by Stef Penney
‘You’ll find a cure.’ She says this without knowing what is wrong with him. ‘We will.’ She tightens her grip on his shoulders. ‘We have our whole lives.’
Afterwards, life continues much the same as before she was married. They are so busy and purposeful, she has no time to think about whether their marriage is normal, or whether she is happy. The days rush past in a round of letter-writing, meetings and paring away at the budget. Can they do with less of that? An inferior version of this? Without that altogether? At night they go to separate bedrooms. Sometimes she puts her arms round him. Sometimes he embraces her, or kisses her on the forehead. Sometimes she feels disappointed, but perhaps also relieved. Admittedly, she married him without desire, but she believed she would come to feel it. Since that is not to be, she puts it out of her mind.
.
One night in October, Freddie comes to her bedroom and knocks on the door.
‘Is something the matter, Freddie?’
He gave her to believe that he would not trouble her in her room – this, after she suggested, with great embarrassment, that they could do something, if not everything. His response had been, ‘Dearest, that would be worse than not being with you at all. I don’t think I could stand it. But thank you for thinking of me.’ He didn’t seem to realise she might also have been thinking of herself.
‘No. Quite the reverse, actually.’ He walks over to the fireplace and stares into it. ‘Are you too tired to talk?’
‘No.’ Flora has been brushing her hair at the dressing table, and golden brown strands float, crackling, around her face. She smooths them down.
‘Come and sit by me.’
Flora draws up a stool so that she can sit beside the armchair. He seems on edge. She turns her head towards the fire, and feels, with a shock, his hand stroke her hair.
‘You know what you said before – the . . . the kind offer you made.’
She nods, staring at an ash-skinned coal, about to topple from its perch.
‘It was out of the question then; I simply wasn’t well enough. But . . .’ He clears his throat. ‘You know I saw a new doctor recently.’
‘Yes.’
‘The symptoms I was suffering from have quite gone. I asked him whether it would be injurious to you, if we could . . . do as you suggested. And he said that it was possible. With precautions, and, um, certain . . . methods, it should not be injurious at all. Advantageous, in fact, given what we, er, talked about, before.’
‘Oh?’ The silence stretches out between them, but he doesn’t elucidate. The cinder falls, making her jump.
‘Perhaps I should leave you to think about it.’
Flora, who has no idea what she is supposed to be thinking about, slips off the stool and kneels in front of him.
‘Don’t go,’ she says, and put her hands on his knees. It is the first time she has done something so intimate. She feels no desire at this moment, but she strokes his thighs and lifts her face towards him, so that he can lean down and kiss her. Instead, he averts his eyes.
‘I shouldn’t kiss you. There is a slight risk in that.’
‘Oh.’
He stands up, and helps her to her feet. He smiles, but there is an unusual tension in his face.
‘Dearest, would you go to bed, as you normally would?’
Flora does so. Her heart is racing. Freddie turns down the lights, takes off his dressing gown and comes over to the bed.
‘Turn your back to me.’
She rolls on to her side and, with her face to the window, feels him get into the bed behind her. Creakings and rustlings ensue. She feels his hand on her shoulder, stroking her arm through the fabric of her nightdress. He manoeuvres closer to her, and slides his hand round to knead her breast. Her breathing quickens. She can feel the heat of his body through their nightclothes and excitement flickers inside her. Then his hand grasps the hem of her nightdress and pulls it up; almost in the same movement, he pushes her on to her stomach, so she is spreadeagled on the bed. He has her nightdress bunched on the small of her back, and clambers on top of her, spreading her legs.
She wonders what on earth is so wrong that he doesn’t want her to look at him. It must be awful . . . but her face is pressed sideways into the pillow, so she can only see through one eye, and the vision of that is obscured by her hair; nor can she move, and then something hard nudges between her buttocks. The first thing she feels is a thrill of relief – he does desire her! She tries to lift her hips to help him, because he seems to be in the wrong place, but a hand on the base of her spine pushes her down. And his erect penis seems to be trying to force its way into her anus. She tries to reach behind her to guide him better, but her arm is stuck and she cannot move to free it.
