managed to make it back to the third line and there, in a state of delirium, manned one of the machine guns until he fell unconscious from loss of blood.

  So many years had passed now.

  But that day would never end.

  It was late, almost ten in the evening, when Eva went back to collect the tea tray from Jonathan Maudley’s desk. He hadn’t come in to supper, as she’d promised Grace. Instead, Grace had eaten alone with her mother. Some time after seven, Eva had heard the sound of the motor starting, heading down the drive. Probably to the pub. And not long afterwards, Catherine retired to her bedroom for the night.

  The greenhouse had no electricity. So Eva took a lantern with her, illuminated by a stubby, low candle. Pulling her cardigan around her against the cold, she made her way down the garden path. The moon was bright and high; shadows shifted in the darkness, wind rustling through the leaves. She knocked on the door. No reply.

  Pushing it open, she went through to the office.

  There, on his desk, untouched, was the tea tray. But as she went to lift it, she noticed there were also a number of papers that hadn’t been there before, a small collection of old newspaper clippings.

  Lifting the lamp higher, Eva picked one up.

  Local Hero to be Honoured in Memorial Ceremony, it read.

  Another one contained a photograph of him in uniform, Capt Maudley Receives Military Cross for Bravery.

  Suddenly she heard the crunch of gravel under the wheels of a car. Putting the clippings back where she had found them, Eva picked up the tray and, moving as quickly as possible, made her way out of the greenhouse.

  From the safety of the kitchen, she could just make out the outline of a figure, staggering and reeling towards the house.

  That night, in bed, Eva thought about how handsome and young he had looked in the newspaper clippings.

  And how different, unrecognizable, he was now.

  Grace was lying on her stomach on the floor, stacking wooden blocks into a precarious structure with great concentration. Her little brow was knit, her tongue pressed hard into the corner of her mouth.

  Eva sat down on the chair near the fireplace. ‘What are you building?’

  ‘A fortress,’ she answered, without looking up.

  ‘You never like to play with dolls, do you?’ Eva noted.

  Grace shook her head. ‘I’m going to make things. Like Daddy.’

  ‘Not a mummy with a baby?’

  ‘A mummy with a baby and a maker,’ she determined, balancing another block.

  ‘Lena!’ Catherine was calling from the kitchen. ‘Lena! Come here, please.’

  Both of them hurried downstairs. Catherine was standing in the kitchen, arms folded in front of her. Her face was serious.

  ‘I’d like an explanation, Lena.’ She pointed to the greasy panes of glass, with bits of dead flowers smashed between them, lined up on the kitchen counter top. ‘I went into the pantry to compile a shopping list and I found these.’ Her upper lip curled in disgust. ‘What are they? Please don’t say that we’re meant to eat them!’

  ‘They are flowers presses, ma’am. To make perfume.’

  ‘Perfume?’ Catherine was at a loss. ‘But why?’

  ‘Well, I… it’s just…’ Eva blinked. ‘I thought it would be something to do, ma’am. As a project for Grace.’

  ‘Little girls don’t need projects. And if they do, you can teach them how to knit or sew – something useful!’ Gingerly she picked at the side of one of the glass panes, recoiling from the greasy edge. ‘What is that anyway? Lard?’

  ‘Tallow, ma’am.’

  ‘Good God!’ Catherine shuddered, wiping her fingertips off on a tea towel. ‘And what’s this?’ She pointed to another.

  Eva looked down at the floor. ‘Hair, ma’am. And a bit of wool.’

  ‘I have honestly never seen anything so disgusting in my life! And in the kitchen of all places! Really, Lena. I don’t understand – you’re normally so clean. Get rid of them. It’s bound to be rancid by now.’

  ‘But it isn’t, Mummy,’ Grace interjected. ‘And this one,’ she pointed out the panes with the paperwhites, ‘this one is going to be mine when it’s ready!’

  ‘Yours? Are you mad?’ Catherine looked at her incredulously. ‘In the first place, little girls don’t wear scent and in the second, I won’t have you running about smeared with beef fat!’

  Grace reached out, took her mother’s hand. ‘But I want to smell like flowers. Don’t you?’

  Catherine pulled her hand away. ‘Darling, that is not scent. That is a greasy mess! And no, I have no desire to reek like the floor of a cheap florist’s stall – it’s vulgar. Get rid of them, Lena.’ Catherine eyed them both fiercely. ‘And please, restrain yourselves. Teach her French, instead. She doesn’t know a word and at this rate, she never will.’ Catherine ran her hand across her eyes. ‘I have a searing headache today. Have you taken anything in yet to Mr Maudley?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Please, Lena,’ Lady Ca
therine pleaded, ‘I need your help. Just take him some tea. I have the shopping to do and a deadline to meet.’

