‘London is dreary!’ Lillemor said. ‘It’s such a nice change to be somewhere fun.’
The maître d’, catching sight of them, hurried forward and greeted Lars with a smile. ‘Consul Christensen, such an honour. Your other guests are waiting.’
He led them to a far table where three men stood to greet them. Ingrid was pleased to see Hjalmar, who smiled at her warmly. He looked a little uncomfortable to see the Rachlews, she thought, but quickly adjusted his face and held a hand out to Anton.
Lars shook hands all around. ‘Ladies, this is the man who’ll be taking us south, Captain Harald Horntvedt,’ he said. ‘Captain Hjalmar Riiser-Larsen and Captain Nils Larsen are catching a lift south with us to meet up with Norvegia.’
Hjalmar bowed his head politely. ‘Mrs Christensen, I can see the prospect of Antarctica agrees with you, as you look even more beautiful than when I saw you last in Sandefjord. Mrs Wegger, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Mrs Rachlew, a lovely surprise to see you here.’
The waiters drew out their chairs and when they sat down, whisked white napkins into their laps, poured generous glasses of chilled white wine and handed out menus.
‘I can hardly believe I’m in such company, having read about you all in the London papers so often,’ Lillemor said, smiling at the men.
Nils smiled back. ‘Ingrid and Mathilde will soon be more famous than any of us, being the first women to see Antarctica, while Hjalmar and I have only the lowly task of mapping it.’
‘If we see it,’ grunted Captain Horntvedt. ‘You must remember, ladies, there is no guarantee we’ll get close enough to see land in a ship as large as Thorshavn.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be able to navigate us successfully,’ Ingrid said.
‘I cannot promise anything, Mrs Christensen.’
There was an awkward pause and then Hjalmar said, ‘No problem, ladies. If the captain cannot get you close to the great continent, then I myself will take you up in Qarrtsiluni and you can see the Southern Land from the sky.’
Ingrid felt Lars relax a little by her side. He waved to a waiter and ordered their food.
‘Qarrtsiluni?’ Lillemor asked when the waiter had gone.
‘That is Consul Christensen’s little joke,’ said Hjalmar. ‘It means soul of a whale. She’s a sweet little seaplane, but unfortunately most of her travel has been on the deck of a ship. How far has she come, Consul?’
Lars spread his hands. ‘From Burbank to New York, then across the Atlantic and Northern Seas, then from Sandefjord to Antarctica last year, all without so much as a single ascent. If she indeed has a soul, it would be most ashamed.’
‘She is a true explorer then, for humiliation is ever our lot,’ Hjalmar said. ‘For every great victory, there are a dozen shameful or fatal failures.’
Lillemor leaned forward and rested her chin on her hand. ‘How wonderful, flying over Antarctica.’
‘I don’t think we’ll be flying,’ Lars said. ‘The planes are for Hjalmar and Nils to take on their expedition. I have every faith that Captain Horntvedt will take us through the ice quite safely.’
‘With respect, Consul Christensen, safety can never be guaranteed in Antarctica,’ said Captain Horntvedt. ‘Mrs Christensen, I have expressed my position to your husband. I would not allow my own wife to undertake such a voyage, and especially if I was leaving children at home. Consul, I beg you again to consider carefully. There is still time to change your mind. The ladies can go home on the passenger liner and leave you to come south in peace.’
With exquisite timing, a flurry of waiters arrived with their meals, covering the moment with the precise placement of heavy crockery and the refilling of glasses.
Mathilde looked at Ingrid. ‘Lars has not lost a single man from any one of his ships, so I’m told.’
Captain Horntvedt looked up, knife poised. ‘You’ve never been in the fury of a storm on the Southern Ocean, when the waves are higher than the ship’s bridge,’ he said. ‘You have never crept through a field of icebergs in the dark, wondering if at any moment the ship will strike a growler and sink in minutes. Better captains than I have lost their boats, their men and even their own lives. It is tempting fate in the most arrogant manner to take a woman down there as though this is some scenic trip for her own pleasure.’
Lars cleared his throat. ‘You’ve made your position clear, Captain.’
‘What’s a growler?’ Lillemor asked, smiling.
Captain Horntvedt glared at her, then picked up his fork and made a precise slice into the chicken breast.
