Scented

by Laurence Fearnley

  TOP NOTES

  Notes of relocation: The fold-out table in my caravan isn’t big enough to display all my perfume oils. I still have all my scents but they’re stored in file boxes, securely stacked in the storage space beneath the back seat that converts into a double bed at night. The oils and tinctures I’m working with for my signature scent are close at hand, lined up neatly on a wooden board placed over the stove and sink top in front of me. I’ve simplified my original selection. I think the reduction of notes is a response to my new living arrangement but, more than that, I think that I see myself, now, as decluttered, a simpler version of my old self. My base notes are only three: oakmoss, benzoin and ambergris. The benzoin lifts the deep earthiness of the moss, adding light to the base. Ambergris joins the base notes, but I’m using it to represent the wool and lanolin of my beloved home, the place in my heart I will never abandon.

  Much as I love the smell, I’ve dispensed with the notes of oats and gorse as they don’t work with the bitterness of my main heart notes: ivy and willow. Combined, oats and gorse would have created a smell reminiscent of a golden coconut biscuit newly baked in the oven. But, even though I’d like to draw on memory associations with my grandfather and his fried porridge, or my own passing fancy with being Gorse Woman, these notes don’t represent me and aren’t right for this perfume.

  The heart notes of my signature scent are deep and dark, like a pool of still water in the bend of a river. Ivy and willow, one plant clinging and the other weeping; barely recognisable as perfume ingredients but I find myself drawn to them all the same. The leaves aren’t flashy, they don’t announce themselves, but they carry a sense of gravitas, for me at least.

  Finally, the place in my perfume’s heart I haven’t yet filled. The space I’ve set aside for a new note, a ‘discovery’. I still have so much to learn, I need to look and feel and taste and sniff. I need to capture a sense of place, this place, not some land that lies across the ocean. Maybe I will go with tarata.

  Its lemon note would lift the green of the ivy and willow and possibly provide a bridge to the fresher top notes. Tarata. I can recognise it now by its smell.

  So now the top notes. The final addition to my perfume, the bursts of energy, my here and now, and the way ahead.

  After my apartment sold, it seemed a good idea to move south, to the island where I was born. My move was a retreat, I knew that, but I couldn’t remain in Auckland after losing both my job and my home; it was too painful. There was nothing keeping me there, apart from a sense of loss that I was afraid might take over my life and become a bitter, twisted comfort.

  On the day of the protest, after my ‘performance’ on stage, Thora found me and brought me back to her apartment, and we sat at her table and I told her about some of the things that were important to me: my career, my friendship with Archer, my soon-to-be-taken-from-me home, and my perfumes. I explained that I’d felt deracinated, well and truly lost. I even explained my attempt to recapture myself through a signature scent, as if I might recognise myself through smell. Thora listened and when I stopped talking we sat quietly while I tried to think of something more to add. I rambled on, desperate to fill the space around me. After a while, I grew tired of the sound of my own voice but Thora seemed capable of endless listening. Exhausted, I said, ‘Please talk.’

  Thora told me about her years at university. After I knew her, she finished her degree in chemistry and then applied for medical school and moved to Dunedin but fell pregnant in her third year and dropped out. Her son’s father was also a medical student and they stayed together, off and on, for six years but eventually split, ‘and things became dark’. Thora left out the next few years of her story but came back to it again when her son started high school and she returned to university, this time completing a pharmacy degree.

  When I said, ‘That must have been satisfying’, Thora nodded but somehow she didn’t look convinced.

  ‘I moved up here when I took the job at the pharmacy. I needed some time out from a relationship and this job was only meant to be for a year, filling a maternity leave position, but I’m still here, eighteen months later.’

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  She sighed, then replied, ‘No. Yeah, it’s fine. I don’t know. My son is here too. This is his apartment, though you’d hardly know it – he’s never here during the day. I’d like to go back to Wellington at some point. I still own a house there, in Newtown. Also, things have settled down with my ex …’

  ‘The ex who got you to join the choir?’

