‘What about Aurélie?’
‘What about her?’ he snapped. The ‘her’ hung in the air between us; I had caught him off guard.
‘Will you give them the formula for Aurélie?’
‘That formulation has been lost. Destroyed. Let’s get this over with.’
I opened up the doors and windows to allow the bright day outside to peek into the room. Early in the day the garden is at its very best, dewy bright, refreshed by the sprinklers overnight. By late afternoon there is a dusty weariness in the atmosphere.
I set up the typewriter on a small table near him so he could be comfortable in his armchair. Like a poet drumming up stanzas, he dictated the formulas to me and I typed them up. Initially I was concerned about the accuracy of his memory, then I began to suspect that the wily old devil was actually concocting the recipes as he went – literally throwing them off the scent. He began with all the Rousseau fragrances that are legitimate and well-known such Clémence, Océane and Madame Beaulieu – although I have my doubts as to whether they are accurate formulations. I think he believes they won’t notice the small anomalies that would differentiate a pleasant scent from a work of art. He then began to pad out the list with unfamiliar names – these had a more Germanic flavour, such as Berengaria and Crimilda. On the pretext of checking the spelling I looked up the meanings in his reference book of names. I quite see why these two stuck in his head. Berengaria means ‘strong as a bear’ and Crimilda ‘she who wears a fighting helmet’! Where on earth was he getting these from? Finally he wore out his repertoire of German female names and dictated a formula for Eine kleine Nachtmusik (rather amusing) followed by Schadenfreude and I burst out laughing. He feigned bewilderment but then a sly smile crept in. ‘Am I going too far?’
‘If you want them to believe you – yes!’
‘All right. Some of the older fragrances, such as Clémence, are somewhat dated, they can have those . . .’ he trailed off and I realised he didn’t have a complete plan.
‘In trying to keep them happy, you’re going to make them suspicious.’
‘I’m not trying to keep them happy, I’m trying to keep them busy!’
And so, with the help of the reference book, we put our heads together and retitled the fragrances with more evocative French names such as Aimée, Sabine and Nathalie. Clearly he is trying to bulk up his repertoire so that it will take them possibly years to fine-tune the discordant formulas he has provided. Then who is to say the recipes were wrong; that it’s not the fault of the pharmacist?
As I was leaving this evening, he made the comment that I should keep this business about Menna’s ability to speak to myself. Vivian was not aware of it.
‘Do you know anything about her? Has she talked to you?’
‘Nothing. She very sensibly only speaks when absolutely necessary. Doesn’t ask nosy questions.’
‘How long has she worked here?’
‘I don’t know, ten or twelve years,’ he said.
‘So during the war?’
‘Look, none of this is anything to do with you. It’s difficult to be an Algerian in France. For whatever reason, Menna decided that silence made life easier. Especially around Vivian.’
I told him I didn’t understand what he meant by that. How could it be easier to have no voice? He brushed me off, as usual, telling me it was a complex situation, impossible for me as a foreigner to understand. And I should keep my nose out of other people’s business. If I add that outburst to the other clues I have about Menna’s situation, including the fact that Vivian hid her when the police came, my guess is that Menna is an illegal unpaid servant. A precarious situation, powerless and at Vivian’s behest. Silence is both her weapon and her protection.
Not a word from William. It has taken all my strength not to be heartbroken but I am horribly disappointed. I must have misunderstood what happened between us. What a fool I am.
Alexander has called (it seems that Vivian is still accepting calls for me), back in touch after a lengthy absence chasing around after Freddy. He was quite frank about his neglect of our friendship but plans to make it up to me by organising a picnic in honour of my birthday on Sunday. He has invited Topsy and Sebastian and I am hoping upon hope that William will also be there and I can get some sense of what has happened.
This morning dawned as a picnic-perfect day and I caught the bus down to Cannes to meet Alexander and Freddy. Deeper investigation of Lady Jessica’s trunk revealed a pretty polka-dot skirt that fitted with my white blouse, plimsolls and a whisper of Iridescence.
