An elegant, well-to-do looking couple drifted over to talk to Alexander and he introduced them as Topsy and Sebastian. They seemed relatively normal and were dressed in what I am coming to recognise as the casual Riviera style: shapeless linens inspired by peasants or shepherds. Both spoke with aristocratic drawls that reeked of old money and boredom but they seemed personable and welcoming.
Topsy looked me over thoroughly. ‘I haven’t seen you at Freddy’s before.’
‘No, I’ve only just arrived in France; Alexander brought me along.’
‘You’re very privileged,’ Sebastian said. ‘Freddy’s notoriously selective – it took us ages to break in here, didn’t it, Tops?’
‘He calls these his Pansy Parties,’ said Topsy. ‘We adore them, you meet all the most fascinating people on the Côte d’Azur here. Sebastian’s writing a novel, so he’s always on the lookout for characters to put in it.’
‘Oh, I thought novelists made up their characters.’ I regretted this comment immediately as Topsy gave a derisive snort. ‘And what do you do with yourself, Topsy?’ I asked quickly.
‘I watch him write.’ She slipped her arm through his and they laughed at some private joke.
‘If only that were true,’ he said. ‘She’s a great distraction.’
‘We also have several dreadfully naughty offspring who take over when I’m not available to distract him,’ she said. She asked where I was living and I explained briefly, but at the mention of Villa Rousseau, Sebastian’s ears pricked up.
‘Ahhh, Hammond Brooke.’ He said something in French which sounded like le-ne. For a moment I was perplexed, then the words and tune of a nursery rhyme we had sung along with the gramophone in Mrs Barker’s class flooded back: ‘Something, Something, une bouche and le nez.’
I stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘The nose?’
‘Oui,’ he replied. ‘Le parfumeur.’
‘You don’t know him? He’s terribly famous. I thought he was dead,’ said Topsy.
‘Well, actually, he’s blind,’ I said.
‘Blind?’ asked Sebastian, taken aback. ‘From the war?’
‘I’m really not sure.’ I had already said too much. Was I bound by secrecy outside the house as well? A perfumer? Why hadn’t anyone told me? It’s nothing to be ashamed of as far as I know.
‘You must remember his most famous perfume, Aurélie?’ said Topsy.
While I am no expert in the topic of scent, I did indeed remember this particular one. Who could forget it?
‘Blind. How interesting,’ said Sebastian. ‘My family had a connection with the Brooke family back in England.’ He stared into the distance, frowning with concentration. ‘Our mothers knew each other. I remember going to see her once as a child, she was French – the mother – quite exotic —’
‘Oh, darling, don’t bore her with all that family nonsense. Have you been up to Monte Carlo yet, Iris?’ asked Topsy.
Of course I hadn’t, and assured her that I was far from bored, interested in anything they might know. But Sebastian had by now lost interest in the topic. He muddled about lighting his pipe, huffing and puffing to get the beastly thing going while Topsy regaled me with tales of their gambling escapades, insisting I must join them next time. I told her I didn’t have anything like the sort of money needed to gamble – let alone the expertise.
‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ she said. ‘Alexander is determined to fritter away his parents’ entire fortune. He’s always looking for new ways to waste it.’
‘What will he do when the money runs out?’ I asked, dismayed by the irrationality of this scheme.
‘Kill himself, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Topsy airily, lighting up a cigarette, just to add to the fug. Even taking into account that she was a little tight, I began to dislike her. I don’t approve of people being flippant about such things. I may not have known Alexander long but I’m already quite fond of him. Despite his gregariousness, I recognise something of myself in him. We both give off an air of being self-contained but are, in fact, more than a little lost.
Sebastian caught the look on my face and added quickly, ‘She’s joking, of course. I think Al feels that if they couldn’t pay him to stay away he would be free to go back to England.’
‘Don’t they give him a limited allowance?’ I asked.
‘Supposedly, but he’s terribly clever at squeezing more out of them,’ said Topsy.
‘That makes no sense at all,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t have to take his parents’ money.’
