The Memory of Scent by Lisa Burkitt Page A

disown me.’
    * * *
    ‘I will keep in touch with you. You see, I’m getting out in a few days time. I’ll send you parcels.’
    I am shocked to find myself starting to cry at this sudden news. I’m of course happy for Cécilia – but – not really. She looks as if she belongs here, as if this were an extension of her sordid life that she will resume as soon as she snatches that first breath of freedom. I need to sit down. Cécilia is scowling at me.
    ‘Now listen to me. Don’t be pathetic. Do you think I’d still be alive if I did nothing but sit on a bench and cry?’
    I try to extinguish my sniffling with the cuff of my sleeve. Another bastion of respectability gone, in one mucous snot trail.
    ‘Oh, forget it. I’ve enough to worry about. You have only yourself to rely on once you get out there. The quicker you learn that the better.’
    She stands up and starts to walk away. I am inexplicably bereft. She is halfway across the courtyard when she stops and walks back towards the bench again. Standing with her hands on her hips, she shakes her head. Taking her seat again, she starts laughing.
    ‘Look at you, a pretty girl with nice manners and big words. Do you know what I would do if I were you? I’d find the grandest house, run by the smartest Madame and I’d live in luxury. You get lots of lovely clothes and a nice place to live. A cousin of mine lives like that. Her side got the good looks. My side was fish gutters from way back.’ She turnsmy hand over and strokes my palm. ‘See the difference? Your lovely long fingers and my short stubby ones? There would never be room for the likes of me in Madame’s house.’
    ‘I’ve no idea how long I’m going to be here for.’
    ‘They can keep you as a subordinate, seeing as you’ve nowhere to live and you’re only sixteen. They could keep you until you’re twenty-one, unless someone claims you. You haven’t been charged yet. If they find you guilty, that’s another story.’
    Cécilia tilts her head and takes in my despair with what is clearly pure pity, and this almost makes me feel worse.
    ‘Can I not contact your mother?’
    ‘No. She would die of shame.’
    ‘Is there anyone in Paris then?’
    I pretended to my mother that I had secured a position as a companion to an elderly lady and had sent her a letter filling her with the delights of my new arrangement. I had intended to carry out this ruse for only a month or two but damned unfortunate circumstances overtook everything. I know no one in Paris, except that girl. I have kept her cravat tucked in among my belongings. What am I thinking? What succour could I possibly expect when I remember her pathetic little lodgings? She wouldn’t have a clue who I was anyway.
    ‘No, Cécilia, I can’t think of anyone who would know or care about me.’
    We find ourselves walking several laps around the courtyard in a soothing, numbing perambulation, until everyone is summoned inside.
    * * *
    Staring expectantly at the door of the workshop, waiting for Cécilia to come bursting through, I realised: Cécilia is gone.Each stitch now is a stabbing reminder of my loneliness, each finished hem another yard of passing time. My cellmate, Paulette, tried to cheer me up by reminding me that Cécilia was a habitual offender and would probably be back. I have mixed feelings about this. I hope for Cécilia’s sake that this wouldn’t turn out to be the case and know it was selfish to wish otherwise, though it didn’t stop me looking longingly at each new intake of women hoping to recognise her face. True to her word, Cécilia sent a parcel with soap and a comb and some ribbon within a week of her departure. She also included a note with her cousin’s address. Sweet of her, as I know in her world to live at the Madame’s house like her cousin would be the height of aspiration, but when I get out of here, I am going home.
    I’m wondering what it will be like to leave here. Like an animal adjusting to its