Under a Pole Star: Richard & Judy Book Club 2017 - the most unforgettable love story of the year

by Stef Penney

  They both had the same thought.

  Bettina tugged the hand she held. ‘Henk, come on. I know what you’re thinking. It isn’t hereditary. He’s just a poor old man. Sick, because of the war.’

  Hendrik snatched his hand away. ‘You don’t know anything about it.’

  Bettina held her rejected hand, hurt, but too dignified to show it.

  ‘I know these things can happen. If he was in the war . . . many men became sick afterwards. Jake isn’t thinking that, are you?’

  Jakob shrugged. He appreciated her kindness and her good sense, but it didn’t help. It wasn’t her father in an asylum. He stared at his brother. The thought of seeing their father was so extraordinary as to be meaningless. He had only the vaguest memories of him, perhaps not even that – just a collection of things he had been told by Hendrik. The photograph on the mantelpiece made up the greater substance of this memory. He had never had a father, in effect – why should this stranger, after abandoning them to the ice baths of Uncle Seppe, be allowed to reappear and demand their attention? After bequeathing him nightmares – and how could those nightmares be real when the death that inspired them was a lie? He hadn’t finished his studies. He hadn’t had a chance to get started. It wasn’t fair . . . His chest constricted with the pressure of words he could not say, Jakob walked out of the apartment.

  It was a freezing night. The bellicose neighbours had fought themselves to a standstill, and, for a moment, the noise of the city dropped away. There was silence. He walked round the corner, pretended he was somewhere else. His breath smoked in front of him, hanging in the stillness. He imagined getting away, as far as possible – not just from his family and the cramped apartment, but from the city – to a place where it was always silent, where he would be so distant and unreachable that such problems dwindled to nothing. He craned his neck and looked up to where the tenement roofs framed a corridor of sky, deep and dusty with stars. A road, leading to anywhere.

  PART TWO: VEGA IN LYRA

  Chapter 6

  Dundee, 56˚28’N, 2˚58’W

  1888–9

  It wasn’t until Flora was eighteen that her father refused to take her north again. For some time, he had been aware – as had she – that the men had changed towards her. As a child, she had been regarded with affection and humour; as a young woman, she was dangerous, unpredictable – a smouldering match in a heap of tinder. And this despite doing nothing to improve her appearance, wrapping herself in bulky clothing that concealed everything and made her look like any other young seaman, and less alluring than some. Still, she was aware of the sidelong glances, hungry looks and muttered comments, laughter erupting from conversations that died away when she approached. Even her old friends withdrew – the ones that had been fatherly, like John Inkster, and Robert Avas, still shorter, slighter and more childish than she was. They seemed to be trying to hide something, but perversely wanted her to know – that she disturbed them, and it was her fault.

  Flora was furious. She did not want to be seen as a woman before she was seen as Flora. It was as though all her friends had forgotten her – her, the person they had known so well – forgotten their shared pasts, her skill with the sextant, her knowledge of the stars, her ability to swallow a fish’s eyeball. She felt diminished: as a young woman, she was less of a human being than she had been as a child. How could that be allowed to happen?

  On their last return from Cape Farewell, Flora walked up to the quarterdeck, where Captain Mackie was snatching an observation of a pale sun seeping through cloud. Flora took out her sextant.

  ‘There’s no need, Miss Flora,’ said Inkster.

  ‘I have to keep in practice,’ she replied.

  He shot a look at her father: worried, censorious. She ignored it, adjusted her index bar. Then the threatening clouds ate the sun, and there was nothing for her to shoot. Inkster and the captain bent their heads over their workings, excluding her.

  Weeks later, back home in Crichton Street, Flora burst into furious tears.

  ‘You cannot expect me to take you north forever,’ said Captain Mackie, puzzled by the daughter he had raised, and slightly afraid of this passion. ‘After all, I will not be here forever to look after you . . .’ It was brutal, but it had to be said: ‘You cannot follow in my footsteps as if you were a son. You will marry; you will . . .’

