Of all the ‘parfums’ I made, the one I was most proud of was called Joan of Arc. It was the first time I had based a perfume on a story and it marked the beginning of a lifelong fascination with translating narrative into scent. I worked from an old book of children’s stories and made notes of the aspects of Joan’s life that sparked a smell response. For her childhood I wrote ‘barnyard hay’. Her religious beliefs and visions of saints suggested incense. The Siege of Orléans made me think of dirt, mud and blood. But, of course, it was the fire that really captured my attention, that and the little detail of her ashes being scattered in the Seine. To represent the heat of the fire I raided the pantry once more, collecting packets of black pepper, cayenne, paprika and chilli powder. Next I scraped charcoal dust and ash from the barbecue, adding it to my spice mix. After that I took a scoop of water from the creek that ran past our house and added several drops to my dry mixture. Finally I added it to softened coconut oil and gave the finished result to my father. He applied the perfume when he came home from work and I recall my intense disappointment as the black greasy smear formed a streak across his wrist. He held his arm up to his nose and sniffed and then, to my surprise, he applied a second streak, rubbed his wrists together and asked, ‘Am I doing it right? I’ve never had a proper perfume before.’ I was so grateful for his kindness and the way he told me it was too precious for everyday use, that he would save it for special occasions to make it last longer. He was true to his word.

My year of being French ended when the flotilla of protest yachts led by the Fri set sail for Mururoa Atoll in 1973. In a moment of sudden irritation, my mother turned on me and asked why I was masquerading as French. Had I never heard of atom bombs or the Cold War? Why did I think she had moved to New Zealand in the first place? Had I no respect for the people of the Pacific? Was I really that stupid? It was a tirade that left me dumbfounded. Nothing in the world was worse than my mother’s disapproval and so, overnight, I went back to being myself. Neither British nor a proper Kiwi like my classmates, but definitely not French.

Notes from a place called ‘home’: lavender, carnation, mixed spices, charcoal and ash.

In fact, my parents never called themselves Poms or used the word ‘home’ to describe England. They never went back to visit or for a holiday; the country very rarely featured in our conversations. Pete, in particular, seldom expressed any interest in the place where he grew up. He didn’t talk about his childhood, and rarely, if ever, mentioned his family, who still lived in Manchester and were strangers to me.