  ‘No. It’s a bit complicated. There’s the choir ex, who’s now a friend, and then there’s the Wellington ex, who I cheated on with the choir ex. I’ve finally managed to buy out Wellington ex, so I’ve got my house back.’

  ‘What would you do if you went home?’

  ‘Research. I should have stuck with chemistry and I’m more comfortable in a lab, it suits my nature – not that there’s anything wrong with the over-the-counter pharmacy.’

  ‘But you’re okay here?’

  She smiled. ‘Yeah, fine.’ Then she sighed again, caught herself and laughed. ‘It’s all good. I’m a bit tired, that’s all – too many night shifts and stressed customers.’

  I stayed for dinner, relishing the novelty of being cooked for. I noticed that Thora was very organised in the kitchen: she measured out all her ingredients using properly marked cups and spoons. Nothing, it seemed, was left to chance. The oven timer was set to roast the chicken, and its flesh was prodded with a thermometer to ensure it was cooked to perfection. Rice was measured and rinsed before being cooked by the absorption method. Aioli was made from scratch, a clove of garlic crushed with a pestle and mortar, the egg yolk and mustard whisked together before Thora began the long, slow process of drizzling in the oil. I could see the look of concentration on her face as she whisked and her satisfaction when the mixture thickened and she added lemon juice and garlic. She caught me looking at her and joked that she’d got lucky, that nine times out of ten the mixture split, but I didn’t believe her. The only time she lost her place was when the asparagus went from bright green and crunchy to yellow-green and limp within a matter of seconds. A look of disbelief crossed her face: ‘That wasn’t meant to happen.’ I had to reassure her that I preferred it like that, that it was how my grandmother and mother cooked it when I was a child.

  As we ate I told her about Taylor’s notebook and the emotions I’d felt when faced with the opportunity to see the recipe for the grand Māori perfume. ‘I was really thrown by the experience,’ I said. ‘The funny thing is that part of me still believes that plants are just plants. They’ve been around longer than humans so they should be valued for what they are, free from classification.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But once you know the cultural significance you can’t go on pretending they’re just plants. And using ingredients from those plants is an act of cultural appropriation.’

  ‘Has that ever stopped you from using ingredients like benzoin or frankincense in the past?’ Thora asked. ‘Don’t most plants have cultural significance, no matter how far removed that culture is from your own? Just because the plants grow on the other side of the world, and their production is out of sight …’

  ‘I guess I’m a hypocrite.’

  ‘You could always stop wearing perfume.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘I could. Or I could try and learn about both the plants and the culture.’

  ‘Or you could give it five years, by which time the overseas perfume houses will catch on and start making the grand Māori perfume. Then you can go out and buy a bottle from The Corner Dairy.’

  ‘Aw, don’t say that.’

  ‘It’s only a matter of time.’

  I took a breath. ‘I’m wondering if I should put some of the money from the sale of my apartment towards learning how to make proper perfumes. I could apply to one of the perfume schools in France.’ Merely saying the words aloud frightened me. I had a good idea of ho
w much it would cost to attend a reputable perfume school and I wasn’t sure I was brave enough to take the risk. Even if I had talent I might fail and be left with nothing.

  ‘Could you afford it?’ she asked.

  ‘I think so.’ I felt the knot tighten in my stomach. ‘But if it didn’t work out I’d be out of pocket.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Thora, ‘but then again, it might be the best thing you ever did.’

  She yawned and I realised how long I’d stayed, that it was time to go home. I carried our plates to the kitchen and as I turned to leave I saw her standing by the table, her head bowed, deep in thought. It struck me that I might not see her again. Something about our relationship seemed built on distance. We were both too naturally solitary and inward-looking to maintain regular catch-ups and conversations. We needed a bridging friend, someone who would take us under her wing and organise coffee dates. Left to our own devices, we would think of each other on a fairly regular basis but never quite muster the energy to meet. It had always been Archer and Jerome who came to me, in the past. That was how our friendships had been able to develop, through their efforts not mine.

