A week into the voyage, she was sick of heaving seas and endless horizons. It was another day and another day and nothing to mark the passing. The trade winds blew without a pause, the ocean rolled towards them, Thorshavn ploughed south, unswerving. The light was flat and featureless as they sailed beneath what seemed a permanent grey cloud cover.
But something felt different and Ingrid lay still, trying to work out what it was. After a few long moments her sluggish brain finally made the connection. For the first time since they’d left Cape Town, the ship was moving forward without pitching or rolling.
Ingrid resisted the urge to slide back into a doze and pushed herself out of bed, wondering how long she’d slept. She splashed her face and pulled on her clothes from the previous day, buttoning her heavy coat over the top before she pushed open the door, stepped outside and walked out onto the catwalk.
And into a still, white-on-white world. Thick fog hung close. Instead of ceaseless wind, all Ingrid could hear was the low throb of the engines as Thorshavn slid slowly through water as dark and smooth as black glass.
The air was much colder and she took a deep breath, feeling its chill pour down into her chest. Some knot inside her began to loosen. After the harsh light and rough seas, the soft glow of the fog blanketed them. They were slipping through the water instead of ramming through it, as if the ocean had ceased to be indifferent to them and was allowing their passage.
Wonderingly, Ingrid turned for the back of the ship, wanting to be alone in the precious quiet. She climbed down the stairs to the rear deck and took up her place underneath Qarrtsiluni’s wings. The engine was ticking so softly she could hear the gentle swish of small waves spreading out in the ship’s wake, and with it felt the possibility of peacefulness.
She watched her breath forming clouds over the edge of the railing. A flock of small white birds gathered at the back of the ship and hung in the slipstream, hardly visible in the mist except for their black eyes. They must be snow petrels, she thought. The continent couldn’t be too far off.
A shape caught Ingrid’s eye and she turned her head in the direction of the ship’s motion. Something was gradually emerging from the fog, separating and taking shape, something made of the same substance, but different. The fog lifted slightly and then it was close enough for her to see clearly. Her breath caught in her chest as she realised what it was.
The iceberg – was ever a word so inadequate? – floated towards her, tall and faceted in pure, opaque white. From every crack and gouge shone a blue so intense that it hurt her eyes; a blue that made her throat catch. Hjalmar had tried to describe it to her once but she saw now how he’d utterly failed to convey it. The centre of the berg had melted out to form a cavern – a transparent pool of aquamarine surrounded by fringes of long, clear icicles. Cracks of that turquoise blue ran like veins down its side. It was like staring into a piece of sky, trapped and glowing from within the iceberg with unearthly light.
The water was so still that Ingrid could clearly see the underside of the berg extending far into the depths, the same fantastic caverns and tunnels filled with water instead of air.
She had hoped for something unnameable from the ice, hoped that some magical place was waiting for her down at the bottom of the earth. And here, already, it was. She clung to the railing and lost herself in the blue caverns until the colour seemed to run before her eyes.
Thorshavn slipped through the water past the iceberg and Ingrid watched it, feeling a lump in her throat as it disappeared into the mist. Before long, another appeared from the fog, and another, each as individual as a human face, each with its own shape carved by sea water and wind, each with its own variation of blue, hidden or revealed.
The fog gradually lifted, revealing a field of icebergs surrounding them. The wash from the ship broke on their edges and Ingrid fancied the sound whispered secrets of the world that spawned such majesty. She clutched the railing, unable to leave them.
When Ingrid opened the door to the saloon a blast of jazz from the gramophone and the rich smell of roast pork jerked her into the ordinary world. She’d spent most of the day at the back of the ship and the transition to human company was abrupt.
‘My dear, you’re frozen.’ Lars stood and gestured for her to join the table. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Looking at the bergs!’ Ingrid felt a smile spreading across her face of its own accord. ‘Aren’t they incredible?’
She wasn’t the only one moved. Faces that had been grim for the past few days smiled back at her and the feel of the room was different. It wasn’t only that the ship was travelling steadily. There was a new lightness among her fellow travellers as they nodded and murmured agreement.
