by Stef Penney
Before he left for a six-month survey in Arizona last autumn, he had ended it, with dignity on her side and a gathering depression on his. In the desert, he wondered if he had made a mistake, and should instead have proposed to her; after all, weren’t all marriages a compromise? People – his brother, for example – said you had to work at it, that companionship and comfort were the main boons, that attraction was an unstable basis for a lifelong union, that you could not expect passion to last more than a few months . . . (In which case, Jakob would conclude, although only to himself, why marry at all?)
On his return to New York, weeks ago, he had visited the Urbinos, hoping to see Clara. But she was not there, and her parents seemed reluctant to give him news of her. He was saddened. She seemed to forgive him his initial indiscretion with Lucille, but when they started an actual romance, she had withdrawn from both of them, been elusive, distant, in some way or other always unavailable.
Now, braced in his bunk in his cheap cabin, he is at leisure to contemplate his selfish and irresponsible existence. Such dark moods have come on him more frequently since Frank died. He has never lost the feeling that he has an obligation to retrace his northern journey, but he is as far as ever from being in a position to do so. What is he, really? What has he achieved? He is an itinerant geologist, with no home of his own, no family, no permanent income or position. He has more than once (to the dismay of Hendrik and Bettina) turned down an academic post which threatened to keep him in one place. He has avoided lasting emotional ties. He has been living in a state of rootless readiness to go back to the north, but he has not gone back. On his last birthday, he was thirty years old. He cannot hold up youth as an excuse.
Then, on his return from Arizona, he read in the newspaper that Lester Armitage was shortly to leave for an attempt on the Pole. He has managed to raise the funds he wanted – has bought and outfitted a ship, the Polar Star, apparently capable of forcing its way through the heaviest pack ice to the north coast of Greenland. As long as he was not in the north, Jakob was consoled by the thought that the man he has come to regard as Frank’s tormentor, and his enemy, was equally thwarted. A foolish consolation.
.
Beneath him, in the bowels of the Etruria, the deep grinding of the screw falters and changes note. In his cabin, the humming electric light flickers and goes out. Complete blackness. Jakob waits, listening: all is weirdly silent. The engines have stopped. He finds – he observes it with a curious detachment – that his muscles are locked rigid. Surely the ship is listing more than before? He thinks about climbing out of his bunk, but lacks the ability, or the will. There is a lurch as another gigantic weight of water slams into the ship’s hull. His bunk is on the ‘downhill’ side of the cabin, and he seems pressed into it by some enormous force.
He thinks, This is it. Sweat has broken out in armpits and groin. He is catapulted back to the shared bedroom at the Koppels, where he awoke from nightmares of drowning. The water, the freezing cold, the darkness that pulls him down to the bottom . . . The ship is foundering. But this is no nightmare, and there will be no waking. The joke is, the nightmares were not an echo of his father’s mythical death: they were a premonition of his own.
Needle-like screams come from down the corridor. Irregular thuds of running, stumbling feet. Shouts of alarm, orders, questions. After those seconds of being paralysed (a curious sensation, but short-lived), he hauls himself out of the bunk and gropes his way out of the cabin. As he does so, the corridor levels itself and begins to tilt the other way – in other words, is normal. The electric lights buzz and flicker back to life. He sees a steward pacifying a couple and, through the glazed door at the top of the stairs, there is daylight.
‘All right, sir?’ asks the English steward, in a harsh, flat accent. He sounds cheery. ‘Nothing to worry about. The storm’s dropping. We’ll be out of it soon.’
‘What happened to the lights?’
‘The generator has a little hiccup sometimes – it gets overloaded if everybody keeps their lights on all the time. But they’ve come on again. Everything all right now!’
‘Thank you. But the engines – they stopped?’
The steward cocks his head.
‘No; perfectly normal, sir.’
‘Oh . . . right. Thank you.’
‘Sir? Sir . . . what happened to your head?’
.
On deck, he has to grab the railing to keep his feet. The sea is chaotic; flint-dark hills of water rear up in all directions. The horizon still swings wildly, but a gash of pale blue lights up the eastern sky. Perhaps he is not fated to drown, after all. Gripping the rail with one hand, Jakob touches the tender lump on his forehead with his fingertips. His head throbs like the engines underneath his feet. The doctor has given him ‘something for the pain.’ He has the bottle in his pocket, but determines not to take it. A little pain feels salutary.
Chapter 29
Liverpool, 53˚24’N, 2˚58’W
April 1895
Rain has smeared the windows of the train since leaving Marylebone Station. Hard to believe it is spring: few of the trees are showing leaf; the fields are mud, innocent of new growth. Heavy cloud presses down on the land, halfway between drizzle and fog. A grey land, hardly worth looking at, yet Flora cannot concentrate on her book, or on her work, and stares out of the window.
