The Memory of Scent by Lisa Burkitt Page B

environment, I sometimes find my step lighter, my mood even a little jocular. I squabble with my cell mates as if they were my little sisters and not the urchins that I would normally step cautiously around if I encountered them on a street. Sometimes even these bars don’t seem to obstruct my view, and could as easily be curtain panels to be simply parted with one sweep of my hand. The wagons are arriving with another batch of women. Staring at them, you can see the first timers, the way their heads jerk about to take in their surroundings. You can see the disbelief in their faces. Then there are those whose step is arrogant, assured in its defiance, a step of anticipation where they will again meet up with old friends.
    ‘Babette’. Paulette touches my arm. What is normally a gesture of kindness, in a place like this, usually heralds some bad news. ‘Have you heard?’
    I search her eyes, pale insipid pools. Eyes that ceased to be excited about anything a long time ago, despite her very young years.
    ‘Cécilia is dead. She was stealing in someone else’s patch. You don’t do that. There are rules about them things. Her body was dumped in an alley and her face was smashed in.’
    I inhale deeply and nod primly.
    ‘Thank you for telling me.’ I walk down the corridor away from her and feel my legs buckle and blackness descending.
    * * *
    The sound of a nun rapping her ring on the bars of their door has disturbed me.
    ‘Disinfection. Disinfection, girls.’
    I pull myself up on to one of my elbows and rub my eyes. ‘What is she on about, Paulette?’
    Paulette just groans and pulls her blanket over her face. ‘Not again. They may as well give up the battle against lice, because the lice are winning. Merde .’
    The youngest girl in the cell jumps up and began to dress. ‘The quicker we get out there, the sooner it’s over. Trust me Babette; you don’t want to be standing around waiting for this.’
    I am immune to whatever new misery they choose to bestow on me so throw off my blanket. I have ceased caring about trying to fix my hair, and am no longer concerned about the dirt streaking my face. Everyone lines up with their backs against the wall, so that when the nun doubles back, we are all ready to be marched out. Trudging through several corridors, we eventually fall in behind girls and women of all shapes, sizes and ages, all of whom had shuffled to a stop outside a wash block, where the laundry is normally done.
    I can hear the large wooden door being creaked open at regular intervals, while a head count is shouted out, ‘Next four. One, two, three, four. Stop.’ And it is slammed shut again. Soon I am second in line in front of the closed door, and my hands begin to involuntarily clench, but going through that door is the only option.
    ‘Next four. One, two, three, four. Stop’
    As the door is closed behind me, I see I am standing in a white cold room with stone floors. There are several tubs on the ground and two hefty flush-faced nuns with their sleeves pushed up passed their elbows, standing among them.
    ‘Clothes off. Hang them on that rail. And on your way out, take some of that straw with you for your monthly flow.’
    The other three girls are immediately doing as instructed without any fuss, and in my brow-beaten timidity, I simply copy their actions. A nun standing by one of the tubs gestures for me to go over to her. She has a brush clenched in one of her hands and stands with her knuckles on her hips or thereabouts as she is just one squat column of fat without any curves to indicate that she is not a big pasty sausage with an apron on. Again, the other girls, without even a whimper of indignation, walk straight over to the tubs as if they have no awareness of their nakedness. My skin has pimpled with the cold and my instinct is to try and cover myself with my hands and arms. The nun grabs hold of one of my wrists and then the other, shaping me into a crucifixion position.
    ‘Oh for