A gust of wind rocked the plane. It was easy to be romantic about flying when on the ground, she thought. She rested her hands on the yoke and peered out through the windscreen, wondering what it felt like to crash. She wanted to think that in the heavy fog Amundsen and his crew had not known a thing until the moment of impact obliterated them.
Ingrid heard a voice somewhere outside and recognised it as Hjalmar’s, calling her name. She didn’t want him finding her in his plane. She checked to make sure he wasn’t on the rear deck, then flipped open the door, scrambled out of the plane and managed to fold the steps back into place. She had straightened herself and was standing innocently under the wing when he came down the steps.
‘There you are! There’s a whale nearby. Hurry!’
Ingrid felt a rush of excitement and followed him to the port-side railing. The wind had dropped a little and the sea was smoother. She stared out expectantly, but could only see the long white lines the breeze made on the surface of the waves. Then, not fifty feet from the ship, a plume of vapour rose and the dark, shining shape of a whale broke the surface. The blowhole flared and then closed and dipped beneath the water. Its back arched till the ridiculously tiny dorsal appeared and then the whale lifted its tail flukes noiselessly and disappeared into a deep dive.
Ingrid realised she’d been holding her breath and let it out. She had expected an Antarctic leviathan, not some small creature like the ones easily seen near Norway.
‘What sort was it?’ she asked.
‘A little minke, most likely, and one that hasn’t been hunted,’ Hjalmar said. ‘Once we’re on the whaling grounds, no creature can rise for an innocent breath near a ship, even a minke.’
Ingrid thought of Bjarne. ‘Do you think they’re being overhunted?’
A shadow crossed Hjalmar’s face. ‘I’m not qualified to say.’
‘But no one has spent more time sailing Antarctic waters than you. You must have an idea.’
‘I really don’t know, Ingrid.’ He stepped back from the railing and looked up at the sky. ‘I think there’s a change of weather coming.’
And he was gone, striding up the deck at a fast clip. Ingrid stared after him. She heard a whoosh again and swung back to face the sea. The whale had moved further away, its dorsal disappearing as she watched.
Lars had told her often enough that the main principle of business was not to deplete your capital. Ingrid couldn’t believe he’d be investing in whaling if there was a chance of the creatures being fished out. A fool could see that wouldn’t work, and he was no fool.
But all explorations were funded by something, Lars had told her more than once.
Ingrid waited until the day was over, until she’d spent time on the bridge with Lars, until they’d eaten another few hearty meals in the saloon, until she’d inquired after Lillemor’s health and heard she was still bedridden, until she’d made some superficial conversation with Mathilde and was relieved to find the woman less depressed. She watched the sun set into the jagged horizon, staining the tips of the waves red for a few moments.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t spend more time with you, but there’s a lot for me to understand before we get to the factories,’ Lars said, when she finished getting ready for bed and slid into the bunk beside him. ‘Have you enjoyed the day?’
‘I did enjoy myself,’ she said, laying her head in the crook of his arm. ‘Though Horntvedt is a bad-tempered fellow. He doesn’t like women around, does he?’
‘Just give him a captain’s respect, that’s all.’
‘That’s what I tried. Oh, and guess what? Hjalmar and I saw a whale!
Lars sat up quickly. ‘Really? When?’
‘This morning some time. It was gone in a minute. Just a minke.’
He settled back down. ‘That augurs well for the season.’
‘Not according to Aagaard,’ Ingrid said.
Lars sighed. ‘He’s become fixated on the whale hunt. Unfortunately he only sees what he wants to see. Bogen is still an objective historian; he’ll do the right thing in recording our travels.’
Ingrid stroked Lars’s chest. ‘What if Aagaard’s right?’
‘Aagaard ignores that Norway is the only whaling nation with laws limiting our catches,’ he said. ‘No mothers with calves, no blue whales under seventy feet, and the rest. No one is stricter about them than I. These have been worked out by scientists, Ingrid, who know much better than Aagaard the level of harvest that the population can bear.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that.’ Ingrid felt the tension leave her belly.
