It was as if someone had yanked on the laces of a corset fitted tightly around my ribs. There was a sharp pain, followed by a shortness of breath that left me gulping for air. I saw Jerome’s face but it was a little blurry, his mouth distorted, and then I realised he was trying to tell me something. Rather, he was telling me something but I hadn’t understood. All I heard were the names Warden, Black and Maybank.
‘Warden …’ he repeated.
‘What?’
‘Anthony Warden.’
‘Who?’
‘Desna’s boss. Anthony Warden.’
I shook my head, but my whole body gave a shudder as I saw the vice-chancellor turn our way. ‘What’s she doing here?’ I pointed to her. ‘Is she your friend? You never told me you were friends.’
‘Tony Warden,’ said Jerome. ‘The senior partner of Warden, Black and Maybank. Desna’s boss, the VC’s husband.’
To my horror I saw the vice-chancellor give a little wave to Jerome, who raised his hand in return. But before I could say anything, Brooke Daniels suddenly joined us, her partner Lisa, a midwife, at her shoulder.
‘Hi,’ said Brooke. ‘How are you? I think you know Lisa, don’t you?’
‘Lisa?’ I added the name to the ones Jerome had handed me. It didn’t make sense and then, seeing the young woman scowling with a phone in her hand, I snapped back into the world. ‘Lisa! Of course, sorry. I’m distracted. How are you?’
Lisa grunted. ‘Busy.’
I tried to smile but once more I found myself looking towards the house, my attention fixed on the vice-chancellor.
‘Lisa has a client ready to pop,’ said Brooke. ‘We might have to dash soon.’ A look of irritation passed over her face and I noticed Lisa roll her eyes. ‘I told you to take the other car,’ she said to Brooke.
‘It’s all right, I’ve got tons of marking to do. I thought we’d have a few hours together …’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Lisa.
‘Nothing,’ said Brooke. ‘How are you, anyway, Siân?’
I moved my gaze towards Brooke but could think of nothing to say.
‘We have to go,’ said Lisa.
‘Really? Now?’
‘Yes. Now.’
Brooke smiled at me and said, ‘Drop in for a chat soon. This week if you’ve got time. Sorry …’
‘Now,’ repeated Lisa.
The vice-chancellor came out of the house and paused on the deck to look at the view. Then, two feet together like a bright young girl, she jumped down onto the lawn and began walking towards us, stopping briefly to greet Brooke and Lisa as they headed away. A few seconds later she was beside us, smiling at Jerome as she kissed him on the cheek. She half-glanced in my direction and said ‘Hi’ before turning back to Jerome. ‘I always forget what a great place you have here. It’s so peaceful. And green. So green compared to the city.’
‘Hello,’ I said.
She barely glanced at me. ‘Tony and I sometimes talk about moving to the country. But we both do such crazy, long hours …’
‘Siân,’ I said.
I saw Jerome drop his gaze, his attention fixed on a patch of dandelions by his feet.
‘Siân,’ I repeated.
‘Oh, sorry. Sorry. Siân.’ The VC looked at me and a faint smile flickered on her lips as she held out her hand for me to shake.
‘Penny,’ she said.
‘I know,’ I said.
I could feel my heart thumping hard in my chest.
‘We’ve met before,’ I said. ‘Through work.’
The vice-chancellor’s expression faltered and for the first time she looked at me closely. I noticed that Jerome hadn’t spoken and I suddenly realised how angry that made me feel.
‘Siân,’ I said again.
‘Of course,’ she said. She looked at Jerome and now he spoke: ‘From the American studies department.’
A chill went through the air. The faint, puzzled frown left the vice-chancellor’s face and her mouth hardened into a smile.
‘Of course,’ she repeated. ‘I’m so sorry, Siân. I was distracted. It’s been a hard week.’
‘Has it?’
Did she hear the scorn in my voice? She shifted her weight, now facing off against me, but she said nothing.
‘It is difficult, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she replied. Without altering the expression on her face she asked, ‘How are you, Siân?’
