In Lavender

He could still smell her perfume. It was unforgettable.

Wherever she went, plumes of lavender hung in the air like ethereal blankets hung out to dry. As he crossed the room, it clung to his face, invaded his nostrils and pummelled the senses behind his eyes.

She’s not here, you know.

I’m not so sure. She’s sneaky. She could be lurking in any one of these rooms.

He pulled aside the curtains, exposing the fleur-de-lis wallpaper and a view of the garden. She wasn’t hiding there.

I didn’t expect her to be.

Yes, you did. You looked. You even hoped. You remembered back when…

Yes. I remember back when.

He looked out again at the driveway. His memory blotted out the sunlight and replaced it with rain and freezing winds. His parents had struggled into the car with suitcases, children, and short tempers. She had watched them from this very window. It had taken him a while, but when he came back, he’d stood in the driveway and counted the windows, noted the curtains, doubted his choices and counted again. Ivy had grown untrimmed, obscuring the side of the building. In autumn it turned a violent red, setting the grey stones alight, dressing the old house in a scarlet glory.

Virginia creeper.

What?

Not ivy. Virginia creeper.

As if it matters. I’m going to cut it down, no matter what you call it. It’s invading the wall and rotting the woodwork. It makes a shit-load of mess in the winter when the leaves drop.

He looked out again. He remembered: the rain had chased the car down the drive, wheels splashing, windscreen wipers beating more wildly than his seven year-old heart. Tears coursed, unwiped, dripping off his chin. He’d looked back; her hand was waving in sync with the wipers, her tears, if she’d had them, too far away for comfort.

What next? You gonna search the whole house?

The sun flooded the garden as he snapped back to the present. His mind pulled back from the confused seven year-old that had been driven away on a wet and windy day, never to return.

You’re here now.

You know what I mean.

I never know what you mean. You’re full of drivel, you know that.

Yes, I guess I do. Now leave me alone. I want to check the rooms, see what needs doing.

He walked along the landing, tentatively opening each door and stepping inside each room, soaking up the past that idled and floated with the dust motes. One room had a stain on the carpet.

They never cleaned that up then.

Apparently not.

He idly ran a toe across the pile. The stain changed colour, picked up dark shadows, looked newer. He stomped it back.

Was that blood?

I can’t remember.

Liar.

She’s not in here. No scent. No lavender.

She probably never came in here again. You know, after…

No. Probably not.

He closed the door gently. The last time that door had closed, it had been slammed nearly off its hinges. He clicked it quietly and wished there was a key to lock it away forever.

Wouldn’t make any difference.

No, probably not. Anyway, I’m nearly finished.

He walked to the end of the landing. Stopped. Reached out his hand, hesitated as his fingers curled around the knob, felt the cool brass, rubbed his thumb across the embossed rose ring.

Did you leave this room ’til last on purpose?

He hesitated.

Yes.

He opened the door.

The lavender was waiting for him. It assaulted him with all the fervour of an open drain. He held his breath and rushed across the room, grabbing at the curtains, wrenching the clasp around to open the window. The clasp went so far and stuck. His frantic hands punched at the tiny circlet, dislodged enough rust and enabled him to swing the catchment window open to the breeze.

His eyes blinked away lavender-induced tears. He swallowed great gulps of fresh air as he coughed the turgid scent from his lungs.

Stronger than mustard gas.

Shut up. I’m choking. Don’t mock!

Breathe deep. Don’t die on me.

Ha! Huck-huck-huckkk! I’m going to look in the wardrobes.

Don’t. There’ll be more lavender in there. That stuff’s deadly.

Leave the window open. Leave the doors open. I’ll open everything up and get the hell out. Okay? Huck-huck-huckkk!

He leaned against the bannister railings, glaring balefully back into her bedroom. Pink and white frilly things moved uncomfortably in a breeze that stirred their frippery and disturbed the dust. A tissue scooted across the floor and wrapped around a chair leg. The curtains blew through the window and flapped like streamers, slapping against the ivy.

Virginia creeper.

A curtain snagged. The plant and lace struggled momentarily, the conflict ending when the rotten lace ripped from hem to rail, briefly flying free until it wafted onto the uncut lawn, rolled itself into a coil; waved tiny flaps of protest in the wind.

The man nodded in satisfaction.

That’s a good start. Chuck it all out. Chuck everything out of the window. After all, she was a right c…

Cow? Coward?

He hesitated.

Was she betrayed too? Maybe. He was a right cun…

Cunning old bastard?

Yes. Cunning, manipulative, scheming, evil old bastard. He deserved more than he got.

He got knifed.

Not soon enough. Anyway, it wasn’t enough. Dad should’ve killed him for what he did.

He glared back into the bedroom. The lavender had dissipated enough to allow his olfactory nerves to register a mere two on his personal richter scale. His wife had once bought a lavender air-freshener and he had lost his temper. He hadn’t understood why. He hadn’t connected the scent with the reaction. She’d left after years of his tantrums. He hadn’t bought it again. He’d calmed down since, but by then it was too late. How do you explain that a scent triggered a violence that neither of them understood?

The seven year-old boy stared into his grandmother’s bedroom. The rain pelted against the window. Tentatively, he’d stepped in. She wasn’t there. Downstairs, his father was screaming that they were leaving, his fury scarred the paintwork and echoed off the floorboards. The boy had panicked his way down the stairs, shoes clattering on each step; fingers tracing the rhythm of the bannister rails. In the hallway, his father had picked him up roughly, practically thrown him into the back seat of the car, screamed words the boy had never heard before and sped off. The boy had knelt up on the car seat and looked back as the gravel crunched under the tyres; churning up angry divots of haste.

He’d noticed the front door was swinging wide open in the rain. For some reason, this had bothered him as much as anything. Then he’d seen her, standing at the window, silently waving. He waved back as they rounded the corner. He always wondered if she’d seen him that last time.

Sunlight reflected off a book. Worn and ragged, it did not fit the patterns of pink and lace that touched every other surface of the room. He opened it. Newspaper cuttings had been glued into the scrapbook. Pen lines arrowed, linking the articles, circling sentences, underlining headlines. Neat handwriting became frantic as the writer commented on the reports. Capital letters dug into the paper and exclamation marks pushed through to the next page. Violence! Sorrow! Anguish!

Shame?

God, I hope so. Grief, anyway. But for who?

Whom. Grief for whom, whom, whom the bells tolled.

He turned the pages. The whole sordid story began as a block-buster and eventually became a squib; from headlines to just a few lines.

Do you remember when…?

Yes.

The breeze pulled at the pages, ripping one out of the binding. He bent to pick it up. The old bugger had been arrested, convicted, sentenced. His father hadn’t been arrested, but the family were convicted in their own minds. Their sentence was shame. Grief. Guilt. They were never released. They wore it like manacles.

Would it help if I burned this book?

Burn the whole bloody lot!

He held the book in his hand, tempted.

My father stabbed him, you know. When he found out. What he’d done… my grandad. I saw it. I ran up to Gran’s room, but she wasn’t there.

I guess she called the ambulance. He nearly died.

Pity. He shoulda tried harder.

Ha!

What shall I do? Shall I burn it all?

The man stood, quiet, weighing the book in his hands.

No.

I refuse to be a victim. To burn it is to react. To react is to acknowledge hurt. They are all dead now. One bad man, who did bad things. One bad act of retribution. Years to fester. Now it stops. I will not be his victim too.

Quietly, the man walked down the stairs, out the front door, wedged it open with a brick, got into his car, placed the scrapbook on the passenger seat and drove off into the sunshine.

At the edge of town, he threw the book into a dumpster and called a real estate agent.