‘Of course I do,’ said Alexander, joining us. ‘My only ambition in life is to see them destitute. Then I will be quite happy, my life’s work complete.’
‘And you would throw yourself off the Cape with bricks in your pockets,’ added Topsy, seemingly determined to encourage this path of action. ‘To compound their misery.’
‘I’m not brave enough to throw myself off or under anything,’ said Alexander. ‘Perhaps I’d drink a bottle of gin and then swim toward Africa until I wearied and drifted off into a deep sleep.’
‘What nonsense!’ I said but he laughed and helped himself to another glass of champagne and savoury delicacies brought around by an older woman wearing a deep tan and a voluminous Oriental silk robe. ‘Why not do something clever?’ I suggested. ‘So people admire you and your parents realise how mistaken they’ve been in exiling you.’
All three gazed at me with indulgent smiles. Feeling patronised and foolish, I announced I was going to look at the view (in what I hope was a haughty tone) and walked stiffly across the room and out onto the patio. A man was swimming lazy laps of the pool, dark-skinned and compact; the water sloughed off his muscular back as his arms and torso moved in perfect accord. This, I assumed, was the matador.
I stood at the railing and looked out over the sea, a gentle sway of violet silk in the fading light, and puzzled over the information that had serendipitously come my way. Mr Brooke a perfumer. It explained so much – the peculiar smell in his house for a start.
Somewhere tucked away in a box at Linnet Lane is the long-empty bottle that I never had the heart to throw away. I remember that summer so well. It was a year or two after the war when this strange foreign word began to tumble off British women’s lips in a fully-ripened French accent – with mixed results. It seemed the whole of London was obsessed by this mysterious fragrance and every woman determined to have a bottle of Aurélie. I had yearned for one myself and put money aside until I could afford it.
While I have a special interest in all things olfactory, it’s more related to actual smells as opposed to artificial scent. Nevertheless, I became fascinated by the enigma that surrounded this particular fragrance that reputedly offered a different experience to every wearer. Although I don’t ever recall a perfume being so avidly discussed before, the qualities of Aurélie were debated during tea breaks. No one could agree on the truth of the fragrance; pragmatists became poetic in an effort to find an interpretation. I heard it variously described as ethereal, perhaps like clouds or mist. Others detected an oceanic saltiness or a pungent earthiness. Everyone seemed to believe it contained their favourite flower: gardenia, rose, lavender, jasmine, violet. But it was evident to me that focusing on the floral aspect was to oversimplify a complex alchemy as elusive as falling in love.
Perhaps I was drawn by the mystique of the fragrance but that time stands out in my memory as one when I felt at my most confident and self-assured. I had a sense of being fully in the world. And I wasn’t the only one. Aurélie was like a narcotic; women couldn’t get enough of it. According to hearsay, it worked its magic indiscriminately from the budding of adolescence to the full bloom of maturity. It was a rite of passage, an aphrodisiac, a panacea. It was said to ignite new love and rekindle old. Soon it was difficult to differentiate the myth from the reality, it was self-fulfilling. But within a couple of years Aurélie was in short supply. Women queued outside department stores with stock. And then, as mysteriously as it arrived, it disappeared.
I remember noticing that imitations had sprung up but these were travesties of the original. One even attempted to cash in with an anglicised version, ‘Oralee: French perfume for the English Lady’. Nothing came close to the effect Aurélie had on the average British woman who, for a short time in her life, felt sanctified, her quintessential self. All of these pretenders to the throne quickly sank back into obscurity and eventually we forgot all about Aurélie – apart from a lingering whiff in the empty bottle.
Now, having given thought to the implications of my newfound knowledge about Hammond Brooke, I felt even more intimidated by the task ahead but curious too. I should have liked to go home then as I was tired and wanted to think, but Alexander was in no state to take me and so I waited for him to sober up. The rest of the evening passed in a kind of blur.
