by Stef Penney
‘You are sad he is ill.’
‘Yes, I am sad.’
‘He will be well again?’
‘I hope so. Dr Seddon is very clever. And there is another angekok in Godthåb, in the south, who is looking after him.’
‘Still, you came to see us. I’m happy.’
‘You remember the English word, Meqro? You used to be good at English.’
Meqro murmurs that she does not.
‘“I am happy.” Qooviannikumut is “happy”. You can say that to your Frank – if you want.’
They laugh.
Gravel crunches behind them. If Mr de Beyn is surprised to see Flora sitting on the ground in the Eskimo way, her legs straight out in front of her, he hides it.
‘Shall we go inside, Mrs Athlone? It is rather windy for maps.’
.
In the hut, Armitage gets up from the main table.
‘Mrs Athlone, I will leave you with Mr de Beyn. You may take this map – he’ll mark on it our areas of work. I have much work to do, so if you’ll excuse me . . .’
He goes no further than the far end of the house, behind a packing-case partition, from where he must hear every word. Flora finds it hard to interpret his behaviour as anything other than a snub. De Beyn, who seems awkward, as though he too is aware of this, takes out some notebooks, spreads a section of hand-drawn map on the table and smiles at her.
‘The maps are far from finished,’ he says. ‘But, briefly . . .’
On the old map, he outlines his journey across Smith Sound and north into Grant Land, the northern part of Ellesmere, and sketches in the main features of the previously unknown coast, deeply crenellated with fjords and headlands.
‘We left here at the end of March and came back three weeks ago.’
‘You covered a lot of ground.’
De Beyn makes a dismissive gesture, but looks pleased.
‘We were lucky with the weather. We didn’t walk every step of the coastline, but we triangulated each fjord and the visible peaks.’
‘This is tremendous work – to fill in the gap between Nares and Greely in that time.’
Flora is impressed. Her next thought is, We will never equal this.
‘This was the limit of your journey?’ She puts her finger on the southern coast of Grant Land. It marks the limit of what is known: nothing but white space between it and Jones Sound, far to the south.
‘Yes. We managed to join up with the western limit of Aldrich’s explorations, here . . . I have some photographs I could show you; it’s tremendous, the landscape there; the glaciers are’ – he shakes his head – ‘on a smaller scale than the mainland, but somehow more sublime . . .’
He becomes animated as he talks about the glaciers. He looks up at her, catching her straight in the eye, and she starts back, embarrassed. He is younger than she first thought: despite the grey hairs, his skin is smooth, and there is a liveliness to his expression that makes her want to smile – as if all this northern exploration could be . . . fun.
‘That would be most interesting.’
There is a creaking from beyond the partition. Both of them look round.
‘In terms of geology and meteorological observations, these are the areas we covered . . .’
He outlines areas on the map and adds notes. His handwriting is small and neat.
‘It’s a pity Mr Dixon isn’t here. I could explain the main points to him more . . . with him being a geologist, I mean.’ He gives her an apologetic smile, an anxious look in his brown eyes. His smile, like his laugh, has an infectious quality.
‘And the northern journey?’ she asks, wondering if Armitage is working at all, or is simply sitting behind the packing cases, listening. De Beyn takes out a packet of cigarettes and offers her one, which she declines.
‘Do you mind?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Mr Armitage? Would you like to talk to Mrs Athlone about the northern journey?’
They both look at the drawn curtain.
‘No. You can explain the salient points.’
‘Well, briefly . . . Mr Armitage and Dr Urbino established insularity.’ He bends over the map again, putting his pencil on the north coast, where the previously established coastline peters out, and draws a curve that wiggles south-east. He pencils a line from Neqi across the ice cap and back again.
‘I congratulate you all,’ says Flora, loudly enough to be heard behind the curtain. ‘Two most successful trips. Thank you for telling me.’
De Beyn gives her a quick smile and looks back at the map. ‘There is so much more to be done.’
.