  He could not think of anything else she would do.

  ‘To take you north again will only harm your chances. You have to live a more normal life. Now you are grown up, you have to learn to be more regular. Meet people.’

  ‘I meet lots of people!’ cried Flora.

  ‘I mean the right kind of people, as you well know. Not sailors. You cannot marry a specksioneer, Flora, or a boat-steerer.’

  Annoyingly, this made her blush, but her father’s eyes were lowered, fixed on his wooden blotter, and he didn’t seem to notice. He rocked it to and fro with two fingers.

  ‘I have taken you with me, Flora, perhaps selfishly, because you are all I have left and I like to have you by me. But it cannot be any longer. Perhaps I was wrong to do it. Perhaps it was not fair to you. All I want is for you to be happy.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you want me to be happy, when you are making me unhappy! I think I can better decide what is fair to me!’

  ‘No, Flora; in this, you cannot.’

  The argument went on in this vein for some time, then Flora capitulated. She did this by running upstairs and throwing herself on her bed, sobbing. She was humiliated by her behaviour, but that did not seem important when she had lost everything that most mattered.

  .

  She was a pragmatist at heart. For weeks she kept to her room, considering her options. The University College of Dundee was on her doorstep, and, having been endowed by the generosity of a Miss Baxter, was coeducational. Her father agreed to pay for her tuition, and, after some discussion, the college waived its formal educational requirements. For the first time, Flora realised that her unusual past was capital, just like money, or beauty – it fascinated people. Since she was entering as a science student, she was exempted from a knowledge of the classics and modern languages, and, having read all the Arctic literature she could get her hands on, she decided to focus on the new science of meteorology. It was clear to her that, in the future, expeditions would go north to amass information rather than to service the declining need for oil. And since all expeditions to the Arctic were more than anything at the mercy of the weather, she would make herself its adept.

  She lived quietly, going to classes, residing in Crichton Street, looked after by her old nurse Moira, while her father was at sea, but she was not left entirely alone. Word of the girl who went whaling had leaked out. It was a middle-aged writer, R. G. Whitfield, who first brought Flora to the public’s attention. He was a hack with a penchant for medieval romances, but he had a nose for a story. His senses jangled when he heard about the young girl who had spent more time in the Arctic than many explorers. In his happiest stroke of invention, he dubbed her the Snow Queen, and made it his quest to meet her.

  Whitfield arrived in Dundee in February. Coming from Manchester, he was prepared for the cold drizzle that greeted him, but not for the smell of a whaling port: a stench like a physical presence. Recovered enough to ask around, he was told to go to the Whalers’ Parliament, an inn near the quay, where he could find out everything about whaling. For an hour, Whitfield combed the quay and its surroundings, before realising that the Whalers’ Parliament – the name enchanted him – was not the actual name of the inn, which was in fact called the Ship (readers would not need to know that). As he walked into the fug – dimly lit, smelly from the fire and from the exhalations of many bodies, but still dank and with an underlying, mizzling chill – he experienced a fear that his maiden of the snows, his Snow Queen, would also smell like this. His mental picture of her (auburn tresses, dark eyes and a pliant yet round
ed figure) wavered. He nearly turned around and walked back to the station.

  .

  Half an hour later, he presented his card at the house on Crichton Street and was admitted to the front parlour. He was left on his own for several minutes, relieved that in the house he seemed to have escaped, temporarily, the mugging of the Dundee atmosphere. When a young woman came in, he stood up.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Mackie, for seeing me without notice. It is very kind of you to allow me to interrupt you.’

  What did he see? A strapping girl, almost as tall as he. A direct gaze of winter grey; cheekbones still freckled by her last nightless summer, and artless coils of hair, not auburn, but a disappointing mousey-brown. Not beautiful, no, but . . . not unattractive, if she made a bit of effort. She did not comport herself as young ladies are expected to. She strode into the room like a challenge: a bold, angry element that might have damaging consequences. A wild young creature. Whitfield smiled, to cover his surprise. Flora did not smile.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Ah . . . Well! Down to business . . . Quite.’

