The French Perfumer

by Amanda Hampson

  ‘Madame Brooke,’ said Sylvie quietly, ‘is not a French nat­ional. She is a war criminal – a collaborator. Do you know how she makes money during the war? No? She brings women in for the Gestapo. She makes this beautiful house of Rousseau la maison de prostitution.’

  While this was obviously scandalous, it was not altogether surprising to me, given Vivian’s mercenary nature. Why then, I asked Sylvie, had Vivian not been denounced?

  ‘After the war people are angry,’ said Sylvie. ‘Women who were together with our enemy, they were punished with humiliation. The hair was cut off the head. Not Vivian. She has some influence with important people. Now I think it is too late for this. France has other things to think about. Something will happen, I don’t know what. We must wait.’

  We were both tired by then. It was time for me to leave. I told her I would post Hammond’s photographs from England. She bid me an affectionate goodbye and we promised to keep in touch. But as I turned away from her door, one last question came to mind. ‘Did you know the servant at the house, an Algerian woman named Menna?’

  Despite sharing confidences all evening, Sylvie now looked guarded. ‘I have heard about her,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Do you know where she came from, or if she had family?’

  ‘I only know what people say. That Madame Brooke took her from the place of children with no mother or father . . .’

  ‘Orphanage?’

  ‘Yes, from an orphanage during the war. The girl was, I think, fourteen years old.’

  ‘Vivian adopted her?’

  ‘No. She gave money for her. To work in the villa. No one will work there. She wants that girl because she is silent. A person who cannot speak against her.’

  ‘She owned her?’

  ‘In France, we cannot own people – it’s not possible. But maybe the girl does not know this.’

  All I can hope is that Menna knows it now – that she has family somewhere and can somehow find them. I pray that she hasn’t returned to the villa like a homing pigeon but flown far away from that place.

  Walking back through the streets of Paris, my mind was alive with all these pieces of puzzle shifting into place. I knew there was no chance of sleep and needed to write every detail of this evening in my journal before it blurred and the detail was lost. Now the story is finished, I will return to my hotel and, in a few hours, watch the first light of dawn over the rooftops of Paris. Soon I will be on the train to Calais and finally home to Linnet Lane, where I will put my key in the door and return to my former life. While I have changed irrevocably, my great fear is that everything will resume almost exactly as I left it. I must do every­thing in my power to resist; to live a wider, deeper existence.

  I had put this journal aside when I arrived home, in no mood to relive the experience of the last months. Today I sat down and read it from start to finish and reflected on the old Iris who arrived in the South of France those few short months ago.

  The scope of my worldly experience was so limited, so restrained. I’m dazzled by my own daring. Fancy giving up a secure position for such an unlikely enterprise! I wonder if I was in my right mind, but I do remember the sense of desperation I felt back then, my loneliness and isolation. I didn’t fully realise it at the time, but when Father died, my sense of purpose died with him. Caring for him was the centre of my existence and without that each day I was simply going through the motions. Colleen was right. I was barely living at all. My life was a narrow path trudging toward the final destination.

  When I first returned home in July, I was acutely aware that there was nothing to prevent me from slipping back under the surface. In fact, life could have potentially been worse than before, had Ruth succeeded in taking my home from me. Fortunately that crisis has been averted as Mr Brooke’s gift has allowed me to buy Alan out and secure my home. My only hope is that one day Alan and I will be able to reconcile and reunite as family once more.

  If nothing else, these last months have opened a tiny chink in my consciousness and I find myself fantasising about alternative lives for myself – something I would never have dreamed before! I will have to find work soon but haven’t quite decided what my direction should be. I don’t feel any desire to return to the civil service nor the typewriter, for that matter. Something will present itself, I feel sure.

  In the meantime, I have been industrious in my garden. I’ve put down bulbs for tulips, daffodils, irises and hyacinths. Once so neat and prescribed with dull little shrubs, next spring there will be an unruly riot of colour. Over this last week I have spring-cleaned my little house from top to bottom and now this journal will retire to a trunk in the attic.

  Everything is ready. Tomorrow I have a train to meet and a new chapter in my life will begin.

  The train my mother referred to was bringing my father, Will­iam Beaumont, back home. A month later they were married. Iris never returned to the civil service, giving birth to two daughters – my sister, Gwen, and me – in the next three years.

  Of course, neither of us were aware of the initial hurdles of our parents’ courtship until the discovery of our mother’s journal, by which time it was too late to find out more. One can only assume that William ‘grasped the nettle’, so to speak. We did occasionally see our paternal grandparents but had no contact with our extended family and never had the occasion to meet Sebastian or Topsy. So clearly there was some fall-out there – making William’s actions all the more heroic, to my mind.