‘No, no, like this is better,’ he whispers, his breaths coming fast in her ear.
She feels a surge of panic, and struggles, but his weight presses her down into the bed.
‘Let me, dearest, oh, let me,’ he mutters, and so she lets him.
It burns like fire as he forces it into her, and she yelps with pain. It feels wrong; she is skewered, a pig spitted for roasting. Pinned down by his weight, she can hardly breathe, but is terrified of moving, in case it makes it worse. He begins to thrust into her and there is a tearing sensation; she grits her teeth, but it hurts a great deal and she is so shocked that this is what he wants to do that tears squeeze through her shut eyelids, wetting the pillow.
She pushes down her juddering breaths, but the burning pain goes on, tearing in and out and in again with rough, sharp thrusts. It hurts where he entered her – a sharp, bright pain – and it hurts again deep inside her – the dark ache of some bruised, protesting organ. She is barely aware of his groans, his accelerating gasps, and then, after an age – perhaps just a minute – of pushing his way into her, it seems to be over. He has stopped moving. She holds her breath, locked rigid. She is trapped underneath him as he lies, heavy and panting, on top of her, and then, mercifully, he withdraws. There is more burning, but the worst of the pain is over. Freddie rolls off her to lie by her side, but she doesn’t trust herself to move or show her face. There is a painful throbbing in her lower belly; she wonders if she is injured in some awful way. Tears run from her eyes without stopping.
At their wedding, they had said to each other, ‘With my body I thee worship,’ and the words, in his mouth, had made her tremble with anticipation. But she revolts. How can causing her this pain be worship?
They lie in silence for a minute, and then Freddie puts his hand gently on her back and strokes her.
‘Dearest girl . . . thank you,’ he says.
Flora pulls herself to sit on the side of the bed, still facing away from him. She dashes the tears off her face, but more come. She is miserable, but also she is angry, because he has turned something she wanted and longed for into something . . . like this.
.
Some time later, as she lies awake in the dark, she says, ‘Does it have to be like that?’
‘It’s what the doctor recommended. There’s no risk of infection that way.’
This does not make sense to her.
‘But if you wear something, doesn’t that prevent infection?’
Freddie sighs, rather sharply.
‘Dear, in these matters, a wife is guided by her husband. Be guided by me. I know the first time can be rather . . . uncomfortable, but it gets easier. Many women enjoy it – even prefer it! It makes a lot of things easier.’
Flora cannot think of anything to say. Freddie rubs her arm through her sleeve.
‘I’m sorry if it was a shock. It will get better. It will be all right. You’ll see.’
.
But it is not all right, and Flora does not see. When he comes to her again, a few nights later, she rolls over and waits, lying completely still. She hopes it will be easier this time – she wants to make him ha
ppy, to give him what he wants. But it is not easier; it is just as painful as before.
‘I’m not trying to hurt you!’ Freddie says in frustration. ‘You must try to relax.’ And, after another minute, sounding cross: ‘Stop resisting – you’re making it worse for yourself.’
Flora wants to say that she is trying, but how can she stop resisting something that hurts so much? When he pins her down on the bed, she feels rising panic, like an animal caught in a trap.
After some muttering – she doesn’t catch what he says, but she seems to have put him off rather, and his penis feels less hard – he starts again, and this time mutters in her ear, ‘Say, “Fuck me in the arse.”’
His Irish accent is suddenly noticeable in the word ‘arse’. She is so shocked, she can’t say anything at all, and he says it again, louder.
‘Say, “Fuck me in the arse!”’
So she does. But this time, while he fucks her, her sobs are audible. When he has finished, she cries hopelessly, aware that their marriage, and everything that goes with it, may be over.