At dinner, they drink a rather bad wine. The Americans unearth some delicacies to accompany the fried seal – tinned peas and potatoes, chocolate pudding, candied fruit and raisins. The atmosphere thaws. Even Armitage, on Flora’s left, seems to have relaxed a little. De Beyn and Urbino keep up the flow of conversation, and Flora finds herself warming to them. She is not surprised to learn that they have been friends since college. They are served by Meqro and a girl called Tilly, whom Flora does not know, but she notices she pays a lot of attention to de Beyn. She is disappointed that the beautiful Mr Shull will not return before they leave.
The talk is general, with both sides avoiding anything that could sound like interrogative questioning. Dr Urbino turns to Flora.
‘Mrs Athlone, I gather you spent much time here as a child. That must have been an unusual education.’
‘I suppose it was, though it didn’t seem unusual to me, since my father came here every year. I discovered a great love for the place.’
‘What did your mother have to say about it?’
‘She died when I was young. My father could have sent me away, but he chose instead to bring me with him.’
‘Did you not miss female company?’ Urbino asks.
‘Well, here I had female company, of course – like Meqro and Simiak. And on board ship, it never occurred to me to miss it. There were boys my age among the crew. Perhaps I was brought up more like a boy than a girl, in that respect.’
‘How remarkable,’ says Armitage in his clipped voice.
‘And you learnt the language then?’ says de Beyn.
‘Yes. My first friends here were Aniguin and Tateraq. In fact, when I first came, they thought I was a boy.’
Silence, then de Beyn bursts out laughing, followed by Urbino. Erdinger, Seddon and Armitage have near-identical frozen expressions on their faces. She says, ‘I don’t know why Maurice looks surprised. He already knows.’
Maurice forces a smile. Flora is pleased to have caused a stir. She rarely makes people laugh.
‘If you think about it, it’s not surprising. In winter, everyone is bundled up almost all the time, and boys have long hair too.’
‘So how did they find out the truth?’ asks de Beyn, eyes wide and apparently innocent.
‘They would talk about me as my father’s “erneq”. He thought “erneq” was the word for “child”. As you probably know, the word for “brother” and “sister” is the same. Then he heard someone refer to their daughter as “panik” and their son as “erneq”. So, then he . . . told them.’
‘Mrs Athlone’s fluency means we can dispense with an interpreter,’ says Seddon.
‘What is the word for brother and sister?’ asks de Beyn.
‘Qatannguh.’
De Beyn attempts to repeat it in the same half-swallowed, glottal fashion, and laughs at his failure.
‘Qatannguh. Yes.’
He tries again with more success. Armitage clears his throat with a sudden rumble. It has the effect of dampening the atmosphere. They fall silent. Armitage dabs his mouth with a napkin.
‘This has been a pleasure, Mrs Athlone. But I have work to do. And I’m sure you want to start back early in the morning.’
.
Flora has brought her own tent. Maurice bids her his usual, formal goodnight and crawls into his tent, pitched at a discreet distance. It will be light all night. Flora gets her diary and leans against a rock, her back to the low sun. She starts to write, but has not been there more than a minute before she is joined by Ivalu and Aniguin, then Meqro and Ehré.
Aniguin fills his pipe. He looks at her notebook and says, ‘Why are you writing?’
‘My memory is not as good as yours. I need to remember things when I get back to England, so that I can write them down, and it will be made into a book for people to read about this place.’
‘You write about us, Fellora?’
‘I write about everything, Aniguin. For people who have never been here, they can’t picture it. So, to make them see, I write about the ice, the snow, and the seal-hunting, and you, and the Americans . . . and the darkness in winter, and the light in summer.’
‘To make a picture?’
‘Yes. In Britain, no one knows it can get so cold it freezes the water in your eyes.’
‘But here is Te Peyn . . . He makes pictures with his box. If you can have pictures, why do you need to write as well?’
Footsteps crunch on the gravel behind them. De Beyn is carrying a pasteboard folder.