  Flora stared. She did not know what to make of this whiskery, dandified southerner, either.

  ‘I have been looking forward to meeting you, Miss Mackie. Perhaps we could . . .’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Sit down.’

  As Whitfield began to explain his presence, a stout woman came in with a tray of tea. She exuded disapproval.

  ‘All right, Murra. That will do,’ said Flora sharply, when the woman was about to distribute some chunks of a blackish material. Whitfield thought her manner rather rude. (And was ‘Murra’ really a name? Could she possibly have said ‘Mother’? It seemed most unlikely . . .)

  ‘Yes,’ he continued. ‘You are a unique young lady. I think unique in the whole world.’

  ‘Really?’ Flora looked as though she were thinking about this for the first time. ‘But I only went with my father on his journeys. It’s not as though I have done anything extraordinary. Captain Penny used to take his wife with him.’

  Whitfield had no idea who Captain Penny was, and didn’t feel he was that interested.

  ‘But a daughter – a young girl, that is . . . How old were you when you first voyaged to the land of Boreas?’

  Flora was taken aback. ‘I was twelve. Captain Penny used to take his son too, so it’s quite regular. No one thought badly of it.’

  ‘Oh no. Not badly, I’m sure. Far from it. But what you have done is extraordinary, Miss Mackie. Which is why I want to write an article about you.’

  She laughed, an uninhibited yelp that she quickly moderated, putting her hand in front of her mouth.

  ‘As you may know, people have long been fascinated by the north – the snows, the extremities of cold and darkness, the incredible dangers of the whale fishery, the ice mountains . . . Leviathan himself! And of course the Esquimaux people and their ways, their strange diet and habits – all fascinating. But to hear about that, you see, from the sensibilities of one so unlike the common sailor or explorer . . . People would find that intriguing.’

  ‘Would they?’

  ‘I assure you. Down south, they have no direct connection with the business of whaling. And you, yourself, being so personable – a young woman of good family . . .’

  He paused, not entirely confident on this point.

  ‘You work for a newspaper, Mr Whitfield? Which newspaper?’

  ‘I am published by many newspapers. The Evening Times, the Manchester Chronicle, the Gazette . . .’ He waved his hand to indicate the legion of papers clamouring for his services. He watched her absorb that he had called her personable. She clasped her hands and assumed a slightly coy look. He was touched by her gaucheness.

  ‘I think a series of articles, with illustrations, or photographs, ideally – certainly a photograph of yourself – would be desirable to a number of papers and journals.’

  ‘Oh! So you mean, we would go to the north?’

  He saw her face bloom with hope and was sorry he had to crush it.

  ‘Well, not go there, as such. I mean to interview you, if you are willing, and gather photographs from . . . elsewhere. Of course, we would take a photograph of you in Arctic clothing. Furs.’

  He watched her calculate again, but she looked uncertain.

  ‘Perhaps I should speak to your father?’

  ‘That is not necessary. Or possible, at present. When you say these articles would be “desirable”, you mean, they would pay for them?’

  ‘Newspapers are sometimes prepared to pay for such a thing. I cannot say how much – that depends on many things.’

  She was silent.

  ‘We can, of course, come to an arrangement about terms.’

  ‘Terms . . . What, for example? Half and half?’

  Whitfield nearly choked on his tea.

  ‘Well, there may be a lot of work involved. Raw experience, you see, can be indigestible. It needs arranging, shaping, the filter of a literary mind . . .’

  ‘But I could do it myself – write accounts, find illustrations and so on. I’m a student at the university.’

  ‘Ah? Indeed. But writing for the newspapers is a hard-won skill, and although your experience is unique, unless presented in the right way – by one who has long experience of the demands of editors – it is highly possible that it may not find its mark at all. One needs to know individual editors and what they like; one may want a certain angle, another a different length, or a different tone.’

