Under a Pole Star

by Stef Penney

  ‘What? Have I said something to amuse you?’

  ‘I’m just glad to see you like this – you seem happier than in a long while. I know I’m dull company, Flora. I worry sometimes that you’re living a life unsuited to one of your age.’

  ‘Oh! Heavens . . . No,’ said Flora.

  .

  In truth, the prospect of going to meet Jakob was a kind of torment. She longed to be with him, ached for it, but the idea of going with the sure intention of adultery was somehow odious. She lived to see his handwriting on an envelope; even her address, written in his hand, affected her as though he were tracing the letters on her skin. In her bed, she relived their intimacies, touching herself as he had touched her. In her mind, she recreated every detail of the room at the Victoria, and all they had done there. Sometimes she couldn’t believe it had been real. She wondered if this violent craving was indeed love, or a sort of illness. She did not want to recover. She pored over his letters, which alternated between rambling and enthusiastic accounts of his work and climbing in the mountains, and sweet, stilted avowals of his longing to see her. But the more she reread them, the more she was nagged by doubt. Did he really care for her? The letters said that he did, but she thought she detected a certain distance. Was she imagining it? And even though she knew they were only letters, and letters can never be entirely secure, she was disappointed, even hurt by their lack of passion. He did not refer to any of the things they had done, the things that obsessed her. Did that mean (as he had warned her) that he was not a good letter writer? Or had his passion waned – was he drawing away from her, having second thoughts? Had he met someone else?

  Then she began to feel unwell. As spring turned to summer, she could not ignore the growing suspicion, the accumulation of evidence, the feeling of dread. She, who thought she had been so careful – even she could be caught. Her own body was a snare, it had lain in wait, and it had trapped her.

  Possessed by a slow-burning anger (but it was her fault – she had believed she was safe), she tried the handful of remedies for ‘obstructions’ that were advertised in certain magazines. Patent they may have been – unpleasant, certainly – but they did not work. She was frightened and furious – with him, with her own body – most of all, with her lack of sense.

  One day in July, after the most recent failure, Flora was in her study. She reread Jakob’s latest letter, wondering whether she could or should share the problem with him. Trying to guess his reaction to her pregnancy, she could not imagine any response but horror and blame, or, worse, suspicion that she had done it on purpose. Instinct warned her against it; what could he say or do that would change the situation for the better? What if he had indeed changed his mind? In anticipation of this hypothetical rejection, she felt rage, and was already in a temper when the housemaid committed the sin of bursting into the study without knocking. Flora turned round, ready to tear a strip off the girl.

  ‘Mam, sorry mam, it’s Mr Athlone . . . He’s . . . he’s . . .’

  The girl’s face was grey. The words Flora had been about to utter were never spoken. She shoved the letter into a pile of papers and knocked her chair to the floor in her haste to follow the girl out of the room. She found Nurse Capron kneeling over Freddie on the floor of his sitting room. He lay in a twisted huddle, his left arm slack, his face appearing, horrifically, melted and his eyes . . . his eyes, when they saw her bending over him, beseeched her in terror.

  Flora knew that God was punishing her – for, now, how could she leave?

  .

  It was more than a week after the stroke that she wrote to Jakob to say that she could not come to Switzerland, and that, under the circumstances, to see him again was impossible. The reason she gave was her husband’s illness, but the business in Pimlico was at least as much a reason – she had been terrified, angry and alone. That might not have been Jakob’s fault, but he had not had to go to the dismal street leading down to the river, wearing a ridiculous veil for fear of being recognised. He had not had to endure the indignity and squalor, the smoothly insinuating doctor and his oddly cheerful female assistant. (Actually, they were perfectly decent and respectful, and tea and biscuits were included, but her temper was thoroughly sour.) He had not had to go through the painful, bloody aftermath. At least it had worked.

  In the end, things did not go as badly with Freddie as they first threatened. The seizure left him partially paralysed. His left side was useless, his speech a mangled drone, so that at first she feared his mind was affected, although it was not. It was terrifying to see; he seemed to have aged years that morning, and he was not yet forty. Full of a burning pity that seemed stronger than anything else she felt, Flora sat with him every day, determined to be cheerful and kind, to show her real affection for him, to devote herself to his recovery; the doctors were guardedly hopeful. If she felt neither guilt nor repentance for her infidelity, she was ashamed – for all her horror at seeing him struck down, her first thought had been for herself. She wanted to make up for her selfishness, and, in some incoherent, unscientific way, she felt that sacrificing what she most wanted would help Freddie, would go some way towards . . . She never knew how this thought would finish.

  As summer flared briefly, waned and turned to autumn, Freddie’s recovery was steady – remarkable, even, the doctors said. Everyone was impressed by his courage, and by Flora’s devotion. After several weeks, he began to regain the use of his left arm, and, over time, the slurring in his speech was much reduced. By Christmas, he was able to resume letter writing, and he encouraged Flora to pick up the plans for her next expedition.

  Never, at any point, did he remark on the cancelled trip to the Alps.

