Saturday 8th May 19–

My sister and I both agree––there is nothing else to be done––no other way–if we want to be happy––Mama will have to die.
+++++Introductions are in order first, I think. I am Catherine, and I am twelve and I love parentheses, if you do not, then I suggest you stop reading and do something else that pleases you (though I secretly hope you continue [unless you are a policeman, in which case I suggest you may have better things to do than to read the ramblings of an over-imaginative schoolgirl]). Sometimes I like the curved ones that look like the belly of our town butcher, sometimes I like the square ones that look like an open drawer {but best of all I like the ones I am using now that look like birds flying overhead}.
+++++You should understand that we are not natural murderesses (I am not sure if that is a word, but I do so like the way it crawls across the page like a drunken spider wearing inky boots). If you saw us in the street or the park, in our matching dresses, with our frills and our lace, and our Sunday best smiles, you would think we were angels come to walk upon the earth. When you took a second look (for you would, I know you would) then you would have to take a third because you would see that Mama and Papa were dressed in clothes chosen to match ours. Their colours a reflection of our colours. You would think we were the model family: my younger sister, Bebe and I dressed in the same outfit, maybe a blue pinafore dress over a salmon pink blouse, Papa in a blue suit with a pink tie and Mama in her salmon blazer and straight skirt over a blue blouse. All the colours of the same hue, so there is no doubt that we are connected. This is the way it must be.
+++++This is, of course, like everything in our lives, dictated by Mama.
+++++Mama selects the clothes that we are to wear each day and lays them out upon the chairs in our bedrooms, together with all the accessories we will need. There is no choice. No argument. This is the way.
+++++When I was younger (eight and a half if you like preciseness {another drunken spider word!}) I tried to be a little individual by adding a scarf of a different colour. I thought the flash of yellow against the black was beautifully dramatic. Mama thought differently and I spent three days in the basement. Three days in the dark, imagining the spiders (sober or drunk) and hearing the scurrying of the rats (in my imagination they were as big as our fat cat Molly). Three days fed nothing but bread and hard cheese and given only tepid water to drink. Three nights sleeping on an old mattress (I wondered: was this mattress there for storage or was it placed there for the purpose?). After the three days Mama opened the door and let me out with not a word, and we continued as if nothing had occurred. (It was done of course to teach me a lesson but all it taught me was that things had to change. From that moment on I began to hatch my plan.)
+++++We all must follow the rules, even Papa, whether he is at the office or in the laboratory, or even if he is out of town, his outfit must complement the rest of the family.
+++++One lunchtime Mama caught him in the park. It was a hot summer´s day and Papa had removed his jacket and tie and was sitting on the grass, a book in one hand, a baguette in the other, in just his white shirt and black trousers and, worse of all sins, without his shoes. Oh, how she scolded him––how would people know he was part of our family without his green tie; the tie that was carefully chosen and reflected the emerald and black dresses that we wore that day and the two-piece black suit and green blouse that Mama was wearing––Was it all for nothing that she went to so much trouble?––And no shoes! Was this the way he chose to insult his family? ––Was this how he repaid her dedication?
+++++I do not know how Mama punished Papa but be sure that she would have punished him. For days I examined him for scars but saw nothing except the pain on his face. Papa never did such a thing again.
+++++Everybody in our family must walk in step.
+++++Hahaha, and yes, when we are out together, we have to walk in step, like an army on the parade ground, with Mama, our perfectly attired sergeant major, silently keeping us marching in time.