.
The next morning, she apologises to Freddie – for crying, for not being sufficiently wifely. She does not mean her apology: the blood on her nightdress is surely proof that it is not her fault. Freddie, in turn, apologises to her: he does not want to distress her; perhaps it would be better if they just went back to the way they were . . . She nods, relieved and ashamed.
She does not think his apology any more sincere than hers: his manner implies that her reaction was unusual and missish. But he is inconsistent: sometimes, in the days that follow, he appears to regret his behaviour, and is sweet to her; other times, he is moody and resentful.
Flora longs for advice, but cannot think whom she could ask. Iris, she suspects, is, for once, not going to be of help. And even with Iris, she does not know how she would put such questions into words.
Chapter 12
London, 51˚31’N, 0˚7’W
February–May 1892
‘THE SNOW QUEEN’ TO SAIL FOR THE NORTH AGAIN!
Mr and Mrs Athlone talk about their plans
. . . The ‘Snow Queen’, who came to our attentions three years ago while still a young girl, is now embarking on the second part of an unusual career. She has recently acquired a harmonious new title, which we find suits her very well: that of ‘Mrs Frederick Athlone’. She and her husband are due to set sail for the Arctic in Spring, there to undertake sixteen months of scientific research which will, Mrs Athlone states, set an example for the fair sex, while the fruits of that research will benefit all. ‘The most northerly married couple in the world’, as Mr Athlone calls them, are to share leadership of this unique and perilous endeavour, and the Record wishes them all the best, and awaits the eventual outcome with interest . . .
London Evening Record, 2nd February 1892
Freddie has finally found a ship – an old Hull-built whaler called the North Britain. After much debate with the sponsors, who all want to call the ship after their august organs (the editor of the Northern Chronicle was particularly tenacious), it is renamed after that cheapest and most useful of Arctic commodities: Resolve. They will need a great deal of that, to make up for all the things they can’t afford.
The personnel of the expedition is slow in coming together. Few men are prepared to sign up to an endeavour where one of the leaders is a woman. This is hardly a surprise, but at last Freddie engages a doctor, Maurice Seddon, who, as well as acting as the expedition’s medic, is an accomplished ornithologist and photographer. They meet in the expedition’s offices (a room above a newsagent’s on Cromwell Road). Dr Seddon is a serious man who, at twenty-eight, has climbed extensively in the Alps and Norway. The only time Flora detects any enthusiasm is when he shows them photographs of enormous, ugly birds called lammergeiers, taken in Austria. She is impressed by him, but cannot warm to him. He has a neat face with a small moustache and marble-like blue eyes. He displays no evidence of humour. She tells herself this does not matter, although, knowing how long the winters in Greenland can be, she has her misgivings. Freddie is trying to secure the services of a geologist called Ralph Dixon, desirable because his specialism is glaciology. A Cambridge graduate, he is still an uncertain prospect, saying that, at present, he is partially committed to a Belgian expedition to Spitsbergen, whose financing seems at least as shaky as their own.
‘So find someone else. There must be dozens of geologists who would leap at the chance to join.’ This is what the Northern Chronicle’s editor assures them. People will fall over themselves to volunteer. They advertise. Volunteers are certainly numerous and varied. They receive letters from schoolboys, students, women (often suggesting that all the expedition members should be women, to save on tents and awkwardness), retired doctors, crazed enthusiasts – like the man who wants to start an Arctic colony as an experiment in utopian living . . . Freddie estimates that a quarter of the volunteers are insane. Flora thinks he exaggerates, but only a little.