  Chapter 35

  London, 51˚31’N, 0˚7’W

  Spring 1896

  It is a bitter April, especially in the museum’s basement. The boy – he can be no more than fifteen – levers up the lid with a shriek of iron on wood. Flora peers into the crate that sits in a corner of the freezing cellar – not actually frozen, unfortunately: moisture is running down the walls. The lamp he holds gutters in the foul air. Flora hopes the smell is only drains.

  She pokes a hole in the straw and uncovers a terrible grimace. The boy jerks the lantern back with a gasp, making shadows dance wildly over them both.

  A shock, the first time you see it again. But it is not quite as it was before. The skin is dark. Flora dabs her fingertip to the mummy’s forehead and holds it up: a smear of black mould.

  .

  Dr Murray did not know the mummies were in the basement. He is overwhelmed with treasures from all corners of the Empire.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Athlone, but we have so many things to look after here. All equally important.’

  ‘They are covered in mould! I entrusted them to you. They are unique. No museum in the world has anything like this!’

  ‘I know. I will . . . I’ll see that they are moved.’

  ‘That’s not enough. You can’t let them rot! These are . . . They’re people! They had names, and souls, and . . .’

  To her horror, she finds herself choked with tears. Murray stands patiently by. Flora fishes a handkerchief out of her pocket and blots her eyes, breathes deeply for a moment, recovers herself.

  ‘I apologise, Dr Murray, but it distresses me to think that, after all the effort and care we spent to bring them back for the . . . the edification of the people, they are being neglected like this.’

  ‘I understand. I assure you, we will see to it. We have a consultant chap who helps us out when we have something unusual. I’ll write to him.’

  ‘Today?’

  Murray brightens. ‘Right away. In fact, I think I saw him earlier. He may still be in the building.’

  ‘Then we could go and find him now . . .’

  .

  Flora is embarrassed by her outburst. She did not feel sentimental about taking the bodies from thei
r grave, is not superstitious about gaping mouths and empty eyes, and shares none of Ralph’s religious scruples. What is the human body, after all, but an envelope: a vehicle, perhaps not for the soul, as she claimed, but for the mind?

  This morning, she woke to the knowledge that it is 18th April, a whole year since she met Jakob in the Adelphi. She has tried to put the memories out of her mind, but, in Murray’s office they overwhelmed her. She had a powerful sense of him. The feel of him. Impossible to think of him as separate or apart from his body. Not just impossible – a nonsense. The mummies were once as particular as he, as warm to touch. Their names and flaws and loves are secreted in the past, but none the less real. Their bodies are themselves.

  She follows Murray down corridors and staircases, and into a low-ceilinged room full of stuffed animal carcasses. Two men are bent over a table under the high window.

  ‘Ah, Mr Carruthers? Could I borrow Mr Levinson for a moment?’

  Flora is rooted to the spot. Mark turns round from the table and stares in shock. Neither of the museum men seems to notice. They are introduced. Flora finds her tongue at last and says, with a suspicion that she is blushing, ‘Mr Levinson and I have met before. We were both students at the University of London.’

  ‘Were you? Well . . . capital! Shall we take a look at the beggars now?’

  .

  After the mummies are put into their new, temporary home in an unheated gallery, Flora contrives to leave the museum at the same time as Mark. From his silence, she is aware that he would rather not be alone with her.

  ‘Mark, please wait a moment.’ She glances behind her. ‘I know we didn’t part on good terms, but that was long ago. It doesn’t matter now. And if we’re going to be working together . . .’

  Mark grimaces. She is struck by how much the same he is – energetic, prickly, his hair a wiry halo. His glasses could be the same pair . . . even the jacket – it is not the same lovat tweed jacket she grew to love, but a close cousin.

  ‘You haven’t changed at all,’ he says, accusingly, to her surprise. She almost laughs.

  ‘Oh . . . I have. I have.’

  ‘Not to look at. Of course, you’re even more famous now. “The Snow Queen” for good and all! I read about you, you know, in the papers – what you’re doing.’

  Nonplussed, Flora jabs the ground with her umbrella. ‘Now you’ve seen the mummies, I hope you can do something.’

  Mark looks away from her. ‘I think probably they’ll be all right. I’ve worked on Egyptian mummies. The principles must be similar.’

  ‘I’m relieved to hear you say it. How did you . . . ?’ She shrugs and gestures to the building behind them.

  ‘End up doing this? Because, when I . . . left the university’ – he pronounces the words with a delicate savagery – ‘I had to get a job, and I started working for a taxidermist. He was a good man; he saw I was wasted, and he persuaded me to go back and finish my degree. Now I teach chemistry at the Regent Street Polytechnic and, um, do this on the side. A brilliant scientific career!’

  ‘Oh.’

  Flora would, if it were anyone other than Mark, venture congratulations, but she can imagine how these would be received.

  ‘How is your family?’

  Mark snorts. ‘They’re all right, if you really want to know. And you – you married the rich man. I knew you would.’

  ‘I didn’t . . . know, I mean. But – yes.’

  ‘So, everything has worked out for the best, then! Well, Mrs Athlone, it’s been exceedingly nice to meet you again, but I have to go.’

  He raises his hand in a mocking half-salute. She lets him walk away, since that is what he seems to want: to have had the last word.