Sunday 9th May 19–

Everything we do reflects upon the family. If I slam a door in class I am insulting Mama as she sits having tea in the Café Boulogne-Sur-Mer with her friends. If I do not smile sweetly at Mademoiselle Grassouillet as she hands back my arithmetic homework (even if it does say “6/10. This is not good Catherine, please see me after class” [I always tell her that I have a ballet lesson after class and she always believes me {well no maybe she doesn´t believe me but she always lets me leave just the same}]) By not smiling sweetly I am insulting Mama and adding another nail to the coffin of sweet Papa as he labours in his laboratory, distilling the petals of flowers, searching for the essence that will perfume our next batch of soap.
+++++For that is what we are: the soap family. Not any high street soap but “Desjardins hand-fashioned soaps; the most beautiful of soaps made from natural ingredients, exquisite colours and delightful perfumes, wrapped in the finest of tissue paper.”
+++++In our town the name Desjardins is synonymous with soap.
+++++The business has been in Mama’s family for many years. It was started by her grandfather, who had moved to our town, from Marseille after a scandalous duel with a rival over the love of our great-grandmama. (I asked Mama about this, but she would not say more. She simply said that love often caused weak people to do unwise things and that I must remember that and be aware that it was just a biological urge and like all primitive urges it should be resisted).
+++++Papa had been a simple chemist, always in the laboratory, distilling perfume; inventing new formulas to improve the soaps; researching newly discovered plants and compounds to produce more exotic fragrances. He would surely have stayed that way until he died (or retired, whichever came the sooner), but Mama had other plans. And if Mama has plans, they are sure to be fulfilled.
+++++When they married, Papa took on more responsibility and when Grandpapa died, he became the natural successor of the business. Mama had no brothers, only Magdalena, her younger sister (I love my Aunt Magdalena, she is so unlike Mama, she is always laughing and getting into trouble and saying rude things and I wish she were my mama, what fun we would have [I hope that she will look after us when Mama goes to heaven and Papa goes to gaol]).
+++++The one thing Mama insisted on was retaining the family name and so (unusually for that time) Papa changed his name to Mama´s and we became the Desjardins family. A proud family and of course proud families can become targets, especially the daughters of proud families, they become easy targets.
+++++Once in the park I saw a gang of crows mobbing a bright-coloured parakeet that had escaped from the nearby zoological gardens. They pecked at it and harassed it until it flew out of sight. Later that day I found its bright green body lying stiff by the side of the pond. Green splattered with the red of blood. The outfit laid out for him to wear by fate. So it is with Bebe and me. At school the other children mock us. They call us “les poissons gras” ––oily fish. I do not know why. They are not very imaginative. How can they be, standing there in their grey smocks and shirts, with their dirty neckerchiefs tied around their throats like gypsies, with their stupid stares and big heads wobbling on their ridiculously thin necks?
+++++Bebe sticks out her tongue to them, but I do not waste my energy. I simply remember. All their actions and all their names are etched in my memory. One day. They will not know who or why. How good it will taste.

Monday 10th May 19–

Maybe I should tell you a little about our town: Rignoles, a good 12-hour journey from Marseille by horse and cart, nine horse-hours from Toulon (and fifty years from the modern world). Not that I have been to any of these towns. (Flassans-sur-Issole is the furthest I have been so far in my life. We went there last year for a wedding. I got to wear flowers in my hair). We have a pretty square and a castle and a river that runs through the town; a few shops and cafes, two schools and a pretty park. Apart from that it is dull. The Desjardins are by far the brightest thing in our village, how sad and colourless it would be without us. We are the brightest and I am the smartest of the brightest.

Tuesday 11th May 19–

Mama has the pockets on our dresses sown up so that we will not spoil the natural line of our clothes by putting anything inside them, especially not our hands. Mama says that a person with their hands in their pockets is a person with time on their hands, and a person with time on their hands is wasting time and wasting time is a sin.
+++++We never wear the colour yellow. Mama hates yellow, she says it is a colour that can only be worn by the sun and butterflies and that people should never on any occasion go near it, for it would dissipate the skin and make the healthiest of people look sickly. To her it is the colour of yellow fever and of death.
+++++I dream of yellow.

