Anosmia By Katherine Freeman
I nestle my face into the last jumper and breathe in until my lungs are full to bursting. It’s funny, isn’t it, how something as simple as a whiff of fabric softener can transport you back in time. One sniff of a jumper and I’m back at mum’s for Christmas, opening the front door to be hit by a wall of heat, the sickly-sweet smell of jasmine and honeysuckle hanging in the air, humid from the wet clothes haphazardly thrown onto radiators.
I’m not usually allowed to use fabric softener; he says it makes him itch. I did try once, a few months ago; he’s got no sense of smell – anosmia it’s called, apparently – so I thought I’d get away with it. Somehow, though, he found the bottle of fabric softener I’d hidden like contraband in a bag in the cupboard under the sink. The bruises lasted for over a week that time.
He’s away now, though, so I bought myself a little bottle. I take one more sniff of the jumper, fold it carefully, and lay it in the suitcase. I shouldn’t be going anywhere, I know. But if he can, why can’t I? He’s at a work conference and he’ll be back at 7pm on Wednesday. It’s only Sunday, and I can’t bear to spend another cold, dark night in this house.
It’s a fixer-upper, he said. We’ll make a profit.
But I’m the one who has to be here every day, freezing cold and alone. We’re not allowed to turn on the gas until all the old rusty pipes are replaced, so I have one tiny electric heater. It smells like someone died in here, but obviously that doesn’t bother him. You have to stick your hand in the cistern to flush the one working toilet.
If I leave now, I can stay in a nice, warm B&B for a few days. I found one nearby, in the next village. He won’t find out.
He can’t find out.
The last time I went away was four years ago. My friend Emma drove over and picked me up. He was at work. She came in, helped me pack, and said I should stay with her for a while.
I stayed with Emma for two weeks. Her house smelled of lavender and vanilla. She had scented candles and those little sticks you put in pots of nice-smelling oil. I’m not allowed to buy them as they’re a waste of money. We laughed, and drank wine, and played Scrabble, and I started to feel like an actual person. It was the best time I’d had in years.
He came to get me, once he knew where I was, and Emma cried, and said I didn’t have to go with him.
For better or worse, he said. And I suppose that’s right. That’s what we promised.
I couldn’t just sleep in Emma’s spare room indefinitely.
Those were probably the worst bruises; they lasted for nearly three weeks and some of them felt lumpy and dry where the skin had broken.
After that, we started to move house a lot.
We needed to get away, he said; be in the countryside, fresh air, it’ll be good for us.
I agreed, of course, but each time we moved, the house was further away, and smelled even worse than the last.
Apparently, we’ve made a lot of money ‘flipping’ these houses, as he calls it, but I never see a penny.
Is it bad, do you think, that I’ve been buying all the groceries cheaply and saving what’s left over? I know I shouldn’t, but he hasn’t noticed, and now I’ve got just enough to go away, just for a few days.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m by the front door, suitcase in hand, ready to go.
Something stops me, though. Sadness? Anger? Sheer desperation?
I don’t know why, but I just get the urge to ruin everything. I want to ruin everything.
I run through the house and mess around with all the bits he told me not to touch.
It’s like I’ve become possessed. I can’t control it.
I turn all the wheels and knobs I was supposed to stay away from and pull the entire string thing out of the one-working-toilet cistern and I grab a hammer from the tool kit I’m not supposed to touch (Darling, you don’t need tools) and I bash all the walls and the pipes and the fucking stupid toilet.
It’s oddly cathartic, smashing things. I feel alive.
I manage to stop myself before smashing the windows too – that wouldn’t be a good idea.
That would be noticeable.
But everything else… It’s an absolute bombsite in here anyway; all the building materials and dust and mess. He won’t notice an extra hole or two.
He can’t notice.
Then somehow, like it was all a weird dream, I’m back again, by the front door, with my suitcase, feeling as though I’m some kind of superhero.
I just need a few days away.
And I’m certain he won’t find out.
At least 99 percent certain.
Perhaps 85 percent.
It’s worth the risk, isn’t it?
Yes, I’m sure it’s worth the risk.
*
I nestle my face into the last jumper; even though I washed it days ago, the smell of jasmine and honeysuckle is still there, faintly. I fold it carefully, and lay it in the suitcase.
It’s Wednesday, and I should be heading home to get dinner ready for 7 o’clock, but I decide to take one last early-evening walk. I’ve done this every evening since I’ve been away and it’s been wonderful. I’ve seen a man walking his dog every day at the same time and we always say hello. His dog, Happy, likes me. I give Happy a little chin scratch and he gives me a little lick on my face. He smells of dog, and mud. It’s nice. Comforting.