‘It’s been a hard week,’ I said as politely as I could.
To my amazement she replied, ‘It’s been a hard year. Difficult for all of us.’
I felt my jaw sag and drop open, and a voice inside me protested, ‘How dare you. How dare you talk to me like that.’
‘How’s Tony?’ asked Jerome.
‘You should go and say hello,’ said the vice-chancellor.
‘I can’t see him,’ said Jerome.
‘Oh, he’s probably popped back to the car for some work files.’ Then turning to me: ‘Tony and Desna work together. They have a big case …’
‘Unfair dismissal?’ I asked.
‘Copyright infringement.’
She didn’t even blink when she spoke. She looked straight at me, through me, past me. I was all but invisible.
‘You really don’t remember me, do you?’ I said.
From the corner of my eye I saw Jerome’s hand reach out towards my arm. And I felt his fingers ease gently around my sleeve. But it was the vice-chancellor’s expression that engulfed me. Her hard face, the slight twitch of her lips and the look of contempt that she could not conceal as she replied, ‘Siân Rees, of course I remember you.’ She smiled then, a cold frozen smirk. ‘Well, good luck going forward.’
I didn’t move.
‘Bye Siân,’ she said as she turned around and walked back into the house.
Jerome followed her. But not before asking if I was okay.
The open space around me felt very large, and standing on the lawn I felt small. I thought how strange I must look from the air. That someone looking down would see a lone woman, standing rigid, a half-empty glass of lemonade in her hand. Off to the side would be groups of people and kids running around, but here on this patch of lawn was a lone, middle-aged woman, with not so much as a tree nearby to offer shelter. From the air, a person would see the woman put down her glass on the lawn, and even though the grass was neatly mown the glass would tip over, depositing a slice of lemon on the bright green. And then the woman would start to walk. She would walk stiffly, as if the mechanics of moving one foot in front of the other were not yet mastered. She would look ahead and no one would call out to her, or wave, or try to stop her. She would circle the house, back to the long drive where her car was parked. From the air, a person would hear the peep-peep of her key activating the lock of the car, and then, seconds later, see her inside, sitting at the driver’s wheel. Sitting. Sitting. Staring.
I went to see Brooke Daniels in the English department. Before I went up to her room I found myself standing in the corridor outside my old office. The smell of the new carpet had faded, but the space did not seem the same as when I worked there. My nameplate was still on the door, which seemed remarkable, but underneath it was a laminated card with the names of several people. I didn’t recognise any of them but I guessed they were postgraduates, using my room as their write-up space. Archer’s name had gone from his door; there were a couple of screw holes where it used to be. Jerome’s nameplate had also gone, but maybe he took it with him when he shifted to the English department.
It never occurred to me when I was offered my American studies job that the whole department would ever cease to exist. Perhaps I missed a message informing me that American history, politics, religion, culture and art were no longer relevant in today’s world. Maybe those affected by cuts in music, philosophy, religious studies, linguistics, German, French and Italian were equally bemused. Perhaps we should have seen it coming. But it’s hard to predict the end when you believe in what you’re doing, whe
n there still seems to be value in knowledge.
When I knocked on Brooke’s open door she got up from behind her desk and came around to hug me. I appreciated the gesture but I didn’t reciprocate. I wanted to strike the correct tone and maintain a professional distance rather than have her think I was making a casual, social call. Moreover, I wasn’t entirely sure I could trust her. I’d grown a little paranoid in recent weeks and begun to dwell on what may have occurred behind the scenes in terms of deciding who kept their jobs and who didn’t. I’d always respected Brooke, and had no real reason to doubt her, but we were no longer colleagues or equals and I felt on edge now that I was stripped of my professional identity.
Brooke offered me a seat, then carefully closed the door, assuring me that we wouldn’t be interrupted. Back to her desk, she unplugged the phone. It began to feel as if I’d walked into a doctor’s consulting room and I almost wondered if she would close the blinds to ensure absolute privacy. She picked up a biro – to record our conversation? – but only clicked it a few times before putting it down. Only then did it occur to me that she was anxious, that my presence made her uncomfortable. When I smiled in an attempt to reassure her she looked relieved and asked how I was doing.
