I went over to her desk, and even though I was convinced I hadn’t made a mistake I felt my cheeks begin to redden with embarrassment.
‘The problem is we don’t have the material you want.’
My heart began to thump in my chest. ‘Oh,’ I stammered. ‘That’s odd. I’m pretty certain I got it right. I’m usually quite careful.’ I was completely unnerved.
‘Let me go and check with my colleague.’
I needed some important papers to shuffle and rearrange in order to take the spotlight off my stupidity, but I had nothing. At a loss, I started picking pencils out of the container on the desk, testing their sharpness against the tip of my finger.
The librarian came back. ‘It looks like you might have made a simple oversight concerning the terms “notebooks” and “journals”. Easy to do if the reference isn’t terribly accurate to begin with. The good news is that the notebook you’re after exists. The bad news is that we have the journals, but the item you want is at the city library, in the heritage collection. I’ve jotted down the reference for you.’
She handed me a piece of paper and took a step back, a small act of discretion for which I was grateful.
‘Do you know where to go?’ she asked.
I felt myself blush and I could practically hear Jerome spluttering and laughing. Even Archer, who had graciously endured several minor slip-ups while I was carrying out his research, would have raised an eyebrow at such a sloppy start.
‘I’m sorry,’ I apologised. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Perhaps you’d like to look at some of Taylor’s journals while you’re here. I put a selection on the trolley.’
The neatly transcribed, typewritten volumes she opened in front of me dated from the 1840s onwards, and as I delved into the entries I was taken by the missionary’s descriptions of his travels up and down the Whanganui River. The places he described were close to the cleared farms, forestry plantations and bush country I’d travelled through with Archer. Taylor’s landscape, though, was primeval and fecund, teeming with life. More than once he described the scenery as ‘romantic’ and the term struck me as fitting, given the way nature appeared to dwarf him. The power of the natural world was even more accentuated through his references to the mighty river rapids and the occasional rumble and rattle of earthquakes that rocked his camp. I followed him as he walked through dense bush, over bluffs and across volcanic landscapes, but in terms of smell, there wasn’t much to go on. There were only a few passages and even those were brief: the earth floor of a church covered in aromatic mānuka branches, another laid with dried fern.
By now other visitors had come into the library, groups of schoolchildren filing in and out, chatting as they picked up books from the shelves or studied the glass-topped display cases. Researchers came and went, talking loudly at the librarian’s desk: a man seeking information about a relative killed in Messines, a woman researching 1940s fashion, a university graduate wanting to continue her research into artist Charles Blomfield’s letters, a teenager working on a project about influenza. Their requests didn’t distract me: I was too engrossed in what I was reading to be drawn back to the present day.
After a few hours I came to the final volume in my selection, an entry that included a cross-country journey made in April 1849 from Taylor’s home in Whanganui to Tauranga, and then on to Auckland. A passage jumped out at me. Near Matamata he came across an abandoned mission house, visible from far away because of the number of ‘foreign’ trees forming a grove nearby. As he drew nearer he began to list the plants he encountered: blooming furze that perfumed the ‘wilderness’, sweet briar and evening primrose, tufts of strawberry plants, a large woodbine bush, a huge mimosa and wild asparagus. All the windows of the house were broken and the lawn had been dug up by pigs. I reread the passage, marvelling at the detail of the picture he painted. But it was his use of the word ‘foreign’ to describe the mission house trees, rather than ‘exotic’ or even ‘non-native’ that seemed to emphasise a sense of distance between him and his temporary garden surroundings. It was as if, at that moment, he had cast himself in the role of local or even ‘native’. Had I been wrong in thinking he didn’t feel at home in the bush and forest? Maybe my own lack of familiarity with such an environment had caused me to misinterpret his attachment to the land he journeyed through.