On the route that I walk, you can see the village below, and the sprawling countryside after that, and in the distance, you can just make out our house, in the middle of nowhere, all on its own. It’s sad, in a way. So far from the other houses. So far from everything.
Remote, the estate agent said. So much space, and privacy.
I didn’t understand why anyone would want to be that private; that far away. I still don’t.
I head outside. I will enjoy my walk; the night air; the cosy lights in cottage windows; the freedom.
I walk past the pub; the door is open, as usual, and the smell of musty beer and the sound of old men laughing wafts onto the street, and I stop for a second to drink it all in. I will miss this. I walk further, past the field that smells of manure, and I know some people might not find that particularly aromatic but I think it’s sweet and wonderful. I keep walking and – just like clockwork – there’s Happy, wagging his tail, dragging his owner over to me.
“Hi, Happy!”
“I’m sorry he keeps doing this. He seems to like you.”
I crouch down and give Happy his usual chin scratch. His fur is soft and velvety; it reminds me of a fabric-softened jumper. “Please don’t be sorry, he’s a great dog. I like seeing him.”
“Lucky for you, Happy – you’ve finally met someone who wants to be your friend,” the owner laughs. “I’m George, by the way.”
I look up, slightly unsure of what to do. We’ve only ever talked about Happy – we’ve never had an actual conversation.
I stand up, Happy still nestling his little face against my knee.
“I’m Elizabeth,” I mutter, slightly unsure even of that. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to introduce myself to someone.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Elizabeth. You know, properly.”
“You too, George.”
Happy suddenly lunges in a different direction.
“Oh lord, he’s seen a cat!” George is dragged away and I stand very still, just breathing in the moment. Have I made a friend?
I imagine going to the pub with George, our laughter wafting onto the street, Happy’s velvety head resting on my lap as he sleeps.
It’s a nice daydream.
I start walking again until I come to the bridge; this is where you get the best view of everything below.
It’s almost dark now but I can still make out our house in the distance; a lonely, empty box in the middle of nothingness.
I look at my watch.
6.45.
Every muscle in my body tightens.
I should be back by now.
I should be cooking dinner, on a stupid portable stove, and waiting patiently for him to arrive.
There’s no way I can make it home in time, though.
I suddenly feel as though I can’t breathe.
I stand, rooted to the spot, frozen.
I don’t want to go back.
I want scrabble and wine, and George and Happy, and scented candles and fabric softener.
I stare at my watch as the hands tick forward, unable to look away.
6.59.
He’ll be just getting back; opening the door. The hallway will be dark, and he’ll be wondering where I am. He’ll be angry I’m not there; angry I haven’t left a light on for him; angry he has to fumble through the hallway to find the light switch.
I hear the incredible bang first. Then the huge plume of flames start to erupt. It’s beautiful; a huge ball of yellows, oranges, and reds. They fill the sky, painting the dull, black evening with vibrant autumnal colours. The smoke is next; grey and thick, and I’m sure I can smell it, even from here.
I always felt bad for him, having anosmia. You can’t smell the roses, or Sunday dinner cooking, or fresh washing, or gas.
I think I could stand here forever, but I find myself wandering back to the B&B.
I suppose I can stay for a while longer, now.
I open my suitcase and pull out the little bottle of fabric softener hidden away under my things.
Tomorrow, I will ask if there is a launderette nearby.
Judges Comments
The way an everyday scent like fabric conditioner can transport a person back to a simpler, happier time is the wistful keynote of Katherine Freeman's Anosmia, the runner-up in WM's Senses short story competition.
The wisftfulness acts as a smokescreen to a darker underlying narrative. The narrator, trapped in an abusive relationship, uses the scent as a talisman. Firstly, it differentiates her from her bullying, controlling, violent husband, who has no sense of smell. But Katherine - and her narrator - uses this in an act of revenge, too. It's hard not to sympathise with the narrator's break from freedom, and the destruction she wreaks in the house - but a careful reading reveals that clues have been carefully planted to something the ending makes clear.
Nothing is accidental in this carefully plotted story, and all is not quite as it seems, either, or at least until the ending, where Katherine skilfully leaves the reader to read between the lines. It's much more layered than a story of a victim finding freedom in an escape. The narrator, while eliciting our sympathy for her predicament, delivers a nuanced storyline about what happens when the only choices you can make are bad ones.