‘A growler is an underwater iceberg that’s hard to see,’ said Hjalmar. ‘Especially dangerous at night.’
‘Surely a growler couldn’t sink a ship like Thorshavn?’ Lillemor asked.
There was an awkward silence and then Hjalmar said, ‘Don’t worry; we keep a sharp lookout for them.’
As they began eating, Ingrid glanced at Mathilde. She was pale and moving her food around her plate.
‘Captain, we Norwegians know better than to believe in superstitions about women being bad luck on the sea,’ Lillemor said. ‘We’re descended from Vikings, who believed in the Valkyrie, the handmaidens of war. Mathilde and Ingrid are just like those brave female warriors. Think of the honour they will bring to Norway.’
‘I am a Christian. I don’t hold with pagan superstitions,’ he said.
The musicians finished with a flourish and there was a ripple of applause. Ingrid glanced up to see the singer step back from the microphone. The maître d’ stepped up to the stage.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we have the honour of some of Norway’s famous polar explorers in the audience,’ he said, his voice booming through the microphone.
There was a general shuffling and craning of necks as a spotlight swung around and hit their table, blinding them.
‘We welcome Captain Horntvedt, who this year commands the refuelling vessel Thorshavn.’
There was a polite ripple of applause.
‘Travelling south with him, we have Captain Riiser-Larsen, who flew over the North Pole with Amundsen and just last year met the great Douglas Mawson in Antarctica. He and Captain Larsen will take over command of Norvegia, the little ship that’s been such a familiar sight at the Cape Town docks and is already down in Antarctica.’
Hjalmar waved and there was a round of enthusiastic applause.
‘This year Consul Christensen himself travels south in the hope of seeing Antarctica and perhaps adding some more Norwegian place names to the very blank map of that continent. And that’s not all, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight you are witnessing history being made. Hoping to become the first women to land on Antarctica, Mrs Christensen and her companion, Mrs Wegger!’
The musicians played a flourish and a buzz of voices rose around them. Ingrid stared into the spotlight, half blinded until Lars nudged her and she smiled and waved.
‘Good luck and godspeed for your voyage. We look forward to welcoming you back to Cape Town,’ the maître d’ called. The singer stepped back to the microphone and the band began a slow jazz introduction.
‘This one’s for you, Mrs Christensen, by special request,’ the singer said. ‘“Baby won’t you please come home”.’
The audience started to clap and Lillemor leaned over to Ingrid. ‘They want you to dance. Don’t disappoint them. I asked for this song.’
The spotlight was still on Ingrid. She sensed that beyond its brilliance, the whole room was staring. Beside her, Lars rose to his feet, turned to her and held out his hand with a smile. As Ingrid took his hand, the scattered clapping turned into applause.
Lars was smiling as he led her to the centre of the empty dance floor, a space that felt as big as a continent. His enthusiasm for all things modern and American meant they’d learned all the big-band dances and he rather prided himself on his skill, Ingrid knew. He was a good leader, and as long as she could relax and follow him, they were accomplished on the floor.
He took Ingrid in his arms
with a confident move that set off another smattering of applause and then they were moving gracefully across the polished floor, in the skipping steps of the foxtrot. Ingrid remembered to tilt her head back and smile.
They came to the end of a diagonal and Lars dipped her low.
‘Ingrid,’ he said, close to her ear.
‘Don’t even ask.’ She smiled over his shoulder at the audience as he raised her again and they set off across the floor. ‘I’m not changing my mind.’
‘What about Mathilde?’
‘I’m not so sure about her,’ Ingrid said.
Lars spun her around. ‘I don’t want you travelling unaccompanied. If you come, she must come.’
The song ended with a flourish and the diners around them clapped and roared their approval. There was no depression in Cape Town, Ingrid thought, not when a crowd was as happy as this. As she and Lars made their way back towards the table, the next tune started and couples swept past them to the floor. Anton and Lillemor were on their feet and Lillemor winked at Ingrid as she brushed past.
CHAPTER 11
Mathilde had tossed throughout the night, haunted by images of waves that could reach the height of the ship’s bridge and invisible icebergs lurking in the water. She rose with terror twisting her stomach and the feeling intensified as she forced down breakfast, packed her bags and travelled by taxi to the docks with the Christensens. It reached a crescendo when she stood on the dock.