When Captain Mackie received the news of her marriage, he wrote her a tepid letter of congratulation, leavened with warnings about hasty decisions. It was better than she had expected. In her lowest moments, the previous autumn, she had imagined her marriage being over and her father spurning her in anger. Now that neither fear has been realised, she invites her father to London so that he can witness the rechristening of the Resolve. It will also be the first time he has met his son-in-law. She has not seen her father for over a year, and the prospect of his arrival makes her nervous. Even though he seems, in his letters, resigned to her ‘antics’ (as he terms her expedition), and acknowledges that her upbringing played its part, he does not attempt to disguise his disapproval. Flora wants him to be proud of her, to admire her achievements as so many people – she is constantly told – admire her: she is a trained meteorologist – how many of them are there in the country? She will be an explorer in her own right!
.
When Captain Mackie arrives, Freddie shows him a scrapbook of their press clippings over a cup of tea. Flora awaits the reaction with a sinking heart. (She told Freddie this sort of acclaim would not impress him, but he refused to be put off.)
‘Hmm . . .’ her father says, flicking through the pages. ‘You have been getting a lot of attention.’
‘My father finds such attention undignified,’ she says, trying to make light of it. Freddie, who can see that as well as anyone, smiles at him.
‘Believe me, sir, I understand – and, were I fantastically wealthy, we wouldn’t need to court it. But it is a means to an end – the end being our expedition. Flora’s expedition. It’s a bargain we have to make.’
He smiles at Flora, and she feels a wave of gratitude.
‘He’s right, Daddy. After all, I cannot be a whaler, or a naval captain.’
‘I know, Flora. Perhaps I’m old-fashioned, but I find it a pity that an endeavour of scientific value is overshadowed by this’ – he glances at some particularly egregious headlines – ‘puppet show.’
‘Well, yes. But, despite them, sir, you must realise that there is no one in the country better qualified to lead this expedition than your daughter, and that, of course’ – Freddie glances at Flora – ‘is largely thanks to you.’
.
The next day, they take Captain Mackie to Limehouse Reach, where the ship is in dry dock. Flora has not seen the Resolve for some weeks, but it is apparent that not one of the requested adaptations has been made, or even begun. Captain Mackie walks around in silence, every flaw glowing like a beacon on a dark night.
‘This is the old North Britain,’ he says as they go below.
‘That’s right, sir,’ says Freddie, determinedly genial. ‘She has proved herself in many winters in the north.’
‘Yes. I’ve seen her there,’ says the captain. ‘Gripes. She was stove amidships a couple of years after.’
‘She was re-sh
eathed two years ago,’ says Flora, aggrieved that her voice comes out sounding petulant.
‘She has splendid headroom, don’t you think?’
They are in the main cabin. Freddie pats the timbers above his head. The clearance below decks in the Resolve is six foot, five inches. In the Vega, it was five foot four.
Mackie grunts, perhaps approvingly; more clearance means less stability, so probably not.
.
At breakfast the following day, Flora’s father swallows his last mouthful of kipper, takes a draught of tea, lays his knife and fork side by side and dabs his mouth with his napkin. Then he clears his throat. Flora and Freddie look at him.
‘I must speak to you about the ship,’ he says.
‘We know there’s much work still to be done,’ says Flora.
‘I’ll get on to the agent today,’ says Freddie. ‘We have months to go, so—’
‘Mr Athlone, there is not enough time to do all the work that should be done. If you intend – as I believe you do – to go north of Melville Bay, you will need a triply reinforced hull. The bows should be raised by three feet. There is rot in her cross braces and she has wormy knees. She should be completely stripped down. I’m sorry to say this, but the North Britain has never been a good boat and I do not like to think of you entrusting your lives to her.’
He looks at Freddie as he says this.
‘Mr Athlone, Flora is my only child. When she came north with me, I knew that the ship we sailed in was the stoutest in the fleet. I would not have taken her otherwise.’
‘Of course, sir. But there will be a good deal of reinforcements of the nature you recommend. I would not risk Flora for the world.’ He takes her hand as he says this.
‘What is your knowledge of ships, Mr Athlone?’
Freddie looks him in the eye.
‘Very poor, sir, but we have an agent who knows a great deal. And a good captain overseeing the work.’