Topsy got it into her silly head that I should leave the Brooke household and become her au pair. I gathered that ‘servant troubles’ were a constant irritation for Topsy and Sebastian but neither seemed to have any insight into the possibility that they contributed to the problem. The woman in the Oriental gown was a soothsayer or perhaps a fortune teller – I’m not sure of the difference; anyhow, she badgered me about the time and date of my birth and made some obtuse predictions that could have equally applied to anyone in the room but I was too tired to really take it in.
Finally Freddy, now in the grip of a feverish excitement, picked up the violin and I was not alone in deeming it time to leave – there was a crush to get through the door. Unfortunately, Alexander was by then in an even worse state and I refused his slurred offer to drive me home. He packed me into a taxi, handing the driver such a large sum of money that the man took off at breakneck speed either to demonstrate willingness or to escape before being asked for change. The fellow kept up the pace and I had to cling to the hand strap to avoid being thrown around on the tight bends up the hills.
It was a relief to reach my dismal little room at midnight. On the desk was a bowl of strawberries and an envelope bearing my name scrawled so untidily that it could have been written by a blind man. The note inside read, ‘Forgive me – HB’. It was written in an unrepentant scrawl that left a splatter of ink across the page. I don’t know about forgiving him. I am almost certain that he is only saying it because he wants something, not because he cares that he upset me. But he tends to choose his words carefully. No one wants to be thought unforgiving. Perhaps the role of nanny for the rather tiresome Topsy could have a certain appeal – if only because she seems a little simple-minded, as opposed to Mr Brooke, who is endlessly shrewd.
I went to the sunroom for breakfast early this morning, hoping to avoid any guests, but Mr Geraldson was already seated at the table drinking his coffee, eating bread with ham and smoking while he read Le Figaro. As I sat down, he glanced up briefly and murmured a cursory greeting. Without taking his eyes off the page, he asked, ‘And how is your work progressing, Miss Turner?’
I wasn’t even aware he knew my name and my mind began working furiously to make sense of his question. What did he know? Was this was a trap of his own invention? Or a test contrived by Vivian? I can’t quite fathom his role here and what his interest might be. It is unnerving that so many people appear to be watching me.
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.’
‘Oh, you mean my work for Miss Brooke?’ I busied myself with breakfast in the hope that would be the end of it.
He rose from his chair, folded his newspaper and tossed it onto the table. ‘Are you really as innocent as you appear, I wonder?’ He gave me a calculating look, stubbed his cigarette on his plate and left the room without another word. Insufferable man.
All the way to the cottage I was debating whether to reveal to Mr Brooke what I had learned about him. Perhaps this was my opportunity to bring things out in the open and make some real progress? In the end it seemed better to keep quiet for the moment in the hope of more information drifting in my direction.
He sat out on his terrace. I called out a greeting, not wanting to startle him, and observed with some satisfaction that my tone sounded more businesslike; an improvement on my earlier obsequiousness.
‘So, you’re back,’ he said, but then soured the moment by adding, ‘Hip hooray.’
‘I know who you are,’ I blurted, perhaps as a result of his barb.
‘I’m delighted one of us does. Where are you getting your information?’
‘I went to a party and met some English people —’ I began, sitting down beside him.
‘Idle gossip, in other words. And what did you tell them?’
‘Simply that I worked for Miss Brooke.’
‘And does your new information change anything?’
‘Well, I’m trying to understand —’
He turned his face to me, his temper barely under control. ‘If you used a modicum of intelligence, and clearly you possess some, what you would “understand” is – as previously stated – I did not hire you. Nor do I actually want you here. I am under duress. So hearing that you are now out and about twittering to your new chums is not what I want to hear.’
Anything I said now would only further inflame him, so I was silent. After a moment he redirected his furious gaze toward the garden. His face softened. Perhaps he could make out some shapes and he could no doubt smell the creamy jonquils, ruby tulips and irises in royal purple that sprung from patches of lily-of-the-valley and the fragrance of jasmine that filled the air. But he could not see the glorious blaze of colour in the bright morning sun. I knew he could hear the birds calling, the whispering of the bees and creak of cicadas. But I wondered how it felt to have all this beauty at your feet and see nothing but shadows.
