by Stef Penney
‘Heavens, that doesn’t matter.’ He looks at her in puzzled frustration. ‘I’ve been trying to understand . . . I realise that nothing I can say will help, now. But I am . . . enormously sorry for the suffering you must have undergone. I was as much to blame as you; more so.’
She places her fingertips on the map and speaks quickly, her eyes on a row of glass jars on the shelf in front of her.
‘It’s all right; it doesn’t matter now. It was what no one would have wanted, but . . . I didn’t intend to tell you.’ She glances briefly at him, then her gaze goes back to the map. ‘But you seemed so angry with me. It wasn’t . . . fair. I wanted you to understand how . . . impossible everything was. I realise that was perhaps selfish of me,’ she adds, in a slightly waspish tone.
‘I wish you had told me at the time.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says stiffly. ‘If I must apologise for that as well.’
‘No, I . . . That’s not what I meant.’ Although, perhaps it was.
‘Can you at least see why I did not?’
He sighs. This conversation is like walking through nettles, without clothes. The slightest touch stings. A part of him fills with a frightful tenderness; if only she would shed tears, if she would soften, he could put his arms around her and she could rest against him. If she would weaken, then he would be strong. Another part of him wants to walk out of the laboratory and slam the door in her face.
‘I don’t know. It makes me wonder what sort of person you thought I was. Someone who would have been angry? Who would have run away? Did you think that of me? Or did you not think my opinion mattered at all?’
She frowns at him; exasperated, or hurt – he can’t tell.
‘No . . . I wasn’t only thinking about you, if you can believe that – I was in the most desperate trouble! Freddie was dreadfully ill – possibly dying! I was near despair.’
Jakob winces. ‘I’m sorry. I meant, I thought we knew each other, and you would turn to me for help. I thought we shared something. From the beginning. From Neqi.’
‘Did we, really?’ She is suddenly sad. ‘It was like a dream, and Freddie’s illness . . . that was real. It was all so fast – there wasn’t enough time.’
It seemed to him that there had been plenty of time. More than enough time for him to know he had arrived at a place he didn’t want to leave.
‘And your letters . . . I was trying to read your thoughts, but they were so . . . stiff. So formal. I thought perhaps you had changed your mind – had second thoughts.’
He curses those letters. ‘I hadn’t changed my mind. I don’t write a good letter. I was waiting until I saw you, to tell you . . . to show you—’
‘I couldn’t be sure of you, you see! I didn’t know what to think. Sometimes I couldn’t believe it had really happened. You were like nothing I had . . .’
And there it is – the hint of feeling threatening to break through. She looks down and lets out a deep sigh. Jakob looks at the curve of her cheek, an escaped strand of hair snaking down past her collar.
‘I understand, Flora . . . but now . . .’ He takes a breath.
‘Yes. It’s past.’
An immense crash – almost an explosion – as something huge and solid is hurled against the hut wall. They later discover it was a sled, picked clean off the ground by a tremendous gust of wind. The whole building shudders, the noise so sudden and violent it makes Jakob flinch. He had been on the brink, he knows, of reaching his hand across the space between them to touch her gently on the sleeve. Or, no . . . not gently: to seize her wrist and say, ‘Stop this! Stop talking like this! We are still the same, you and I. Can’t you feel it?’
The crash pulls him up short. The moment is gone. They turn their attention to the map.
On reflection, it would have been a mistake.
Chapter 48
Siorapaluk, 77˚47’N, 70˚38’W
February 1898
Diary entry, 20th February:
Personnel. Ashbee worries me. He is unhappy about the sledging plans, at times unpleasant. He continually reminds me of the funding he brought with him, and argues that this entitles him to a final say in our plans. In order to cover more ground, we shall have to split into two parties, and, due to the nature of relations between Ashbee and the rest of us, I think I have to go with him. To partner him with Henry is out of the question. Ralph came to me privately and offered to partner him (a generous gesture – he likes him no better than I do), but this seems to me a matter in which a leader must accept the most onerous tasks. In all other ways, he is an excellent member of the expedition. No word from Aniguin. I am more than ever inclined to take Tateraq as our hunter. He has been steady and reliable, and has the best dogs in the village.
N.B. I must speak to Meqro about Ashbee – but how to go about it?
