It was six years since she’d seen the photograph that had set her on this path. An image of Louise Arner Boyd on her first trip to the Arctic in 1926. Dressed in heavyweight clothing and grasping a rifle, Louise was standing in the embrace of a dead polar bear, hung by its neck so it towered above her, its full size apparent. The photograph was titled ‘The girl who captured the Arctic’.
That damned woman had come into her massive inheritance when she turned twenty, and could simply outfit herself as a polar explorer and head to Greenland. Lillemor was at once jealous and admiring. She wanted to be the one standing there with a hunting trophy and a rifle, gazing calmly at the camera, dressed for anything. But Arner Boyd had claimed the Arctic as her own, going back there on several more trips and even now planning further exploration. Freda had encouraged Lillemor to apply to be included, but Lillemor knew there was only room for one ‘Arctic Diana’, as the press had dubbed Boyd.
Lillemor had to go south if she wanted to be first. The South Pole had long been conquered, but the British still spoke about Robert Falcon Scott in reverent tones, as if he had beaten Amundsen after all. The maps of the southern land were still mostly blank and in spite of the rush of discoveries made before the war, most of the continent was unseen by humans. All she had to do was make landfall and she could be ‘the girl who captured the Antarctic’.
But she had no chance of being included in a British expedition. They still held to their quaint model of gentlemanly exploration, running fundraising evenings, setting sail in old wooden ships and leaving their women well and truly behind. Her own countrymen were more pragmatic, travelling south in enormous steel vessels and paying for their travels by harvesting whales. The Americans, like Richard Byrd, simply flew.
Perhaps it was the Americans she should emulate. They seemed to have a knack for making things happen. Look at Miss Earhart.
The late spring afternoon was closing in on London by the time Miss Earhart walked into the lounge. They’d waited nearly two hours and the second round of tea was being served. Lillemor strained to spot her through the crowd.
Miss Earhart looked tired but exhilarated. Just two days earlier she’d landed her Lockheed Vega in a pasture in Ireland. She’d come across to London by boat to celebrate being the first woman to fly solo over the Atlantic. The picture in The Times had shown her in a flying outfit, dashingly handsome in her leather bomber jacket and pants, with her goggles and helmet. Lillemor felt a stab of disappointment when she saw Miss Earhart was dressed in a plain dark frock with a pale shirt underneath. She could have been any of them, though at least she was bareheaded among the crowd of cloche hats.
Sarah Clegg had organised this reception at Women’s Service House in her own record-breaking time so that London’s leading suffragists, with little to do now they’d had the vote for four years, could feel important again. It naturally fell to her to step forward and hold her hand out to Miss Earhart. They shook hands like men, and to Lillemor’s eyes the gesture still looked a little shocking.
If Miss Earhart was uncomfortable with a roomful of women staring at her, she showed no sign of it. She nodded and smiled at Sarah and glanced around the room at the rest of them. She had short, tousled hair and freckles scattered across her nose. She looked exactly like the tomboy Lillemor had imagined her to be.
‘Here they come,’ Freda said, fanning herself. ‘I don’t know why Sarah invited me. I can’t think of a thing to say to the woman.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ Marie said. ‘Why don’t you suggest to Miss Earhart that she take Lillemor and fly to Antarctica?’
Lillemor’s heart was racing. ‘Don’t you say anything,’ she said. She put her shoulders back to appear taller and made herself smile as Sarah led Miss Earhart up to them.
‘Miss Earhart, I’m pleased to present Miss Du Faur, the first woman to climb Mount Cook in New Zealand and the first person ever to climb Mount Dampier,’ Sarah said.
Trust her to have memorised Freda’s achievements, Lillemor thought, as though Sarah could reflect in Freda’s glory. But she couldn’t help a moment of jealousy as Miss Earhart’s face lit up.
‘Why I’ve heard of you, of course, Miss Du Faur,’ she said. ‘A real adventurer. Not like me, who only has to sit on her bottom and stay awake.’
Sarah and Lillemor laughed politely. Freda shook Miss Earhart’s hand. ‘We all know it took much more than that,’ she said without smiling.