  She heaved a great sigh and picked up her list.

  For luncheon they had cheese sandwiches. Eva had a way of making them, of putting them in the top oven so that the cheese melted, forming a gooey crust on top of the bread. Then she cut them into little strips and fanned them out on the plate around thin slices of apple.

  Then it was Grace’s nap time. Eva took off her shoes and dress, pulled the curtain across. She sat on the edge of the bed, ran her fingers through the child’s hair.

  Grace closed her eyes.

  Her breathing slowed to a regular rhythm.

  The window was open; soft fingers of wind gathered the gauzy net curtain up then released it, slowly. Outside, a hazy warm stillness settled over the afternoon. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do. Only time, unfolding gracefully from one moment to the next.

  Eva pressed her lips to the top of Grace’s head, then went back downstairs to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Arranging a tea tray with milk and a slice of yellow cake, Eva carried it outside to the greenhouse.

  She looked up at the sky. The air had suddenly gone still, the sky a flat shade of grey. Rain was coming.

  Fry, the dog, wove between her legs, yapping excitedly. ‘What’s wrong?’ She rubbed his head. ‘Calm down! Do you want to play?’

  She knocked on the door of the greenhouse.

  There was no reply.

  After a minute, she pushed the door open with her back. ‘Hello? Sir? Anyone here?’

  It was so quiet.

  Walking through to the office, she saw his back at the desk.

  ‘Just leave it, please,’ he said without turning round.

  Eva left the tray on the corner of the laboratory table and left. Back in the kitchen, she began slicing vegetables for stew.

  The dog was restless, barking at the window.

  ‘What can you see? A squirrel?’ Eva went over, looked out.

  The gate at the bottom of the garden was ajar. The wind was rising; the gate banged against the latch again and again. It led out onto a field of high wild grass and then to some woods.

  Eva thought she caught sight of something moving in among the trees, a fleeting shape. But it was gone now.

  ‘Rest easy boy, there’s nothing there.’

  She went back to peeling carrots.

  Just after three, she went upstairs to wake Grace.

  Pushing open the door, she moved quietly to the side of the bed. ‘Darling? Mon ange?’

  Eva pushed back the mound of covers.

  The bed was empty.

  ‘Grace? Grace! This isn’t funny!’ she called, looking under the beds, inside the laundry hamper, behind the settee.

  Eva searched the house, the garden. She even went back through to the greenhouse. The door was unlocked. The tea had been poured, the cup on the desk still warm.

  But no one was there.

  The clouds darkened. The air was still.

  The birds had stopped singing.

  Fry was standing by the gate at the end of the garden, barking wildly. He turned to look at her, tail down, ears flat.

  Eva followed him into the field and broke into a run.

  The sky was a vast rolling sea of navy and black; the temperature had dropped and everything looked unreal, as if it were pasted on a flat grey background and lit from within.

  Eva ran through the high grass, lurching and stumbling across the uneven ground. Only the distance seemed to expand rather than contract, as if she were wading through water. Finally, she reached the woods.

  It was darker here; light gave way to flickering shadows. She forced her way through the undergrowth, the thick green leaves and low-reaching branches pulling at her hair, thorns scraping her legs, hidden roots pitching her forward. The dry forest floor crunched beneath her feet.

  ‘Grace!’ she shouted. ‘Grace!’

  Her voice seemed to be swallowed up by the thick, heavy air like a vacuum. Every second she couldn’t see her little girl seemed like an hour; her heart pounded so loudly she thought her head would explode.

  High above, the wind blew. A flock of ravens, huge and black, swooped down, screeching loudly, before cutting back up across the sky.

  Then suddenly she spotted a fluttering bit of white in the distance – thin, filmy cotton.

  She ran faster, staggering into a clearing; the clearing of paperwhites.

  Grace was in her nightdress, crouched on the ground. She was holding something small, golden. Coming closer, Eva saw that it was a lighter, with a mother-of-pearl inlay. ‘Where have you been?’ She reached out to her. ‘I’ve been searching everywhere!’

  Grace stared at Eva blankly, turning the object round and round in her little hands. Then she pointed to something, a few yards away. ‘I can’t wake him up.’

  Jonathan Maudley was lying on his back in a ditch. Eyes wide open, motionless; staring unblinkingly at the dark rolling sky.

