Free The Memory of Scent by Lisa Burkitt Page A

the cobbled courtyard to the chapel blows fresh air on to my face. It is the softest of reminders that there is something else out there, an otherness, and a power generating a life that can not be confined by the sheer height of these walls, that there is still a God. Every single part of me feels as if it has been breached and a briefly soothing puff of air on my face is like a mother’s kiss. Yes, you can still hear bird song, but to my ears it is like a taunt.
    It is clear that the nuns deliberately pay no attention to the sordidness of the darkened dormitories. On the other hand, they do dislike people being loud or disruptive and intervene immediately. I have resorted to screaming ‘La Marseillaise ’ at the top of my lungs each night until they move me to a cell which holds older prisoners. Any ensuing punishment for my bad behaviour would be worth it to be able to ease into even one night of peaceful rest. But I need more time to get my bearings and to work out the rhythms of prison life.
    The workshop is not much more pleasant. All the women sit in rows on wooden slat-back chairs facing the same direction, while a nun perches on a high stool at a desk, supervising the mending work. It isn’t a very big room and even though there are a few ceiling lamps, they do not throw light very effectively so we all sit here like ill-defined spectres. The stove has a reassuring solidity. I have given myself a few pin pricks because there is an elderly woman rocking back and forth in the front row, and I keep glancing at her.She is like a disturbed metronome, her straggly grey hair the texture of fraying wool.
    ‘Don’t stare at her.’
    Cécilia is the nearest thing I have to a friend here. I was initially very wary of the coarse young girl with her calloused hands and scarred chin. I am still not convinced that on my first day in the workshop, when I went to sit down and ended up crashing to the floor, that it was, as she claimed, an accident and that she hadn’t deliberately pulled my chair too far back for me to sit on. But when the nun slipped down from her stool and, pushing chairs aside, brandished a long stick over Cécilia as if to strike. I apologised profusely, blaming my own carelessness. I knew from Cécilia’s wry smile that we would probably be friends. The young prostitute who was also a thief, had been in and out of this prison three times now, and her unperturbed attitude is vaguely comforting. I am still in awe and my naiveté is fodder for the amusement of the unscrupulous.
    ‘See that bonnet she is wearing; you’ll see some of the women with the same bonnet. It is a sign that they have syphilis. She has gone a bit mad. She is meant to be confined to silence, which is also driving her crazy – not that she needs much help.’
    ‘What is she in here for?’
    ‘Who knows at this stage, probably arsenic in her husband’s chocolate drops or something?’ We try to muffle our giggles with our sewing. ‘A lot of these crones could just as easily chop the pricks off their men for messing with other women, but arsenic is easier and cleaner. There are some very good poisoners in here.’
    ‘Not so good if they’re in here.’ When did my humour get so black?
    ‘Tell me Babette; are you sorry you ever came to Paris?’ Cécilia is giving me a friendly nudge. I lower my head to better conceal my whispering.
    ‘You could say that. Do you know: I miss the smell of lavender. I thought for a second when I stood at an open window this morning that I could smell lavender. I closed my eyes and took a long, deep breath, but nothing.’
    ‘Floor polish probably.’
    ‘Our housekeeper wore some kind of lavender perfume around the house and she would give me these crushing hugs, and I could smell lavender off my own skin even after she left.’
    ‘So you had servants and a housekeeper, and she wore lavender perfume and gave you lots of hugs and one day you woke up and thought: life is too easy, I think I’ll go