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

by Stef Penney

  There is a picture of Meqro sitting on Dr Urbino’s knee; Dr Urbino grins sheepishly at the camera, but his arm is tight around her waist, and Meqro looks at him with every sign of adoration. All the time, he had a fiancée in America (well, nothing should surprise her) . . . and now he is dead. There is Aniguin, who, alone among the Eskimos, is unsmiling. There is Maurice Seddon with his camera, laughing, and, though she searches her memory, she cannot remember seeing him so carefree. There is the great cloud of dovekies, staining the sky dark. And there is a photograph of Seddon and de Beyn together. Seddon has his familiar dogged expression; de Beyn is smiling at the camera (held by Urbino, perhaps?), his eyes dark, his hair a white flare in the sunlight. She had forgotten how grey his hair was; she has not forgotten that smile. She wonders why he sent that picture: because it shows Seddon? Or because it shows himself?

  She thinks it a strange letter – rather gauche and indiscreet, but he seems genuinely concerned with the fates of those left behind. She looks at the photographs again, and is reminded of his words the morning after: that a photograph carries some essence of the person depicted; that they bring closer those who are far away.

  The grand opening is at the British Museum in November, when Dr Murray deems the mummies safe to exhibit. An invited audience is the first to view them. Freddie is there, propped and pumped by Nurse Capron into a state of apparently reasonable health. Having seen what he was like earlier in the day, Flora has to admit that she can work miracles.

  The mummies are arranged in a lecture theatre, in glass cases, shrouded by sheets. Dr Murray begins with a short talk. Then Flora gives her lecture, and, at its climax, she walks to each case and, with a flick of her wrist (carefully rehearsed), uncovers the mummies, one by one. She saves the infant till last. There are gasps, moans, murmurs as she reveals each one. When, at the end of the lecture, she reveals the baby, there is a breathless silence. And then a woman says, ‘Oh,’ in a breakingly tender voice, and the murmurs start up again, louder and louder. People are overwhelmed, amazed, shocked. It is an astonishing success.

  .

  When the mummies go on general display, there are accounts of women fainting and people being overcome with terror. But the more it goes on, and the more attention there is in the press, the less Flora likes to think of them. One day, she reads an editorial in the Manchester Review that calls the exhibition, ‘depraved, unchristian, vile and polluting, not fit for women or children – hardly fit for men of the sternest stuff . . .’ She herself is castigated as ‘immoral and unwomanly’. She should be used to it, but she throws the paper aside in anger. She never wanted to be part of a ‘puppet show’ (she has not forgiven her father for that); all she wanted was to go back north.

  .

  At a dinner the following evening, she is surrounded by people in high spirits, so she smiles, even as she wonders how many of them have been reading the public censure. On one side is Lionel Fortescue, the actor with meretricious chestnut hair, telling everyone of his forthcoming Iago; on the other, Jessie Biddenden, who knows what it is to be vilified – in her case, for licentious writings. She has never seemed in the least worried by criticism.

  Flora is not the only one who is quiet. Her attention is drawn to Iris, whose eyes are on Helen, opposite her, deep in conversation with a handsome young actor. They are laughing, their heads almost touching. To Flora, it looks very much like a flirtation. She does not like Helen, who seems to treat Iris with a casual disrespect that borders on contempt. Jessie says she is a gold-digger.

  She turns to Jessie, and finds herself complaining about the editorial. Jessie listens with a knowing smile on her face.

  ‘I heard a rumour about that piece – do you know who wrote it?’

  ‘It was anonymous.’

  ‘A little bird told me it was your old friend, Mr Whitfield.’

  ‘R. G. Whitfield? You can’t mean it.’

  ‘The very same. Apparently he’s furious that you abandoned him.’

  Flora is nonplussed. ‘I hadn’t heard from him for years before I left. What was I supposed to do?’

  ‘Well, journalists, you know . . . He obviously felt he had discovered you for the world, and deserved some credit. And by “credit”, of course, I mean money.’

