Kathleen Tessaro - The Perfume Collector

‘Yes, she will be home soon. And then there’s roast chicken for supper and you shall have the wishbone. What do you think of that?’

Grace smiled, looking up at Lena, hoping she would kiss her forehead again. ‘I shall wish a husband for you,’ she promised, tugging gently at Lena’s long hair.

Lena picked up the pen, pausing a moment, her brow creasing. Finally, she began.

Dear Andre,

Please forgive me for not writing sooner. I know we parted on poor terms, for which I am truly sorry. I should not have left so suddenly. As you can tell from the postmark, I have gone to England after all. I know you believe my actions are folly, however, I have met with success. I have been hired as a cook and housemaid in the very same home where my darling one lives. She is with me now, in fact, on my knee as I write.

At first she was shy. You can imagine how difficult it was not to gather her up in my arms and hold her close, but soon her courage grew. After a week, we were fast friends. And she is so clever and delightful!

If you could see me now, I know you would understand. I finally feel as if I can walk with my head held high and I am happy – yes, even scrubbing dishes and sweeping floors! My only regret is that you and I…

Lena stopped again. Her frown deepened.

Then she folded the letter in half and slipped it into her apron pocket. ‘I will finish this later. Come on, darling. What shall we do now?’

Grace shrugged, snuggling in closer to her chest.

Everything Lena did was fascinating to Grace.

She brought order and peace; called her ‘darling’ and ‘dear’. Grace liked to follow her around and see what she was up to next. Sometimes she would find her changing the bed sheets or dusting; one day she’d discovered Lena outside with one of the hallway carpets flung over two chairs, holding a broom.

‘What are you doing with that?’

‘I’m beating the carpets, dear. Here,’ Lena handed her the broom. ‘Would you like to try?’

Grace had liked that. She walloped the carpet with all her might and a big cloud of dust came out.

‘Look at how strong you are!’ Lena laughed and Grace had taken another swing and another, just to prove she was right.

Or after supper she could be found washing the dishes. Lena showed Grace how to press a fork deep into the soap and blow bubbles by dipping it into a glass of water. Soon the kitchen was filled with glassy bubbles. The dog had gone mad trying to chase them, barking hysterically.

Later on they played cards together. Lena knew a game that no one else could work out. But Grace was quick to learn.

‘You’re a very clever girl, do you know that?’ Lena stroked Grace’s cheek softly. ‘You must never forget that. Now, what would you do here? Think before you answer.’

Grace concentrated hard. She wanted to please Lena. And the game was both fun and difficult, which made it the best sort of game.

Sometimes, Lena and Grace went for a walk in the woods at the back of the house to gather petals. There was, in a small, sheltered grove, an unexpected patch of wild narcissus, or paperwhites as the English called them. Tiny, delicate white blooms, they gave off an intensely sweet fragrance.

Together, they harvested the freshest flowers and, back in the kitchen, Lena showed Grace how to make perfume from them. Taking two old panes of glass from the conservatory, she washed them clean and spread a thin layer of rendered tallow on each one. Then they laid out the blossoms one by one on the first pane, carefully placing the other pane of glass on top. Afterwards they stored them high on a shelf in the cool, dark pantry.

‘It’s called enfleurage ,’ Lena explained. ‘We will gently extract the perfume oil from the blooms by pressing them into the tallow. But we must change the petals regularly and add new ones. Then we can make it into a pomade.’

‘Did your mummy teach you this?’

‘No. A friend taught me.’

They found a few more glass panes and experimented with different types of foliage – moss, grass, mint leaves from the herb garden.

One day they bought a lemon in the village. At home, Lena gleefully put together yet another glass press, making the most remarkable, fresh scent from only a few slices. (The rest they had with their fish that night.)

‘Can you make perfume from anything?’ Grace asked.

‘Anything!’ Lena asserted.

‘What about wood?’ Grace challenged. ‘Or a piece of wool,’ she giggled.

‘Well, let’s try.’

That afternoon they searched for the richest, dampest piece of tree bark they could find. It was difficult to shave it down to bits that could be effectively pressed but eventually they were able to extract a very subtle hint of wood. As part of the same experiment, Lena unravelled the sleeve of one of Grace’s old cardigans and pressed the wool as well.

‘This one is very tricky,’ she conceded, with a frown. ‘It’s not a strong smell to begin with.’

‘Why did you have to undo one of my cardies?’ Grace complained, examining the unravelled sleeve. Even though it was too small, she still liked it.

‘Because part of the smell of the wool is your smell too. They mix. And I, for one, want both – though, to be honest,’ she sighed, ‘we may end up pressing this old wool for months before we get anything.’ She caught Grace’s eye and grinned. ‘You know what I would like to try? A bit of your hair.’

‘My hair!’ Grace thought this was hysterical. ‘Hair perfume!’ she cried, dancing around the room with excitement. ‘That’s mad!’

However, the paperwhites were easily Grace’s favourite. She loved wandering through the grove gathering their blooms, piling them into Lena’s basket. They were, after all, her favourite flower.

‘You may have this perfume when we’ve finished. It shall be your birthday present,’ Lena promised.

But today Lena had another idea. ‘I know,’ she suggested after a moment, ‘would you like to help me make some biscuits?’

Grace looked up from her lap. ‘What kind of biscuits?’

‘Black.’ Lena gave her a squeeze.

‘Black biscuits?’ Grace sat up.

‘That’s right. Made with charcoal, for your father.’

Grace made a face. ‘Why does Daddy eat charcoal? Do I have to eat charcoal?’

‘No, mon ange . Daddy needs it because his tummy is unwell. In the war, they sprayed a gas into the air that made all the soldiers sick. Your father has a pain in his tummy but these black biscuits help.’

‘Does the pain ever go away?’

‘I’m not sure.’

Grace took this in. ‘Is that why he’s cross?’

‘Cross?’

‘Yes. He’s angry with me.’

Lena stroked Grace’s hair again. ‘Your father is not cross, darling. But he is…’ she stopped, searching for the right words, ‘he is not comfortable.’

Grace looked down at her feet, dangling in the air. She wondered if she should tell Lena the truth; that her father had never liked her, that she’d clearly done something to upset him, although she couldn’t think what it was. That was why he didn’t speak to her; why he scowled all the time.

But if she said it out loud, Lena might not like her any more either.

Grace gnawed nervously at her thumbnail.

‘So,’ Lena put Grace down and stood up. ‘Shall we start baking?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Then let’s get you an apron.’ Lena took a spare off the hook by the back door.

‘Hello? Hello!’ Catherine Maudley strode into the front hallway upstairs, her heels clicking against the wooden floorboards. ‘Hello! Grace? Lena?’

Instantly Eva felt her back go rigid.

Catherine was walking downstairs now; she strode into the kitchen, hat in hand, pulling off her white gloves. ‘There you two are.’