Every time I thought of the possibly of seeing William my tummy went all jittery which, combined with the momentum of the bus roaring down the hills and swinging around the bends, left me quite queasy by the time I arrived in Cannes. I therefore wasn’t entirely thrilled to discover that this was not a blanket-on-the-grass picnic with sandwiches and lemonade. We were taking a boat to Île Sainte-Marguerite, a small island off the coast of Cannes.
It was the full fiasco – Freddy in a captain’s cap at the helm of a motor launch. Robertson, his surly manservant, was on board and in charge of hampers of food and buckets packed with ice and champagne. The ferry from Dover to Calais had been my first boating experience – this was my second – so Alexander had his work cut out to coax me onboard. But he and Freddy were so welcoming that, once plied with champagne, I was fine.
It was at least another half an hour before a limousine, chauffeur at the wheel, pulled up on the dock and three children tumbled out, a girl and two older boys, all aged between perhaps eight and twelve, followed by a uniformed nanny and Topsy and Sebastian. Disappointingly, no William.
They all piled onboard with great excitement and the nanny, who turned out to be a country girl from Cornwall, was run ragged by the wild children. The little girl immediately went into the cabin and emerged with an expensive brass telescope (which she dropped overboard before the day was out), the oldest boy entered into negotiations with Freddy to commandeer the steering wheel and, within minutes, the middle child had fallen overboard. Fortunately he was buoyant and Nanny was able to grab him by the scruff and haul him back on deck. Topsy and Sebastian, enjoying their champagne, were blithely unaware of the turmoil their children were causing onboard. I felt nothing but dismay at the thought of being trapped with this dreadful ensemble, first within the confines of a boat and then on an island. What a miserable birthday!
Just as we were about to cast off, the little girl – still in possession of the telescope at that point – said she could see Uncle William getting out of a taxi. The sun emerged from behind my gloomy cloud and I was now looking forward to the day ahead.
‘William, darling, how lovely. So you haven’t abandoned us entirely,’ said Topsy as he came on board.
‘Of course not.’ He brushed a kiss on both her cheeks, shook hands with each of the men onboard and finally came to me. As his lips touched my cheek a spark of static electricity gave us both a jolt. ‘Gosh! Sorry, Iris – I don’t usually have that effect.’ He gave a surprised laugh. Everyone was watching us now, especially Topsy.
‘I expect it’s some sort of nautical phenomenon,’ I said, but could tell by his eyes that we both knew otherwise.
He accepted a glass of champagne and then another when the first was spilt by marauding children. Nanny, who was surprisingly adept at knots, managed to secure the children to each other and the railings with a length of rope. Freddy started the engines and we set off across the bay.
Once we disembarked, the island itself was highly agreeable, quiet and peaceful with woods of umbrella pines and eucalypts that gave off a wonderful invigorating odour. We all helped carry picnic blankets and folding sun chairs off the boat and settled under some pines that offered views across the bay to Cannes with a distant blue shadow of the mountains as its backdrop.
Robertson busied himself with wicker hampers of food, setting out a veritable banquet of baguettes, cold cuts, chicken, sausage, lettuce, tomatoes and jellie
s and chocolate gâteau for a birthday dessert, as well as buckets of champagne and rosé. I had a quiet chuckle thinking back to picnics of my childhood. A flask of tea with egg and cress sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. Extra blankets in case it got cold, which it invariably did, and always – my father’s pride and joy – a collapsible canvas windbreak that could be erected on any terrain. A far cry from this gentle paradise.
The children gnawed on legs of chicken and soon scattered to explore with Nanny in pursuit. Topsy and Sebastian may find their children amusing but Nanny does not appear to share that sentiment. She’s probably already seeking less hectic employment with some nice quiet children content to gaze in wonder as she reads Wind in the Willows aloud to them.
Everyone seemed more relaxed once the children galloped off into the woods. Robertson retired to the boat to keep his own company and we stretched out on the blankets, dipping into the food and wine. Even Freddy was calm and amiable and only played a couple of quiet pieces on his violin that weren’t too bad. Either he has been practising or his errors are less jarring in the open air, but whoever takes a Stradivarius on a picnic I don’t know.