  Growing up in Linnet Lane, we enjoyed simple, uneventful childhoods. It wasn’t until we discovered this journal amongst our mother’s treasures after her death that we understood the source of her devotion to us as a family. We were a gift she never expected or took for granted.

  It’s now sixty years since Iris wrote her journal and when I retired from my teaching career last year, I decided to try and track down the people and places she described.

  Hammond Brooke is, of course, no longer a figure of mystery, having been the subject of a popular biography. The history of the Rousseau family and the parfumerie are also well documented and represented in the famous international perfume museum in Grasse. Also well known is the story of how these two esteemed parfumeurs, Monsieur Rousseau and Hammond Brooke, risked everything to smuggle hundreds of refugees – many of them unaccompanied children – out of occupied France.

  It appears that during his lifetime, Hammond Brooke was reluctant to reveal the role that he and his colleagues played in saving so many lives. Perhaps simply not in his nature to boast of such things. However, as a result of the publication of his bio­graphy their contribution has been recognised by one of the many organisations that assisted in the war effort. Sylvie Moreau, Father Furolo, Didier Lapointe and Dr Renaud have since been awarded for their heroic efforts by the French government, with Monsieur Rousseau and Hammond Brooke receiving posthumous medals of valour.

  What led to Vivian Brooke’s eventual downfall is not clear. It seems she had been denounced as a Nazi collaborator as early as 1954 but it took three more years for the authorities to process and complete her deportation. I suspect that Hammond initiated this plan to depose her, but less interest in collaborators and France’s famously slow bureaucracy meant it took much longer than he hoped.

  Already quite notorious in Britain, Vivian had her fair share of adverse publicity as a result of writing her own memoir late in life in which she made it clear she was unrepentant about her fascist leanings. In it, she revealed that prior to taking up residence in Villa Rousseau, she had been forced into exile in Germany to avoid being interned by the British Government as a security risk – as happened to Mr Farley – but no mention, of course, of her involvement with the Gestapo or her wartime activities at Villa Rousseau.

  Marcus Geraldson piqued my curiosity, as he did my mother’s. Records now released show that he was born in Munich as Gerhard Hass. He was educated in England and his British diction was probably useful in his career as an officer of the German military inte
lligence, the Abwehr. Most interesting was my discovery that he actually testified against Nazi war criminals at the Nuremberg trials in 1946. In the years after the war these witnesses lived in fear of reprisal and generally changed their identities. Iris noted that Mr Farley was particularly inquisitive about Mr Geraldson, so perhaps he also had his suspicions. It seems doubtful, on the surface of it, that Vivian knew this detail about his background or, if she did, perhaps their allegiance allowed her to overlook this little anomaly.

  Many of the other characters Iris met have left little or no trace. Jonathan Fishell-Smith returned to England with Vivian. He assumed his place in the House of Lords for the next few years until he died of alcoholism. Of Alexander and Freddy, nothing is known; nor Mrs Somerville, and Somerville Brassieres went out of business many years ago. Sebastian and Topsy Ballentine were often featured in the society pages; it seems they remained in their marriage and there is no evidence that Sebastian was ever published. Lady Jessica married an American and took up residence there.

  Of the Algerian woman, Menna, nothing has been found.

  Sylvie Moreau – a close friend of our family – lived the rest of her life at Villa Rousseau with her gifted daughter, Aurélie. She became a grandmother when Aurélie married fellow perfumer, Guillaume Bonfils, and they produced two sons and a daughter.

  Parfumerie Rousseau rose from the ashes and once more became a highly respected perfume house. Aurélie, a well-known and glamorous figure, now in her seventies, is still firmly at the helm of the company. The company’s signature perfume, Aurélie, relaunched in 1982, has become a classic fragrance on par with Chanel No. 5 and Joy. Iris licensed Iridescence to the company and that has also become a classic, still popular today.

  Finally to Iris and William. Perhaps typical of a couple who met later in life, they were adoring and companionable, the sort who listen to each other intently and are amused by each other’s little witticisms. As they grew older, they became increasingly outdoorsy, enjoying long weekend rambles. When William retired they bought a small cottage outside the village of Buttermere in the Lake District, where they spent their days reading and walking the fells. Both my sister and I visited regularly with our own families.

  William died early in 1996 and Iris followed that same year. We miss them every day. The cottage was left to my sister and myself. Our children were grown up by then and our first thought was to sell it but somehow we couldn’t quite bring ourselves to part with the place where our parents had been so happy.

  It was a good decision – both our families come here often to enjoy the wild beauty of Cumbria. Sitting here at my mother’s desk, I can look out at the same view of green fells and craggy escarpments that she loved. Iris’s journal has been a great gift, and allowed us to get to know our parents in another dimension.