‘Some more hyacinths have bloomed,’ I said. ‘A very pretty mauve colour.’
He was silent for a moment and it seemed he was still annoyed, then he asked, ‘Could you cut one for me? There are secateurs on the windowsill.’
I fetched the freshly sharpened secateurs out of their leather pouch, cut a hyacinth and placed it in his palm. There was a moment when our hands brushed and I quickly pulled away. He must have sensed something as he looked amused. He held the hyacinth at chest height, took a deep breath and another and then, like an angry child, hurled the flower away from him. We fell back into silence.
‘I need you to be patient,’ he said finally.
I was taken aback by the sincerity in his voice. ‘Of course, but it would help me if I knew what exactly Miss Brooke wanted.’
He gave an extravagant sigh. ‘All right. I’m prepared to offer some small compromise to Vivian’s wishes, provided you don’t ask questions or talk about things that are simply none of your business.’
He really can be frightfully rude, but I nevertheless agreed.
So, we got through that. He then asked me to fetch a parcel from the dining table inside, which I did. It was a small package that had been posted from London some weeks before. I thought he would want me to unwrap it but he held out his hand impatiently.
He slowly undid the string, peeled back the thick brown paper, all the time inhaling evenly as though he were attempting to chart the actual journey of the parcel; inhaling the particles released by the paper as it was cut, the twine freed from its roll, the hands that wrapped it, the post box, sorting room, mailbag and finally the scent of his own kitchen table. He caressed the book it contained, weighing it in his hands with evident satisfaction. He opened it and lifted it to his face, breathing in the essence of the printed page.
Fascinating as it was to witness, he seemed to derive no pleasure from the experience but abruptly handed it to me and asked if I would read to him. And so it was that the rest of the morning was spent reading aloud – not one of the great works of literature one might have imagined – but Ian Fleming’s latest outpouring entitled Moonraker.
I really can’t complain; it was pleasant sitting in the sun, reading aloud, and it felt as t
hough I were doing something useful for a change. Toward lunchtime, he suddenly got up and went inside. Returning a few minutes later, he settled himself down with evident satisfaction. ‘I’ve told them to bring your lunch down here. So you won’t have to dine with those insufferable fools today. Continue.’
I was momentarily stunned by his assumption but had little choice but to push on. Half an hour later, Menna arrived with a tray that held two bowls of soup and a baguette, which she placed on the garden table, and laid two places carefully with cutlery and napkins.
Stretching and yawning, Mr Brooke got up and wandered over to the table. Menna’s eyes met mine for a second and I had a sense of her concern for me – which was very touching. Mr Brooke turned his head, as though hearing something in the silence itself. He thanked her briskly as he pulled out his chair, scraping it across the gravel, but she was already on her way back to the villa.
We sat opposite one another at the small circular table, our knees almost touching. He held his bowl at chin height for better accuracy. ‘You were going to tell me about your mother,’ he said.
‘Oh, I don’t know why you’d be interested in my family.’
‘In case you haven’t noticed, I lead the dullest of lives. You implied there was some mystery – that intrigued me.’
Perhaps he was bored; I doubt he was genuinely interested, but, in any case, I embarked on the story which I will record here for posterity.
My mother ran away right after the war. She left a note bidding us farewell, the tone of which was unapologetic. In summary, the war years had been the best of her life. She had not wanted to return home. She owed it to my father to give it a shot but her heart was elsewhere and she was following it. She had gone and would not return.
Strangely, Father could be calm and rational when faced with a letter from his wife saying she had left forever. Written in her neat, familiar hand, he could read it and quietly digest its contents and implications in his own time. However, had the door knocker clacked or the telephone trilled during this digestion process, it would be a different story. He was sensitive to the slightest sound and, once agitated, crossed into a dark void where he flailed around with no sense of the pain he inflicted or the casualties.
The French Perfumer Page 6