Alexander was happy and settled. He and Freddy are planning a trip to Morocco together. ‘He’s a delight when I get him away from the Riviera crowd,’ Alexander told me quietly. ‘Not as agitated. We have friends in Marrakech; we might rent a house and stay a few months.’
I told him that my days in the Riviera were also numbered as my post was coming to an end. Generous soul that he is, he immediately invited me to come and stay in Marrakech if I felt so inclined.
Sebastian has a writerly fascination for the history of Île Sainte-Marguerite and initiated a debate about the true identity of the man in the iron mask who was imprisoned in the fort for between ten, twenty or thirty years, depending on who you believe. Knowing nothing of the subject, I couldn’t participate but enjoyed sneaking glances at William’s regal profile as he put forward his considered theories. He has a twig-dry sense of humour and one has to stay alert for teasing and irony. I lay on the rug watching patches of sunlight as they played through the pines, listening to the sound of William’s voice, and felt very contented.
I must have dozed off for a while because when I opened my eyes, everyone had wandered away apart from Topsy, who stayed behind to ‘watch over me’. The blue sky had been replaced by banks of clouds and there was dampness in the air. I was stiff and cold, the wine sour in my mouth. Topsy fetched a large thermos from the hamper and poured me some coffee. ‘You and William seem to be hitting it off,’ she said, sitting down on the rug beside me. ‘I wouldn’t have thought he was your type, really. He can be a terrible flirt.’
Though groggy, I was immediately wary. Topsy shares one of Vivian’s worst traits. You cannot depend on anything either of them says as being genuine. It’s all inference, a way of prying designed to coax or provoke you into revelation. ‘Really? I hadn’t noticed that in him,’ I said.
‘It was actually Seb’s idea that he ask you out to supper. He thinks William’s lazy in that regard; doesn’t put in the effort. He’s becoming a confirmed bachelor. I was rather surprised you accepted.’
‘It’s not as though I have so many suitors I can turn men down,’ I replied, attempting levity.
‘No. I suppose not. I thought you were enamoured of your boss, the perfumer chap.’
I was so cross I nearly spilt my coffee. ‘Not at all. I can’t imagine why you would think such a thing. I care about him a great deal but have no romantic feelings for him whatsoever. If you met him you’d understand.’
She seemed heartened by the fact that I was rattled; she likes to have an effect. ‘I want him to make me a perfume like yours,’ she said. ‘My own signature perfume. I don’t care what it costs. I would have thought that would be a perfumer’s dream. But you seem determined – rather selfishly, I might add – to keep him all to yourself.’
‘It’s nothing to do with me! He’s blind and ill. He doesn’t even have the means to make perfume any more. The business has been sold. Everything’s gone.’
‘Oh, that is unfortunate,’ she said huffily, as though she were the only person disadvantaged by this turn of events. She stood up, brushed off her skirt and gave me a forgiving smile. ‘Shall we take a walk? Robertson can tidy all this away and we’ll have your cake on the boat.’
She offered her hands and pulled me to my feet; suddenly we were face-to-face, holding hands like square dancers. She tilted her pert little nose and gave a delicate sniff. Her eyes glossed over with tears. ‘Iris, how can I become good like you? I hate myself for being such a cow.’ Fortunately she didn’t require an answer but linked arms with me affectionately and drew me down the path toward the woods to find the others.
By the time we found the rest of our party who had headed inland, large plops of rain started to fall. Everyone was shouting at once as we all ran helter-skelter along the winding paths through the woods. The rain pelted down. The children were in their element, their excitement infectious. We were all laughing at the chaos as we rushed down to the jetty and piled onto the boat. Robertson had packed up the picnic and sat smoking patiently as he watched the spectacle unravel before him.