  ‘Before you go,’ said Thora, ‘I want to show you something.’ She led the way down the hall and into a darkened bedroom at the rear of the apartment. She switched on a small bedside lamp and there, filling the entire wall opposite the bed, was something so unexpected I gasped.

  ‘I became interested in uranium glass after you gave me your perfume,’ said Thora as I examined the shelves laden with vases, dishes, bottles and small trinkets in various shades of yellow and green. ‘I started collecting it when I did my chemistry degree. It was very cheap back then because it wasn’t fashionable. Most of the people I knew were collecting Crown Lynn or Pitcairn Island wooden fish, so I had a clear run at glass.’

  My grandmother’s perfume bottle sat on the middle shelf and when I saw it I felt a pang. I recalled how I had carried it around in my pocket before giving it to Thora all those years before.

  ‘One of the things my Granny Seren told me that never made sense was that her bottle glowed. I think it must have been her imagination – she was a great one for finding magic and meaning in everyday life. She always claimed she had gypsy blood from her ancestors.’

  ‘Did you ever see it glow?’

  ‘No. I can remember watching but nothing happened. Later, when it was mine, I didn’t dare test it because I didn’t want to be disappointed. I wanted to believe Seren.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this but I think you might have some serious trust issues.’

  ‘Yeah, probably. Doesn’t everyone?’

  Thora came over to where I was standing and flicked a switch on the side of the shelving unit. The entire display of uranium glass lit up, each vessel the most incredible, luminous, bright yellow to vivid green I’d ever seen.

  ‘It fluoresces under ultra violet light.’

  I couldn’t respond.

  ‘Take a look at your grandmother’s bottle.’

  I saw how the scalloped design glowed as if lit from within.

  ‘In the old days, before everyone had bright electric lights, people would notice these bottles glow at twilight – that’s when red begins to fade and the violet end of the spectrum dominates. Your bottle dates back to the 1890s, so if it belonged to your great-grandmother she might have noticed it.’

  ‘Seren was telling the truth.’

  ‘Yep. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ Without turning off the black light she reached forward for my grandmother’s bottle and pressed it into my hand, closing my fingers around it with her own. She then turned back to the shelf and quickly rearranged some of the smaller items to close the gap, filling the space once more.

  My caravan is parked beside a small dam in the lee of a long row of poplars that provide shelter to the orchard where I’m currently employed. I ended up in Central Otago because it seemed simpler for me to relocate to the caravan I bought off Trade Me than the other way around. I signed up with a local employment agency, a collective made up of growers and orchardists, and began working in a vineyard. I found that I enjoyed the work, finding solace in the quiet retreat. After a few weeks working on the vines I shifted to cherries, and now I’m in an apricot orchard, a family-run business on the outskirts of town.

  I thought I might be too old for fruit picking but I’m surprised by the number of workers who are my age or older. We sit together after work, drawing our chairs into a circle, and talk about what has brought us here, and where we’ll go once the apricots are finished. Some of my new acquaintances live a nomadic life, travelling in large motor homes and buses from region to region, taking up casual labour wherever they can find it. There are a number of retired builders and tradespeople, but there are teachers, nurses and other professionals too. Many have chosen this lifestyle but some, like me, fell into this new way of working after losing homes or employment owing to earthquakes, restructuring or financial difficulties. Although we come from all walks of life there’s a sense of community, an emotional bond that draws us close. We’ve formed our own small tribe, just as the foreign pickers and students have formed theirs.