There was an awkward pause. Since her Muriel had died in such terrible circumstances, Freda had lost her ability to make pleasant conversation. For a moment Lillemor saw, in Miss Earhart, how Freda must have been, delighting and scandalising the world as she scaled New Zealand’s wildest peaks in her skirts and knickerbockers. But that was twenty years ago and Freda was an old woman now, or at least looked like one.
Sarah smiled determinedly. ‘It’s an honour to introduce you to our famous author, Dr Marie Stopes,’ she said, presenting Marie. ‘You’ve no doubt heard of Married Love?’
‘Of course I know your work very well, Dr Stopes,’ Miss Earhart said, ‘since my husband’s company publishes your book in the United States. He says your work has changed the world. So much more important than flying.’
Marie shook Miss Earhart’s hand. ‘On the contrary, your adventures are so important for our younger women. I’m too old now to do such things, but women like Lillemor will be following the trail you’ve blazed.’
Sarah smiled and gestured to Lillemor. ‘This is Mrs Lillemor Rachlew, from Norway, who’s doing such wonderful charity work here in Dr Stopes’ Mothers’ Clinic.’
Miss Earhart held out her hand and Lillemor took it, wishing desperately for an interesting way of announcing herself. She had one claim on Miss Earhart’s attention only, and in her nervousness she blurted it out at once. ‘We’re so thrilled you made it safely. My countryman Bernt Balchen, I believe, gave you some assistance.’
‘You know Bernt?’ Miss Earhart said, interested. ‘What a darling man. He did the most wonderful refurbishment of Old Bessie so she could make the trip. And he threw the press off my trail.’
‘Really? How did he do that?’ Sarah asked.
‘Oh, he pretended he was flying Bessie to the Arctic himself, and they left him alone. Worked wonders. I got to take off without the pack snapping at my heels. What an aviator! You must be so proud.’
‘Yes,’ Lillemor said, hoping there’d be no further questions about Bernt, who she’d never, in fact, met.
Miss Earhart turned to Freda. ‘Are you still climbing, Miss Du Faur?’
Freda shook her head. ‘The war made it hard, and my dear friend was ill for the last few years.’
‘Yes, very sad,’ Sarah said hastily. ‘And now, Miss Earhart, do come and meet Mrs Furness.’
She directed Miss Earhart firmly away from them. Lillemor took Freda’s arm and gave it a squeeze. She’d only met Freda after Muriel’s death and though she’d heard their relationship was fairly discreet, most of the women involved in the suffrage movement were keen to distance themselves from lesbians. Many lesbians themselves stayed safely undercover, Lillemor knew, and plenty of women from the club acted scandalised when Radclyffe Hall dressed in a suit, took her lover, Lady Trowbridge, to the Lyric Theatre without any apparent shame.
‘Well,’ Lillemor said, ‘you never told me her husband published your books.’
‘You never asked,’ Marie replied. ‘I’m surprised she remembered though. She’s certainly a rising star. Come on, Freda; let’s get a cup of tea. Why don’t you take some photographs, Lillemor?’
Lillemor remembered that her camera was in her bag and cursed herself for not having had it ready. She’d bought the Beau Brownie when she applied for Mawson’s expedition, but had hardly used it, though its workings were simple enough. It was time she got more confident with it. She took another cup of the damned tea that the English always served on such occasions and a tasteless cucumber and margarine sandwich, wishing for a strong Norwegian coffee a
nd a cake with some substance to it.
She watched Miss Earhart being steered around the room. There was something different about her, something more than dress, and Lillemor studied her to see what it was. The English women held their bodies stiffly upright, as though the posture had been bred into them over generations. They took small steps and kept their elbows close to their sides. They held their teacups at breast level, and took polite sips.
Miss Earhart had a lanky elegance about her, moving her body as though she was unconscious of the space it took up. She reached without forethought to take a sandwich and ate it in a few bites. She laughed often, her face opening up and her wide grin showing the gap between her front teeth.
Lillemor liked Americans. She liked the way they took on everything with their loud confidence, secure in the knowledge that their way was best. She envied Bernt the chance to work in America and rub shoulders with the great aviators like Amelia Earhart and Richard Byrd, while she merely did the kind of charity work that a diplomatic wife of means should do.