I couldn’t rid myself of the thought, either, that after reading more than five volumes of his journals, all rich in observations relating to his natural surroundings, it was a single paragraph describing a missionary garden that spoke most directly to me. My scent imagination had been activated by the descriptions of mimosa, nectar-rich honeysuckle, gorse and briar rose. These were the smells that had a place in my own memory and experience. I could summon up the smell of that garden in a way that I hadn’t been able to smell the bush. So, did that make me ‘foreign’?
I left the museum feeling deeply troubled and disconcerted. I was born in New Zealand, had lived here all my life and valued notions of the unspoilt landscape, the bush and sea, and yet, when tested, my instincts and preferences sent me sniffing back to Britain. I felt as if my nose had betrayed me, as if in some way it was challenging me with the old taunt, ‘Pommy, go home’. The realisation that I was somehow perhaps not of this land filled me with a sadness I hadn’t expected.
I’d intended to take Thora’s perfume to her that evening but I wanted to spend some time alone, studying my notes and planning what to do next. I was pulling out all the oils related to the plants in Taylor’s missionary garden, comparing them with the wintergreen and rose blend I’d made earlier for my own imaginary ‘missionary wife’ perfume, when the phone rang. I was so deep in thought that the sound startled me and it took a second before I could identify its source. I barely got out my greeting before the real estate agent began talking, checking that I was happy for her to visit so that my home could be photographed for the website and print listings. She sounded confident, assuring me that the market was in the seller’s favour, that she’d already contacted potential buyers and that my loft would be snapped up in no time – days rather than weeks. ‘We’ll have you cashed up and out of there in no time,’ she said, as if doing me a favour. ‘I doubt we’ll even go to auction.’
I listened in silence, fighting back the urge to explain that I didn’t want to sell. Couldn’t she understand that the very idea caused me pain, and that I could barely bring myself to think about moving? Inside I was shouting, ‘Leave me alone, it’s the only thing I’ve got left. I don’t want to turn over a new leaf or start a new chapter in my life. I want to stay here!’ I anticipated the language of her advertising copy, with its clichés about the vendor being ‘ready to move on’ with ‘new adventures on the horizon’, and wished I could substitute my own version: ‘After years of contentment, the vendor’s life has turned to shit. Her loss is your gain, but try not to rub it in. She loved this apartment, it meant everything to her.’ That’s what I wanted to say, but of course I kept silent.
‘I’ll bring croissants and coffee and we can have a chat about dressing your place for the open homes,’ she said before hanging up.
Would my home really sell in a matter of days? It sounded like a death sentence with benefits. If only I could be listed as a chattel and allowed to stay. ‘Don’t think about it,’ I told myself. ‘Go out, get some fresh air and calm down. The situation will seem less bleak when you come back.’ I doubted it. I could already visualise the fast-approaching day when I would pack away all my books and perfumes and rest my head against the wooden posts and beams one last time, in a futile attempt to collect and hold the smell of my wool-store loft for future comfort.
I decided to go and see Thora. Again there was a line of people in front of the conservatory but I didn’t detour from my path to the pharmacy. I wasn’t sure if she’d be pleased or merely bemused to see me again so soon, but attempted to make myself feel less self-conscious by promising to just drop off her per
fume. I couldn’t face the thought that she might already be talking about me to her partner or family, joking about the strange woman from her past who’d suddenly turned up: a perfume addict not so very different from her customers on the methadone programme.
I looked through the window before going in. The shop was empty and Thora was alone, standing at the counter, staring into space. To my relief, she looked pleased to see me.
‘You’ve made it already,’ she said as I handed her the bottle.
She unscrewed the cap and held the bottle up to her nose. ‘That’s incredible,’ she said. ‘That smell takes me straight back to my bedroom in Aro Valley. I can see it so clearly, the purple tie-dyed sheet I made into a bed cover, the mobiles I made from driftwood, shell and coloured glass, the posters and pin holes in the walls, the bedside table made from a beer crate covered in tapa. It’s amazing.’ She dabbed the oil onto her skin. ‘It’s just the same. Thank you.’
