Chasing the Light

by Jesse Blackadder

  She felt Hjalmar shift beside her and the thought of another offensive, delivered with the pretence of charm, was unbearable. She had to escape. She turned to him.

  ‘Captain, I’m still a little shaky,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘Would you mind escorting me back to my cabin?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, pushing his plate away and standing. ‘Captain, Consul and Mrs Christensen, Mrs Rachlew, excuse me please. I’ll take the chance to do some more observations on the bridge. Good evening.’

  He stood aside to let Mathilde go first through the door, and as she passed him, he put his hand on her back to direct her.

  CHAPTER 36

  Lillemor almost felt sorry for Ingrid. The expression on her face as she watched them leave; the way she tried to hide it and force a smile. Whatever had driven Ingrid to come down south, Hjalmar’s announcement about Olga had shaken her. If there were reason to be kind to Ingrid, Lillemor would have told her the truth about Olga there and then. But she remembered the photograph she’d taken of Mathilde’s unconscious face, pale against the pillow. The image imprinted on her brain as well as on the strip of film hidden in her cupboard. Their trip had a dark underside and that episode had revealed it.

  She was content to allow Ingrid to suffer. For Olga was a piece of fiction.

  Lillemor had stopped herself smiling when Hjalmar began his story, and pretended to be upset. But there was no such ship as Christianna, which Lars, the shipping man, should have known. Olga’s story had appeared in a book published the previous year, purporting to be the adventures of a young whaler who’d joined a whaling ship in New Zealand and heard the legend of Olga from one of his shipmates. When Lillemor had read the first edition, her own disappointment had been as acute as Ingrid’s was now. But she’d asked around, and Anton had a friend check the shipping records. There was no vessel by the name of Christianna. As she was sure Hjalmar knew.

  When they’d left the bridge after seeing the continent that afternoon, Hjalmar had detained her with some spurious question and when they were alone, had asked directly about Mathilde. It wouldn’t hurt, Lillemor had thought, for someone else on board to know how vulnerable she was, and so she’d told him what happened – the fight, Ingrid’s fall, Lars arriving with the sedative and his instructions to keep Mathilde locked in the cabin.

  He hadn’t said much, but she’d seen the muscles in his jaw tighten and a hardness creep into his eyes. No explorer succeeded without a ruthless streak for it was by nature a competitive endeavour and coming second – unless you were Robert Falcon Scott and died on the way back to earn your place in history – wasn’t good enough. For all his apparent charm, Hjalmar was an explorer, and he must have made ruthless decisions of his own over the years. Now, it seemed, he’d decided to twist the knife on his own benefactors. It was risky, and the only way was to act as if he was reporting a known fact.

  Lillemor looked around the table. Mathilde, having gone with Hjalmar, was safe for now from the Christensens. Ingrid had slipped away without excusing herself. Lillemor had seen Lars lean in to talk to her, seen the tight set of his body, and she wasn’t surprised when he stood a few minutes later and made his farewells. The main game for him was surely to see Antarctica for himself and now he’d done it. He was the type of man who’d want to celebrate.

  They’d been married – how long? Must be fifteen or twenty years. Good luck to them if their marriage was still passionate. You wouldn’t think it from the outside with their easy companionability, but outer appearances couldn’t tell you everything about a marriage bed, she knew that.

  She turned to Hans. He was looking after Ingrid with a peculiar yearning on his face and Lillemor remembered seeing it before, early in the voyage. She leaned across the table towards him.

  ‘So, Mr Bogen, does Ingrid go into the history books today as the first woman to see Antarctica?’

  He adjusted his glasses nervously. ‘Well of course I’ll have to investigate this tale of Hjalmar’s and see if there’s any truth in it. Sounds like some sailors’ legend, but I’ll have to verify it before I write about Mrs Christensen.’

  ‘Have you known her a long time?’

  He smiled. ‘Oh yes. I remember her wedding day. I was only a boy at the time, but everyone talked about how enchanting she looked and what a beauty she was. And still is now, of course.’