  The heat here can be intense and most of us start early, moving through the trees before the sun gets too high. The smell that greets me first thing in the morning takes my breath away. It’s the scent of overripe apricots, of fruit scattered on the ground where it has fallen or been discarded. Unlike apricots still on the tree, this fallen fruit is rich and sugared, as if made into jam. There’s a density to the scent; it can range from honeyed sweetness through to whisky booziness. As the sun climbs higher, the smell of slowly rotting fruit becomes more pronounced and permeates the entire orchard. Insects hum, their ground-level noise a carpet of sound that we climb above every time we move our ladders. The fruit feels warm in our hands but its scent is lighter, fresher. It seems to retain a semblance of its floral beginnings, something like blossom touched with dew.

  As the day progresses, my nose becomes less sensitive to the apricots and starts to pick up other smells that linger in the air of the orchard. I notice the scent of grass sweetened with flower ing clover. The metallic smell of the ladders, as the aluminium heats up. The smell of sweat and sun lotion, the fragrance of the latter standing out against the quieter, natural smell of the orchard. The leaves and trunks as I brush up against them. The smell of water drifting from sprinklers during the night hours.

  Sometimes, after dinner, I go for a short stroll on the hill behind the orchard, where a single taramea grows up from a patch of dry soil between two rocky outcrops. I sit and look at it; of all the plants I’ve ever seen it strikes me as the wildest, the most untamable. I’ve never cut its leaves or smelt its gum.

  Up on the hill the smell of wild thyme is so strong that it burns my nose and catches in my throat. It’s medicinal and, just like the wormwood in the sensory garden, clears out my nasal passages, at times making my eyes water. There are other wild flowers growing on the hill: viper’s bugloss, briar rose with leaves that carry the smell of apple and, everywhere, like black shadows across the land, pine trees. I’ve made a blend, a response to the orchard hill that I’ve named Wildings. It’s strongly aromatic, the thyme and pine tussle for domination, and I’ve had to work through many dilutions and variations in order to ensure that neither of these notes overwhelms the rest of the blend.

  Through sheer good luck I came upon the heart note of my Wildings scent as I was parking my car in a picnic area at the foot of a popular mountain-biking track. A sign by the picnic table informs visitors that a cottage once stood on the site, but now all that remains is a long-abandoned outhouse and a collapsed wall, stones crumbling into yellow clay and dust. As I stepped out of my car, I caught a smell I still associate with my mother and the cabinet beneath our bathroom sink: jasmine. I looked around but there was nothing close by as far as I could tell. I laced up my shoes, leaning against the crumbled wall for support, and again the smell of jasmine wafted ove
r me.

  I set off, and as I reached the derelict outhouse a small white flower caught my eye and I saw that within the walls of the building was a small vine, draped, as if lounging, across rocks that had tumbled into and covered the floor space of the long drop’s interior.

  At one time, the jasmine must have grown in abundance, its flowers cloaking the entire building, its perfume mixing with that of the toilet itself. When I went back to my caravan that evening I tested jasmine against the pine and thyme and found that its fullness and sweetness worked with the notes in a surprisingly pleasant way. All I had to do to finish my blend was add a slight touch of lemon to cut through the fullness of the jasmine and provide a rush of energy.

  On weekends I take my homemade perfumes to the local market where I have a makeshift stall squeezed between a couple that sells deep-fried banana dumplings, and a retired local who paints flower and landscape scenes on river stones. I introduced my Wildings scent a few weeks ago and, to my delight, it has proved popular with both locals and summer visitors. Many of the people who tested it remarked that the smell ‘reminded them of something’, though not all of them could say what it was. If I wait, however, most of them manage to identify thyme among the notes. Those who can’t identify the individual ingredients when they first smell the perfume always nod in recognition once I provide the correct words. ‘Of course,’ they say. ‘It was on the tip of my tongue. I knew I knew the smell but I just couldn’t think of what it was. But now you’ve told me it’s so obvious. I get the thyme now. Pine needles. Flowers. Jasmine.’

  I love the moment when my customers start sharing their memories of scent with me. One woman, who grew up on a farm on Banks Peninsula, described her childhood, and the mixture of fear and pleasure she used to experience when she had to go outside to the toilet during the night. I listened carefully as she spoke and wrote down what she said after she left.