Guest Writing - A Fragrant Fairy Tale, The Power of Perfume by Viv Lowery

This week, fiction writer and poet - Viv Lowery, brings us a fragrant fairy tale. A treat to read to our future perfumistas in bed tonight...

THE POWER OF PERFUME

There was once a  king who ruled over a very unusual kingdom called Perfumia whose subjects had developed, over the years, a remarkable sense of smell.  They were acutely aware of the power of different fragrances.  Every family had their own small perfumery and knowledge of essences and herbs passed down through the generations.  Each one prided themselves on their superior knowledge and skills in this all important area.

The king being wise encouraged and shared their passion and, to this end, held a huge competition every year to find the best perfume produced in the nation.  Not only was the winner rewarded with the recognition of their supremacy in this most important sphere but they were also appointed as the King’s personal perfumier for the following year, a position conferring great status and power.

In the months leading up to the competition a veil of secrecy descended over Perfumeria, every family working hard to perfect their blend of ingredients without alerting their competitors.  Herbs were gathered in the dark of night and family members were sent far and wide to search for new and powerful scents.  It was not unknown for the weaker or lazier families to steal ideas or even essences from their more skilful neighbours and guards were set throughout the night to ensure this didn’t happen.

As competition day approached activity reached fever pitch, each family determined to win and prove themselves the best in the land.  The king himself judged and, thus, the perfumiers made a close study of his preferences in past years and any experiences he may have had which might influence his choice.  For example, if he had visited nearby lands where exotic spices were used they may be tempted to channel their perfume in that direction.  If he had spent time on the coast they might devise a scent incorporating these smells.

The king loved his wife dearly and this year they had become the proud parents of a baby girl they had named Fragrancia.  She was a beautiful and happy child who brought them a great deal of joy. The king was looking forward to taking her to the competition for the first time so that everyone could admire her and on the morning of the event he had her dressed in her finest clothes.  

The first perfumier approached and presented his family’s fragrance for consideration.  The king smiled politely, savoured the fragrance and made note for marking later.  So the competition continued throughout the day with perfume after perfume being considered.  The king showed no preference throughout the proceedings.  He may have had his favourites but wanted the result to be a complete surprise.  

Towards the end of the day an unusual competitor entered the fray, one who had not taken part before.  The king was very surprised to recognise the son of one of his wife’s handmaidens.  He couldn’t remember the woman’s name or her function within his household but he had seen the lad around the palace helping out. The young boy approached the king shyly and offered up his contribution. ‘Hello young man, this must be the first time you have entered the competition.  The boy nodded without speaking, waiting for the king to try the fragrance.  The king looked puzzled.  The boy was very young and, since he lived in the palace with his mother would have no access to the knowledge, experience or skills required to produce a successful perfume.  There were established families who contested the prize every year but the boy belonged to none of them.  The king carefully opened the glass stopper of the primitive container and gingerly sniffed its contents.  After a second he took a further sniff then another.  A smile began to spread across his face and he positively beamed.  

The crowd watching this amazing spectacle gasped in surprise.  This had never happened before. No reaction had ever been shown by the king during the competition.  It was unheard of and the perfumiers watching were not amused. They had expected this upstart’s perfume to be dismissed as inferior rather than so obviously enjoyed by the king.  They were even more annoyed when the king held up his hand and announced ‘The competition is over.  This is the winner, holding the boy’s vial up high.  I have never in my life smelled such a wonderful fragrance!!’  The perfumiers were horrified but he was the king so they could do no more than march out of the palace in disgust at this insult.

After the dust had settled several of the most experienced among them set out to discover more about the king’s new choice and the nature of the winning fragrance.  What they found out startled them at first but then filled them with admiration for the young boy and his inventiveness.  His mother was nursemaid to the young princess and had gathered over the year essence of sweet baby smells that her son had combined into the winning entry.  If the king wished to be reminded of his precious child when he was away from the palace and was  greatly missing his family, he had only to open the stopper on that bottle to be reminded once more of his precious child and smile again.

Viv Lowery 2015

Viv is a member of the Bare Writers collective, who have recently published an eclectic anthology of poetry and literary fiction named High Tide. You can preview and purchase High Tide on Amazon by following the link below.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/High-Tide-Bare-Writers/dp/1499610971 

Dark, fragrant fiction - Jean Lindsay, Guest Writer

Those of you who read Jean Lindsay's fragrant memoir of her mother's precious Soir de Paris (Evening in Paris), enjoyed her evocative descriptions of life as a young girl in the 1950s. Writing once more for Odiferess, Jean reveals the darker side of her literary works. 
Be warned, you may never wear Lutens Gris Clair or Penhaligons Bluebell again!

