In the middle of the table was an instantly recognisable Crown Lynn vase, its simple, elegant profile and shell-like white exterior contrasting with the unrestrained arrangement of kōwhai and fern foliage fanning out from its top. It was a nice touch and I wondered which of the women had brought it in. I had a feeling it wasn’t the work of the one leading the panel but, rather, that of the assistant – the woman I assumed took charge of buying milk and biscuits for meetings, or wrote thank-you notes and sent out petrol vouchers to invited speakers. Without thinking I reached out and brushed my hand against the soft leaves, then turned the vase slightly as if that might bring me luck.
‘They’re beautiful,’ I said, and the assistant smiled and replied they were picked from her garden that morning. Before she could elaborate, however, Pam, the woman leading the panel, cleared her throat and the interview proper began.
It was a good interview. Respectful. I was asked questions about my experience, and we talked at length about the role of museum supporters and volunteers and the importance of remaining authentic and relevant in a changing world. I think the use of the word ‘relevant’ touched us all in some way. With the exception of Jax, the younger woman, we were all of an age where our ‘irrelevance’ was fast becoming a fact of life.
Pam, the manager of the Friends, had been a senior accountant in a large firm but was now retired. Maureen, the woman who arranged the flowers, was a nurse who worked part time in an aged care facility. She had loved visiting museums as a child and had spent hours wandering the galleries with her own two children, who no longer shared her enthusiasm for the collections. ‘They’re so busy with study and work, and getting on with their own lives,’ she said sadly. ‘They don’t have time to come here any more.’
Quietness took over the room then, broken only when Jax recounted a story about her own introduction to the museum. She’d gone to London after finishing school and fallen in with the New Zealand expat community, earning money working in bars and restaurants at night while undertaking an apprenticeship to a New Zealand-born jewellery designer by day. After three years she returned home, intending to start her own workshop, but had felt out of sorts, unable to get back into the swing of things. Her problem was that she no longer felt connected. And then one day, with nothing better to do, she found herself at the museum looking at the jewellery on display. She walked through several halls and after an hour or so came across a vitrine featuring some contemporary Auckland jewellers, and there in front of her was a necklace consisting of a row of white shell fragments and two small pieces of driftwood threaded onto strands of linen thread.
‘The second I saw it I knew I was home. It reminded me of when I lived out on Te Atatū Peninsula and used to explore the beach and mangroves. The shells on the necklace were like the ones that used to cut into the soles of my feet when I was out on the mudflats. I was amazed that something as simple as a necklace, no more than a string of shells and wood, could conjure up such a strong response and sense of place. It was the push-start I needed.’ We sat in silence, and then Pam said what we were all thinking, ‘God, I wish I was young again.’
As I was leaving, Maureen followed me out and told me that she’d recognised my name when she was going through the applications because her oldest son, Liam, had been a student of mine. ‘I remembered him telling me what a great lecturer you were,’ she said. ‘You were so informed and enthusiastic. He said you were the most inspiring lecturer he ever had and he wished he’d stuck with American studies instead of going into political science.’
‘Thanks.’
‘He reckons the university shafted you. Not only you but all of you, the whole department, not to mention humanities in general.’
‘Well, probably.’
‘Do you know what I heard the other day, from a friend of mine who owns an interior decorating business?’
‘No?’
‘You’ll hate this. The rumour is that the vice-chancellor has put in an order for an office refurbishment: curtains, new furniture, fittings, art – local artists – the works. It’s going to cost tens of thousands.’
I didn’t say anything.
‘Terrible, isn’t it. To lay off so many people and then order in new curtains. Mind boggling.’ Maureen sighed. ‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘it was good to meet you at last. Thank you for coming in. You were great.’
Not great enough to be offered the job, though.
In the following days I went back over my curriculum vitae, adjusting its template and format in an attempt to make it more eye catching. To ensure that I’d got it right I watched ‘how-to’ clips on YouTube and consulted websites dedicated to the subject. When I was finished I felt that I’d succeeded in making my résumé slicker, but it no longer seemed quite as informative or useful in terms of my work record and skills. When I read through the changes I kept wanting to restore the bits I’d cut out.
I wasn’t happy with my new truncated CV, but I attached it to my latest round of applications and then sat back, content that I had done a good morning’s work. As I relaxed with a cup of coffee – the one made from ground beans I still permitted myself each day – I summoned up the courage to call the human resources person about a data entry position I’d applied for around the same time as the museum job. I was put through straight away and the man who answered informed me that they had drawn up a shortlist of applicants that morning.
‘Is my name on it?’ I asked.
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you.’
I hadn’t expected any other response but I had little to lose so tried again. I made my case, stretching the truth slightly by explaining I was trying to juggle dates due to deadlines and travel commitments, and to my relief he softened and said he would look me up. I tried not to raise my hopes, but by the time he came back on the line I had somehow convinced myself that I would get an interview. I had the data entry experience and was confident using Microsoft Excel.
‘Si-an?’
‘Sharn,’ I said.
‘I have some bad news, I’m afraid. Unfortunately there was a problem with your electronic application and we couldn’t process it.’