  Lillemor sipped her wine, amused. Hans’s feelings for Ingrid were stronger than she’d imagined.

  ‘And you got to know her later, when you’d grown up?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Not a close friend, Mrs Rachlew, I wouldn’t presume that, but she always made me welcome at Ranvik. Lars is a very lucky man, to have a wife as bold and fearless as Ingrid. Most men who wish to explore must leave wives or sweethearts at home, but in this case, the two of them are completely united in their goals. It’s extraordinary.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Lillemor said.

  ‘She has the wonderful ability to brighten up a room when she walks in, don’t you think?’

  Lillemor nodded. For most of this trip Ingrid had blown into a room like a cold wind. Hans must be deluded.

  ‘Are you married, Hans?’ she asked.

  He blushed like a boy and dropped his head. ‘I’ve not been fortunate enough to meet the right woman yet. My work keeps me very busy.’

  Lillemor slid her elbow closer until her arm was touching his sleeve. She judged – correctly – that he’d be too startled to pull away.

  ‘We were all part of history today, in a way,’ she said. ‘How many people have seen Antarctica? A mere handful, and now we’re among them. Will you list all of us in your book, Hans?’

  He glanced at her. ‘That would make a very dull history, Mrs Rachlew. I hope to do more than provide lists. The first person to arrive somewhere is history; the others fit somewhere else. Perhaps within journalism? I’m sure some magazine would be interested in hearing about the first women to reach Antarctica together, even if Ingrid was the first to see it.’

  She moved her arm slightly so it wasn’t touching his. Of course, he was Lars’s man, wasn’t he? It would take more than a rational argument to sway him. More than words to ensure she’d be memorable.

  ‘Say my name,’ she said, pushing both hands down on his chest and tightening her thighs, gripping him so he couldn’t move.

  ‘Lillemor,’ he gasped.

  ‘Again. Open your eyes.’

  His eyelids flickered open; his hands were on her hips trying to move her. ‘Lillemor. Please.’

  She had drawn on her usual techniques to seduce him, adapting them to suit the Antarctic conditions. The suggestion of a walk around the deck after dinner. The exaggerated shiver that prompted him to give her his coat. The iceberg that conveniently floated by at the right moment so she could sigh about Antarctica’s beauty and let her hand drop on top of his on the railing. The cold air that made the approach of a warm body so much harder to resist. She used his surprise to her advantage.

  The hardest part was taking the stray thread of guilt she felt about Anton and tucking it away where it couldn’t bother her. This was an act in service of a higher cause, and as such, didn’t qualify as infidelity.

  And she was looking forward to sex. It had been three weeks since she’d said goodbye to Anton, and she was a woman of appetite. The conquest, even of such a man as Hans, was exciting. His response – aroused, shocked and terrified – was a thrilling reminder of her sexual power.

  However, from his first fumbling kiss she realised he was desperately inexperienced. After she’d undressed herself and then him, he embraced her and groped briefly between her legs, knowing that he should do something down there, but apparently having no idea what. Lillemor was sure he was too old to be a virgin, but she’d been with virgins who showed more composure. She felt a flash of envy for Mathilde, probably experiencing a sexual awakening in the capable arms of Hjalmar. As Hans began to press against her she closed her eyes and called up her current secret fantasy, one that co
uld take her to readiness in moments. It involved a certain Miss Earhart.

  But she’d need more than just readiness, she realised. Hans had to have a sexual awakening of his own. And so she rolled him over and moved on top of him. When he made a startled outburst, she put her finger to his lips. ‘Let me,’ she said, and began to slide down his body. Judging by the way he was quivering and his uneven breathing, she didn’t have long. She’d spread out the pleasure, she decided. Once like this, and then the second time, when he had more staying power, inside her. She had time to spare. Mathilde might be in their cabin with Hjalmar, and Lillemor didn’t want to disturb them.

  ‘Oh God,’ Hans groaned. He gripped her hair so hard it hurt. ‘What are you doing?’

  There was no answer to that, except to continue. And hope she’d driven all thoughts of Ingrid from his mind.