‘Te Peyn,’ calls Aniguin, ‘she is writing about you.’
De Beyn smiles uncertainly. ‘Oh? Is Dr Seddon here?’
‘Dr Seddon has retired.’
‘Ah. I brought some of my photographs. He said he was interested in seeing some examples, but, no matter.’
‘Please wait; he won’t be asleep yet. I’m sure he’ll be interested, as would I.’
She goes to his tent.
‘Maurice? Mr de Beyn has brought some photographs to show you.’
There is a mumble from inside the tent. De Beyn says to her, ‘Thank you. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
‘You haven’t. If you don’t mind showing all of us, I’d like very much to see them too.’
.
De Beyn opens his folder and takes out some prints. His attempts to explain each one soon break down as they are passed back and forth and exclaimed over.
‘This is remarkable.’ Seddon is holding a picture of an iceberg. ‘The detail is superb.’
‘That one . . .’ de Beyn glances at the back. ‘I’ve been experimenting with coloured glass in front of the lens. That one was red. This one, here, is taken through yellow glass . . .’
Ivalu finds a picture of herself. She holds the photograph upside down.
Flora leans towards her and turns the photograph round. ‘Like this!’
Ivalu is unconvinced. ‘It is the same. Same Ivalu.’
‘Yes, but that way’ – Flora turns the picture upside down again – ‘your head is down here, and your feet are up here . . . and the sky is below the earth! The sky is above the earth, like this.’
Ivalu laughs. ‘I know where is the sky, Fellora.’
Ehré is peering at a photo of the bay at Neqi. He holds it sideways, and points out the place where he recently butchered a seal. Meqro stares at a picture of the Americans.
‘Here is Ferank, and you, Te Peyn!’
Flora is handed a photograph of a glacier, in an unfamiliar landscape.
‘Where was this, Mr de Beyn?’
‘Ellesmere Land, on the west coast.’
‘One of your discoveries?’
‘Yes. We called it the Kampfer Glacier.’
‘It’s beautiful.’
He smiles at her. ‘Kampfer is a railway baron. One of our main sponsors.’
‘Ah.’
‘You know . . .’ de Beyn looks around him. The midnight sun is low on the horizon. ‘The light is good now. If I get my camera, may I take your picture? And Mr Seddon?’
‘Well . . . if you wish.’
When de Beyn starts taking pictures of the villagers, there is much laughter. Seddon, uncharacteristically animated, goes to get his camera, and, as the hilarity rises, more villagers come out of their tupiks to watch, to pose for the photographers, to make jokes and, most of all, to laugh. Dr Urbino joins them, and has his photograph taken with Meqro perched on his knee. Seddon, finding himself the centre of attention, is almost skittish, blushing as the women surround him, jostling for position.
Someone lights a fire and sets up a cooking pot. Smoke rises off the beach, straight up into the pale sky. Someone else produces kiviak – slimy, rotten auk meat – to growls of appreciation. Pipes are lit. De Beyn and Seddon promise to take a picture of every person there.
De Beyn turns to Flora and says, with a searching look at her face, ‘Perhaps if you were to face this way, like that . . . yes.’
Flora is aware that she has not looked in a mirror since the day before yesterday. She touches her hair and says something conventional.
De Beyn looks at her and says, ‘You have nothing to worry about. Trust me.’
Horribly self-conscious, she assumes a serious expression. He peers into the camera, winds on the film and presses the shutter release, then looks up.
‘The exposure is very quick; you don’t have to keep your face still. It can capture the expression of an instant, or an action.’
He smiles, to encourage her. But, to Flora, the prospect of having her mood snatched and caught forever is alarming, and she gazes sternly into the middle distance. De Beyn takes one or two more pictures and inclines his head to her – a semi-serious salute.
‘Thank you.’
She nods, obscurely disappointed. She says, ‘These aren’t for your expedition records?’
De Beyn looks startled.
‘No, of course not. Now, Meqro . . .’