Thorshavn towered high above them, white as a bride for its maiden voyage. But the gleaming paint couldn’t hide the fact that this was a working ship. Its lines were rude and industrial; its smokestack belched a black cloud into the air. There was nothing to soften its purpose. Mathilde tipped her head back to take it in and realised that even her imaginings had fallen short. She could see the lifeboats hanging along the ship’s side, such tiny things. Since Titanic had gone down, no ship could be considered invulnerable.
Crowds were gathered to see them off, under a flock of umbrellas to shield them from the sun, and their party had to push through them to reach the gangway. Mathilde heard a volley of howls from somewhere high on the ship – Hjalmar’s huskies, outraged at having left solid ground. As she placed her foot on the gangway, something passed through her in a flash; a terror so elemental that it rooted her to the spot, unable to leave the land. Her palm stuck to the metal of the handrail as though frozen.
‘Mrs Wegger?’ Lars was behind her and she felt that any moment he’d put a fatherly hand in the small of her back to direct her. Her chest had tightened so she could hardly breathe. The roar of the crowd throbbed at her eardrums. The ship was so dazzling against the brilliant blue of the Cape Town sky that it hurt her eyes.
‘Mrs Wegger, may I?’
It was Hjalmar, not Lars, and his smile was kindly as he offered his arm. The whole world was waiting and somehow she unclenched her fingers, let go of the railing and gripped him instead, and he was guiding her up the gangway so smoothly that she had reached the deck before she fully realised it. Hjalmar whisked her to the cabin where her bags were waiting, gave her a smile, shut the door and disappeared.
Mathilde knew she was supposed to unpack a few things and settle herself, but she sank onto a chair and stared around her. This would be her prison, this small room with its two bunks and its neat cupboards, and the Christensens just a little further along the corridor. It was one of the nicer cabins on the ship, she knew, but that was little consolation. Antarctica was too far, too dangerous; there was too much wild sea to cross.
There was a knock at the door. Mathilde got to her feet but before she could cross the floor, Ingrid opened the door, smiling fixedly.
‘We’re casting off soon,’ she said. ‘Come and wave the crowd goodbye.’
Mathilde felt like she would choke. ‘I can’t.’
Ingrid stepped over the sill and came into the cabin. ‘Oh, you haven’t unpacked anything. You’ll want a sun hat.’
‘You never said it would be so dangerous.’ Mathilde’s palms were slick with sweat.
Ingrid shrugged. ‘Horntvedt exaggerates. It’s true Lars has never lost a man, not even from his catchers. You’ll be fine.’
Mathilde felt a wave of anger. Back in Sandefjord, when it was first apparent that she had little choice about going, Mathilde had found her pride. She acted as though joining the Christensens on their Antarctic adventure had been her own idea. It seemed Lars and Ingrid were happy to play along and she’d endured several dinners at Ranvik, where they’d talked for hours about their plans to the mousy historian Lars had appointed to come with them. She’d helped Ole and Aase pack to stay with their grandparents and tried to hide how much their excitement hurt. She’d practised a kind of grimace that could pass as a smile and called it up as needed. Her parents-in-law seemed to approve of her better attitude and didn’t refer again to the sanatorium. She even continued to open the door to Hans Lund’s daily visits. He seemed content to drink her coffee and not press her for anything more.
It was when she said goodbye to the children that the real trouble started. Looking down at them on the dock as the ship pulled away, she was gripped with a premonition that she’d never see them again. She wanted to jump over the boat’s side and swim back to them, hold them to her and refuse to be parted from them. How had she let this happen?
She hid herself away during the voyage to Cape Town, trying to regain her self-control. And now, at this impossible stage, it seemed her fear she’d never return to the children wasn’t just a foolish notion. Already far from home, the prospect of going countless miles further away from them, into such dangerous territory, was unbearable.
Mathilde’s nails dug into her palms. It was no good. Even a sanatorium would be better than this. She turned to Ingrid. ‘I won’t go. You must let me off.’
Ingrid put out her hand. ‘Please, Mathilde. It’s just nerves. You’ll be fine once we sail.’
