Scented

by Laurence Fearnley

  ‘The long drop was corrugated iron and almost completely covered in jasmine and honeysuckle. During the day, bees and flies and cicadas created a constant buzz. Inside, the toilet was warm, sometimes very hot from the sun bearing down on the tin. I noticed that the jasmine smelt like the contents of the toilet, and the toilet smelt like jasmine. They were a perfect pair. At night, the scent changed and became cleaner, as if everything had been washed in Sunlight soap. There were hundreds of moths bumping around the outside light. They scared me when they fluttered too close. The long drop itself was like a black well. I thought about all the things that might live in it, down there. When I went out to the toilet at night I could hear the waves lapping below on the beach. The wind used to blow through the macrocarpa hedge. I had a torch, and I balanced it on the frame of the toilet wall. The shadows were scary but beautiful. The toilet roll, spider webs and tendrils of jasmine … all crazy, unfamiliar. The outside toilet was peaceful and yet busy with life and smells. Funny what you remember.’

  More and more often I’ve taken to asking people to describe a scent from their childhood, or a favourite scent memory, and it’s surprising how easily they are able to pinpoint an exact moment in their life in that way. I make notes once they have gone, a list that grows and grows:

  ‘My grandmother smelt of hairspray and ash.’

  ‘The day my father died I went outside and sat in his car, and it smelt of him. I bawled my eyes out.’

  ‘My mother always sprayed too much perfume. I hated it. It made her smell like an old lady. I think it was called Youth Dew but us kids called it Youth Spew.’

  ‘I got married in Queensland and the gazebo was covered in frangipani. I only have to get a whiff of it and I’m back there, with my wife. Happiest day of my life.’

  ‘I love the smell of swimming pool water when it splashes onto hot concrete. It reminds me of when I was a teenager and spent summers at the local pool with my friends. I like bleach, too, when it dries on your skin.’

  ‘My dog eats poo. I hate it when he licks me afterwards, and I yell at him and my mum says we should get him put down. Dog poo is much worse than sheep poo, but pig shit is worse.’

  ‘My old woollen hunting jersey. One sniff and I’m like, out of here!’

  Not long ago a man sidled up and asked if perfume could bring memory to life. I said I thought so, but in most cases it could only be an interpretation of an experience, rather than a literal depiction, so more like a painting than a photograph.

  He said, ‘I want something that reminds me of the West Coast.’

  ‘The beach or the bush?’

  ‘Where the bush comes right down to the sea. I used to walk through the bush and push through a whole lot of flax. The beach was wild and littered with big pieces of driftwood, huge trunks washed down from the flooded rivers. Foam came off the breakers, and left wobbly marks along the tide. The air was humid and smelt salty, like the sea. It was hazy. I used to go there all the time with my brother. Can you make that?’

  I nodded. ‘I can give it a go. Why do you want that scent?’

  ‘Because my brother’s dead and because it’s the smell of New Zealand, where I grew up.’

  ‘The smell of New Zealand?’

  ‘Yeah. That, two-stroke and beer.’

  ‘I spent most of my childhood at my grandparents’ house,’ I told him, ‘by the gasworks. We could make a New Zealand perfume based on beer and gas.’

  He thought that was hilarious and then, growing serious, asked how much the New Zealand perfume would cost, adding, ‘Can you make it so I can smell it without having to wear it. I don’t want, you know, to wear perfume.’

  I think I did a good job. It’s based around the scent of salt air, because I was thinking about his brother and how his spirit might be hovering above the bush, beach and sea. I tried the perfume out on my fruit-picking friends one night as we sat around the campsite. I had three versions, all slightly different, and I set up a blind test, asking them to rank the samples from best to worst. I thought there would be a clear winner – the one I eventually posted off – but the results were completely mixed. I hadn’t given any clues to what I made, and everyone came up with their own take on the scent, something within the perfume that spoke to them. Ross, the retired builder, liked the perfume because it smelt like wood shavings.

  ‘Which one is that?’ I asked. He held out a blotter and I took it from him and waved it before my nose.