Wednesday 12th May 19–

Sometimes Papa allows Bebe and I to go into the factory to see the soaps being made. It is good to stand and watch the conveyor belt as it meanders through the production room. We watch the soap mix pouring into the moulds and then being stamped, by hand, with our emblem: that perfect Desjardins rose. The moulds are then moved to the cooling room, where they sit until they are safe to handle. When the soaps are cooled and hardened they are carefully wrapped in the finest coloured tissue paper, the colour, of course, having been decided for the day to match our clothes, our world.
+++++In the laboratory, Bebe likes to spend her time playing with the mice, but I am fascinated by the coloured compounds in the glass jars that line the shelves. There are two rows of shelves. Those marked with the skull and crossbones are reserved for the top shelf, out of the reach of inquisitive young hands, but inquisitive hands soon find quiet times and sturdy step ladders.
+++++Papa has friends who travel the world looking for new plants and they bring many of them back for him to experiment. He spends many hours distilling the ingredients of exotic flowers, some even with no given name, searching for new compounds, new colours, and new fragrances.
+++++The unfamiliar names, written in Papa´s flowing copperplate hand fill me with wonder: Monkshood, Digitalis, Nicotina, Cockspur, Spanish Fly, Deadly Nightshade. Nicotina seems to me to be the name of a fairy Godmama and Spanish Fly, the crushed and powdered remains of insects.
+++++I am an inquisitive child, so it is no surprise to my Papa that I ask him so many questions about the process of soap making: the use and possible dangers of sodium hydroxide; the balance of the lye, so important or the soap will burn the skin. I read in one of Papa’s books that if the skin were lacerated then it was possible for other poisons to enter the blood. Other poisons that were easily discovered in the countryside surrounding our town. How I love to go for walks in the countryside and gather wildflowers.
+++++As well as from Papa, I learn from the books that he keeps in the library. The books on the shelves opposite the novels and The Tales of Mama Goose. “Inorganic Plant Poisons And Stimulants” by Winifred Elsie Brenchley is a particular favourite (I like especially Chapter 5: “Effect of Arsenic Compounds”) and “Wild Flowers and their Properties” by Louis Allard, with its beautiful detailed coloured illustrations by Mme Lefebre. So lifelike, so easy to identify.
+++++I am learning fast. I must act quickly because we are fast approaching July, the month of my birth, when I will be thirteen and from that moment (in the eyes of the law) deemed to be of criminal responsibility. Until then I am safe from prosecution. Of course, that is, if any police officer suspects me rather than opting for the obvious choice of Papa as the perpetrator. He has the means, the knowledge, and, as all the town will testify, the motive.
+++++In many ways I would relish it if it were discovered that I had planned and executed the crime (and executed Mama in the process too of course [isn’t language exquisite!]). Then they would know. Then they would be wary of calling us names. Either way would be good for me. It depends on the cleverness of the police. I leave it in their lap. I love Papa dearly, but he is a weak man and of little imagination. To be thought of as the perpetrator of this action would raise his notoriety far more than he deserves.

Thursday 13th May 19–

Mama always bathes before dinner and changes into her evening outfit which of course is of the same colour range as our daily wear.
+++++When we moved here the bathing facilities were in a separate building across from our back door. Now a new bathroom had been added to the rest of the house, a huge space of a bathroom, as Mama had requested, on the first floor opposite the main bedroom, sitting upon the new conservatory, where mother talks to her orchids.
+++++The door to the bathroom is the old solid backdoor. A beautiful piece of craftsmanship, with flowing grained wood covered with shiny varnish (so shiny you can see your face in it), banded with metal and still with its heavy lock, secured by a brass key (which is normally found on the inside of the bathroom door) used for privacy, but in practice hardly ever used, unless we have visitors, which is rare.
+++++Mama is proud of the bathroom, the water is heated by the range downstairs and held in a tank above the bath. It is one of the first of its kind to be installed in Rignoles.
+++++She fills the bathroom with steam and luxuriates in a mist of perfume and soap bubbles and there in the bath she will manicure and paint her long tapered nails in a colour that matches the day’s theme.
+++++By the colour of our outfits we know which bar of soap Mama will choose to bathe with that day.
+++++Like all good crimes, careful planning is the secret to success. Tonight Bebe and I will begin our preparations.