  Many people would consider that Iris lived an unremarkable life, which is perhaps fitting. In many ways, she was not remarkable but a sort of everywoman of her time. To my sister and I, her journal speaks volumes of her tolerance, kindness and generous spirit. We see our mother as an ambassador for simple decency. If that’s not remarkable – what is?

  Kathleen Jackson (née Beaumont)

  Many thanks to the experts who generously shared their know­ledge with me: Benjamin Paul Mabbett (maître de consultation, Roja Dove Haute Parfumerie, Salon de Parfums, Harrods); Ange Skopatie (Salon Manager, Guerlain, Salon de Parfums, Harrods) and Pierre Bonvalot (Sales Assistant, Floris London).

  Behind every writer hovers a family of supporters, generous friends who read drafts and offer feedback, expertise and encouragement – and, if we’re very lucky, food as well.

  A huge thank you to my fabulous friends for all your support: Catherine Hersom-Bowens, Partrick Bowens, Su Mariani, Joseph Furolo, Carolinda Witt, Tracey Trinder, Amanda Woolveridge, Ron Benson, Tula Wynyard, Frances Francis, Christine Winterbotham, Matt and Khim Stone, Jan Reggett, Mark Hampson, Sharon Pittams, Mrs Norah Lowe and Marianne Hurzeler-Schranz.

  I continue to be extremely grateful to be published by Penguin Random House, and the enthusiasm and encouragement of Ali Watts, Saskia Adams, Amanda Martin and Louise Ryan is an absolute gift.

  How would you describe the genre of the book?

  Could you relate to Iris’s loneliness after her father died? Would you have taken the risk she did to do something different?

  Did you predict any of the twists in the story? What didn’t you see coming?

  What was your favourite moment in the novel?

  Do you think Farley’s death was suicide, misadventure or murder? If murder, who is your chief suspect?

  What do you think Lady Jessica’s motives were?

  Could Hammond Brooke have changed his situation and been reunited with Sylvie and his daughter?

  How much did the setting in the South of France and the period contribute to the telling of the story?

  If you were casting the film, who would you cast as William and Iris?

  Discuss the importance of the sense of smell. Are there particular smells that trigger memories for you?

  Do you think the 1950s were a halcyon time? Was life really better/simpler than today?

  What thematic comparisons, if any, can be drawn between this and the author’s first novel, The Olive Sisters?

  About the Author

  Growing up in rural New Zealand, Amanda Hampson was determined to be a writer from an early age. She moved to London in her twenties where she fell in love with British literature and developed a fascination for the complexities of British culture.

  Eventually settling in Australia, she has a particular interest in the themes of place, family and the meaning of home. She now lives in Sydney’s Northern Beaches.

  The Olive Sisters was her highly successful debut novel, followed by Two for the Road. She has also written two non-fiction books.

  Also by Amanda Hampson

  ‘I open the gate and walk into the field . . . As the sun pours a river of light down this valley, I realise there are hundreds and hundreds of trees and I've seen those silver leaves before, not here in Australia, but shimmering in the groves that grace the terraced hillsides of Tuscany.’

  When Adrienne's marketing company goes down, her lifestyle does too. She retreats from the city to the beautiful, abandoned olive grove once owned by her Italian grandparents. A ‘tree change’ isn't what Adrienne has in mind, however, and life in the country delivers some surprises as she confronts the past and learns the secrets of the Olive Sisters . . .

  Old loves, new loves, warm toast and rich traditions are all part of the delicious blend of this absorbing story.

  When Cassie Munro fled her hometown of Bilkara to follow the charismatic Dan to the other side of the world, she never expected to return. Now, devastated by revelations of Dan's betrayal and the news of a brutal attack on her father, she returns home with nothing left to lose.

  Against her better judgement, she finds herself battling to save the family business. In the midst of her struggle, Cassie is reunited with her first love, Mack, who forces her to confront a guilty secret and the tragic past they share.

  Two for the Road is a powerful and uplifting novel about one woman’s journey of healing, redemption and letting go of the past.

  VIKING

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  Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies

  whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

  First published by Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd, 2017

  Text copyright © Amanda Hampson 2017

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without t
he prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Cover design by Nikki Townsend Design © Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd

  Text design by Samantha Jayaweera © Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd

  Illustrations by Kymba © Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd

  Cover photographs: main image, Tracy Packer Photography/Getty Images; magnolia, Neslihan Rawles/Getty Images; background, Slobo/Getty Images; inside covers, loskutnikov/Shutterstock

  penguin.com.au

  ISBN: 978-0-14378-437-1

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