Mathilde could feel her muscles quivering with the urge to run. ‘You never said a word about the danger. What if we sink?’
‘We won’t sink,’ Ingrid said. ‘If, by some remote chance, anything goes wrong, there are twenty-five ships and two aeroplanes in the fleet. One of them will pick us up at once.’
Mathilde stared at her. She was right to distrust Ingrid, who it seemed could leave six children behind without a second thought. She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Ingrid, my mind is made up. Let me off at once.’
Lillemor stood on the passageway outside the cabins, clutching Anton’s hand. The sound of the crowd and the brass band rose up around them, oddly distorted.
‘Go on then,’ Anton said.
‘I can’t bear it,’ she said. ‘So close. What if it doesn’t work?’
He gave her a little push. ‘Don’t lose your nerve now. Your baggage is just down by the gangplank, ready.’
She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and clip-clipped across the deck to the door of Mathilde’s cabin. She glanced back at Anton. He made a V sign with his fingers and then disappeared up the stairs to the bridge. She turned back to the door. Her stomach churned and she wished she’d drunk less champagne the previous night. She raised her hand and knocked.
After a moment Ingrid opened the door, her face grim.
Lillemor made herself smile. ‘There you are! I’ve brought the camera. Why aren’t you up on deck? You should see the docks. Half of Cape Town has come to see you off.’
Ingrid rubbed her forehead and Lillemor thought she saw her lip tremble. ‘We’re having a little problem, I’m afraid.’
‘What is it?’
Ingrid moved back to allow Lillemor to step over the sill into the cabin.
Mathilde stood in the centre of the room, clutching her bag, wearing her gloves and hat. ‘You can’t force me to go.’
Lillemor kept her face sympathetic and concerned. ‘What on earth do you mean? You can’t lose your nerve. Remember the Valkyrie?’
Mathilde glared at her. ‘I don’t recall the Valkyrie
having children. I had no idea of the risks involved or I’d never have agreed to this. I’m leaving.’
‘What about you?’ Lillemor asked Ingrid.
Ingrid shook her head. ‘Lars won’t let me come without another woman.’ She turned to Mathilde. ‘Please don’t do this to me. You agreed.’
‘Get me off!’ Mathilde’s voice rose.
There was a clatter of footsteps outside. Lillemor looked around to see Hjalmar at the door.
‘Ladies,’ he said, touching his cap. ‘We’re about to depart. It’s time to come on deck.’
Mathilde pushed past Lillemor and grabbed his arm. ‘Captain, thank God. Please take me from the ship. Ingrid won’t let me go, but my nerve has failed.’
‘Mrs Wegger doesn’t seem to mind that women won’t go to Antarctica this year after all,’ Ingrid said.
Lillemor’s hands were trembling. Not yet. Not yet. Timing was everything.
Hjalmar glanced at Ingrid, who shrugged helplessly. He turned back to Mathilde. ‘Very well,’ he said briskly. ‘Give me your trunk. Hurry, Mrs Wegger; the gangplank is about to be raised. Come, Mrs Christensen. I’ll send a man for your luggage.’
Lillemor heard Ingrid’s swiftly indrawn breath. Mathilde pulled her hat down over her eyes and took a step over the doorway.
Lillemor waited a beat. ‘One moment,’ she said.
The three of them turned to her.
‘I have an idea. Mathilde, I could go in your place. My husband can accompany you back to London and put you on a ship to Norway. Ingrid can still go to Antarctica and all isn’t lost.’
There was silence in the cabin for a few moments. Hjalmar kept his eyes on Mathilde. Ingrid stared at Lillemor with a pleading look on her face.
‘I don’t care,’ Mathilde said. ‘Just let me go and work out the rest yourselves.’
‘But Lillemor … you’d need clothing … and your husband?’ Ingrid said.
This was the awkward moment. Lillemor raised her chin. ‘Anton and I were planning to go mountaineering. I have a trunk of cold-weather clothes with me. It’s on the dock.’
At the look of dawning understanding on Mathilde’s face, Lillemor felt the heat rising in her cheeks. She fought down her feeling of guilt. What did it matter what Mathilde thought of Lillemor’s machinations? She was getting what she wanted – the chance to go home. She should be grateful.
Chasing the Light Page 10