She has arranged to visit some firms that manufacture tinned goods, dangling the possibility of switching allegiance from Kemp’s if they offer to supply the expedition free of charge. She has many such trips to make, now that Freddie is virtually housebound. He has given her his blessing to travel and negotiate on her own. For much of the time, their lives run on contiguous but separate paths; Freddie keeps up a wide correspondence – his ability to inspire and persuade is unimpaired, and his devotion to her career seems undimmed. They meet every evening around six to exchange news on sponsors, backers, the state of their budget. She used to wonder why he did it, when his own ambitions were so cruelly curtailed, but he said that, if he did not, what he lost would be for nothing. She thinks of him with great fondness. She did not see him this morning; she kissed him on the forehead last night, and said she would write. She has many firms to see. If some of them are in Liverpool that is not her fault.
.
A hansom takes her from the station to the Adelphi Hotel through streets dark with recent rain, a yellowish fog creeping inside the carriage. The air feels colder than in London, grimy and damp, as if it clings to her skin. Even in her hotel room, with the fire lit, there is a pervasive hint of soot, the sea and drains. She unpacks her case, hanging up the new peignoir she bought last Saturday – a Chinese pattern in soft blues. She washes her face and hands, then unbuttons her jacket and blouse to wipe a cloth over her armpits. Still, she feels unclean. She tugs the blankets loose on the bed to let the mattress air (the sheets feel damp, or perhaps it is just the chill). Suddenly she feels faint. She sits down at the desk in the window. If she goes over her lists of figures for the provisions required, perhaps that will help. The list of provisions floats unread in front of her eyes: jam, potted beef, carrots. Lime juice. Cocoa.
She has another piece of paper in an inner pocket, and now takes it out to look at, as she has done countless times. It is a letter, written in January, from the improbably named Flagstaff, Arizona. It tells of plans to travel to Switzerland for the summer. And gives details of a ship, the Etruria, which is due to dock, in Liverpool, tomorrow. He writes that he plans to stay at the Victoria Hotel in Liverpool for a few days. Given that he also says he hopes to call on her in London, it seemed significant that he would give details of his accommodation in Liverpool. Now that she is here, it seems less significant. On the surface, it is a neutral letter. Is it really possible to see it as anything more? In her reply, she cordially looked forward to seeing him in London. Since then, there has been no further correspondence.
She lies awake that
night, telling herself that, even if she is foolish, it hardly matters. She has done nothing wrong. She has done nothing at all. (From the wardrobe, the silk peignoir reproaches her.) She still has the choice to do nothing, and no one will ever know.
.
The next morning is the seventeenth, when the Etruria is due to dock. Flora writes a note and addresses it to Mr de Beyn at the Victoria Hotel. After handing the letter to the clerk at reception, she walks out of the Adelphi nearly blind with panic, heedless of the cab that almost knocks her over as she crosses the street, and of the shouts that follow. What has she done? Suggested a meeting, over tea, in the Palm Court.
The day crawls by, seeming full of judgemental glances from strangers. She feels too inexperienced in intrigue to know what to do with herself. (Clearly, despite her sophistry, she feels guilty of something.) She tells herself over and over that she isn’t doing anything untoward. Tea with a friend. An acquaintance. In any case, he won’t come.
After lunch, she wanders around a department store, sightlessly gazing at hats and gloves. Invited to look at some new combination undergarments, just imported from America, she buys a pair, impulsively, as a sort of talisman. The girl says they will suit madam’s colouring. She seems to Flora to have a knowing look in her eye as she says this. Outside, she stops to watch an organ grinder and his monkey – a sad-eyed, wise-looking creature. She drops a half-guinea into the man’s upturned bowler, for luck, and is shamed by the gratitude on his face.
At three, she is back in her room at the Adelphi, undressing, washing, and putting on the combinaisons. They are defiantly expensive, of pale green silk. I look like an actress, she thinks. She takes them off and throws them on the floor of the wardrobe. She dresses in the same clothes as before. They are barely friends; they have corresponded on topics of mutual interest. What she felt in Greenland – a feeling she could not put into words – was three years ago. It has never been acknowledged in their letters. Half past three. Time has slowed, and yet she wishes it slower. At four o’clock, she is still in the room, waiting for the minute hand to creep away from the vertical. She will be a little late. In fact, there is little point in going, since no one will be there to care whether she arrives or not.
At quarter past four, she is sitting in the Palm Court, alone. So this is how it is to be. She tries not to look at the clock, tries not to torture herself with each passing minute, ticked off with an agonising flatness that mocks her presumption. An ache has swollen to fill her whole body. At half past four, she assumes a purposeful air, dragging it on like armour, and leaves, as though she has somewhere to go.
In the evening paper, she reads that the Etruria’s arrival has been delayed due to bad weather. Initially, she is swept with a wave of relief; then, as quickly, it drains away. This is hardly the consolation that it might be. Can she live through another day like this? Schooled in endurance, and because the unendurable does not disappear simply because we wish it to, she climbs the stairs to her room.
The next day, she is still enduring, still conscious of impending wickedness or humiliation or, perhaps, happiness – is that possible? Shortly after four, she decides she must go to the Palm Court, because not to do so would be cowardly, an admission of defeat, an admission that she cared enough to mind.
From the lobby, she looks around the tables, divided by potted plants. She sees a grey-haired figure, a youngish man, who sits alone, as far away from the piano as possible. Her first thought is: Oh, that isn’t . . . It can’t be him . . . And then: Have I really been tortured with nerves because of that? And then: What have I done?