Lillemor looked across the room. Miss Earhart had turned to reach for a sandwich and their eyes met. For a moment she was unattended. This was her chance.
Lillemor straightened up and approached her. ‘Miss Earhart?’
‘Please,’ Amelia pressed a hand on her arm, ‘it’s Amelia. We’re more casual in America.’
Lillemor opened her bag and took out the camera. ‘Sarah asked me to take some photographs. Do you mind?’
‘Of course not.’ Amelia put down her cup of tea, clasped her hands and grinned in a practised manner.
Lillemor balanced the Beau Brownie, peered down into the viewfinder and pressed the lever. She looked up. ‘I want to be the first woman in Antarctica,’ she said.
Amelia nodded. ‘Excellent. Bernt told me about flying over the South Pole. Antarctica sounds like an extraordinary adventure. How do you intend to get there?’
‘That’s the problem,’ Lillemor said. ‘No one will take a woman. I asked to be included in Mawson’s Antarctic expedition in 1929 but he didn’t even bother replying.’
‘Did you offer him money?’ Amelia asked, with a smile.
Lillemor shook her head. ‘I have some means, but not that much.’
‘Could Bernt help you?’
Lillemor shrugged. ‘I’m not an aviator. I’d just be luggage.’
‘I was just luggage on my first Atlantic flight,’ Amelia said. ‘I hated it. Better to find a way where you can be doing something. Do you have any skills?’
What Lillemor was best at was making men do her bidding, but it wasn’t working in relation to Antarctica. She wondered if Amelia had the same skill. She wished she dared propose that she and Amelia fly to Antarctica together, a female Norwegian– American duo matching the feat of Bernt Balchen and Richard Byrd in overflying the South Pole, but she didn’t have the nerve.
‘I can make soup and feed the starving. But there’s not many of them in Antarctica.’
‘What about photography?’
‘I suppose I can use a Beau Brownie,’ Lillemor said.
Amelia gave her such a thump on the shoulder that Lillemor jumped. ‘Excellent! You must go as a photographer, Mrs …’
‘Call me Lillemor. I prefer my own name.’
‘Me too. The press tries to call me Mrs Putnam, but I won’t have it.’ Amelia leaned close. ‘Become the best photographer you can, Lillemor. Learn to write too. The public is hungry for stories of far-off places. I fund most of my flying through public relations, with the help of my husband. You may convince a newspaper to support your cause.’
Sarah bustled over. ‘Excuse me, Lillemor, if you don’t mind. Miss Earhart hasn’t met everyone yet.’
Lillemor stood back. ‘Goodbye, Amelia.’
Amelia winked. ‘I’ll look forward to reading about you.’
She walked away and Lillemor gazed after her. Amelia carried in a new era on her slight shoulders. She’d crossed the entire ocean between England and America. The first woman and only the second person to do it. Was that what glowed out of her in such a way, Lillemor wondered. Amelia had touched the very sky, and it showed.
CHAPTER 4
‘Please stop this,’ Lars said in the dark, across the chasm that their marriage bed had become.
Ingrid stayed still, facing away from him.
He sighed heavily. ‘I know you’re awake.’ His hand reached across the sheets towards her.
She drew away from him. ‘I don’t want another child.’
‘Can we at least discuss it?’
‘No.’
Lars threw back the blankets. ‘God! You could drive a man to desperate acts.’
‘What, Lars?’ she snapped. ‘Force? Infidelity? What did you have in mind?’
He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Infidelity? I’m afraid that’s your side of the family.’
She kicked out across the bed, catching him in the shin. ‘How dare you!’
‘You can’t deny your father’s bastards are all over town. I don’t think even he knew how many.’
‘You know nothing about it,’ she said.
He sat up and faced her. ‘When I took over the firm, do you know how many of Thor’s women were on the books quietly receiving a cheque every month? Five, Ingrid. I thought I’d spare you the details, but perhaps I should have told you then.’
Ingrid got out of bed. ‘Perhaps you should follow his example. Get yourself a mistress and see if she can give you a better son than the ones you’ve got.’
‘You’re twisting what I said.’