Grey
I first noticed it last Tuesday when I came home from work. Imagine you are painting a stormy seascape. Take some Payne’s grey, mix a loose wash and then with a large brush, say a hake, drag the wash right along the top of your paper. Part of it will seep in and part of it will run down. That’s exactly the effect on the wall. Running right along, under the cornice, which incidentally is beautiful, left white thank goodness, very ornate, early Victorian I would say.
It’s very elegant- my flat- well bed sitting room I suppose. In its halcyon days, when the house contained a family, before its main artery was severed and it was chopped into several dwellings, it must have been the master bedroom. It has a wide bay window looking out onto the front garden where a large beech tree spreads its fingers and they almost touch the window. I feel as if I’m in the middle of a wood.
My bed is in one corner, covered in an old silk bedspread; Vermillion with Chinese embroidery in Jade and gold. The carpets are ancient and the furniture is carved walnut, heavy and dark but in keeping with the house.
There’s a large table under the widow and the light is excellent, ideal for my painting. The whole place exudes an aura of faded grandeur. It will suit me for a while anyway. Until I get over things.
Anyway, I stood on a chair to get a better look at the mark, relieved to find it wasn’t damp. I was afraid that the water tank may have burst in the loft.
By the weekend the grey had spread down the wall. The landlord had given me his number, only to be used in an emergency, but this seemed serious enough to me. He lives out in the dales somewhere. In a stately pile I should think, if all his rents are as high as mine. He said that my room was the best in the house on account of it being over his private apartment, thought I might like the peace and quiet, being a bit older than his usual bed sit tenants. He collects the rents on the first Saturday of the month and stays over in the flat. Probably has a floozy on the side. He seemed a touch off hand when I rang him. Assured me there was no damp in the house and had I been doing some DIY that had gone wrong. I replied that I certainly had not. I’m not the DIY type. He said he’d come and inspect it, but not for a few weeks as he was going off on a golfing holiday to the Algarve and would I put the rent cheque through his letterbox.
Yes this room will be fine. I’m glad I made the move. I couldn’t bear to stay in the house without her… How can you live with someone and not realize they’re in love with someone else? They were going to live in Ireland - her and the new man, some where remote on the West coast. She didn’t want any thing from the house - new start she said.
I couldn’t get rid of her perfume after she’d gone. I could smell it every where. I put all her clothes in bin bags and took them down to the RSPCA shop. She loved her clothes -always immaculate - that was one of the first things I noticed about her. Jewellery too, all of it went. The cosmetics went in the bin, bottles jars, hair dye - that was a surprise. I’d no idea she had so much stuff and even when I got rid of I could still smell her perfume. It seemed to have permeated deep into the drawers and the wardrobes and the bed - especially the bed, the place where we had made love…passionately… right up until the time that she told me she was leaving - shocked me that.
I put the house on the market straight away. It sold quickly as I knew it would. It was a lovely house. Ten years we’d been there. I’d planted an orchard with bluebells, always thought we’d have kids one day and pictured them picking apples in the autumn.
The young couple who bought it were starting out, so I left them everything,
carpets furniture - the lot. They were grateful.
Morris called me into his office today. Asked me how I was coping on my own. I told him fine. He said but on a scale of one to ten. I said oh about six, and he said why didn’t I go home with him tonight and have a meal. Wednesday’s his wife’s Yoga night and she leaves him a casserole in the oven, we could have a chat over a good bottle of shiraz. I told him thanks but I had to get home to the flat. I had a problem with my walls they were going grey.
*
The bus was crowded tonight. It’s unnerving being in such close proximity to strangers. I don’t like my personal space being invaded, but I expect I’ll get used to it.
I got rid of the car, there didn’t seem much point in keeping it. I’m only a couple of miles from the office, the bus is handy and it’s a relief not having parking problems.
I went into the City last weekend, bought lots of new clothes, a suit for work, shirts ties, that sort of thing and some casual stuff for weekends. I binned my old things, I could still smell her perfume on them. The grey has spread to the other walls now. It’s most odd.
There must be other people living in the house although I never see them. Their entrance will be round the back. I occasionally hear music through the adjoining wall, but only faintly. That’s the advantage of an old house. The walls are very thick. I suppose I could go round one night and see if any one else is having problems with the walls, but I don’t really want to get involved with neighbours.
*
I got soaked tonight walking from the bus stop. It looked like a nice day, so I didn’t take my umbrella. I’ll put my take away in the oven and have a shower, that’ll warm me up. I can eat in my dressing gown. It’s quite liberating knowing that no one’s going to call. There’s a Chinese take away, a curry house and a chip shop all near by. I never need to cook. The grey is in the shower cubicle now. It has a strong smell I can’t quite place.
Morris called me into his office again today. Asked how I was progressing with the plans for the new ring road. Said he thought I’d have had the outline plans finished by now. I told him I’d get a move one, but I’d been having headaches these last few weeks and they’d slowed me down a little. I said I was still having problems with my walls. He said that he thought some time off was in order, he knew I’d been under a lot of pressure lately and why didn’t I pop along and see my GP and he’d get David Carter to finish off the plans as the City Council were pushing for completion.
I won’t set the alarm tonight. I’ll have a rest in the morning. I am feeling a little stressed, but there’s no need to the see the doctor.
The grey has started to creep across the ceiling now. I lie on my back and watch it travel.
*
It’s strange being home in the daytime. I’ve been sitting by the bay window painting the beech. It’s so beautiful. The leaves are fully out now and when the sunlight hits them they’re almost fluorescent. I struggled getting the exact green, I got it eventually - Lemon Yellow with just a spot of Viridian. It’s a lovely window, very elegant; long panels with opening lights in stained glass above. The problem is that when I open them the noise of the traffic is unbearable, so I have to keep them closed and it gets hot. I still don’t understand why she didn’t tell me she was unhappy. She said that she’d tried to, but I didn’t listen. I said how can you just fall out of love with some one, and she said it was easy when they were on another planet. I still don’t know what she meant by that.
*
It’s so hot this morning. I’ll lie on the bed for a while. I don’t even need to get dressed, I’m not going any where. All the walls are grey now and so is the ceiling. I’d have a shower but the water’s grey and smells too. I don’t feel clean however hard I scrub.
*
It’s getting dark now. It might be late or it might be the grey, It’s shading the windows like a veil. I recognise the smell now. It’s the smell of earth and bluebells. Yes… of course that’s it,…wet earth and bluebells. It was raining that afternoon and I got drenched to the skin. She was only about five foot, petite I suppose you’d call her, but the grave took a lot of digging. I picked the bluebells first, she loved bluebells. I covered her with them, all except her beautiful face. She looked so serene.
*
I can smell her perfume on the pillow again. I thought I’d got rid of it - so strong - Its’s as if she’s here in the room.
*
The grey is covering the carpets now and rising like fog. I can feel the chill and smell the stench.
*
It’s on my feet now, they’re going numb. I raise my hands and note the distended grey veins. It’s found its way into my bloodstream. Up my legs now. I cup my testicles in my right hand and grasp my flaccid penis. There is no feeling. I’m floating in a cloud of perfume, I can hardly breathe. I’ll lie here quietly and wait. It won’t be long.

