The Novels of Beryl Bainbridge Volume 1

by Beryl Bainbridge

  ‘Whoops,’ Birdie shouted, putting out his hand to steady me, and then we were level again and I raised my mug and wished him all the luck in the world. It’s a fine thing to know that wherever Birdie is, instability can only be temporary.

  The Owner: Captain Robert Falcon (Con) Scott

  March 1911

  Having to sail on past Cape Crozier came as a frightful blow. I’d banked on establishing our winter quarters there, but it proved impossible to land owing to the swell. Nor could I risk waiting in hopes of calmer weather, for the Terra Nova had already consumed a dangerous amount of coal. All my plans and calculations had been made around this anchorage, it being in proximity to the Barrier, the volcano and the rookeries of two different kinds of penguins, thus satisfying the requirements of the geological, zoological and Polar factions of the expedition. We would have had an easy ascent of Mount Terror, a fairly easy approach to the Southern Road, ice for water, snow for the animals, good observation peaks, and so forth. In the old days the stench of guano from the rookeries used to turn my stomach, but when we were forced to steam away I wondered how I had ever found it offensive.

  We pushed on beyond Cape Royds to the west coast of Ross Island. Here, in early January, we erected our base hut on the promontory that used to be known as the Skuary and since renamed Cape Evans. As soon as the hut was ready for occupation and all the stores and provision had been transferred safely from ship to shore, I took Campbell and Meares with a dog team to visit our old quarters at Hut Point.

  It was a chastening experience. I suppose I’d expected to find everything as we’d left it seven years before, but some fool had forgotten to close a window, with the result that the interior had become a block of blue ice, in the middle of which were clamped several tins of ginger biscuits. We found half a loaf of bread with teeth marks in it stuck to the step of the door.

  I’m inclined to think it must have been Shackleton’s party of 1909 who left the window open, not us. After all, we had plenty of time, whereas Shackleton’s lot had to bolt for the Nimrod in the lull of a blizzard. In the circumstances the securing of windows was the last thing on their minds, and then, of course, Shackleton was never a man for detail. All the same, I cannot understand the mentality of people so shallow, so lacking in foresight as to act in such a manner. Surely it’s a mark of civilised human behaviour to leave a place in the condition one would wish to find it. One would think they had walked out of an hotel in some modern town, not a shelter in the most uninhabitable spot on earth, a refuge which could mean the difference between life and death to those who follow after. Such carelessness transgresses all the boundaries of common courtesy, and plunged me into depression. Which is possibly why I slept so badly: that and the fact there was something altogether strange about the place, something eerie, as though the past, which until now had remained as frozen as that flung-down loaf, had at last begun to thaw, releasing shades of days gone by. Although we were dead-beat after our strenuous march, all of us imagined we were disturbed by voices murmuring in the darkness, and Campbell swears he heard the crank of a gramophone handle and the cracked tones of Harry Lauder raised in song. I daresay all these noises were nothing more than the seals calling to one another; none the less, we passed an uncomfortable night. We felt better the next morning after we’d climbed up into the hills, possibly due to the sunshine. The glare warmed our bones and gave us energy. I was surprised by the lack of snow, the Gap and Observation Hill almost bare and a great bald slope on the side of Arrival Heights. Below Vince’s cross we stumbled upon Ferrar’s old thermometer tubes, sticking up as if they’d been rammed home yesterday.

  I still can’t come to terms with the futility of Vince’s death. If I hadn’t sent the men out to practise their sledging, if a blizzard hadn’t blown up, if Hare, who later miraculously staggered home, hadn’t been presumed lost, if the rest hadn’t gone off on that suicidal search, if Vince had been wearing crampons – the ifs are endless and unrewarding. I might have become despondent all over again if something slightly more pressing hadn’t struck home, namely that although the bays would freeze over early in March it would be a difficult thing to get the ponies across owing to the cliff edges at the side. I must admit it was something I hadn’t taken into account.

