By Lillian Bradbury
Dad sat bolt upright in bed as if he had been shot. He fled to the window, and through the half-light, he saw Mother with a bundle in her arms about to drop it into the water butt. He got to her in time, and she released the bundle into his arms before collapsing into the garden border of forget-me-not.
I have heard this story so many times—of how I was almost drowned in the water butt—and it still haunts me to this day. Dad said Mother had been a recluse since they had married and eventually had to be hospitalised for long-term care. She died when I was five years old.
While I was growing up, I would often get a whiff of cigarette smoke, and Dad would say, “That’s your mother, smoked like a trouper.” I often wondered why she would still be hanging around if she didn’t want me in the first place. My aunts and uncles were shocked that Dad had burdened me with the truth, but I was always grateful to him—it was easier knowing that she was ill.
When I was twelve years old, I started to notice that when I fell off my bike or twisted an ankle, that smell would always be around. Paranoia has followed me throughout my life, even leading to a short spell receiving therapy. I became used to laughing about it with my family, that Mother was at it again, wanting to be there for me when I was hurt.
“Too late,” I would shout into the ether, but smiling inside, knowing that she was now showing her love after her dark intentions when I was born.
Dad died a few weeks ago, unaware that I was carrying his grandchild. My husband Matt stood with me at his graveside when the familiar smell of smoke overpowered me, and I felt great comfort.
It only took a couple of days to clear the house, but the garden was a different matter. The estate agent made it clear that it needed tidying up before any viewings. I cleared the neglected beds and mowed the lawn and decided to hoe the border full of forget-me-not, knowing that not everyone was fond of this invasive plant.
I stood back to admire the bare fertile soil, undulating in small mounds. I would leave that for the new owners to tackle… I’m not particularly fond of moles.
Clearing up the bedraggled blue plants, I found four wooden markers, each named.
Lily. Violet. William. Rose.
Perhaps now, these beautiful flowers can sense the light and emerge again.
My last job was to cut back the climbing hydrangea. I recovered the old step ladder from the shed, and with pruning shears in hand, I climbed until I reached the wayward stems.
The last thing I remember was the strong smell of tobacco smoke as I fell into the open water butt, and the blackness, as the lid slammed on top.
© 2024 Lillian Bradbury
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“Phantosmia?” by Lillian Bradbury is a haunting and suspenseful short story that explores themes of memory, the supernatural, and unresolved family trauma. A chilling tale where the past lingers in scents and shadows, culminating in an unsettling and eerie conclusion.
