About a year and a half ago I took a daylong writing course with Laurence Fearnley. Our theme was ‘Beyond the visual’ and we considered the impact that sight, sound, touch and smell could have on our narrative. In my notes there is plenty of detail under sight, sound and touch, but very little under smell or taste. It is all about taking you to a flashback or a backstory. Using scent as your centerpiece is therefore not without risks.
This is a journey through scent, or more accurately a journey to find a scent that represents Siân with its subtle mix of base notes, heart notes and top notes. Siân has lost her job at the university where the department of American studies has been hit by funding cuts. She finds herself at a loose end, unable to find a new job and so falling back on her hobby of making perfumes and blending scents. She goes in search of the illusive scent that most represents her own life, looking back and finding elements that remind her of people and places. The less worthwhile that she feels, as she struggles to find work, the more she needs the reassurance of her ability to find the illusive scents that make her what she is.
The need to find the scent allows us flashbacks into Siân’s past, glimpses of childhood and of university colleagues. There are notes at the end of chapters, lists of potential base notes or heart notes that could be used in a signature scent, linking experiences to smells.
At one point Siân describes delivering meals on wheels to the elderly residents of Wainoni and New Brighton: “The meals were stacked in the back of the car, kept warm under tinfoil. The plates were ceramic, not plastic, and the cutlery was stainless steel. Most often we served meals of mince and veggies, pork and veggies or fish and veggies. Always potatoes. And desert was something steamed; doughy jam, butterscotch or apple pudding. While I served the meals, my friend’s mother would go into the kitchen and collect the plates from the previous day and put on the kettle for a cup of tea. The ritual never varied from house to house.
Another ritual was peeling back the layer of foil from the plate. There was always condensation on the underside, and often a film of moisture had settled over the meat and vegetables, making them look damp and slightly grey. The smell incorporated this dampness, so rather than the individual earthiness of carrots, the sweetness of garden peas or the richness of beef gravy, there was a muddled fug or aromas. Every single meal smelt like leftovers, as if it had already been served the previous day to someone wealthier or luckier than the present diner.
As the meal was uncovered and the smell released, the recipient would lean forward and inhale. They would then raise their clouded or watery eyes and look at me and, with an expression that registered as cheeriness, thank me. Only then would their expression falter. As they looked back at their plate, you could see their mouths quiver slightly, the resigned look on their faces.
I’ll never forget that look. A look that said, This is my life now. This is all I can expect. Be grateful and get on with it.”
And there is everything that Laurence taught us, all captured in a few short paragraphs. Brilliant.