  Flora is sobered. Once upon a time, he was so complimentary . . . The tone of this piece was vicious. She remembers that she had meant to write to him, ages ago, to express her gratitude, but he had slipped her mind.

  Dundee, 5th December

  Dear Flora,

  Thank you for your letter of Wednesday last. I trust you continue in good health. My knees are a little better. I am afraid that I will not be able to join you and Freddie over Christmas, so must regretfully decline your invitation. I have much to do here – there is a dispute between the shipyard and the owners regarding the latest refit, and I trust no one else to keep them all up to the mark.

  I suspect that the exhibition of the Greenland mummies would, in any case, not be ‘my cup of tea’, so there is no hurry to visit. We will see where we stand in a few weeks. My best wishes to your husband, and, of course, to yourself.

  Your loving father,

  William Mackie

  London, 1st January, 1894

  Dear Mr de Beyn,

  Let me take advantage of the date to wish you a very happy new year, and hope that it is the one in which your plans come to fruition. Thank you for your latest letter; I am happy to hear you are making progress. I must say, I agree that to make a big fanfare around an expedition is unnecessary, and in some ways unwise. We both know how plans in the north can be forced to change – drastically and at short notice – and the fewer people to whom you are answerable for such changes, the better.

  I am intrigued that the mummies have made the papers in America; they seem hardly important enough for that. You don’t say what American opinion of them is; here, there has been much criticism; people have been quite outraged. I suppose that is only what one might have expected. I have learnt to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to the worst of it, but sometimes I find myself agreeing with them. One can argue that they are of great scientific import, but the impact on the public is not due to that, rather to their uncanny appearance and the ghoulish associations of dead bodies. I regret that they have become theatre (and a particular sort of theatre), rather than science.

  I lent your Ellesmere book to Mr Dixon (you were wrong: I was very interested in it!) and he has now returned it with many compliments. I believe he is going to write to you independently. When we discussed it, I felt sorry that he had so little opportunity to do work of that kind. Really, the only answer to the unpredictability of the climate is to go for two or three years on end, and then, if one season is a bust, you have another chance.

  I had hoped to have my manuscript ready by the end of the year, but I am afraid I have got rather behind. The new year’s resolution is to finish it in the next two months. And then what? I too want to return, but it seems an uphill struggle . . .

  Flora pauses. The temptation has grown to treat her letters to Mr de Beyn as if they were a diary that no one will ever see. Inoculated by three thousand miles of ocean, it has become easy to consider him – a near stranger, really – a confidant. And yet, where is the harm?

  Perhaps the weather is affecting my mood. It is grey, drizzly and damp. Everyone complains of the cold, but of course, it is not cold! In a strange way, I miss the north even more in winter than in summer. I miss the constant darkness, and I long for snow . . .

  PART FIVE: POLARIS

  Chapter 28

  RMS Etruria, at sea

  April 1895

  Mr Lester Armitage, whose book, Battling the Ice, enthralled readers last year, is once more setting off for the icy North. With the backing of many of New York’s most prominent businessmen, he will set sail in June, and this time, it is ‘the Pole or nothing’. He has learnt
much from his previous trip, when he discovered Dupree Land, a new island at the northern limit of Greenland, and means to harness all energies and manpower to the achievement of his goal. Previously, he explained, objectives were divided, and consequently they could not achieve much in the way of exploration. Science, he says, is ‘for other men. Valuable though it is, you cannot carry out a full program of research whilst also seeking to explore and discover in such a difficult environment. This time, we will concentrate on the Pole and, God willing, bring it back for the United States of America!’

  Manhattan Chronicle, 3rd April 1895

  Jakob decided against a cabin with a porthole. There are advantages to this: he saves money, and he doesn’t have to look at the ocean. After three years on dry land, he had forgotten how much he disliked sailing, and, for crossing the Atlantic, he seems to have picked the week of the worst storm in years.

