We were given a strip of paper with perfume sprayed on it as a stimulus for writing. it was quite a strong perfume and even I, with my atrocious sense of smell found it quite heady! ‘Souffle de la Nuit’, The slightly musky aroma of her perfume wafted through the air as Jean pulled the silk square loose from its retaining brass hoop in the old oak wardrobe, where it had hung since that last big family get together, at Easter. She would always associate that scent with Granny Frobisher…she would wear no other. Traditionally, the Frobishers and the Whites had congregated at Grandma Frobisher’s house for every big celebration. It was a large old Georgian rectory built of warm sandstone surrounded by a substantial well-kept garden of manicured lawns, carefully planned flower beds and overflowing borders of hollyhocks, jasmines, sweet scented roses and a myriad of fragrant flowering shrubs. Inside, the floral theme continued with twisted vines carved along the cornice, lilies on the heavy silk curtains and oak leaf motifs on the panelling of the dining room. Grandma Frobisher would always be especially well-dressed with co-ordinating twin set, wool skirt, leather shoes, never without matching accessories and twists of semi-precious stones, or pearls, around her neck. Hair, whitened with age, but tightly curled and lacquered. Face, wrinkled but perfectly powdered and painted. That was Grandma Frobisher. She hated scruffiness. That scarf, the one from the wardrobe, was a favourite, as was the perfume which still clung to it. A Parisian scarf and a Parisian perfume, ‘Souffle de la Nuit’, ‘Breath of Night’. It conjured up a warm summer’s evening with heavy night scented stocks, jasmine, nicotiana and even perhaps a hint of exotic sandalwood. Grandma Frobisher had had an interesting life, travelling firstly, as a child with her Ambassador father and then to the Arabic world with her husband who had held various important jobs in the oil industry. Everywhere where she had travelled to was represented somewhere in the house by an ornament, a painting or a carving, souvenirs from her life’s adventures. Jean knew that this perfume was the key to her memories. Grandma Frobisher came alive again whenever ‘Souffle de la Nuit’ filtered through the air. Jean immediately saw the panelling, the curtains, the bustling flower beds and borders, and of course, that scarf. Grandma Frobisher lived in that perfume. Later, as Jean sat amongst her family in the stuffy, sun drenched dining room, listening to the lawyer, read out the will, her attention drifted and she gazed out of the French windows, across the warmed flagstones of the patio, over the freshly mown lawn to the vibrant flower beds. There sat Grandma Frobisher’s reliable trug overflowing with wilted weeds with a worn hand fork stuck into them. Jean suddenly became aware of a strong scent pervading the stuffy air of the room, ‘Souffle de la Nuit’! ‘Who was wearing Grandma’s perfume?’ With a start, Jean suddenly became conscious that all eyes were upon her. “Well, I’ll be dammed! So it paid off then, all that washing , and cleaning and cooking? You really wrapped Mother around your little finger didn’t you!” growled Uncle Charles angrily, “I should inherit the house and estate by rights, I’m the eldest son…you…you really worked your magic didn’t you!” he spluttered waving his finger at her aggressively. “A lousy book on gardening! What use is that to me?” There was that scent again, even stronger this time. “I’m sorry…” began Jean. “Sorry!” Charles stood up and lurched towards her, “ I’ll be speaking to my lawyer about this, mark my words, you’ll not get away with it!” The perfume was overpowering now, she felt dizzy, the room was swirling around and Uncle Charles’ face appeared distorted. That heady aroma was like an powerful sedative, she did not feel threatened or alarmed by the brutish behaviour of Charles, she felt protected and safe. “I’m here, you’re safe” a faint whisper, barely audible but a voice she knew so well, Granny Frobisher was there…protecting her. At our next meeting Roddy asked us to turn this piece of work into a ghost story. The word 600 limit has now, eleven pages later, been well and truly busted! Im still writing!:)!
Posted on: Sun, 06 Oct 2013 10:08:45 +0000
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