  ‘It’s cedar,’ I said. ‘I was trying for driftwood. You picked it out from all the other notes.’

  ‘My first job was helping my dad down at the mill,’ he replied. ‘I’d never forget that smell.’

  Rosemary, his wife, identified a metallic, fishy smell in one of the testers. An afterthought on my part, falling back on my old trick of oil from a tin of smoked oysters.

  ‘I like the pretty one,’ said Miriam. ‘The rose one.’

  There was no ‘rose one’, but I’d used geranium oil in the scent she identified, and geraniol, present in both geranium and rose, is rose-like. I’d added geranium to the blend to bring out the impression of flax.

  In the end I chose the perfume I liked best, gave it the manly title of West Coaster and sent it off with a piece of the pumice I’d collected from Rotorua when I was there with Archer. I suggested to my customer that he apply a few drops of the oil to the porous stone and carry it in his pocket or on a string around his wrist or neck. I tried it myself on another piece of pumice and enjoyed the way the perfume interacted with the sand-scented volcanic rock.

  After making West Coaster I started quizzing visitors to my stall about what, to them, was the smell of New Zealand. Most people responded with either ‘the bush’ or ‘the sea’ and I had to probe them to give more detail. ‘It’s the smell of honey dew on beech trees,’ said one woman. ‘That’s such a great smell, it’s so peaceful.’

  ‘The smell is peaceful?’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess so. The bush is peaceful, that’s what I mean.’

  Another person surprised me by responding ‘silage’. He had a faraway look in his eyes and when I asked him what made him think of silage he looked embarrassed and said, ‘All right, rye grass. Rye grass growing on the Hakataramea hills.’

  ‘Is that where you grew up? On a farm?’

  ‘During the late forties. Best days of my life.’

  ‘What about the wool shed?’ I asked. ‘I love that smell, greasy wool and a bit of sheep poo.’

  He gave me a funny look but nodded in agreement, then said, ‘Clover.’

  I tried a different way of posing the question: ‘If you were going to describe the smell of New Zealand to someone who hadn’t been here, what would you say?’

  Almost everyone said ‘the bush’ and ‘the beach’, although a tourist from New York said, ‘fresh air’. I kept asking different people, and quite often men would offer aromas associated with food: roast lamb, fish’n’chips or hāngī or even hokey pokey ice cream and pavlova. If I asked them to name a plant or flower they tended to look uncomfortable, shake their head and say, ‘I don’t know. The bush?’

  ‘Saturday,’ said another, ‘when I mow the lawn. Love it.’

  There were exceptions, people who were keen to consider the question. ‘It’s impossible to narrow the scent of New Zealand down to one thing,’ said a woman of my own age. ‘It’s going to be different depending on who you are, where you live.’

  ‘But if you had to,’ I said.

  ‘Cabbage trees. The smell of cabbage trees in flower. They’re like jasmine or lily, sweet. But lots of natives have beautiful scents. You just have to know what to look for. Have you ever smelt the native Easter orchid? It’s fabulous, so strong.’

  ‘Are you a botanist?’

  ‘No. I have a big garden, though. Are you a botanist?’

  ‘No. I don’t even have a garden but I’m trying to train my nose to be more receptive to the smells of my surroundings. I think we don’t spend enough time thinkin
g about smell. Or smelling things.’

  Several nights ago I was sitting at my table, staring into space, when my phone rang. It was Jerome, calling with news. ‘Three things,’ he began before immediately launching into how he’d been successful in the latest round of Marsden funding. He talked on and on, so gripped with the details of his $900,000 award and new research project that he almost forgot to mention the other two pieces of information: that the cause of Archer’s death was confirmed, he’d had an aneurysm while driving, and that Desna was pregnant with twins.

  ‘How did Renate take it?’ I interrupted.

  ‘Oh, she’s really pleased for me. She says it’s about time literature got funded.’

  I waited a moment. ‘Sorry, I meant about Archer.’