  The weather continuing fine, we sledged home in great style. I was astonished at the ease with which the dogs made progress, though I’m not yet entirely convinced of their usefulness, as their behaviour is so often erratic. For instance, they are, as a rule, perfectly good friends in harness, so long as they’re pulling side by side; yet the second the traces get mixed up they turn savagely on one another and become raging, biting devils. There’s something disquieting about this sudden naked display of brute instinct in tame animals. Also, they indulge in the disgusting habit of eating their own excrement. The ponies do the same, but as there’s a great deal of grain in their feed the practice isn’t so nauseating to observe. Meares is wonderfully informed about the handling of them, and tells me the secret of getting the best out of them on the march is to let them choose their own leader. This turns out to be less democratic than it sounds, as the leader is invariably the one who has terrorised the rest into acceptance by virtue of his being the strongest and most intelligent. He told me to keep a close eye on Osman, our best dog, and note how he ruled the pack. I did, and found it highly instructive. The slightest slackening off in pace in one of the other animals and Osman leapt sideways, nipped the offender in the shoulder, and was back in position in a trice, the chastisement administered without the least disturbance in the rhythm of the run. I couldn’t help feeling there was something to be learnt from his example.

  The welcome we received when we arrived back at Cape Evans was heartwarming, and I was delighted by the further improvements made to our already luxurious hut. The indefatigable Bowers had finished the annexe, roof and all. Not only does it provide ample storage space for spare clothing, sleeping bags, furs, provisions, etc., its extension gives complete protection to the entrance porch. The stables, a stout, well-roofed lean-to on the north side, were almost ready, and Titus Oates, in one of his rare outbursts of optimism, actually went so far as to say he thought the ponies would be exceedingly comfortable during the long winter ahead.

  It really was splendid to see the manner in which everyone had chipped in and not wasted a moment. The scientists had got their instruments and work tables arranged, the differential magnetic cave was under way, the larder dug out and already stored with mutton and penguin. P.O. Evans was in the middle of overhauling and making adjustments to the sledges, and Gran, the young Norwegian brought along to teach us skiing, boasted of a concoction he had been working on, a mixture of vegetable tar, soft soap and linseed oil which, when applied to the ski runners, would stop them from freezing. Each man in his way is a treasure, and I can’t help congratulating myself for picking them.

  We now have a truly seductive home built on the dark sands of one of the spurs of Mount Erebus, and here at least, in the shadow of that mighty volcano, we shall be more than comfortably housed through the night-black days to come.

  There was just one thing I felt would make for a happier ship. I had instructed Bowers to make cubicles for us all, so we could each fit up our own space, thus ensuring the tidier storing of personal belongings. This he had begun to do, but it immediately became apparent to me that the men would be more at ease if they were separated from the officers. With this in mind I got Bowers to build a bulkhead of provision cases between their space and ours. I’m quite sure the arrangement is to the satisfaction of officers and men alike. Whatever conversations take place on the other side of the divide, however audible and no matter of what purport or subject – it’s possible I would have to make an exception in the plotting of mutiny – we are honour-bound to respect privacy and react, to all intents and purposes, as if stone deaf.

  I had an amusing exchange with Clissold, the cook, before our evening meal. Ponting and I were coming back at sunset fro
m photographing the Terra Nova held fast to its wedge of ice on the outskirts of the Bay. Ponting was fairly bubbling with enthusiasm, babbling of the magnificence of the landscape, the glistening bergs, the glaciers that ripple down beyond the bays to thrust their gleaming snouts into the sea, the smoking summit of Erebus amid its snowcapped peaks. Clissold was relieving himself in an angle of the hut. He didn’t hear our approach because someone inside – most likely Meares – had put an operatic record on the gramophone. Clissold was standing there with closed eyes, face raised to the heavens. We startled him, and he gave a little grunt.

  ‘It’s only Mr Ponting and me, Clissold,’ I said. ‘We’ve been down to look at the ship. Mr Ponting seems to think this the most glorious spot on earth. What do you say?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘I don’t know about glorious, but I do feel at home.’

  ‘Home?’ said Ponting, taken aback. ‘Are you a native of the Scottish Highlands?’