He looks up at a waiter bringing a tray. He speaks to the man, smiles, and the waiter smiles in return. She remembers how disarming his smile is. Then he looks round and sees her. He stands up. She makes herself walk across the room, and he takes a step towards her. He has stopped smiling, and this gives her courage. If he didn’t care, she tells herself, he would smile at me as he smiled at the waiter.
They say each other’s names. They shake hands. His hand feels cold through her glove. ‘How nice to see you again,’ they say.
‘I owe you an apology, Mrs Athlone; I realised only an hour ago that your note was written yesterday. Stupid of me.’
‘I read about the Etruria’s delay. It didn’t matter. I have tea here, in any case.’
‘Am I inconveniencing you, now? Perhaps you have other plans?’
‘No. By no means.’
She manages to smile at last, and sits down in the chair he holds out for her. He looks older, she thinks – or is it thinner? Perhaps it is the hair, which is greyer than she remembers. His face is the same, really, and it is a nice-looking face: expressive and changeable. Is it the fact that he is clean-shaven that makes his demeanour seem less guarded than that of most men? They hide their uncertainties behind moustaches and whiskers, but his face is bare and capable of doubt. There are shadows beneath his eyes – no, bruises – and his forehead looks . . .
‘What happened to your head? You are bruised.’
‘Oh.’ He touches his forehead and smiles. ‘I’m afraid I look rather disreputable. The door of my cabin attacked me. There was a storm that lasted the whole voyage. It’s the reason we were delayed. I should have written this morning—’
‘It’s no—’
They both stop, having spoken over each other.
‘I was so pleased to get your letter . . .’
At his shoulder, the waiter coughs discreetly.
As he tells her about the crossing, Flora glances at his left hand and its shortened little finger. He notices and closes his hand.
‘I never properly thanked Dr Seddon – and you – for treating me that day. God knows what would have happened had you not been there.’
‘I’m glad we could be of some help. I was sorry we couldn’t do more.’
She sees the memory saddens him. But it also affirms the link between them. There is a pause.
‘I don’t think I told you: I read Mr Armitage’s book.’
‘Oh?’
She does not say that she read and reread the sections where he is mentioned. She seems, without consciously trying, to have committed whole passages to memory.
‘What did you think of it?’
‘I thought he seemed rather eager to seize all credit for himself.’
‘Well, it is his book.’
‘Yes, but no expedition succeeds entirely on the basis of one man. He writes sometimes as though he were alone there.’
‘I think, in his mind, he was.’
Flora senses the tension in him at the mention of Armitage’s name.
‘So, you’re going to Switzerland?’ she says, to change the subject.
‘Yes. I’ve been corresponding with a Professor Birkel there, who has done much good work on Alpine glaciers. He’s been kind enough to invite me to join him for three months – that’s brave of him, is it not?’
‘Brave? Why?’ Flora asks, distracted.
‘Well, because my company is untried . . . I may get on his nerves.’ He gives her an amused look.
Aghast at her own dullness, Flora cannot manage a reply. She is cast down. Do they have nothing in common outside of their interest in the north? Is he disappointed to see her again?
He asks her how long she is staying in Liverpool. She hesitates. ‘A few days. It depends . . .’
‘Depends . . . on what?’ He leans forward. His eyes are serious.
‘On . . . I have to see one or two potential sponsors.’
‘Oh, of course.’ There is another uncomfortable pause. ‘How are your plans progressing?’
‘Slowly. I don’t think we will be leaving next summer. It may depend on the outcome of Armitage’s latest endeavour. Everyone seems to have the idea of the Pole in their heads now. Anything else is somehow . . . less.’
‘Yes. Indeed.’
‘And yours?’
‘I’m sorry?’ He has been looking down at his teacup.
‘Your plans – to return to the north? I thought you had found a sponsor in this Mr Welbourne.’
‘Oh, yes. Like you, I’m not sure. This year, Mr Welbourne has gone to Africa to shoot big game. The world is his hunting ground. Perhaps next year, but nothing is certain.’
His gaze rests on the table, as does hers. The tablecloth is damask, patterned with roses and some round fruit: cherries perhaps, or plums.
They could be strangers meeting for the first time. They make small talk. Flora can see them, when the teapot is empty, shaking hands, saying their goodbyes, walking away with a dull relief. They weren’t like this in the north, were they? Or in their letters? He notices her glance towards the door; is he hurt, or bored? She thinks, I must say something to acknowledge what happened in Neqi, although nothing happened. But we are here; we are – both of us – here.
‘Mrs Athlone . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Flora . . .’
The use of her name shocks her like a jolt of electric current. Their eyes meet and she has the sense of being scalded. His voice is low and he speaks rapidly.
‘May I call you that? It is how I have come to think of you. I have to ask: is your being here, in Liverpool, now . . . is it just a coincidence?’
Despite everything, she is panicked by the question. Her mind forms the words of demurral, a deflecting laugh. She focuses on his hands – sinewy, tanned, the nails broken off short – and says, closing her eyes, ‘No.’