‘Not too well,’ I said. ‘I haven’t managed to find work yet.’
She nodded sympathetically and mumbled something about it being tough for people like me, by which I gathered she meant middle-aged unemployed women. ‘Have you applied for any overseas jobs?’
I shook my head.
‘I’m sure they’d snap you up somewhere. You’d have excellent references.’
‘Mmm.’
‘I wish I could help,’ she said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.
In normal circumstances I would have nodded and said something like, ‘It’s okay’, but these weren’t normal circumstances and I couldn’t leave without asking for work, no matter how humiliating it was. I took a deep breath and said, ‘I was wondering if you had anything I could do? I’d be happy to help out, even if only for a few hours a week. Do you need cover for anyone on sabbatical? Part-time tutoring?’
As I talked she shook her head gently from side to side, one shake for each negative response.
‘Marking?’
She shook her head again.
‘Research? Background research?’
It was becoming excruciating for both of us but I pressed on. ‘A website? Online presence?’
‘Pardon?’
‘A blog? I could manage a blog for the department.’
There was a long silence and then Brooke gave a slight shrug and said, ‘Sorry. There’s nothing.’
She looked so upset I found myself wanting to comfort her.
‘It’s not your fault,’ I said.
‘I know,’ she replied. ‘But I feel like shit not being able to help. The situation is desperate. The place is falling apart. We’ve lost half of our administration staff, and we’re being squeezed in every direction. We’re not going to be able to do any research. The VC is freezing all our funding. We’re going to be left with teaching, and nothing else. Basically, we’re being turned into a polytech. And I’m so, so sorry. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for you. How stressful. I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s all right,’ I heard myself reply. ‘I’ll find something.’
‘You know,’ said Brooke, ‘it’s not meant to be like this. We’re actually important. English is important. What you taught …’ She paused and picked up her biro, focusing on the advertisement printed on its barrel. ‘Lisa’s struggling with work …’ She turned the pen so I could see the name of Lisa’s agency.
I nodded. ‘Midwives …’
‘Yeah, midwives. They’re paid nothing. It’s awful.’
She’s right, I thought. It was awful. Academics, midwives, nurses, teachers … the whole shebang. ‘It’s all wrong,’ I said.
Brooke tried to smile but it only made her look even more worried.
‘Are you going to be okay?’ I asked. ‘Have you and Lisa got support?’
‘Lisa …’ she began but then her voice broke off.
‘Have you talked to anyone?’ I persisted.
‘I’m one of the lucky ones, remember! I’ve still got a well-paid job.’
We sat facing each other and then we both sighed at exactly the same time, which made us laugh. I sniffed and reached for a hanky to blow my nose. Brooke rubbed her sleeve across her eyes.
‘We started teaching about the same time, didn’t we?’ she said.
‘I think so.’
‘You used to come into the Staff Club?’
‘Only for the free tampons and aspirin. When I was caught short …’
‘You know it was Penny who organised those things? She used to bully the local suppliers into donating them. She was tough, even then.’
‘She would have just been made a senior lecturer in law?’
‘Yes, I guess so. She was always ambitious.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Do you think Jerome … Do you think he made a deal with her, to keep his job?’
Brooke looked at me and shook her head. ‘I hope not,’ she said. ‘I really hope not.’
It wasn’t until I left Brooke’s office that I realised how tired I was. I wandered back down the stairs, along the corridor towards my office. Without thinking, I reached for my door key and was surprised that it wasn’t in my pocket. I immediately opened my bag and searched inside, and it was only then that I understood my mistake. Heat rose up through my neck and face and I had to steady myself against the wall. A door opened at the end of the hall and a young guy came out, then stopped beside me. ‘Can I help you? Are you looking for someone?’ he asked as he placed his key in the lock.
‘No.’