  ‘I was born and bred in the city, sir,’ Clissold replied. ‘And noise-ways I don’t see much difference, what with the seals honking and them birds screaming, not to mention those blessed dogs.’

  He’d prepared a most tremendous spread for our evening meal – seal soup, roast mutton, redcurrant jelly, asparagus. Usually Bill sits on my right-hand side, and I was a little put out to find Teddy Evans had beaten him to the post. He’s such a robust character, waving his arms about as he recounts his endless tall stories, thumping the table to emphasise some point or other, laughing at his own jokes, that an hour spent in such close proximity leaves one exhausted. That being said, his imitation of a Siberian sledge driver shouting out commands to his dogs – he borrowed Clissold’s knitted tea-cosy to wear on his head – was extremely comical, and at least it put an end to the previous vexed topic of the ponies and the motors.

  While we were away at Hut Point, Day and Lashly had got the motors started, only to have them break down almost at once. Poor old Day is very morose about this, but he’s such an excellent mechanic I’m quite sure the difficulties are only temporary. The ponies are a different matter; according to Oates no amount of tinkering will overcome their obvious defects. To my mind, rest and an increased diet will do wonders. We sat long at the table, all except Meares and Oates who spend a good deal of their time with the ponies. These two have struck up a great friendship, based, one imagines, on an unspoken communion, both of them being equally laconic.

  I went for a short walk after supper, and came back via the stables. Through the window I could see Titus and Meares crouched over the blubber stove, pipes clamped in their mouths. The door was a little ajar to let out the smoke, and I was about to open it wider when I heard Oates say, ‘We ought to buy the Owner a sixpenny book on transport’, at which Meares laughed.

  I was upset, of course, but then we all make disparaging remarks behind each other’s backs and it simply isn’t productive to take every scrap of overheard tittle-tattle to heart.

  Towards the end of the month we said goodbye to all those on board the Terra Nova, which, under the command of Campbell, was preparing to sail 400 miles eastwards along the edge of the Great Ice Barrier to King Edward VII Land. She carried with her two geologists belonging to the shore party, and Wright, the physicist, who would be deposited further down the coast with the purpose of exploring the Western Mountains. I lent the latter group Petty Officer Evans, now something of an expert on sledging.

  ‘Will we be gone long, then, sir?’ he asked me, when I first told him he would be going.

  ‘Several weeks, no more,’ I replied, and noticed he looked rather downcast. ‘Come, man,’ I chided. ‘Do you think I won’t be able to manage without you?’

  ‘I had thought I’d be here for my birthday, sir,’ he said, and I couldn’t help laughing.

  ‘Birthdays,’ I told him, ‘are hardly our first priority.’

  It was the aim of the depot party left behind – we had by this time established our first camp at the limit of open water six miles south of Glacier Tongue, close by our old Discovery hut – to lay as many provisions as possible at the furthest point on the Great Ice Barrier as we could manage before the winter closed in. Taking into consideration the infernal bad luck which has dogged me ever since leaving New Zealand, things are going forward as might be predicted – damned slowly and with unprecedented fluctuations in weather.

  I fear I’m beginning to lose faith in the ponies. The storm that hit us twelve days out from Port Chalmers, and which nearly did for us all, has affected them terribly. I had hoped comfortable stabling and a few weeks rest on shore would have set them to rights, but their continuing feebleness fills me with alarm. Oates, a pessimist to his boots, doubts if they were ever in the best of health and never wastes an opportunity of listing their defects – Snippets: bad wind-sucker, slightly lame of forelegs; Victor: aged, narrow chest, knock-kneed, suffers from his eyes; Chinaman: ringworm above coronet on near fore, both nostrils slit up; Nobby: aged, goes with stiff hocks, spavin near hind, etc. As for Wearie Willie, Oates pronounces him a walking disaster.

  It’s obvious a serious mistake was made in the selection of them, but as Meares was assisted in his choice by ‘Mumbo’ Bruce, who joined him at Vladivostock, I can’t be too forthright in laying blame. After all, Mumbo is my brother-in-law and I shouldn’t want Kathleen to know he’s let me down.