  There was an awkward pause, and Jerome came back on the line. ‘Of course. I’m really sorry. I wasn’t thinking.’ I could almost see him, his mortified expression as he tried to backtrack and save the situation. ‘She’s good. Keeping busy, I think. She misses Archer but having Hester helps. They’re very close.’

  ‘That’s good. And great news about Desna, congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks, yes. We’re very happy. Big changes all around.’

  We spent a few more minutes speaking about Renate and Desna, and then Jerome manoeuvred the conversation back to his funding. ‘I’m going to buy out all my teaching so I can concentrate on the project. Are you interested?’

  My heart missed a beat. ‘What?’

  ‘Are you interested in taking over my teaching and being my wingman on the research? It’s a three-year project. You could come back and be my assistant. It’s well paid. What do you think?’

  I could go back.

  I’ve been unable to sleep, thinking about Jerome’s offer. Of course I should grab the opportunity to return to academia. Two or three years’ employment, slipping back into the university environment, doing the thing I am good at: teaching and research. I could re-establish myself and then, from a position of security, apply to other universities when my contract approaches its end. I’d be stupid not to take up his offer. I’d have financial security and my life could return to normal, just like before.

  This past evening, after working all day in the orchard, I was so sore I could barely move. The weather forecast isn’t good, hail is predicted, and we’ve been working extra hard to bring in the fruit. I was so tired I couldn’t face preparing dinner but made myself a sandwich, which I took outside and ate while the other pickers complained about the day and discussed their plans for the rest of the season once the apricots are done. The names of their favourite apple orchards were passed around, and those who had past experience promised to put in a good word for those new to the crop. I thought no one had noticed me, but Ross asked if I was interested in the apple harvest. When I hesitated, he said, ‘It’s hard work but the temperature’s cooler so it seems less tiring than apricots, unless the frosts hit, that is. Some of us make cider, which is a bonus, if you’re tempted? The apples smell good, too …’ When I didn’t respond immediately, he asked, ‘You must be working on a new perfume. What is it?’

  I was going to fob him off with the easy answer, a perfume built around the smell of the orchard and the sweet briar on the hillside, but instead I said slowly, ‘A signature scent. I’m trying to finish a perfume that summons up my identity. A perfume that explains who I am, that captures my personality and makes me feel whole.’

  I inhaled, and the residue of the long day entered my nose: ripe apricots, earth and dust, warm grass, sun lotion, sweat, the poplars, the faintly dank air rising up from the dam, and the fresher water from the sprinklers.

  ‘You don’t feel whole?’ asked Rosemary. ‘How is it possible not to feel whole when you have this?’

  SCENTED

  Base Notes:

  Oakmoss

  Benzoin

  Ambergris

  Heart Notes:

  Willow

  Ivy

  Tarata

  Top Notes:

  Osmanthus

  Apple

  Briar rose

  Dilute in jojoba oil

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks to everyone who gave up their time and shared their knowledge with me: Janice Lord, Emma Burns, Peter Johnson, Martin Collett, Vincent Micotti, Serena and Harold Jones, Frances Nelson, Gaynor Bradfield, Robin Krug and the NST community, Rhian Gallagher, Alison Ballance, Pip Adam and Sue Wootton.

  Thank you to the Glasgow Street Arts Centre Artist in Residence Programme, Whanganui; Mark Rayner, Paul Rayner and Lauren Lysaght for providing a place to write and a warm welcome in October 2018.

  Grateful thanks for assistance and funding from the 2016 NZSA Auckland Museum National Research Grant and the 2016 NZSA Janet Frame Memorial Award. Thank you to Jan, Tania and Frankie for making room for me at the Michael King Writers’ Centre during August 2017.

  Thank you to everyone at Penguin Random House and my publisher Harriet Allan for continued support. Anna Rogers is a sensitive and gifted editor and once again I owe her a debt of thanks for turning my manuscript into a finished novel. Thank you to Louisa Kasza, Rebecca Lal and Maggie Trapp for guiding the manuscript through its final stages. Keely O’Shannessy designed a beautiful cover and Katrina Duncan made it all look good. Thank you.