Lars shifted his weight and pulled her close. ‘I think Aagaard has become emotionally involved with the whales. Perhaps I should have brought him along and he could have seen for himself. We use the most humane methods known. We’re trialling an electric harpoon, which delivers a shock to the whale and kills it immediately. I’m very keen to see how that works. Really, we’ve minimised the suffering of the animals as much as possible.’
‘I think his concern is for the men working in the industry, and what will happen to them if it collapses,’ Ingrid said.
‘If we were to cut back on the hunt, they’d be out of work right now. He can’t have it both ways.’
Tired of the conversation, Ingrid put her face to his neck. He murmured appreciatively and she kissed him, tasting salt on his skin.
‘You know, I think perhaps you ladies might be better off away from the factory ships,’ he said. ‘It’s meant to be a pleasure cruise for the three of you, and those factories are quite disgusting. You can smell them from miles away, I’ve heard. I’ll get on the radio tomorrow and find out where Norvegia is. Perhaps we can organise the rendezvous so you can spend a week or two on the small boat while we refuel the factories, and then we can pick you up again.’
Ingrid lay still, feeling the disquiet come back again. ‘I’d like to see the factory ships. This is our livelihood, Lars. This is what you want your sons to do. I don’t want to shy away from it.’
‘That’s all very well but what about your friends? Mathilde isn’t quite of sound mind, and as for Mrs Rachlew, she’ll get out her camera and who knows what will happen to the photographs? We could end up with pictures of dead whales in the newspapers, offending somebody and attracting too much attention.’
He rolled on his side so they were face to face. ‘You could use the opportunity to scout out landing places for us,’ he continued.
Perhaps he was right, Ingrid thought. Norvegia wasn’t Polaris, but she was at least an exploration ship, made from wood. And if she was away from Lars, there was less risk of conceiving.
As if reading her thoughts, he moved closer so their bodies were touching. ‘It’s like being on our honeymoon again, without the children,’ he murmured. ‘I like it, Ingrid.’
Ingrid closed her eyes as their lips touched. In truth, she didn’t feel like making love again so soon, but she couldn’t appear reluctant. She let Lars draw her on top of him. She would have preferred to lie back herself but she straddled him with the appearance of desire and moved with the motion of the ship, until he stiffened and groaned and fell asleep almost at once.
She lay for a long time beside him, imagining the little whale diving deep down under the water. Was there something particular, she wondered, that Lars didn’t want her to see? Perhaps she wasn’t the only one with something to hide.
CHAPTER 18
Lillemor felt she was sinking underwater. The light shifted from grey to black and back again in surreal intervals. She clung to her bunk, the only place of comfort in a shifting world, and drifted in and out of consciousness.
She dreamed she was riding in the belly of a whale, or did she wake and imagine it? She thought she had nibbled at the crackers by her bunk, but the pile seemed undiminished when next she forced open an eyelid and looked. She felt the prick of the needle through a fog and surmised that Stevensson had given her another injection. Once she thought Mathilde was stroking her head and murmuring, but when
she opened her eyes no one was there. Nonsense sentences formed in her head, every word unrelated to the last, the flow of them seemingly unstoppable until Lillemor felt she would go mad.
She couldn’t have said if a few hours or a day had passed by the time she woke properly. She lay with her eyes closed for some time, feeling the motion of the boat and trying to orient herself. She felt childlike and alone, as if waking from a nightmarish sleep and wanting her mother. After a while she opened her eyes. Mathilde was sitting across the cabin on the other bunk, watching her. It was unnerving.
‘Better?’ Mathilde asked.
‘I think so.’ Lillemor slid up into a sitting position and rubbed her face. Her belly growled, but with hunger, not nausea. The seasickness seemed to have passed. But the dim memory she had of Mathilde stroking her hair was at odds with the stern-faced woman before her, and she tried to gather her thoughts.