‘Quickly, take an aquavit and warm yourself,’ Lars said. ‘Dinner will only be a few minutes. Mrs Rachlew is going to read to us from her diary.’
Ingrid sat between Lars and Hans Bogen and sipped the fiery drink, feeling its warmth slide down through her chest and into her belly like joy. Yes, it was joy. She couldn’t recall when she’d last felt such a simple sense of it. Even Hans had a dazed kind of smile on his face, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d seen outside.
Lillemor flipped through her diary and stopped. ‘Shall I?’
‘Please, go ahead,’ Lars said.
‘Very well.’ Lillemor began to read. ‘At one time during the morning it became a little calmer and I made my way along to the veranda – as we called the built-in deck beneath the captain’s bridge – with my cine camera under my arm, to see if I could get any snaps of what could be seen of the after-deck between the waves. Suddenly the ship lurched violently and I fell and rolled in snow slush right across the veranda, coming to anchor with a crash on the port side, in the midst of some chairs and tables that were lashed securely there. Once there, I made use of the opportunity to take some snaps, and I very much hope they will be good – I’m sure I deserve it after all I went through!’
‘Very nice description,’ Lars said. ‘I may have to borrow some of your words when it comes to writing my book, Mrs Rachlew. I do hope your photographs come out well.’
Lillemor smiled and inclined her head.
‘Now that Ingrid’s here, I’ll make a toast,’ Lars went on. ‘I’ve had wireless reports from all three factories today, and icebergs are not the only things in abundance. There are whales by the thousand, plenty of blues and fins, some humpbacks and even a few sperm. Solglimt is already almost full of oil and desperate to rendezvous with us so she can clear her tanks, and the others aren’t far behind. It looks to be a record year, and what better season for it than when we have a contracted buyer. Skaal!’
Ingrid raised her glass with the rest of them. She knew well the deep pleasure Lars took in the heart of business. This propitious coincidence of the whales, the means to harvest them efficiently and the contracted buyer, all in the midst of a worldwide depression, was thrilling for him.
She glanced at Hjalmar as she set down her glass on the tablecloth and caught an expression on his face that she couldn’t quite read. Mathilde was seated close to him and she leaned in to ask him something. As he turned to answer, Ingrid watched the two of them. In the lamplight Mathilde looked much younger than when they’d left Sandefjord. Her eyes were shining.
Ingrid blinked. The tilt of Hjalmar’s head seemed so intimate that she felt she was spying on them and she was shocked at what she could suddenly see. How had this crept up on her? The proximity of Hjalmar’s body suggested some new physicality between them. Mathilde looked nothing like a widow and very much like a woman being courted.
Confused, Ingrid looked away and picked up her glass again. She glanced across the table. Lillemor was watching her and, as their eyes met, the woman raised an eyebrow in Mathilde’s direction and winked.
Such confirmation was even more shocking and Ingrid trained her eyes on her husband’s animated face as he talked to Horntvedt about their plans for the next few days. But she couldn’t concentrate on the words,
and from time to time she glanced back surreptitiously at Mathilde and Hjalmar, who continued their private conversation, seemingly oblivious to anyone else. Ingrid made sure she didn’t look at Lillemor again, though a few times she could feel the woman observing her. It felt as though Lillemor could see right through Ingrid’s own confusion and in her terribly knowing way had judged and categorised it already, as if Ingrid were jealous.
Which was true. There was no real reason why Hjalmar and Mathilde shouldn’t be friends, or even more than friends if they wished. He was divorced and she was a widow. But the thought of them being together made Ingrid want to clench her fists and order them apart as if they were children. Hjalmar was hers – and her last link to Amundsen. Their friendship was special, in some way she’d never put a name to. She hated the feeling that Mathilde was usurping her place.
‘Ingrid?’ It was Lars, and by the way he was looking at her, she’d not heard him.
She gave herself a mental shake. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’
‘Come up to the bridge.’ He was smiling at her, all uncomplicated fondness, oblivious to the undercurrents around the table. ‘There’s a fabulous view of the icebergs. The captain prefers only one or two passengers at a time, so he can concentrate.’