  As always, Bill has been a tower of strength, reminding me that even though we’ve left the fittest of the animals behind at Cape Evans and only brought along what Titus Oates refers to as ‘the crocks’, we’ve still managed to get them to transport two good loads onto the Barrier. As for the dogs, they’re doing better than I allowed for, and have run their first load almost two miles past this point to the site I’ve chosen for ‘Safety Camp’. The name speaks for itself; in the unlikely event of the sea ice melting, taking with it part of the Barrier, this spot should remain intact.

  Our short stint at sledging has already exposed weaknesses, not least in character. Atkinson has owned up to a badly chafed heel, an injury he hid until now in the misguided belief he would be letting the side down by complaining so early on in the march, with the result that the wound is now suppurating and he’s unable to walk. I’m afraid I have very little sympathy for him, and am far more concerned about the ponies. The surface is appallingly soft and they’re forever sinking past their hocks into the drift, something I hadn’t bargained for. It would melt the hardest of hearts to watch them floundering and straining to get free, jumping with forelegs braced to take the cruel weight of the sledges, their struggles only serving to plunge them deeper, until, buried up to their shrunken bellies, they can move no more. Shackleton must have had the luck of the devil to have brought his animals thus far.

  Also, and I find this astonishing, they appear to suffer from snow blindness, even though the skies are generally dismally overcast. Oates has suggested we dye their forelocks green to counter the glare.

  Cherry-Garrard, who wears spectacles, is burdened with the same problem. Bill has found him a pair of Discovery glasses, made of wood with a cross slit in the middle, which he now uses with every sign of relief. It’s inconvenient that the ponies don’t have ears in the proper places.

  Accordingly, I’ve revised my plans and from now on we shall travel by night and sleep by day. The sun never goes below the horizon, and though it is bitterly cold at all times, the so-called daylight hours are fractionally higher in temperature, and it seems sensible to allow the ponies to rest up in comparative warmth and slog it out in the bitter night, thus reducing exhaustion and eliminating the agony of snow glare.

  Something happened yesterday which temporarily raised my expectations. Petty Officer Keohane discovered a set of snow-shoes under a provision box, and on fitting Wearie Willie with them he strolled around in the easiest manner possible. It was a miracle – even the pony seemed to think so, and kicked up his heels as if he was frolicking in a meadow. I immediately dispatched Meares and Bill with a dog team back to Cape Ev
ans to fetch the other sets. It meant a wait in camp until their return, but I reasoned the delay would be more than justified once the rest of the ponies were similarly equipped.

  Oates, of course, was unimpressed and gloomily remarked that any improvement was bound to be short-lived. It’s his pessimistic opinion that the use of snow-shoes, like skis, requires practice. Unfortunately, I couldn’t prove him wrong, because Bill eventually returned empty-handed. He’d found the sea ice gone between Glacier Tongue and the Cape and we are now cut off from our comfortable winter quarters!

  On top of everything else, Atkinson’s foot refuses to heal and I’m forced to go on without him. Worse, Tom Crean, a perfectly able man and one we can ill afford to spare, has to be left behind to act as nursemaid. Atkinson’s carelessness in the matter of fitness has put an unfair load on the rest of us and I’ve had to reorganise.

  Still, in spite of all our setbacks and the continuing wretched surface conditions, my spirits rise at the thought of being on the move again. Inactivity always leads to introspection, and I’m simply no good when I’m not doing something. It will be splendid to fall asleep utterly exhausted from a long, strenuous slog.

  Each day begins very much like the last. A little before 9 pm we struggle out of our sleeping bags, light up the primuses and cook breakfast. Some two hours later, having been ready and raring to go an hour since, I shout to Titus, ‘How are things?’, and he shouts back, calmly enough, ‘Fine, sir, fine.’

  The tents are struck, the rugs come off the horses, the sledges are loaded, the dogs wrestled into submission – and still I wait. Attempting to get everyone off on time is like trying to spoon treacle back into a tin with a feather. The monotony of our routine makes for slackness, and inside my head I’m forever giving lectures on how we must buck up and come to the realisation we’re not on a picnic.