‘What on earth did that man give me? I feel like I’ve been asleep all day.’
‘Nearly three days,’ Mathilde said. ‘Some kind of new sedative, he said. He dropped by to top you up a few times.’
Lillemor shook her head to clear the muddle. ‘Three days? My God. What have I missed?’
Mathilde shrugged. ‘Not much. Waves. Wind. A few birds and a whale or two. Plenty of meals. They’re all waiting for you. The scenery hasn’t changed.’
Lillemor swung her legs around to the side of the bunk, put her feet on the floor and stood up slowly. The ship rolled and she put a hand against the wall to steady herself. She found her knees shifted of their own accord to keep her upright and her stomach seemed stable. She wondered what Mathilde had told everyone, and felt a stab of shame. So much for impressing the men of the ship with her adventurous spirit. It wasn’t a good start.
‘Looks like you’ve got your sea legs,’ Mathilde observed.
‘Well, I don’t intend to spend the trip in bed,’ Lillemor said. ‘What time is it?’
‘Almost lunch.’
‘Excellent. I’ll get dressed and you can help me find the saloon. How’s the food been?’
‘Not bad,’ Mathilde said. ‘But I’m sure you can find the saloon yourself. I’ve done you enough favours, I think.’
Perhaps there was more to mousy Mathilde than Lillemor had thought. It looked like she could be tough enough when she wanted.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said.
‘Of course you do,’ Mathilde said. ‘I think, Mrs Rachlew, we could say you’re in my debt.’
Lillemor made her way across the cabin to her luggage while she considered her response. Keeping her back to Mathilde, she opened the door. ‘How cold is it outside? Will I need my woollen underwear?’
‘It’s not that cold. I’m sure you’ll stand it if you wear a coat.’
Lillemor chose a dress and turned around. ‘I think we could help each other considerably on this trip, Mrs Wegger. If there’s anything I can do for you, I’d be more than happy to help.’
‘Good,’ Mathilde said. ‘I’ll be sure to let you know. And I prefer Mathilde.’
‘I prefer Lillemor. Glad we’ve got that straight.’
‘I’ll wait for you outside,’ Mathilde said. ‘I won’t be going to the saloon for a few minutes yet, so if you hurry you can come with me.’
She left the cabin and Lillemor made a rude face at her departing back. ‘If you hurry…’ she mimicked under her breath. She stripped off her nightwear and started pulling on her clothes, struggling to keep her footing as the ship rolled. She laced her boots, pulled on her woollen hat and hurried to the door. She kicked her toe misjudging the height of the sill and stumbled out. Mathilde looked at her without putting out a hand to help.
Lillemor regained her balance. ‘Lead on,’ she said. Mathilde turned away from her without another word.
By lunchtime’s end, Lillemor realised just how much she had missed while sleeping. Mathilde knew the names of the dogs and when she called down to them from the catwalk, they jumped and barked at her voice. Mathilde had engineered a seat between Hjalmar and Nils at the captain’s table, leaving Lillemor between Horntvedt, who was perpetually grouchy, and Hans Bogen, the historian, who was fussy and dull. She was far away from Lars and Ingrid and their end of the table seemed to sparkle with interesting conversation, while the men either side of her ate silently.
Lillemor, with brief glances, watched Mathilde. She and Hjalmar conversed with a warmth that seemed more than warranted by mealtime proximity and they were often talking privately rather than to their companions at large. Mathilde had seemed a plain woman when they’d first met in Cape Town and at their dinner at Kennedy’s, Lillemor had seen how easily she became terrified. It was only then Lillemor had had the idea of taking Mathilde’s place. The plan had worked, in the main – here she was, on board, on the way to Antarctica and it was clear Mathilde had little interest in being the first to land. But it was disconcerting that she’d seen through Lillemor’s machinations so clearly.