We all squeezed into the tiny cabin and within minutes everyone was out of sorts. Topsy was furious that her shoes were ruined; Freddy equally distressed over his violin, understandably. Goodness knows what happened to the birthday gâteau. The children, cold and wet, took turns to squabble and cry. Dear William wrapped a rug around my shoulders but the wet squash below deck was too much for me. I went up and stood behind Robertson under the canopy as he navigated the choppy waters across the bay back to Cannes. Warm under my rug, buffeted by the wind and the weather, I felt quite restored, the sourness of that conversation with Topsy left behind on the island.
William came up on deck and stood close beside me, not quite touching as we watched the approaching shore. I can’t imagine what he was thinking but I was clutching at every moment just being in his radius. As we pulled into the wharf, he turned to me and said, ‘I’m sorry, Iris. I owe you an explanation.’ That was all. We didn’t have another moment alone, so I have no idea what to expect or when to expect it. Or if he was simply stating a fact.
Now that my work is finished, Vivian would prefer I simply vanish. The sight of me seems to grate on her nerves. Conversely, Mr Brooke appears to be manufacturing reasons to retain me. I’m now dreading going home as I have been informed by Mr Hubert that Mr and Mrs Alan Turner will proceed to court to put Father’s ‘intention’ to the test.
I have the sense that time is also slipping away for dear Mr Brooke. The hideous rotting smell is back and more dreadful than ever. He uses morphine against the pain which makes him a little tipsy. Disconcerting in itself. Jonathan revealed that Mr Brooke is due to be admitted to hospital again, this time to amputate his leg. He has made no mention of it but is obviously resistant to the whole procedure. It’s all too horrible. He is clearly very unwell and anxious to have everything in the cottage sorted out. He had an art dealer come and remove all the paintings for auction; many of these belonged to his grandmother.
My role this last week has been to sort out hundreds of books and memorabilia from his travels, some to be packed up and stored – destination as yet unknown – and the rest destroyed. Every day we accumulate boxes full of papers he wants destroyed. Ideally the whole lot would go on a bonfire but he insists on it being done discreetly, so I’ve been laboriously burning them in the fireplace.
The disappearance of the scrawny sisters was today’s drama. As a result of their habit of not appearing until luncheon, it wasn’t apparent until late this afternoon that they had scarpered without settling their bill! In retrospect, there was something a little out of kilter at dinner last night; they had reverted to being the charming guests of the first evening, making far more effort than in the last couple of weeks.
My mind is obviously elsewhere because there were several other clues. Pa
ssing Shirley’s room on the way to supper last night, the door was slightly ajar and I noticed the room was immaculately tidy. Most unlike previous glimpses when it looked like a careless child’s bedroom with clothes draped everywhere and shoes scattered on the floor. As well, despite the balmy temperature, both sisters wore their minks out into the night. And that was the last we would see of them. It appears their driver and another man entered surreptitiously via the back stair and collected their trunks while we were all in the dining room. Makes one suspect they are quite practised at this sort of thing.
Vivian is absolutely furious. Understandably, given they not only did a bunk without paying but she poured thousands of francs into the refurbishment on the understanding they were here for at least three months. This is such a trusting British way to run a business, allowing guests to run up bills over weeks or months. It can’t be the first time she’s been caught out. I would hope that Jonathan pays month to month; he’s apparently been here most of the year.
Geraldson departed a few days ago, presumably to deliver the formulations now all meticulously typed up. But on my way to my room this evening I noticed the Corsican – who, on closer inspection, looks like a nasty piece of work – leaving Vivian’s office. The sisters may have a head start but their gambling habits will make them relatively easy to track down.
Probably as a result of the morphine, Mr Brooke is becoming a different person. On one hand, he stubbornly refuses to go into the hospital until this work is complete, asking me over and over, ‘What’s next? What have we missed?’ On the other, all his reserve has fallen away. From not speaking of it at all, he now mentions them taking his leg off at least five times a day – how much longer can he hold out? The gangrene must be growing and spreading like a filthy rot every day that he delays. I envy him his lack of smell; the place is putrid. I have to steel myself for the onslaught of the stink. This morning I had to step outside and gag. But this job has to be done. Intriguingly, he has referred to a task he hopes I will undertake for him.
The French Perfumer Page 15