‘I’m not. You want to keep me like a brood mare till you get your perfect young stallion. You’ve got six fine children, Lars. Enough!’
‘And you’ve never wanted for anything,’ he said. ‘I’ve never said no to you, no matter what you’ve asked for. So I say to you, enough!’
Ingrid stamped across the room. ‘I should have waited for Amundsen rather than marrying you!’ She slammed the door behind her, not caring if she woke the children.
‘Amundsen was never going to marry you!’ Lars bellowed after her.
‘That’s what you think,’ she muttered, pulling her dressing gown closed and heading downstairs.
She wished it was snowing. She wanted to run outside and get lost, disappear into it like her mother had. But it was a spring night out there, far too warm and pleasant.
She halted in front of her father’s portrait on the wall of the big lounge room, his long face a white blur in the dark. For all his faults, he was the only man who hadn’t broken a promise to her.
She remembered her fifteenth birthday. Thor had promised her a surprise and no matter how much she’d pestered, he wouldn’t reveal it. He’d smiled enigmatically and told her to be patient. When she tried again, he simply raised an eyebrow. ‘I hope you can show you’re worthy of it.’
Ingrid refused to let herself hope the surprise might be her mother returning. Nothing eventuated on the morning of her birthday, just a handful of presents of the ordinary kind, and a twinkle in Thor’s eye. She’d been packed off to school without ceremony and found it hard to concentrate on her lessons. The attentions of her friends, usually so welcome, became irritating so that she snapped at them and walked home alone.
Her sister Alvhild was at the gate, jiggling from one foot to the other, when Ingrid got to the house, her face chilled from the autumn air.
‘You’ll never guess who’s here,’ Alvhild said.
‘Who?’
‘I’m not allowed to tell.’
‘Well, be quiet then.’ Ingrid pushed past her and started down the path.
‘You’d better put on a smile,’ Alvhild taunted, following close behind. ‘Father will be cross if you’re in a temper.’
Ingrid rounded on her. ‘Shut up, I said!’
‘Ingrid!’ Her father’s voice was loud and Ingrid shrank. She hated to cause his anger but sometimes she couldn’t help it.
‘Father?’
He glared at he
r from the doorstep. ‘I thought you were adult enough for this, but perhaps I was wrong.’
‘I’m adult enough,’ she said, raising her chin. ‘For what, anyway?’
He shook his head in resignation. ‘Only to meet one of our greatest living Norwegians.’
Her irritation fell away at once. ‘Who? Nansen?’
A man stepped out from behind her father. He was too young to be Fridtjof Nansen, her long-time hero, and she felt a stab of disappointment.
‘She’s not a dissembler, that’s for sure,’ the man laughed. ‘I’m sorry to be such a letdown, Miss Dahl.’
‘Let me introduce Roald Amundsen, who has kindly consented to join us for your birthday dinner,’ her father said. ‘Go and change, and I trust your manners will improve before you rejoin us.’
Chastened, Ingrid escaped to her room. Roald Amundsen, having at last found the fabled route through the Northwest Passage, was almost as famous as the great Nansen, anyway. She flicked through her wardrobe looking for something to wear, but her best outfit was a child’s dress, frilled and ruffled. She was fifteen and this was her night. She was too old for such a frock.
Ingrid crept quietly into her father’s bedroom. Her mother’s dresses still hung in his closet, dusty and unused. She rifled through them. She knew what she was looking for, and felt a thrill when her fingers met the white silk. She took the dress back to her room, flung off her school clothes and drew the dress over her head. She pulled her auburn hair out of its plaits and brushed it with her mother’s fine hairbrush, until it cascaded over her shoulders. She squeezed her feet into a pair of her mother’s shoes that were half a size too small and then faced the mirror.
She’d grown in the past six months and in an adult’s dress she could see the woman she’d become. The white silk showed off her long red hair and small waist. She wanted to show Amundsen how capable she was, not how pretty, but she didn’t know how. She longed for her mother with a sudden pang. She’d lived without her for years now, but Thor hadn’t seemed to notice that she’d become a young woman and that some female guidance, as she stepped into womanhood, would be a welcome thing.
Chasing the Light Page 4