Mathilde was smiling at Hjalmar as they talked, and her face looked years younger. Not pretty, she wasn’t pretty, but she had dimples that appeared when she smiled, and they were an asset of which she could make much, if she chose. Lillemor strained her ears to hear their conversation. He was talking about Amundsen and his explorations of the North Pole. Lillemor wished she was close enough to join in. It would be wasted on Mathilde, who in all likelihood knew nothing of polar exploration history, while she, Lillemor, who’d studied it, could possibly tell Hjalmar a thing or two he didn’t know.
Lillemor turned her attention to Ingrid, who’d given her a friendly enough smile and a kiss on the cheek when she arrived in the saloon, together with queries about Lillemor’s health, but now seemed rather distracted. Lillemor wondered what brought her to Antarctica. She certainly wasn’t the kind of woman who came because she couldn’t be apart from her husband. Was she really just enjoying the latest holiday, or was she, like Lillemor, driven to be the first woman there?
If she did want to be the first, there’d be no question of whose name was attached to any discoveries or landings. But there were sometimes ways around expedition leaders. The very first landing on Antarctica was still being disputed. The expedition was under the leadership of Henryk Bull, but when the time came for a landing at Cape Adare in 1895, three men claimed to have leaped from the boat first, including a junior seaman. The matter of who had set foot first on the mainland had never been resolved. In such moments and by such slender margins were reputations made and histories written, Lillemor knew.
Ingrid would be the priority in any Antarctic landing and hers the name bestowed on any piece of landscape that needed it. Mathilde was inconsequential and Lillemor knew her own part in the trip might go either way. She was the youngest of the three – thirty years old – while Ingrid and Mathilde must both be closer to forty. She was the strongest and the fittest, but she’d lost ground in the embarrassing three days of seasickness. She needed to work her way up to the interesting end of the table, ingratiate herself with those who mattered, demonstrate her capability and make sure that if opportunities arose she was ready to take them.
Lillemor turned her attention to the men. The biggest fish to fry here on the boat were Lars, Hjalmar and Horntvedt, and she judged them the way she usually did, by speculating on what they’d be like in bed. Would Lars bring his power with him, treating a woman’s body like something to be conquered? Or was he one of those powerful men who liked to become little boys in bed, wanting one place in their lives where they could surrender?
Hjalmar was handsome and confident, a man who liked discovering new things. He was the latest of Norway’s dashing explorers, the one who could never settle with a woman, even if he married her. Lillemor thought she had lost Hjalmar’s sympathy after he saw her manipulations get her own berth on the ship. It was annoying – she’d been doing all of them a favour after all, and she’d have to work to bring him back on side. She’d remind him of his friendship with Anton.
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Horntvedt was an interesting proposition, with his unrelenting sternness and his professed wish that women stay in their rightful place. It could be fun to surprise a man like that, to show him he wasn’t in charge. Or he might be thoroughly unpleasant, the same in bed as he was out, or worse.
Nils: too nice. There’d be no challenge in bedding him; it would be sweet upon sweet with no spice in it.
She turned her gaze on Hans, every inch the historian, bespectacled and quiet, easily overlooked when they were all together. He was gazing at Ingrid and Lillemor caught something in his expression. Behind his glasses there was longing on his face. Lillemor stored the information away for later consideration.
The men were important, but she needed to befriend Ingrid, and quickly, in case favours were on offer. She’d seen Ingrid’s relief at the prospect of getting rid of Mathilde and taking Lillemor instead. It would be better to align herself with Ingrid rather than Mathilde, she thought.
Photography was her unique skill and she needed to use it to her advantage. They’d all want a record of this voyage once it was over, especially Lars, Ingrid and Hjalmar. Perhaps she might yet travel with Hjalmar on the smaller ship, on the pretext of photographing his explorations. A photographer might be included in things that she would otherwise miss.
It was time to get out her camera, and to start recording the voyage in her journal too. Smart expeditioners laid depots along the way, and that’s what she was doing now. Emotional depots that she could draw on as the final stages approached.
‘I’m going up to the bridge,’ Lars said, finishing the last of his drink. ‘Hjalmar, could you look after the ladies, please?’
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