  On the third day out, the ship wallows somewhere in mid-ocean, engines labouring, the massive screw threshing air as the ship is tossed like a cork. Few passengers can eat in the heaving dining rooms, fewer still can sleep, unless one can call the miserable stupor they fall into ‘sleep’. A grim camaraderie prevails in the corridors and in the thinly populated saloons. Those still walking greet each other with respect, as survivors of a particularly sordid battle. Groans of distress are heard from behind closed doors; occasionally, screams.

  Coming back to his cabin after a meal of crackers and water, Jakob congratulates himself on negotiating the corridors and stairs without losing his footing. Then, just as he opens his cabin door, two gigantic waves slam against the ship in short succession. He loses his balance, and a combination of malevolent forces propels the edge of the door and his forehead against each other with great force. Some time later, he finds himself lying on the floor of his cabin. When he puts his hand to his throbbing forehead, he finds a lump that feels like a hen’s egg. He hopes that he has been unconscious for a long time – it would be the best way to spend this journey – but, when he looks at his watch, it has only been a couple of minutes.

  He drags himself into his bunk, vowing to stay there for as long as possible, and wonders if he is being punished for his sins.

  About a year ago, to his surprise, he fell into a romance of sorts with Lucille Becker. They met in the street (it always amazed him to bump into anyone he knew in New York, but it happened with surprising regularity), and he found himself begging to see her again. Perhaps there was an element of making atonement, perhaps a desire to redeem himself, but, at first, he thought he had stumbled on the right, happy thing: she was a good companion; amusing and independent. But, after he persuaded her into bed, instead of intensifying, things deteriorated.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked, in some desperation, and not for the first time, after his best efforts had again failed to procure the desired result.

  ‘Nothing,’ she assured him, but a worry line creased her forehead. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’

  ‘I want you to say what will give you pleasure.’

  ‘It does . . . I mean, you do.’

  ‘Well, but, not . . . enough.’

  She sighed. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  When he explained what he meant, that only made things worse. Beforehand, she said bitterly, she hadn’t realised there was anything wrong with her. Her previous lover (he was surprised but relieved to discover there was one) had not noticed anything amiss.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with you,’ he said, unconvincingly. ‘It might be me. Perhaps I’m just not doing it right . . . for you.’

  ‘But for other women . . . ?’

  ‘Well . . .’ He thought, miserably, of Kate, and then, to cheer himself up, of Cora. ‘Sometimes, um, it doesn’t happen, and sometimes the woman pretends to . . . enjoy it, but usually . . .’ He shrugged.

  ‘How do you know if she’s pretending?’

  ‘Well, you don’t always. But . . .’

  Lucille made herself very small – a coil of ribs and hip bones, crossed shins.

  ‘I just want you to be happy.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  He put his arm round her shoulders. ‘It’s all right. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Clearly it does.’

  She shrugged his arm off. He felt as though he were torturing her for information she didn’t have.

  ‘Please don’t worry about it.’

  ‘How can I not worry about it?’

  ‘I forbid you to worry about it,’ he said, hopefully.

  ‘Ha!’

  Trying to be funny didn’t always work with Lucille. She brooded. She couldn’t leave things alone.

  ‘How do you know they weren’t all pretending?’

  This went beyond his ability to be reasonable. Jakob jumped out of bed. ‘Yes! You’re right! They were all pretending.’

  He stormed out of the bedroom, stark naked, and slammed the door. Clara was staying at her parents’ house for the weekend.

  ‘All?’ yelled Lucille, after him. ‘All?’

  .

  Jakob began to dread their nights together. He tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter, but she was too honest for that; she accused him of being distant and dissatisfied, said that he was secretive, that she never knew what he was thinking. She said – she was embarrassed to admit it – that she wanted marriage, and when he went quiet, she accused him of having no desire to settle down, or, what was worse, that he didn’t want to settle down with her. He knew her accusations were justified, but did not feel they were genuine cause for complaint (apart from the last). She had known him long enough, he thought, to understand him.