Ingrid was reluctant to leave Mathilde and Hjalmar alone together. ‘I’ll come up a bit later.’
Lars looked disappointed and she realised they hadn’t spent much time together yet. Lars was nearly always on the bridge. He often asked Hjalmar and Nils to stay with the women, and as they were only passengers until meeting up with Norvegia they always seemed happy to oblige. She should make the effort to go on the bridge more, Ingrid thought. She gave him a smile and a small nod.
Lars rose to his feet. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
‘Let’s have an iceberg competition,’ Lillemor said to the table at large after he’d left. ‘Who can find the one that looks most like something real? Come on. We can all stand on the catwalk.’
The woman could certainly get something going – everyone got to their feet obediently, shuffled into their coats and pulled on their hats. Ingrid tried to hang back close to Mathilde and Hjalmar, but Lillemor took her by the arm and she was forced to be the first to step out of the warmth.
The mist had lifted, the visibility was good and the ocean was thick with bergs. Lillemor stationed them at one end of the catwalk. To Ingrid’s frustration, Mathilde and Hjalmar moved to the other end. She tried to shake off her annoyance and focus on the icebergs, but it was as if the magic had been stripped from them.
‘It seems we have a romance budding,’ Lillemor said in a half-whisper. ‘Goodness me, I wouldn’t have thought it. Our Captain Riiser-Larsen could have his pick of women. Why would he choose funny little Mathilde?’
‘I think he’s just being friendly,’ Ingrid said. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing more to it.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Lillemor said with a smile.
Ingrid turned away, irritated by Lillemor’s worldly wise air, and pointed to a nearby berg to change the subject. ‘Look at that one.’
‘I suppose Mathilde thinks it doesn’t matter what happens on the ship,’ Lillemor said. ‘I hope she knows how to not get in trouble.’
Ingrid turned to her, shocked. ‘Surely you don’t think it’s gone that far?’
Lillemor shrugged and looked out to sea. ‘That one at three o’clock looks exactly like a car,’ she said loudly, and pointed. ‘What do you think, Nils?’
‘Lars and I are responsible for her,’ Ingrid said, her voice low but sharp. ‘If there’s something I should know, tell me.’
‘You saw it yourself,’ Lillemor said. ‘If you don’t like it, you’d best do something quickly.’
Ingrid glanced down the catwalk. The two of them were standing too close together. She felt another rush of resentment.
‘My God, look at that one.’ Lillemor interrupted her thoughts.
Among its smaller cousins, one massive berg had moved closer to them, its motion at odds with the direction of the air and water. It rose far above them in height and the waves broke upon its base as if on solid land.
‘It’s hard to think of something so lovely as dangerous,’ Lillemor said.
‘Indeed,’ Ingrid replied.
Small grey whale birds flew around the ship, their chattering loud on the evening air. The engines throbbed through the soles of Ingrid’s feet. Suddenly she felt exhausted. The effort of going to the bridge seemed too much.
‘I think it’s time we ladies retired,’ she said, loud enough for her voice to carry the length of the catwalk.
Mathilde looked away from Hjalmar, her smile fading as she met Ingrid’s eyes.
‘What a good idea,’ Lillemor said, linking her arm through Ingrid’s. ‘The three of us can have a nightcap and leave the men to their business.’ She bustled Ingrid down the catwalk until they reached Mathilde. ‘Come on.’ Mathilde nodded goodbye to Hjalmar, turned obediently and followed them.
When they reached the cabin Ingrid disengaged herself from Lillemor. Now Mathilde was away from Hjalmar, she felt relieved. ‘Actually, I’m exhausted. I think I’ll just go to bed. We have a big day tomorrow – Lars thinks we’ll arrive at the first factory ship and everyone on board will be very busy.’
Lillemor shrugged. ‘That’s a pity. Mathilde and I will have to drink by ourselves.’
Mathilde hesitated, then nodded. ‘Goodnight, Ingrid.’