  Thanks to my family: Wendy, Dave and Jan for good company and especially Alex and Harry for their ongoing love and encouragement. Lastly, thanks to Sprocket and Patch, who taught me most about sniffing and never turned down a walk.

  It was more beautiful than anything I had ever seen and I didn’t have the words to describe it. I felt it though. I let out an incredible whoop of joy and skipped into the air, laughing and laughing; there was so much joy inside me. For the first time in all my memory, I could not contain myself.

  As a boy in the early 1940s, young Boden Black finds his life changed forever the day his neighbour Dudley drives him over the hills into the vast snow-covered plains of the Mackenzie country. Unexpectedly his world opens up and he discovers a love of landscape and a fascination with words that will guide him throughout his life, as he forges a career as a butcher and poet, spends a joyous summer building a hut on the slopes of Mount Cook and climbs to the summit in the company of Sir Edmund Hillary.

  A moving exploration of one man’s journey and the events which shape him, The Hut Builder is also an evocative celebration of the mountain world and the wonder of life.

  I wonder why Edwin’s mother left him – why his mother left and mine stayed? I mean, which is the more damaging – the mother who tells you she loves you and leaves, or the mother who calls you stupid and stays?

  This beautifully written novel is about finding love in the most unlikely of places. Set in the southern South Island, it describes the unusual bond formed between sixty-two-year-old photographer Edwin and twenty-two-year-old Matilda, as their relationship grows in ways neither could possibly have predicted.

  I liked the look of concentration on his face when we made love. His hands moved gently over my body; it was as if he was turning the pages of some fragile book – the type of book that has tissue pages, like an old-fashioned Bible. He reminded me, too, of a child learning to read. I pictured his fingertips tracing the words on the page, his lips mouthing the sounds, so intense was his focus. ‘Edwin,’ I teased, ‘am I a good book?’

  One of the reasons she was attracted to etchings was the deep, rich, black of the oily ink. A good layer of black ink was fathomless, like the sky or the sea at night. It was black as the unconscious mind, full of life but beyond reach.

  Quinn is a successful artist creating new works for an upcoming exhibition. She lives on the coast with Marcus, a vet who left his wife for her and lost contact with his young daughter Audrey as a result. Entering their lives is Callum, a deep-sea diver with a love of the ocean. As the countdown to Quinn’s exhibition progresses, each must face challenges and make choices that will test their loyalties and have far-reaching consequences for their future
.

  Reach is about risk-taking and the ways in which creativity, struggle and danger empower individuals and enrich life.

  Funny and moving, this novel subverts notions of ‘man vs. wild’ while showcasing female experience through encounters with family, friends and the natural world.

  Loretta is a school librarian, who embarks on compiling The Dangerous Book for Menopausal Women while waiting to collect her son from after-school activities. Chance is a teenager, who discovers an unusual creative outlet to offset the strain of her controlling mother. Riva is the founder of a wetlands sanctuary, who is seeking a way to fulfil her promise to her dying sister to do something ‘absolutely spectacular’.

  Within a clearing in the woods by a lake stands a den, a secret sanctuary and eventual meeting place for all three women …

  Laurence Fearnley is an award-winning novelist. Her novel The Hut Builder won the fiction category of the 2011 NZ Post Book Awards and was shortlisted for the international 2010 Boardman Tasker Prize for mountain writing. Her 2014 novel, Reach, was longlisted for the Ockham New Zealand Book Awards, Edwin and Matilda was runner-up in the 2008 Montana New Zealand Book Awards and her second novel, Room, was shortlisted for the 2001 Montana New Zealand Book Awards. In 2017 she was the joint winner of the Landfall essay competition and in 2016 she won the NZSA/Janet Frame Memorial Award. In 2004 Fearnley was awarded the Artists to Antarctica Fellowship and in 2007 the Robert Burns Fellowship at the University of Otago. Laurence lives in Dunedin with her husband and son.

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