  CHAPTER 37

  Ingrid saw Mathilde glance back once from the door as she left. She looked ethereal with her large, dark-rimmed eyes and her hair framing her pale face.

  Hjalmar’s hand brushed the small of Mathilde’s back as he held the saloon door open and the grateful inclination of her head, the way her back yielded to the touch of his fingers, the invitation and its acceptance, were as blatant as a slap. Ingrid blinked. Was the whole party staring? But after briefly rising when Mathilde stood, everyone sat again and they were eating or talking, oblivious to what had just unfolded.

  Only Lillemor was watching, with that damned knowing look in her eyes. But there was no wink or grin this time, no complicity. The lines of loyalty had shifted. Ingrid was on her own and Mathilde and Lillemor seemed to have joined forces.

  Next to her, Lars leaned in close. ‘That story is a nonsense,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t let it upset you.’

  Ingrid shrugged, but didn’t trust herself to speak.

  ‘You are the first woman to see Antarctica,’ he said.

  She turned her head to the side so Lillemor couldn’t see her lips. ‘Before Mathilde, even.’

  ‘Yes, before her. She did the wrong thing and she knows it. We can forget it now. It’s over.’

  Lillemor was still watching and Ingrid moved her body away from Lars and directed a smile at the table at large. Her head was pounding and the strain of keeping up a flow of cheerful conversation was exhausting. She longed to retreat to her cabin, to hide in the only safety on board, her bunk.

  She was disappointed, she told herself, that after all Olga had been the first woman to see Antarctica.

  But in truth, the bitterness in her belly was having witnessed Mathilde’s seduction of Hjalmar. She’d done it that way deliberately, Ingrid was sure, to enrage her.

  Ingrid felt the spotlight of Lillemor’s attention blazing on her. The nuances of interactions between men and women were Lillemor’s speciality, and Ingrid knew the woman would be analysing any visible reaction on her part.

  She’d thought of Hjalmar as her friend, but this night he’d twice undone her – firstly over the matter of Olga and then, following on hard, with his seduction of Mathilde right in front of her. Before this trip she’d thought their friendship a firm thing, strengthened by their shared grief over Amundsen. Now she wondered if it was all an artifice. Perhaps the appearance of friendship was only that, and all he really wanted was the means to explore Antarctica.

  Mathilde had said Ingrid wanted to keep him around like a dog. The unfairness of it stung at the time, but she’d been pleased when Hjalmar divorced and came to their home first when he returned from exploring. She liked being the first woman to welcome him, to draw him a bath, to bring him a meal. She’d thought of him like a younger brother, she’d told herself. But it was a decidedly unsisterly feeling she was having now, imagining him and Mathilde together.

  With his revelation about Olga, he’d robbed her even of the consolation of Antarctica, no matter what Lars said.

  She pushed her plate away and wiped her mouth. She’d had enough. The pounding in her temples threatened to descend into a searing headache. The confines of the saloon suddenly seemed stuffy and airless, the smell of the food nauseating.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ she whispered to Lars.

  He turned to her. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  The intensity in his demeanour was unnerving. ‘Don’t make a fuss,’ Ingrid said softly. ‘I just want to slip away.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll follow.’

  Ingrid waited a few minutes until the conversation was loud and Lillemor had been distracted by Hans Bogen, then rose and slipped away from the table. She didn’t look back from the door. Let them think her rude.

  It was bitterly cold outside. So close to the continent, the wind carried the chill of thousands of miles of empty ice in its breath. It was after midnight. The sky was a deep, translucent purple with a slash of orange light down low on the horizon. It would stay that way for an hour or two before morphing into a long, bright dawn that made it hard to fall asleep.

  Lars came out. As she turned to him, he stepped forward and kissed her, his lips demanding. He took her hand and led her to the cabin. Inside, he came up close behind her, reaching over her shoulders, taking her coat by the lapels and sliding it off. He put his face to Ingrid’s neck and kissed the skin there, pressing his body against her back.

  ‘Time to try for that baby,’ he whispered.