Jean Lindsay

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3 Guest Writers - stories and poems inspired by scent

I am lucky to know a talented circle of women writers based in Lancaster who met whilst studying. After completing a Creative Writing A Level, they agreed to convene regularly to continue to set each other creative briefs and critique their resulting work. Some years later they remain supportive friends and passionate writers. 

I asked them to consider scent, either in the nature of perfume or indeed the act of smelling itself. Here are their responses:

Perfume

by Jean Lindsay (a factual memoir)

 She had this buttercup yellow dress – my mum. I watched her sewing it on the treadle machine that stood in the hallway and thought it was the loveliest dress I’d ever seen. It was made of figured taffeta, and had a skirt that spun out into a perfect circle with a sweetheart neckline and little cap sleeves. I suppose it would be the height of fashion in post war Britain of the early 50s. She was a single mum, and in those days it wasn’t a fashionable thing to be, unless of course your dad had been a missing soldier - and mine hadn’t. I know for certain that money was tight, but she loved dancing, and whenever she could, she went to the local dance hall on a Saturday night with her friend, Alice, and I stayed with my granny who I loved dearly.

            But before she went out, I loved watching her go through the ritual of getting ready. The careful make up - so much more basic than nowadays: powder, a little spot of rouge on her cheeks and the red lipstick – always red – and the combing of her flame red curls into little fat sausages. Her eyes sparkled with excitement and I thought she looked beautiful.

            The highlight of this lengthy preparation however, was the moment when the dark blue, glass bottle ofEvening in Paris was taken out of her dressing table drawer. I would hold my breath as she dabbed a little of the precious elixir behind each ear. Then, heaven of heavens, she would dab some behind my ears as well, and we would both breathe in deeply and sigh at the exquisite scent. Once ready, she would give me a hug, tell me to be good and we would walk hand in hand to Granny’s house.

            All my life, just like my mother did, I’ve loved this ritual of sitting at my dressing table getting ready for an evening out, and of course the last thing I do is apply my perfume. I can’t imagine that I would feel properly dressed without that finishing touch.