  Flora sat back in her chair. She had a very stubborn, wilful look, he thought. Quite unappealing, if she was not careful. But, in the right hands, and laced into a tight pair of stays, she could be made to look quite fetching.

  ‘But, without me, you don’t have anything at all.’

  ‘You have a good head on your shoulders, Miss Mackie. Of course, you’re right – which is why I would not agree to less than thirty per cent for you.’

  ‘Thirty per cent? So seventy for you.’

  ‘That is a very favourable percentage for the subject of an article, I assure you.’

  Flora looked at him for several moments. Whitfield felt uneasy.

  ‘Some journalists would write an article without even asking for permission.’

  She seemed to be thinking of something far away. Flora was forming an idea – vague, as yet, but growing, solidifying – of benefits other than financial ones that might accrue to her . . . Was it possible? She stared at the dark blocks of what Whitfield presumed (going by time of day) were some sort of cake. She looked as though she contemplated building something.

  ‘If, as you say, neither of us can proceed without the other, half and half seems fair.’

  Whitfield sighed. ‘You drive a hard bargain, Miss Mackie.’

  She smiled then; a slow, sharp-cornered smile, which gave her a rather raffish look. Whitfield stretched his mouth in uncertain response. She leant forward and picked up a plate.

  ‘Won’t you have some Dundee cake, Mr Whitfield? You’ve come all this way.’

  .

  The first article he sent to her was clipped from the Manchester Chronicle. There was no photograph – instead, an artist had drawn a young girl surrounded by towering bergs and apparently menaced by Eskimos. The illustration was remarkable for managing to include a whale, a ship, dogs, seals, Eskimos hunting with harpoons, a polar bear and a storm, all in unlikely proximity. The fur-clad girl bore more than a passing resemblance to Alice in her wonderland. She bore no resemblance at all to Flora, probably because the illustrator had never seen her. As for the article, it was not actual fiction, but Whitfield had greatly exaggerated the perils of her journeys.

  All this was more or less what she had expected. He was true to his word about the money, and although the articles never produced as much as he had led her to believe, in the end, it was she who owed hi
m a debt, because without them her life would never have taken the course that it did.

  Chapter 7

  London, 51˚30’N, 0˚7’W

  1889–90

  ‘And on no account are you to come in through the front door. I know it’s ludicrous, but just don’t. A girl did that last year and they threw her out on a pretext. They talk of equality between the sexes, but don’t ever think the rules are the same for them and us. They’re not.’

  Flora’s new college in London, like the one in Dundee, is coeducational, but the women and men are not supposed to meet, even though they attend lectures in the same theatre, at the same time. This is achieved by having the men come in through the main door and sit at the front, while the handful of female students have to make their way down corridors and up staircases, and creep into the theatre through a door at the back. Then they sit in the back row. Flora has all this explained to her on her first day by a nervous young woman called Poppy Meriwether. Despite having the name of a character in a children’s story, Poppy wears steel-framed spectacles and a severe expression. She is thin, sallow and looks exhausted. She is, if not exactly friendly, painstakingly thorough, as though briefing Flora for a military engagement.

  ‘What would happen if we sat in the front rows?’

  Poppy makes a face. ‘You’re welcome to try. But just remember, a girl was severely reprimanded after she was seen walking home with a young man. He was her brother!’

  She learns that women are not expected or encouraged to ask questions of their lecturers. The men, down at the front, can engage them in conversation – one might even call it banter – but the exchanges don’t quite carry up to the back of the theatre. Their half-heard comments and laughter are barbs. Flora feels a simmering anger at those students who exclude them – even more at the lecturers who encourage it. In her second week, she puts up her hand. The chemistry lecturer, Mr Wallace, ignores her, or perhaps genuinely doesn’t see her. Furious, and ignoring Poppy’s frowns, she persists.