My heart lurched. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, we clearly stated that all applications must be in the format specified …’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘… and it appears your application was submitted incorrectly.’
‘What do you mean, incorrectly?’
‘It looks like you failed to attach a current photograph.’
‘But that’s because I didn’t want to be discriminated against because of my age.’
‘We don’t discriminate and nothing in the Human Rights Act prevents us from asking for a photo.’
‘Well, I can send you a passport photo now, then, and you can process the application. I’m presuming that’s the only problem?’
‘I’m sorry, Siân, I really am. But we can’t do that. It would be unfair to the other applicants.’
‘What other applicants?’
‘The ones who also submitted incomplete applications.’
‘You mean all the other middle-aged applicants who left out a photo? Oh, and actually, now I think about it, you should think about the message you’re conveying with all those photos of young white men on your company brochure.’
There was a long pause and then the man cleared his throat. ‘We can’t make an exception for you, that would be unfair.’
I grunted.
‘And, for future reference, don’t assume all senior HR guys are white. That’s not cool.’
So help me, I chose that afternoon to go back to The Corner Dairy to check on some new perfume releases I’d read about on one of the perfume blogs. The handsome assistant was behind the counter arranging a display of black and white cube-shaped bottles. He smiled at me and said, ‘Welcome to the Perfume Corner,’ and although it was unfair to blame him for my ill-judged remarks to the HR officer earlier that day, his friendly manner, and the fact
that he had a job, struck a raw nerve and I launched into a nasty attack.
‘Do you have any perfumes that smell like laundry musk blended with generic berries?’ I asked. ‘Something that yells “pink.” Anything …’ I paused and then spat out the word ‘pink’ once more.
He looked at the bottle in his hand and put it down next to the others on display. ‘Pink?’ He shook his head.
‘Really? Because I think you do. In fact, looking around, I think you’ll find that you’re drowning in pink. And, for your information, it’s not Chanel No. 19.’
I didn’t stay to test the new perfumes; I was no longer in the mood. Instead, I stomped off to the city art gallery, where I managed to get even more angry and offended by a small display of Picasso etchings that showed images of what I considered brutalised women. I was still fuming when, less than an hour later, I walked through the university and spotted a crowd of people outside the Student Union building. As I got closer I could see a banner announcing ‘Silent Protest – Support the Humanities’. The scene was eerily quiet, despite the crowd milling around. I wasn’t going to stop but as I circled around the group I caught sight of an administrator I recognised from the history department and paused to say hello.
‘It’s very polite, isn’t it?’ I said.
She nodded and whispered, ‘It’s silent.’
‘Not exactly like the old days.’
I glanced around at the expressionless faces of the protesters and shook my head. I expected the woman to agree but instead she frowned and stepped away, but not before she held her finger to her lips and whispered, ‘Shush.’
When I looked at the students nearest me I felt even more out of place. Something about their posture and behaviour put me in mind of passive-aggressive, sulking teenagers. By contrast, the older protesters struck me as spectators rather than participants. I couldn’t imagine that the protest would even register with the vice-chancellor, let alone have much impact on the wider public. I heard myself mutter, ‘This is nuts,’ but when a protester next to me caught my eye and gave me a disapproving look, I apologised. ‘Sorry, it’s caught me at a bad time …’ I trailed off, annoyed at myself for being so cynical and bitter, frustrated with them for being so lifeless and precious.
I glanced around, hoping to see someone, somewhere, looking as angry as I felt, but all I saw was Jerome, standing alone with his hands clasped in front of him, a solemn, sanctimonious expression on his face. Seeing him made me feel even more restless. I wanted someone to take the lead and break ranks. I wanted noise. I needed someone to call out, ‘Save the humanities,’ so I could join in.
A restrained murmur went through the crowd and I turned to see a man holding up a phone, clearly filming a small group holding a ‘We support the humanities’ banner. I recognised his face. He was a member of the campus security team, out of uniform and dressed casually in ripped jeans and a Rugby World Cup T-shirt. I manoeuvred closer but as I got to his side I stumbled and tripped, falling against him.
‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to start anything.’
‘Start anything? Who are you, the Red Squad?’
He pulled a sour face but I ignored him. ‘Why are you filming, anyway? It’s a peaceful protest.’
‘Security,’ he said.
‘Security? Rubbish.’ Once more I heard someone shush me but this time I was too annoyed to pay attention. ‘I have it on good authority,’ I told the security guard in a stage whisper, ‘that you and your mates are going to be replaced by hand-knotted rugs.’
‘What the hell …?’
‘Yeah, haven’t you heard? The VC’s cutting your budget so she can buy a pair of leather couches, a few “Keep Calm and Carry On” cushions and some new lightshades. How do you like that!’
‘I don’t know what you’re on about …’
‘Well, give it time and it will all become crystal clear.’
When I got home I was done for. I’d achieved nothing all day except to mouth off at strangers. I could barely have been more unpleasant if I tried. No wonder I was unemployable.
Notes from a noxious weed: gorse. Despite its prevalence and the fact that it has a lovely creamy, pollen-like, coconut and pale mint scent, gorse is rarely used as a perfume note – perhaps because no one wants to harvest the flowers. In Bach flower remedies gorse is used to counteract pessimism, despair and feelings of hopelessness.