In all the time I’d known Thora I think I only went to her flat once or twice, and the smells that stood out were cat pee and onion. I particularly recall the small white flowers of the onion-weed that grew on the damp bank behind the kitchen, and how the smell was so strong it used to distract me from conversation.
‘I like the boronia in it,’ I said. ‘Whenever I smell it I wonder why I haven’t used it again in perfume.’ As the words came out I knew exactly why I hadn’t used it again. In my mind I associated the smell with Thora, and the truth was I wanted to maintain its special meaning.
‘Raspberry.’
I nodded. ‘Do you remember the Nina Simone concert?’
‘Yeah,’ said Thora, ‘I do. She was great. Our choir tried “My Baby Just Cares for Me” a while back but it wasn’t one of our best. We were a little out of our comfort zone.’
‘You’re in a choir?’
‘Don’t laugh. It’s made up of local pharmacists. We call ourselves A Spoonful of Sugar. I didn’t choose the name. We specialise in arrangements on a medical or drug-based theme: ‘White Rabbit’, ‘Lithium’ … It’s pathetic really but we enjoy it, except only a few of us can hold a tune. We sometimes sing at retirement villages. I know, tragic, right.’
‘Not if it’s fun.’
‘I only joined because my ex insisted. The choir was short of mezzo-sopranos and I fitted the bill.’
‘So you can sing?’
‘Nah. Not really. I’m okay in the background.’
She looked at the scent in her hand. ‘It was so nice of you to make this, thank you.’
It was my cue to leave but as I turned to go, Thora cleared her throat and said, ‘I was wondering if you might like to have a coffee, or come over for a drink sometime – if you want. My home’s not far and my son’s usually out.’
‘That would be nice, thanks.’
‘The only thing I’ve got planned during the day this week is the lunchtime protest at the university.’ She saw my blank look. ‘Against closing down the art history department. But I guess you’ll be at work?’
‘No,’ I bluffed, ‘I’ll be there, protesting.’
‘Perfect,’ said Thora. ‘But don’t take it personally if I’m not very chatty. I’ll just be tired.’
The walk back across the park in the late evening light was one of the most peaceful I could recall in months. The sky was streaked in pale rinses of pink and yellow, and to the west towers of cumulus loomed upwards, their rounded shapes flattening into tabletops at their greatest height. The air was warm, and as I walked I could hear the footsteps and jagged breath of joggers catching up to me and overtaking, shambling or running ahead. There were still people outside the glasshouse and this time I wandered over to see what was going on. It was unusually late for the garden to be open, but as I drew nearer I could see a long line that curved around the building. I was nearly at the glasshouse when a youngish man approached and asked me if this was the place to view the corpse flower. Suddenly the queue made sense and I increased my pace, joining the back of the line. How had I not been aware of this? It was such a rare event for this giant to flower, and when it did it would last for only a day or two, all the while emitting a stench of rotting flesh.
The queue moved slowly, but as we edged closer to the entrance the anticipation increased. Now we could see and hear people leaving the garden; some of the children held T-shirts over their noses while others, even more dramatically, fanned their hands in front of their faces and made spluttering noises. I heard one woman complain that she thought she was going to faint from the stench. Another complained that it wasn’t as bad as she’d thought it would be, that if she’d known it was just going to smell like a dead rat she wouldn’t have bothered coming all this way.
‘Did you come far?’ I asked the man who’d spoken to me earlier.
‘Just from across the harbour.’
‘Are you interested in smells?’
‘No, not really,’ he said. ‘But this is special.’
As we took a step forward I realised how infrequently I’d found myself in the company of a group of strangers smelling things. Usually sniffing was a furtive exercise, as shameful as looking at your reflection in a store window or, God forbid, picking your nose. The perfume counter, the rose garden, the sensory garden and the odd flower show … that was the limit of my communal smelling experience. I imagined a sniffing club, where people simply sat outdoors, taking in their scented surroundings. It was odd that so many people should line up to sniff something known to be ‘bad’, given that many of them wouldn’t pause in their daily life to smell anything pleasant, unless, of course, it was presented at the table as a tasty meal or a glass of wine.
