Before my grandmother died, we would walk down to the cemetery, sit on the bench that faced the road and count cars. Just the red ones. When the count reached ten, we’d walk back up the hill to Gran’s house for a cup of tea and a shortbread biscuit.
The most amazing thing about Gran’s house was the bathroom. It was purple in every sense of the word. That is, it was painted mauve and always smelled like lavender, from the lilac-coloured soap she used. Gran herself smelled of lavender, again due to the soap. As a child, I used to say she smelled of purple.
Now I’m twenty. It’s been five years since Gran passed and her house went to the highest bidder. It’s up for sale again, and I’m here to inspect out of trench-like feelings of nostalgia.
Up the big concrete staircase and into the thickly carpeted living room. The furniture is all different, but the room retains its original feel – warm, homely, inviting. I resist the urge to take a seat on the owner’s leather couch and put my feet up on their fluffy ottoman.
Into the kitchen, treading the cheap linoleum and taking in the off-white benchtops, the retro gas cooker, the lace curtains at the window above the sink. Not much has changed in here, just a different set of utensils gracing the bench and a stainless-steel fridge in place of the old white one.
There’s somebody else’s bed and dresser in the bedroom, the doona an unfamiliar solid teal bedecked with matching cushions. The view to the front lawn remains the same, the roses still in bloom around the perimeter. I’m not entirely sure why, but a sense of gladness flutters my heart to see the garden hasn’t been neglected.
I step into the bathroom and I’m surrounded by mauve walls; instinctively I draw a deep inhalation. I’m left disappointed. There’s a faint, vague soapy smell that’s nothing at all like lavender. Though the room still looks as purple as ever, it has lost its purple scent.
A bar of oatmeal soap sits at the rim of the sink, pale and lifeless.
I thank the agent for their time and exit the property blinking back tears. It’s the same house, but different – the paintings of Highland cows are missing from the walls, the gnomes are missing from the garden and the smell of purple is missing from the bathroom.
Gran is long gone.
I wander down to the cemetery for old time’s sake, taking the same route we always used to take together. Gran is buried in there now. I stand at the foot of her marble tombstone for a bit, where a faded old bunch of roses sits in an empty jar. Then I sit on the weather-beaten bench to count cars. The red ones, that is.
One.
I remember the way Gran kept the rosebushes so perfectly trimmed, out there almost every day with her garden gloves and secateurs. She even mowed the lawn herself, with one of those antediluvian manual mowers. She was active right up until her passing; in fact, she was out in the garden when she fell and fractured her hip, the injury that sent her to hospital where she caught pneumonia and died.
Two.
I remember visiting Gran’s as a very small child, heading straight for the kitchen to stare up at the biscuit barrel on the fridge until she would fetch it down to offer me a biscuit – usually shortbread, but sometimes there were cream-filled ones to thrill my juvenile taste buds. On very special occasions, there were biscuits coated in chocolate. A rare treat.
Three.
Traffic courses past the cemetery in a constant busy hum. I’m glad Gran is buried right up the back, near the row of eucalypts. There was no resting in peace happening up near the road, that was for sure. I feel for the poor souls doomed to an eternity of rumbling motors and zooming engines.
Four.
Gran loved baking almost as much as she loved gardening. The most exciting thing about having a birthday was seeing what kind of cake Gran had concocted. It was always something different, and she managed to outdo herself every time, be it black forest, orange flourless, red velvet, or chocolate lava.
Five.
Out the back of Gran’s place was her garden shed, a ramshackle tin affair filled with bags of compost and soil, various digging tools, a large red wheelbarrow, and a motley collection of pots. As a child, I enjoyed dressing up in her big floral gumboots and rummaging around the shed pretending to be a green thumb like Gran.
Six.
A bus clatters past, an old school bus that has been painted in psychedelic swirls and has a giant stuffed teddy tied to the front bumper. I wonder who’s driving and where they’re off to, imagining carefree trips across the country with music and laughter and sharing secrets around the campfire at night.
Seven.
We once had a small fire in Gran’s backyard, contained in an old washing machine barrel. Gran gave me marshmallows to toast over the flames on the end of a long stick. She pulled out a battered ukulele from yesteryear and played simple tunes to sing along to. She was a fun grandmother.
Eight.
At Gran’s funeral, we all dressed in bright colours and feather boas and sequinned bow ties. It was what Gran had wanted. They played her favourite songs, and we all sang and danced along, songs by Neil Sedaka and Bobby Vee, not sombre songs. Gran had also insisted that cake be served in the aftermath, and we were treated to a hazelnut torte that almost rivalled Gran’s cooking.
Nine.
A sweet, familiar fragrance hits my nostrils with the immediacy of an aerosol spray, though the cemetery is deserted. It’s a distinct floral odour, but not the scent of any of the plants nearby – it’s not eucalyptus, or daffodil, or rosemary.
It’s lavender. The smell of purple. Strong, definite, and coming from nowhere.
I smile and well up. I know it’s Gran.
Ten.
It’s time to go. All things must pass.
—About the Author—
Rainie Zenith is an Australian author with works published in the genres of fantasy, horror, steampunk, realism, and humour. Her story ‘Ernie’ was the winner of the 2020 Monash WordFest. She is also a singer-songwriter. Find out more at rainiezenith.com or facebook.com/rainiezenith.