  Ingrid’s heart sank. She’d never felt less like making love. Just feet away, Mathilde and Hjalmar were probably doing just that and at that moment she hated them. But there was little enough time left in Antarctic waters and her bargain with Lars still stood.

  ‘I’ll get ready,’ she said, grateful he couldn’t see her face.

  ‘Don’t be long.’

  In the toilet there was a long streak of red when Ingrid wiped herself. Her cycle had run off course with the travel and the disorientating effects of the light. The feeling of unease in her belly resolved itself into a dull menstrual ache. She leaned back in relief. A reprieve.

  Lars had undressed, got into bed and turned off the light by the time Ingrid assembled belt and cloth and pins and put them on. She slipped into her nightgown and came in beside him.

  ‘You took so long.’ He rolled towards her, crushing their bodies together.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ingrid whispered. ‘My monthly has come early.’

  She expected him to roll back and let her lie against his side, her belly pressing against his hip, as she often did when bleeding. But he shifted on top of her, his lips urgent, his eagerness hard against her.

  ‘Lars, we can’t make a child,’ she said, turning her head away.

  ‘I don’t care.’ He fumbled at her nightgown, his breath fast. ‘Please,’ he said hoarsely.

  Behind her closed eyes she saw Mathilde and Hjalmar together and the image infuriated her. In spite of herself, her desire rose, full of rage and jealousy.

  She pulled at the nightdress and her underthings and reached down for Lars. He was in her hand, hot and alive, groaning out loud with his own need. She manoeuvred him on top, opened herself and took him in, deeper and deeper until it felt like she was splitting in two.

  This was Antarctica, hard and bloody and full of need, longing and repulsion, fury, competition and jealousy, bargains made and payments extracted, everyone implicated, everyone faced with their own desire and brutality.

  Mathilde had given her the word for it, a word Ingrid had never used even to herself to describe this act. Tonight it was the only word to describe it. Lars fucked her, and in her despair and bloodiness, Ingrid fucked him back. She thought the whole ship full of men would sense the animality of their coupling, the very continent would feel it, the vibrations rippling out from the ship underwater, so the whales could hear it and know that the steel monster floating above them contained living things like themselves. They fucked, and below them in Thorshavn’s tanks the essence of two thousand whales stirred and slid noiselessly.

  She hoped Mathilde heard them.

  The pounding reverberated through her
sleep and woke her. It was loud enough to drive her straight to sitting with a jolt and for a few moments she looked around, confused. Lars shifted beside her and their surroundings shifted into familiarity.

  The sound came again. Now that she was awake, she could identify it as a knock, not some portent of impending disaster.

  Lars groaned and rubbed his eyes. The night before came rushing back to Ingrid and she felt embarrassed. As he rolled over and out of the bed, she lay back down and pulled the covers up to her chin. She was naked, and from the stickiness between her legs, surmised that she’d bloodied the bed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d allowed that to happen.

  Lars found a dressing gown and wrapped it around himself before opening the door, sending in a blaze of daylight that made her blink. It was Nils, who glanced in and then drew back, blushing.

  ‘What time is it?’ Lars asked, rubbing his tousled hair.

  ‘After ten,’ Nils said. ‘I’m sorry to wake you, but we’ve made contact with Mikkelsen.’

  ‘About time!’ Lars said. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Eighty miles away, off the coast. Horntvedt’s heading that way now. There’s some news.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Nils hesitated. ‘Captain Mikkelsen went ashore. He took his wife with him. I’m afraid Caroline Mikkelsen has become the first woman to land on Antarctica.’

  CHAPTER 38

  Mathilde woke slowly, luxuriously. She’d slept so deeply that for a long moment she wasn’t sure of her whereabouts. The throb of Thorshavn’s engines soon reminded her. Eyes still closed, she rolled on her side and put a hand flat on the wall. Her bunk wasn’t much bigger than a child’s bed but it felt safe and cosy.

  She heard the sound of footfalls and the rustle of fabric. Who was in the cabin with her? She cast her mind back to the evening before. She hadn’t come back to the cabin alone.