‘Goodnight.’ Ingrid went into her cabin and shut the door. She leaned on the wall for a few moments before undressing then rolling herself into the bunk and squeezing her eyes shut. Outside, the icebergs were passing the ship, their green undersides glowing in their silent subterranean world. What creatures swam in those caverns? She tried to lose herself in imagining it, but her anger at Mathilde kept intruding.
It was a jealousy that a married woman had no right to feel in relation to a man not her husband. Ingrid had never realised her regard for Hjalmar had a dangerous element within it.
If only Lars had let her come alone. Without Mathilde, Ingrid wouldn’t have to face that uncomfortable knowledge.
Ingrid turned over, dragging the blankets with her. She wanted Lars’s simple warmth to take her away from all this. She relied on his regard for her. It was a precious thing, and she’d taken it for granted lately, she realised. What if she lost him suddenly, like Mathilde had lost her own husband?
CHAPTER 21
As soon as they were inside the cabin, Mathilde turned her back on Lillemor and began undressing for bed.
‘What about that nightcap?’ Lillemor asked, peeling off her coat.
‘I’m not thirsty.’ Mathilde finished her preparations, got into the bunk, pulled the covers up and rolled over without another word.
Lillemor stood still, considering. She wasn’t the slightest bit tired and some male company would be pleasant. She put her coat back on, tucked her journal and pen into the pocket, slung her camera over her shoulder and went back out onto the catwalk. She crept along it, feeling the whistle of icy wind on her face. It had been quite still only minutes before, but the water’s black surface was ruffled with wind and the scent of coming snow was sharp in her nostrils. She stopped and looked up. A few light flakes were falling, drifting down in the Antarctic twilight.
Lillemor made her way to the bridge. It was dim, with just a soft, shaded lamp over the charts, presumably to not affect the captain’s view outside. Horntvedt and Hjalmar were talking in murmurs. Lars wasn’t there.
‘Looks like the weather’s changing,’ she said, by way of greeting.
Horntvedt shrugged. ‘Likely to be a blizzard coming. You had a treat, Mrs Rachlew, for the last ten days. That was an aberration. Expect some real Antarctic weather now.’
Lillemor went to stand near him at the chart table. ‘Excellent news. If we get off too lightly on this voyage you’ll keep thinking women aren’t up to it. Bring on the blizzards, I say.’
‘Don
’t wish that on me,’ Hjalmar said. ‘I can’t fly in a blizzard.’
‘So where are we?’ Lillemor asked.
Hjalmar came to her side and pointed a finger to indicate their location. According to the chart they were sailing through open sea. But ahead in the gloomy light, the bergs stood shoulder to shoulder in their path.
‘How do you know which way they’re going? That one looks like it’s heading for us.’
‘They’re driven by the currents, not the wind,’ Captain Horntvedt said.
‘And ghosts,’ Hjalmar added. ‘I’ve been at anchorage when I swear an iceberg was pursuing us, and even though we moved the ship three times, it kept following.’
‘Intriguing,’ Lillemor said.
‘Rubbish,’ Horntvedt said. ‘Antarctica’s full of strange ideas. The weather and the ice play on men’s minds. There are always a few of the whaling crew who go home in restraints at the season’s end.’
‘I think that can be attributed to exhaustion and months of working like slaves in bitter conditions, don’t you think, Captain?’ Hjalmar said.
Horntvedt looked uncomfortable and glanced at Lillemor. ‘That’s enough.’
There was a tense silence for a few moments and Lillemor wondered if Lars knew the men on his ships were dissatisfied. It was time for a change of subject. ‘How long till we arrive?’
‘We should meet Solglimt by the morning, if all goes well,’ Horntvedt said. ‘I’m sorry if you were hoping to go on Norvegia and miss the factory ships, but she’s nowhere to be found.’
‘Excellent,’ Lillemor straightened up. ‘I’m keen to see the business side of the voyage. I’ve heard such things about the floating factories.’
Horntvedt turned to her. ‘I doubt you’ll find it to your liking, Mrs Rachlew. You’ll need a strong stomach.’
‘Don’t worry on that score, Captain. Now I’ve got my sea legs, my stomach is as strong as any man’s. Though of course I’d love to have a stint on Norvegia too.’
Chasing the Light Page 16