  Over the next few weeks, several things fall into place. Ralph Dixon writes from Cape Town, saying that he has married the daughter of a South African lawyer, but will nevertheless be delighted to join Flora’s second expedition as its geologist. A young Cambridge doctor called Henry Haddo applies to join them. He has a special interest in scurvy, and is not only keen, he is highly thought of. There is a sizable cash donation from an industrialist she has never met. She entertains, briefly, the idea of offering a place on the expedition to Mark, just to see the look on his face.

  Strange how stubbornly life goes on, when all had seemed hopeless. The expedition is coming together. News has emerged from the north that Lester Armitage’s expensive ship has sunk, and he has failed to do more than extend the furthest north by a few miles, which gives her a secret satisfaction. People are starting to believe that she will go north again.

  But, sometimes, when she goes home, she walks through the front door and wants to scream. She goes in to see her husband and asks how he has been, and is humbled by his suffering. Freddie is not given to complaining, but most of his energy is absorbed by his failing body. Nurse Capron puts him through a programme of exercises every day, and there is hope that he will be able to do more than limp for short distances. But, because it is hard to distinguish the effects of the pelvic injury from the stroke damage and his underlying syphilis, the prognosis is unclear. When she asks him, he rarely says anything other than that there is slow progress.

  ‘At least,’ he says, ‘I’m not getting any worse.’

  She doesn’t know if this is true. Recently, he has been having trouble with one of his eyes. This, she eventually finds out from the doctor, is a symptom of tertiary syphilis. Neither Freddie nor Nurse Capron would tell her. The two of them have a peculiar relationship: they bicker constantly, but she hears them laughing too. They never laugh when she is there. They have shouting matches, but Freddie never raises his voice to Flora. Irrationally, she feels excluded.

  He apologises for being helpless, for not doing more for the exped­ition, which makes her feel selfish and unworthy. The more selfish and unworthy she feels, the angrier she becomes. She is twenty-five. She thinks, From this point on, I will only lose what allure I have. I am dying here, unloved and untouched. She reminds herself of all she has to be thankful for. At times, she finds herself wiping tears from her eyes, over supper, but only if she is eating alone.

  .

  After she wrote to Jakob breaking it off, he replied once more. This letter was less stiff and formal than the others. He begged her to change her mind, said he would be in London in a few weeks; perhaps she would feel differently then. If she would just write and say she allowed him to write again . . . The letter struck her as sincere, but she did not know how to answer. The abortion had soured her memories of their affair, and of him. She was angry with him for being ignorant of it, but imagined his anger, if he knew. She wanted to be with him, longed to be in his arms again, but she was scared. She would never be careless again. Such joy, such happiness, she had learnt, comes at a price.

  The stroke left her, in different ways, as paralysed as her husband. Some part of her thought that Jakob must understand how she felt; she knew that he would come back through London on his way home, and by then, perhaps, she would know what to do. But September passed, then October, and, as the nights drew in and Freddie grew stronger, she realised, with leaden certainty, that Jakob had already gone.

  Chapter 36

  New York, 40˚42’N, 74˚00’W

  August 1896

  Exotic visitors at the museum!

  Mr Armitage brings People of the North to Manhattan!

  ESKIMO Men, Women, Dogs!!

  Remarkable spectacle . . .

  Headlines in the Brooklyn Advertiser, August 1896

  The visitors make all the papers. Jakob is not surprised to find that Lester Armitage has done such a thing, but he is surprised when he reads the names of the Eskimos currently residing in the Natural History Museum, even put through the editorial mangle of the Brooklyn Advertiser: ‘Anick’ and ‘Ivalo’ are surely the angekok and his wife (Lester’s former mistress – can he really have brought her back
to America?), then ‘Ajax’ and ‘Patla’, which puzzled him at first, until he realised they sounded like the injured Ayakou, and his wife, Padloq (but hadn’t she left him?) They are to go on tour. They will give demonstrations of dog-driving, igloo-building and hunting. They can be viewed for a price.

  He is sitting at the breakfast table with Hendrik and his niece Vera, when the headlines catch his eye. He experiences the familiar jolt of discomfort (he refuses to call it envy) that the sight of Lester’s name causes him. Indeed, who could envy Lester his last expedition? Scotty Welbourne cabled him after the news of the Polar Star’s demise got out: Ha! We will beat him yet!

  ‘Vera, look, there are Eskimos here in New York.’

  His niece seizes the paper. At ten, all too conscious of her lameness, she has grown quiet, serious and solitary.

  ‘Uncle Jake, can we go and see them?’

  ‘That’s a good idea; why don’t you take her?’ says Hendrik, finishing his coffee and wiping his moustache. ‘That is, if you have time.’

  ‘Of course. I wouldn’t miss it. I think I know these people. Ajax is really, I think, Ayakou – the hunter whose leg was broken when . . . when Frank died. I have to visit the engravers this morning, but this afternoon – if you’re free, madam?’

  Hendrik stands up. ‘While you’re at your engravers, I must shout at people about the new refrigeration facilities – totally inadequate. Meat cannot be trifled with.’