Gorse. It goes to the top of my list of heart notes. Just my luck that I’ll never find any gorse essential oil, and if I do track some down I guarantee they won’t ship to New Zealand.
I hadn’t replied to Jerome. I intended to phone him back about the nanny job but in the end I decided I needed an outing so filled my car, intending to do a quick round of the market garden stalls and call in on him on my way back to town.
Jerome was part of the lifestyle block generation, preferring the quiet of the country and a long commute to the restored, inner-city villas of his colleagues. I’d been to his home a few times, making the occasional detour to drop off books during a weekend drive, attending an end of year barbecue or a birthday party. I used to think that he was still settling in, that he would landscape his property, or plant some trees, but when, on my last visit, I’d asked if he had any hobbies and he replied ‘My ride-on mower’, I realised that landscaping wasn’t part of his plan. Apart from a row of cabbage trees planted along the driveway, and a few tussocks by the house, his entire property consisted of nothing but manicured grass.
It was a beautiful clear day, with blue skies and not a breath of wind. Driving through the suburbs on my way out of the city, I could detect the smell of freshly cut lawns and capture the odd glimpse of people pottering about in their gardens or hanging their washing. The banality of these images put me in a good mood, one that remained with me as I made several stops at the market gardens and herb stalls along the way. When I finally pulled into Jerome’s long driveway I discovered cars parked either side. Clearly he was having some kind of do, to which I hadn’t been invited. I hesitated but decided that because it was mid-afternoon it was most likely some informal gathering and he wouldn’t mind my quickly popping in. To make it less awkward, I’d pretend that I’d bought too much basil and coriander for my own use so had decided to drop some off as I was passing by.
If Jerome was surprised to see me, he didn’t show it but graciously accepted the herbs before inviting me in, explaining that Desna had asked some of her friends from work to a barbecue and that he’d included some of his new colleagues from the English department. ‘You’ll know most of them,’ he said as he led me through to the kitchen. ‘Brooke’s here, with her partner,’ he said, referring to the head of English. ‘You should go and say hello.’
Arranged on the large kitchen island bench were plates of nibbles and several large pitchers of homemade lemonade. As Jerome filled my glass, he said, ‘Saw you at the protest.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Looked like you were having a go at the security guy.’
‘I was a bit tense, angry about something I’d heard.’
‘Well, you can take it easy now,’ said Jerome.
I followed him outside and we stood on the lawn, staring out past the boundary of his section towards the sea in the distance. I told him about my decision not to take on the nanny’s job and he assured me that he understood.
‘You don’t have much to do with children, I suppose?’
‘No. I’ve seen them around the neighbourhood but that’s about it.’
It was meant to be a joke but Jerome was too earnest to catch it so I tried to cover up my awkwardness by asking when he was off to Melbourne.
‘Soon. Not long.’
‘Desna’s not going?’
‘No, too much work.’
I followed his glance and saw Desna inside, standing among a group of well-dressed women, laughing over something. She must have sensed Jerome looking at her because she suddenly looked his way, then made a strange grimacing face and shr
ugged her shoulders in a kind of ‘What can I do?’ way. Jerome glanced from her to me, and back to her. It was barely noticeable and yet something about their wordless exchange tugged at me. I knew I should leave but perhaps because I hadn’t talked to anyone all weekend I stayed put, sipping from my glass.
‘I love Melbourne,’ I said.
Jerome nodded but his eyes were fixed on a place over my shoulder.
‘I found a specialist medical and apothecary antique shop during my last visit and it was like a museum of curiosities. There were lots of strange things like wax models of skin disorders, and glass eyes, but the thing I fell in love with was a large cabinet that must have come from a chemist. All the drawers had small porcelain labels with names like oil of cubeb, pennyroyal and oil of cloves. I would have loved to have bought it … but dollars!’
Jerome smiled in a distracted way. ‘I have no idea what oil of cubeb or pennyroyal is.’
As he spoke he shuffled slightly to his left, forcing me to turn my back on the house and face him.
‘Cubeb smells like pepper, and pennyroyal is like spearmint but less sweet. It has a touch of mothballs. I did buy a couple of sealed bottles of extracts and oils, one beauty was labelled Oleum Pini pumilionis.’
Jerome shuffled again. ‘I got the funding for the Texas research trip.’
‘That’s oil of dwarf pine needles and the bottle dates from around 1880. Never been opened.’
‘So, I’ll be going to the Salter archives as soon as I can organise it.’
‘You can make a really tasty pine syrup from the cones. It’s European – the tree. So have you bought your tickets?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘To Austin?’
‘I should go and help Desna,’ said Jerome.
I turned to see where he was looking and there was Desna, excusing herself from the women she’d been talking to and walking towards a man who’d entered the room. He was wearing a sharp black suit with a white open-necked shirt and had a white pocket square peeping from his top pocket. I saw Desna kiss him on his cheek and then she looked beyond him, towards the entrance foyer. A moment later a well-dressed woman walked in. The vice-chancellor.
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