             Mum wasn’t the only one to enjoy her night out, granny and I used to enjoy ours too. We would watch television on her tiny black and white screen in the centre of a great big wooden cabinet – we didn’t have a television at home, and granny would put a pinch of snuff on the back of my hand. I would sniff it gingerly and sneeze and splutter. I don’t think I ever told my mum though. Then she’d have a milk stout and I’ve have some cream soda. The odd thing is that although I can’t remember the smell of Evening in Paris I can distinctly remember the smell of the snuff. It was a menthol, eucalyptus, camphor sort of a smell and to this day I love anything that smells similar. I’m in my element when I have a cold because I can rub Vic on my chest, and steam under a towel with boiling water and Olbas oil.

            As for my own perfume tastes, I am addicted to Clinique Aromatics Elixir and have been faithful to it for thirty years. I try new perfumes but can’t fall in love with another scent. I just dread the day that Clinique decides to discontinue it. I’m not familiar with the ingredients of Aromatics Elixir but wonder if there are any notes in it that subconsciously transport me back to my childhood and Evening in Paris or more likely granny’s snuff.

The smell of love

by Eve Edmonds

Soft and crumpled sheets on an unmade made
The pillows lying on the ground
The duvet rumpled on the floor
A locked door!

A room now silent at the dawn of day
But for the chorus of the birds
That twitter in the trees
Where no one sees

The curtains drawn, the day awakes
with myriad insects in the air
The light announces that it's day
Or so they say!

The taste of love is on the sheets
And on the bedclothes too
The juice of love is on the bed
And in the head

The smell of love is in the air
The smell of sweat and scent
I wonder why it lingers on
When you are gone...

Smells like Deceit

 by Dee Daglish

After working all day on the perfume counter, her senses were almost overloaded with the onslaught of musky, flowery and spicy scents, but as she opened her front door and stepped into the hall, she couldn’t help but notice the unmistakable scent of ‘Poison’.  She thought she’d caught the occasional heady aroma of it in the house for the past few weeks now, but had always put it down to it being a remnant from work.

‘Hi,’ she called out to her husband.  She walked into the kitchen just as he was switching on the washing machine.

         ‘Oh, hi love.  Have you had a good day?’ he asked, kissing her cheek. 

         The scent of perfume was so strong.  She felt a wave of anger and fear rush through her body as she noticed his lips, redder than usual, with what looked like the remains of lipstick embedded in the crease of his lower lip.  She stared at him, unable to even speak.

         ‘What up?’ he asked, the smile disappearing from his face.

         ‘Has someone been here?’ she asked, clenching her fists until her knuckles turned white.  ‘You reek of perfume, and you’re covered in lipstick!’ she shouted, pushing him away from her. 

         He hung his head for a moment, then looked up, sighing deeply.  ‘It’s not what you think,’ he said, taking hold of her hands.

         ‘Don’t give me that!’ she snapped, ‘Just tell me the truth.’

         He led her by the hand, across the kitchen towards the cellar door.

         ‘Let me show you,’ he said, switching on the light and leading her down the steps towards the corner of the cellar.  He reached under his work bench and pulled out an old suitcase.  He unlocked it and lifted the lid. 

         ‘I meant to tell you, but there never seemed like a good time,’ he said, lifting out a selection of women’s clothes, shoes and a transparent holdall filled with makeup and bottles of perfume.

         ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, staring at the pile of clothes on the workbench.

         He held up one of the dresses.  It was massive.  Big enough to fit – well, a large man.

         ‘It’s mine.  They’re all mine,’ he said.

         She stared at the dresses, shoes and makeup then looked back at her husband and began to laugh.

         ‘Oh my God, I’m so relieved’, she said, hugging him tightly.

         ‘So it’s ok then, you’re not going to leave me or anything?’ he said, hugging her back.

         ‘Well, it’s a bit of a shock, but better than you having an affair.’  They kissed - the scent of his perfume strong in the confines of the musty cellar.

         Later, as she prepared dinner, he popped out to the shops to buy a bottle of wine to mark the occasion.  On his way there he made a call on his mobile, listening for a few moments before speaking.

           ‘You’d better delete this voice mail after you’ve listened to it, but just wanted to tell you that, well, she fell for it, just like you said she would,’ he laughed.  ‘And you were right, you don’t have to worry any more about your perfume when you come round, or about leaving lipstick marks,’ he laughed again.  ‘So see you next week, same time, same place.  Love you.’  He walked into the shop, assuaging his sense of guilt by buying a box of chocolates and a cheap bunch of flowers for his sweet, yet gullible wife.

         She stood in the kitchen and quickly prepared a salad to go with the leftover chicken from yesterday’s dinner.  Her mind raced with the events of the past half hour.  How could he have kept something like that hidden from her for all these years?  It seemed a bit strange.  She felt the same wave of fear and anger rush over her again.  He was seeing someone else, she just knew it.  Maybe she’d finish work early next week, she thought, forcing a smile as she heard his key in the lock.  As he entered the kitchen, bearing a guilty man’s gifts, her smile almost slipped as the smell of another woman’s perfume overpowered her once more.