‘What do you think it will smell like?’ I asked my companion.
‘Everyone says it smells like a dead body,’ he said.
‘Have you ever smelt a dead body?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Lots.’
I took a step back to see if he was joking, but his expression remained impassive.
It was our turn to enter. The change in temperature from the fresh outdoors to the warm, humid interior was the first thing to grab my attention, but within seconds I caught a wave of odour, a fetid mixture of flowers rotting in stagnant vase water combined with mouldy carpet. I tried not to look at where the corpse flower stood, preferring to let my nose rather than my eyes guide my sensory response. As I stepped closer, the smell became more pungent, reminding me of the blood-soaked pads that line supermarket meat trays. It seemed well past its use-by date, and then it transformed and became more rotten, as if a rodent or some neighbourhood pet had died in the roof or under the floorboards. The smell wasn’t quite as strong as I’d imagined it would be but I could see how it might attract pollinating flies and beetles. Now I looked at the plant, and the strangeness of its purple-red flower and elongated spadix created such a powerful impression that the smell seemed much louder than when I had blocked the image from my mind. Connecting the smell to its source made it easier to make sense of the stink; it was now less abstract, easier to define, just as discovering dog shit on the sole of a shoe provides a context for that particular unwanted odour.
I caught up with the young man and asked him if the smell reminded him of corpses.
‘No, it’s not as strong,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t turn my stomach inside out. When you see bodies lined up on the side of the road you feel like you’re trapped in hell. That’s just a stinky flower. It’s harmless.’
As he finished speaking a woman behind us made a gagging noise and announced she felt sick. A handkerchief covering her face, she pushed past us and I heard the young man mutter something that could have been ‘loser’.
We’d lingered too long in front of the plant and the pressure from behind shoved us forward. Of everyone around us, I think we were the only two not to take photos or selfies. As if you could capture a smell in a photograph.
True to her word, the estate agent was at my door at breakfast time with a middle-aged man, whom she introduced as Ralph, besi
de her. She kicked off her shoes and strode ahead of me into the living area, which she took in with a glance. I noticed she hadn’t brought either croissants or coffee as promised but I didn’t feel like eating.
‘You’ve really made it your own,’ she said. The photographer began snapping, moving pieces of furniture to accommodate the image he needed. The mug of cold coffee that had been sitting on the bench when I opened the door was placed on the floor as he took a photo looking from the kitchen to the living space. The coats and shoes by the front door were shifted behind the couch to allow a clear image of the beautiful woodwork and cleanliness of the windows. The photographer turned to the area where I worked and hesitated, staring at my table, my notebooks, uncertain how to proceed. I stood back, suddenly unsure of my ground, even though it was still my house and these were my possessions. The agent grimaced, as if she’d encountered an unexpected problem. Turning to me, she said, ‘We find the photos work best when there’s no clutter.’ She corrected herself, ‘No distracting objects. The place should appear welcoming and look lived in but not too quirky, if you get my meaning. We want buyers to relate to the space, to feel that anybody could fit in.’
I pretended I hadn’t quite understood.
‘Would you mind if we cleared away some of these bottles?’ she said. Then, as if she’d only just noticed, she added, ‘There’s quite a strong smell in here. It’s almost like something …’ And her words came to a standstill, unable to articulate the thought. ‘Would it be okay to move these?’ she repeated. As I watched, she began gathering handfuls of the bottled oils, plonking them down on the kitchen bench. The photographer helped her while I remained rooted to the spot, watching as, in their haste to clear them out of the way, they knocked some bottles over or left them to roll across the bench. ‘There, that’s better, isn’t it,’ she said. ‘I have a couple of reed infusers for the open home. They create a lovely ambience; they’re very refreshing and calming. The frangipani and vanilla scent masks odours beautifully.’
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