one page: brisbane

grandad’s greenhouse
alyssa miskin
Think of the most gorgeous smelling perfume you can buy,
and then double the power of that scent. You have almost
come close to the perfume of my Grandad’s orchids. I was
about ten the first time I was allowed to touch something
in Grandad’s greenhouse. I’d been allowed to walk inside it
supervised for a few years, but I had to act like it was a china
display; the orchid petals would fall off if I so much as inhaled
near them.
Dad, Grandad, and I were in the greenhouse, parts of which
were older than me by about forty years, sorting out which of
Grandad’s potted plants would move to the new house. I’m
not sure what kind of system of organisation we were using,
or what the final plan involved, all I knew was we were moving
hundreds of black plastic pots and their precious flowers from
one side of the greenhouse to the other.
I was at the doorway end so I could quickly escape from the
greenhouse air—it was hot and thick with the chemical-burn
smell of fertiliser and compost mulch. I had to duck under
hanging plants and falling greenhouse mesh as Dad and
Grandad dismantled the frame at the other end. Decades
of lost and half-melted toys, frisbees, and soccer balls were
thrown at me as Dad and Grandad uncovered them from
among the pots and polystyrene compost, or fell from their
long-time captivity in the roof.
“Here, Leesa… Liza… Ah, uh, Alyssa-Kate.”
I could never tell if he actually didn’t remember my name, or
if he was joking. He was holding out a spanner on the flat of
his palm.
“Take this,” he wheezed. That was the first time I noticed
he ran out of breath quickly. It was what got him in the end.
I stepped deeper into the mottled greenhouse and looked up
at Grandad smiling crookedly under his floppy beige hat. I
lifted the spanner off his hand and he let rip a massive, rippling,
guttural fart. Think of the most horrible smelling rubbish bin
you can find, and then double the power of that scent. You
have almost come close to the perfume of my Grandad’s fart.
“Nice one, Pop,” Dad called out.
I was not, strangely, impressed when the odour from Grandad’s
pants pervaded my nostrils; I missed the smell of fertiliser,
compost, and mulch. And any time I smell orchids now, their
sweet perfume has a sinister undertone that reminds me of
Grandad’s heavy, spicy, decomposition-scented fart. s
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