  ‘I can’t share everything that’s in my head, Lucille. I don’t need to know what you’re thinking every minute.’

  ‘No.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘You don’t care. I’m not saying I always want to know. But you’re so often . . . unreachable. I can’t help but think that you would rather be somewhere else – or . . . or with someone else.’

  ‘I don’t want to be with anyone else. I like being with you, as you are. God knows, I’m not perfect. Can’t we be imperfect, together?’

  .

  There was another thing on his mind that caused him to be distracted and distant: he had started visiting his father. For years, he had found excuses not to join Hendrik on his trips to Blackwell’s Island. Usually his work saved him the bother of having to make an excuse at all. Many weeks after that original letter, and shortly after his final exams, the brothers had taken the ferry over to the asylum. They waited in their Sunday best, surrounded by slow-moving, murmuring visitors; the strained smiles on relatives’ faces, the brusque platitudes of the staff. It did not seem an altogether bad place, although they lowered their voices, moderated their movements, so as not to startle an inmate. But meeting Arent de Beyn was a shock – how could it have been otherwise?

  The man they said was their father looked physically vigorous – he was tall, ruddy, with a fine head of hair that sprang off his forehead – and he greeted them distantly, but with coherence. He looked like Hendrik would look in the future. Jakob was violently glad he did not take after him. An attendant had assured them that he knew who they were. They walked in the gardens, and Arent pointed out the view of the East River and the trees of Manhattan in the distance. He was unemotional. He listened politely as Hendrik told him about Bettina and the baby and his business – and Hendrik goaded Jakob into discussing his studies – but it was hard to know if he took any of it in. At a certain point, he turned to them and hissed, ‘Have you seen my sons? You will tell me if you see them? They’re trying to kill me.’

  Appalled, Jakob looked at Hendrik for a cue; he hadn’t wanted to come in the first place.

  ‘Of course we will,’ said Hendrik, finding his voice at last.

  Shortly afterwards, Jakob left on his first surve
y in the west.

  .

  After Frank’s death, he resolved to do better. He began to visit regularly when he was home. At least, after that initial letter, there was no further talk of releasing him. Arent was harmless but unpredictable; he had developed an obsessive fear of starvation, and was now very fat. Jakob had learned not to try to lead the conversation; he let Arent meander through his favourite topics: food, fishing, his thieving neighbours. Sometimes they managed to have a coherent chat about fly-tying, which Arent enjoyed. That was how Jakob thought of him: not as his father, because he didn’t know what that would be like, but as Arent, a peculiar old Dutchman for whom he felt a sticky, irritated obligation. Sometimes, disconcertingly, sanity would come leaping out of the old man like a visitation of angels. Leaning forward, with his hand on Jakob’s knee, he said, ‘You look just like Annette . . . remarkable.’ Jakob’s blood would stop in his veins, and his mind would be clogged with questions – scrabbling frantically for the most important, the thing above all others that he needed to know – but before he could marshal it, Arent would have drifted away, would be looking around him: ‘Have you seen her? She was over there, a minute ago . . .’

  Lucille was one of the few people who knew about his mad father. She offered to go with him to Blackwell’s Island. Jakob was touched by her offer, but declined. He did not want her to see that, to associate that with him.

  .

  Then, every couple of months, he would receive a letter from England, which pulled his thoughts away from his messy, flawed surroundings and sent them winging northwards. Mrs Athlone’s letters were innocent of anything more than friendliness. But he experienced a tremor of pleasure whenever he saw her handwriting, an echo of the connection that sparked into being in Neqi. He no longer knew if it was because of an attraction – what could that mean, after all this time? – or because she connected him to something that he loved: she was a link to his time in the north, his greatest adventure, his future aspiration. He told himself that it meant nothing. But their correspondence was something he guarded jealously, one of the secret parts that Lucille complained of, and, wisely perhaps, feared.