Meqro wants a picture of her with Flora. They stand stiffly, side by side, but Meqro, whose glossy head just comes to Flora’s chin, murmurs something up at Flora, and makes her smile, and Flora is rather afraid that he has captured it.
.
Flora wishes, as she often does when she feels uncertain, that Freddie were here. Social gatherings are his field of expertise, not hers. She feels a sudden flood of gratitude, and a prickling at the back of her eyes. Freddie was in terrible pain when they left, but he insisted she continue without him. Ordered it. She feels a twinge of guilt to be smiling – possibly, even, enjoying herself. She wishes that he were well, that he were with her to share this, of course . . .
But. Would she be held in such account, if he were? Would Armitage have spoken to her (even unwillingly)? Isn’t she, in some way, glad to be here without him? This is her place. These are her friends. And now that the ordeal of being photographed is over, she begins to unbend. Simiak, Aniguin’s mother, pushes in next to her, and puts a hard, brown hand on her arm.
‘Aja, Fellora, do you remember the first time you came? When we sat on the big boat? You were so shy, so quiet; you were like this!’ She stretches her eyes wide, and laughs.
‘Yes, I remember.’ Flora smiles.
‘I’m so happy to see you, Fellora – such a fine woman you are! You’re like my own child.’
‘I’m happy to be here, Simiak. Many times I thought of you all and longed to come back, but it’s hard.’
Simiak laughs, but has tears in her eyes. Flora finds herself holding both of Simiak’s hands in hers, and has to swallow the lump in her throat.
She so nearly didn’t make it. So many things stood in her way.
.
Something happens. From the cliffs behind them, disturbed by who knows what, an immense quantity of auks suddenly takes flight. The mass that detaches from the cliffs is so vast, so solid, it’s as though a part of the cliff sheers away and, instead of falling, lifts heavily into the air. The sky grows dark as more and more birds flood out in a living cloud, squawking and screaming, wings whirring and clacking, deafen
ing them. The people on the beach look up in wonder; the boys run for their nets, and the photographers spin around, laughing, lifting up their cameras, like nets, in hope of capture.
At times, the land can seem sullen and lifeless. It gives nothing. It wants nothing, except to be left alone. And then there are times like this, when it is overwhelmingly rich – glorious and unnecessary, as though the birds are the land’s laughter.
Like the others, Flora gazes in awe as the exodus goes on and on: an impossible number of birds; a million, two million . . . An endless shower of black sparks, bursting from a beaten fire.
Chapter 19
Neqi, 77˚52’N, 71˚37’W
July 1892
Jakob wakes early, feeling the after-effects of the wine. He hadn’t thought he was drunk – had he behaved like it? Not in his memory, but he feels bilious, his head pulsates. Pulling his clothes on, he lets himself out as quietly as possible and wanders away from camp to relieve himself. Normally, they are not especially delicate about bodily functions – the Eskimos, men and women alike, squat a few feet away from their tents and the dogs remove all traces. The Americans have learnt to do likewise – but normally there are no white female guests in the vicinity. He walks much further then usual, heading for a sheltering fall of rocks.
A dog trots after him: one of the team from his Ellesmere trip – a piebald bitch named Curly. She is one of the friendlier sled dogs – meaning that she is likely to bite only half the time – and he became fond of her, although the fondness was tempered when he saw her eat one of her puppies. The dogs inspire equal measures of affection and revulsion: they run their hearts out to transport the men wherever they want to go – they will pull till they literally drop in their traces – but then they do something appalling, like devouring their own offspring, or killing a weakened colleague. He has heard the Eskimos tell the story of a boy who became lost in a blizzard. When the family found him, all that remained were his bones. Jakob sometimes wonders if the terrible stories they hear are true, but, having seen what the dogs are capable of, he thinks that one probably is.
‘Go away, you horrible, shit-eating cannibal,’ he says, attempting to shove the bitch away from his bare, shivering hindquarters, to no avail.