Friday 14th May 19–

Last night was a dark and windy night. That is why I chose it. I hoped the rattling of the shutters would mask our footfalls. At 2 a.m. I woke up Bebe and we crept downstairs. I took the keys from the hook by the front door, and we walked across the forecourt to the factory.
+++++I wore gloves; beautiful white cotton gloves that Papa keeps for the purpose of handling compounds. I wore a silk handkerchief over my mouth and nose, and I avoided touching my eyes. Papa often told a tale of how, whilst handling a particularly astringent compound, he had (in an absent-minded moment) touched his eye and had been left blind for nearly a week. He suffered many painful days and unrewarding visits from the local doctor, who simply shook his head and warned him of the dangers of handling caustic chemicals. Thankfully, his sight returned but the tale stayed with me, and I learnt from his mistakes.
+++++Whilst Bebe kept watch I began mixing my “special” soap, the one whose formula I had been working on for many days: a special lye, high in sodium hydroxide together with a cocktail of belladonna, digitalis, hemlock, and hogweed. I only had one chance and so I hoped that at least one of these ingredients would live up to its place in Madame Brenchley´s book.
+++++When I returned to the yard Bebe was nowhere to be found. I eventually located her in the laboratory playing with the mice. I scolded her. She was meant to be keeping watch. I had to remind her of the seriousness of our task and of the consequences if our plan was to be discovered. Not prison, of course, we were too young, but for sure we would be split up, maybe sent to boarding school, who knew. I am not sure if she fully understood. She is too young.
+++++The two of us carefully carried the “special” soap to the stables where we hid it beneath a pile of oat sacks.
+++++Now, there it lays: a beautifully perfumed bar of death, waiting for our next “pink” day.

Sunday 23rd May 19–

My heart quickened this morning when I awoke to see my salmon pink dress draped elegantly across my bedroom chair together with my pale blue shoes and hat.
+++++This is to be the day. It is the perfect day. Papa is away to Marseilles on business, soap business, of course, and as it is Sunday, we have no servants in the house. (Mama likes us to have the house to ourselves on a Sunday) Martha, our maid has folded and put away her apron and will not return to the house until six o’clock Monday morning to prepare our breakfast.
+++++I rose quickly and silently made my way to the stables. I retrieved the bar of soap from beneath the sacks and donning a new pair of gloves carefully wrapped it in the fine tissue paper. Then, making my way back to the house, I climbed the stairs to the bathroom. Locking the door behind me, I removed the wrapped bar of soap from the bathroom cabinet and replaced it with mine own.
+++++Wrapping the original soap in a towel I went downstairs to Papa’s study, unlocked the secret drawer on his desk and placed the bar of soap there, together with a list of the deadly ingredients used. The list is written in my father’s hand. I had practised for weeks until I could imitate his sloping style and his ornate “F´s” and “E´s” (The secret door is easily opened, simply by pushing in the handle of the drawer above. [I had cracked the code when I was five. {I do not know if the police will be clever enough to find this but if not then I have a plan to move the evidence somewhere more obvious, if necessary}]).
+++++We spent the day diligently doing our homework before going to church and praying for our immortal souls. I prayed especially hard. Later we helped Mama to deadhead the wilting flowers and remove any dandelions that dared to bring yellow into our garden.
+++++This evening, as always, Mama went upstairs to bathe. I followed her at a discreet distance. I watched her enter the bathroom and, taking the brass key from my pocket, silently locked the door. I listened until I could hear the running of the water and then crept back downstairs.