  His lips were tinged a dark, almost navy-blue grey; from the sickly, sweet berries of the belladonna plant.

  ‘You asked to see me, sir?’ Eva stood in the doorway of the drawing room.

  The man by the window turned. He was in his seventies, with very straight military bearing, a meticulously trimmed silver moustache and fierce blue eyes. His features were familiar, the stern template of both his children.

  He took a few steps forward, indicating a spot on the settee. ‘Please sit down.’

  Eva did as she was told, folding her hands on her lap.

  It hadn’t taken long for Catherine’s father, Lord Royce, to take over after Jonathan Maudley’s death. He’d arrived the day afterwards from London, where he’d been convening with the House of Lords; making arrangements, overseeing his son-in-law’s funeral, dictating word for word the obituary that appeared in The Times; the terrible accidental death of a war hero and promising scientist.

  Catherine was naturally distraught. Unable to sleep or eat, she’d barely managed to say two words to Eva since her husband’s body was recovered. During the day, she slept. But Eva could hear her moving about at night, pacing, back and forth in her room, until dawn. The house was cloaked in silence; even the dog was sombre. But Eva had heard the hushed tones of urgent conversations behind closed doors; there were private phone calls and telegrams delivered at odd hours.

  And now Lord Royce wished to speak to her.

  Looking out the window, Eva watched Grace, playing outside in the front garden. She had two dolls her grandfather had brought her; expensive china dolls with real human hair. She was making beds for them in the leaves underneath the chestnut tree, burying them in dirt. Her face was so intent; so serious. Eva could tell from the way her mouth was moving that she was making up different voices for each of them.

  Settling behind the writing desk, Lord Royce took a deep breath. ‘Let me begin by saying, how grateful my daughter is for everything you’ve done to help her through this terrible time. As you know, she is very distressed and unable to manage these affairs. However, she wished me to convey her gratitude.’

  ‘Thank you, your lordship.’

  ‘Naturally, this event has meant that changes have to be made. Now is a time when my daughter needs the support of her family. This little experiment,’ he looked around at the modest drawing room, ‘in independence is over. She will be moving back to the main house with all possible speed.’

  Eva swallowed. ‘I should be pleased to continue to serve them and you, sir, wherever they go.’

  ‘How accommodating. However, all my kitchen and cleaning staff requirements are already met. I’m sure you understand.’

  He slid an envelope out from behind the blotter on the desk. ‘I think you will find my daughter has been extremely generous in both her severance and her letter of recommendation.’

  He held the envelope out.

  Eva stared at it.

  ‘I would be happy to work in any capacity. For
example, I have looked after little Grace for some months now. I would be so… so very pleased to continue…’

  The look on his face was a mixture of both irritation and disdain.

  ‘My granddaughter will, of course, have a proper nanny,’ he clarified pointedly. ‘A professional qualified to educate a young lady of her class.’ Rising, he held the envelope out again. ‘Arrangements have already been made. Your services are no longer required.’

  Eva took the envelope. She could neither see nor hear clearly.

  ‘I can do anything, your lordship,’ her voice was just above a whisper, ‘anything, at all… I will work in the kitchens or laundry…’

  ‘Why?’ His expression changed. He came closer.

  Eva looked up. ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

  ‘Why?’ he repeated. ‘You have money, references. Oxford has many opportunities. Why do want to stay here so badly?’

  ‘You… you misunderstand me, sir.’

  ‘Do I?’ His voice was icy. ‘Your eyes are a very unusual colour.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I’ve only seen eyes like that once before. They are almost exactly the same colour as Grace’s.’

  Eva felt her body go rigid. She tried to say something but her mouth just opened, gaping soundlessly.

  ‘You’re not who you pretend to be, are you?’ His face hardened. ‘I always knew that some day there’d be trouble. I expected blackmail. But I didn’t expect anything like this.’

  Again, Eva tried to swallow, her throat tightening like a fist, but made no reply.

  ‘If I were to ring the Home Office, I believe I should have no difficulty in verifying your true identity. What is it you call yourself? Celine? Do you realize the seriousness of traveling on forged papers? You could be arrested as a spy, or simply deported.’

  ‘I… I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,’ she managed.

  ‘Don’t you? Would you care to bring your papers to me for examination?’

  Tears stung the backs of her eyes; Eva bit her lower lip hard, to hold them back, and shook her head ‘no’.

  ‘I didn’t think so. You have two days to leave this country. After that, I shall notify the authorities. And please don’t misunderstand me, there are no lengths I won’t go to remove you if you defy me.’