‘Are you all right?’
I nodded and mumbled something about being late for a meeting. That seemed to satisfy him and a moment later he opened the door and disappeared into my old room.
A note of comfort: I am never going back. I’m done with university. I am done. I don’t believe there’s a scent that can lift me out of this mood of defeat and betrayal. Could Jerome have cut a deal with the vice-chancellor? I don’t think so. I’m not sure that would have been possible. But maybe I’m wrong and he did. It would explain why he’s still working and I’m not.
I need something to bring me comfort. My father. What did he smell like? Amber comes back to me, the scent of his doctor’s bag. A sweet scent. The beer he made. There must be more. I remember things like the smell of milk the time a bottle smashed in the back of his car. We scrubbed the carpet but as the days passed, and the car heated, the smell intensified, turning from sour to fetid, a smell I later associated with athlete’s foot. I remember the cocoa he used to make us; unlike my mother, he made it with hot milk rather than water, and he stirred in extra sugar the way we liked it, my sister and I. I remember the smell of medlar jelly, made from a recipe in a large black book of baking and preserves. I helped pick the medlars but I hated them; they reminded me of pears and apples left rotting on the ground, brown and mildewed.
What I remember most, though, is the smell of his homespun jersey. Knitted from dark brown merino wool, it carried the smell of sheep, the beautiful greasiness of fleece. I loved the way the jersey accumulated more and more scents over the years: of garden bonfires, two-stroke petrol, freshly caught fish, wood stain, sawdust, dirt. It came to symbolise his life – not his career, as his doctor’s bag did – but his home life, the time he spent with us, his family. Homespun, greasy wool. Another heart note for my perfume. To create that smell I’ll try ambergris: it reminds me of stock trucks, sweet like caramel, and milky. It reminds me of this apartment, my home.
All I could smell was smoke, cigarette smoke. Though I was sitting on my favourite chair, beside the window, warm with the sun on my back, I couldn’t relax or breathe easily. I kept thinking there must be workmen outside. How else could the place smell so strongly of smoke? But when I stood up and loo
ked out of the window there was no one around, and of course I was up on the top floor. I stepped out into the hallway but that, too, was devoid of life and besides, the whole apartment block was a no-smoking zone. Was the smell coming through a vent? I went and stood beneath the heat pump, then the rangehood, and finally by the ventilation units in the small bathroom and laundry. The smokiness persisted but there was no source.
I tried breathing through my mouth but it didn’t help. I moved my chair away from the window and positioned it right next to the solid beam running up from the floor to the ceiling. This was one of my most fragrant beams, a length of timber that, on hot days, smelt of a woolshed. I rested my head against it and inhaled and instead of wool I got smoke. And then the smell transformed, turning to gas. It was acrid and I couldn’t shake myself free of it. My hand began to tingle and the tips of my fingers turned numb. I stabbed my fingernails into my skin but I couldn’t feel anything. The tingling sensation moved up my arm, and then my head began to throb. A clamp tightened on one side and I began to lose vision in the centre of my eye. I could still see but I had to tilt my head and it was as if I could only see around the object I focused on. Where the object itself should be I could only see a dark hole.
I didn’t have any painkillers in the house. It had been so long since my last migraine that I thought I’d outgrown them. If I tried to talk, my words wouldn’t make sense. It wasn’t that I forgot words but rather that they fell out of range. I knew they existed, but not for me.
I made it to my table where I knew I had lavender, peppermint and rosemary oil, all recommended by aromatherapists to relieve the symptoms of headaches. I would have preferred codeine but I had no choice. The bottles dipped and dived in front of me and when I picked up a vial the letters on the label refused my scrutiny. I could make out the first letter, P, and by tilting my head and closing one eye I could slowly spell out the word petitgrain. The bottle to its left should have been peppermint so I took that and slowly pieced together the letters on its label. My lavender oil was in a larger bottle than the others because I used it more frequently and in greater quantities than many of my other oils. I knew its bottle was near the centre of the row and so it was easier to find.
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