Monday 24th May 19–

Last night, whilst Mama was bathing, Bebe and I took a long walk to the end of the big lane and up North Hill. We are not normally allowed out on our own after dark. It was exciting but also a little frightening to be out so late and on our own. The countryside sounded different, the animals had different cries, and the birds sang strange melancholic songs. At the top of the hill we sat in silence, hand in hand, watching the sun disappear into the fields, way off in the horizon.
+++++When we returned to the big house all was dark and silent. We decided not to light the lights and simply made our way to bed. I lay for a long while, listening to Bebe gently snoring beside me before I too eventually dropped off to sleep.
+++++Were the birds singing a little louder this morning? Was the sun a little brighter? Certainly my heart beat a little faster as Bebe and I dressed in the same pink dresses (for Mama had not laid out any new outfits for us to wear) and went down to breakfast.
+++++Everybody was surprised that Mama was not already there, checking our clothes and telling us our tasks for the day. Martha asked us a lot of questions: When had we last seen Mama? Was she maybe unwell? Had she gone to Marseille with Papa?
+++++Bebe is the best actor out of the both of us, she looked so surprised by events and answered all the questions just as we had planned. Maybe she will have a career upon the stage one day. For me breakfast was interminably long, I kept looking anxiously at the dining room door expecting Mama to appear at any time. But she never made an entrance.

Tuesday 25th May 19–

Mama was found late yesterday morning by Dee, one of our cleaners. Surprised to find the bathroom door locked she had knocked for ten minutes before turning the key and entering inside. I felt a little sorry for her, I have always liked dear Dee, she has a nice open smile. It was a shame to see it wiped from her face.
+++++We heard the scream in the drawing room, but we do not know what she saw. We were kept far away from the scene of the tragedy.
+++++My imagination was fuelled later when I overhear Dee speaking with Martha. Although she whispered and blubbered uncontrollably, I was able to make out the words “wide staring eyes,” “yellow skin,” “broken fingernails” and “scratches upon the door.” I allowed a little tear to appear in the corner of my eye and a little smile to play upon my lips.

Thursday 10th June 19–

Mother was buried today in the local cemetery. In a grave next to her father. All the village was there but few cried.
+++++The burial was held back because of the postmortem. These are rare here but given the circumstances of mother’s death it was thought necessary. I overheard father telling a friend that a specialist doctor had been summoned from Lyon to carry out the investigation.
+++++Bebe and I wore black bombazine dresses with a black crape veil covering our heads, The veils made breathing difficult. I suspect this was a way of showing us what death was like: uncomfortable and with breathing difficulties.
+++++As dear Mama was lowered into the grave a beautiful yellow butterfly settled upon her coffin and nestled there, waving its brimstone wings in the warm breeze. I am sure I saw the coffin give a shudder just before the first handful of dirt was thrown and frightened the butterfly away.

Friday 25th June 19–

This morning the police arrived and took Papa away. I suspect to the police station for questioning although we were told nothing. As he was leaving Papa bent down and kissed Bebe and me and told us not to worry and that he would be home very soon. He said that in the meantime Aunt Magdalena was on her way to care for us and that we had to promise to be brave and good girls whilst he was away.
+++++Tonight I will bury this diary in the garden beneath the peony bush. I was going to burn it but I have decided to wrap it up in cloth and bury it so that I can retrieve it later if I wish (I have an idea of it being found 100 years from now and becoming a sensational story) I cannot leave it in my bedroom, Aunt Magdalena is nosey and will not be deterred by the “This diary is private” sign on the cover.

Saturday 26th June 19–

This morning I laid out the outfits Bebe and I will wear today. Bright orange and yellow. At first Bebe moaned and said that she did not want to wear the same clothes as me, but I told her that we had to keep up the tradition, otherwise people in the village would begin to suspect.
+++++It was good that we both agreed. I did not want to force her.
+++++But if necessary …
+++++I have checked the basement. The mattress is still there.
+++++{I am, after all, my mother’s daughter}

 

[Image Credit : Photo by Fredrik Öhlander on Unsplash ]

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