Flora sits back in her chair. Since Meqro and Ashbee began their liaison over the winter, he has treated her as his personal slave, getting her to fetch him things, or make him tea. It is awkward, as Meqro does these things and more for all of them, but the way Ashbee talks to her is curt and peremptory. Again, yesterday, Flora heard him shouting when they were alone in the hut. There was a bullying note in his voice that she hated. Meqro does not react; she bows her head and meekly goes about her tasks. Perhaps she is simply thankful that he does not strike her, as her father used to strike her mother – a not unusual occurrence here. Ludicrously, they both act as if their liaison is a secret that Flora does not know.
Today should be cause for celebration – shortly after four, the sun showed itself for the first time since November: a pink, hazy glow above the cliffs. But Flora is not inclined to celebrate; so many preparations are still to be completed, and time vanishes with astonishing speed.
.
The problem of Meqro and Ashbee is an additional awkwardness to the worsened relations between Ashbee and Haddo. A few weeks ago, Flora had cause to confront Ashbee about his temper. It was dark, very cold, and they were all feeling the effects of being confined to the hut. Flora was in her room, while Ashbee and Haddo were in the laboratory. She heard breaking glass, then Ashbee yell, with shocking venom, that Haddo was a ‘fucking clumsy cretin.’
Unfortunately – they have all noticed it – Haddo does have a tendency to be clumsy. Never when he is treating someone, as a physician, but often, afterwards, he will cough, blink rapidly and shrug his shoulders in an odd manner. Sometimes he moves jerkily and knocks things over – this habit has seemed to worsen over the winter months. It is irritating, but Flora is well schooled in hiding irritation.
When she spoke to Ashbee about his outburst, he said, ‘The man’s a menace when doing fine work. I spent hours classifying marine animalculae, and he destroyed fully half of them.’
‘I’m sorry about your specimens – that must have been trying, but when we are so closely confined, it behoves us all to exercise even more than the usual restraint.’
Ashbee bares his teeth. ‘I will endeavour to restrain myself, Mrs Athlone, although the provocation is extreme. I’ll try and make even more allowances for the poor man. I suppose it is hardly surprising.’
Reluctantly, she said, ‘Why is it hardly surprising?’
Ashbee gave a slight smile. ‘Well, if you choose to employ someone like that . . .’
Flora was angry. ‘Do not make mysteries, Mr Ashbee.’
Ashbee actually looked surprised. ‘Can it be that you don’t know?’
‘Don’t know what?’ she said.
‘Why, that our young friend is a laudanum drinker.’
Ashbee had a look of sly delight on his face. Flora was about to remonstrate, then realised that he was serious.
‘Dixon knows. I assumed you did. He says he takes it to control the nervous tics. It doesn’t seem to be working quite so well these days.’
.
If Ashbee hadn’t t
old her, Flora would not have known anything was amiss. Henry is a scrupulous and painstaking doctor. He insisted on visiting the Americans at the end of January, to check on the progress of their injuries. She considered giving him a letter for Jakob, but in the end had not. The salient fact was that he was engaged to be married. He had not mentioned it, perhaps out of a residual delicacy for her feelings, but that was neither here nor there. Their affair was in the past, and raking up that past was futile; when she had tried to clear the air, she ended by regretting what she had said.
The news about Henry had to be dealt with. When she brought up the subject, as kindly as she could, he went white with horror. He apologised profusely, but assured her that his use was entirely within safe limits, purely to alleviate the nervous tics from which he had suffered since childhood.
‘I know it’s got worse since the sun set,’ he said in a stricken voice. ‘But it will get better when I can go out more and there is less of this being cooped up in here. Such pressures tend to make it worse.’
‘Henry, I have to rely on you, as our doctor, to be honest: will it impinge on your ability to perform sledging duties? Ralph and Kudloq will be relying on you. Any failure on your part could endanger their lives.’
Henry swallowed. ‘I know that. And I’m quite sure. Being outside and being physically active has always made the tics disappear completely. But I realise I haven’t been frank with you, and I want to offer my resignation, in case you feel you can no longer trust me.’
Flora looked at him dryly. ‘I’m hardly in a position to dismiss my medical officer, Henry. But I will ask Mr Dixon if he is happy to have you as his partner. It will be up to him.’
Henry blushed miserably, and his cheek twitched. ‘I’ve put you in a difficult position, Mrs Athlone, and I will of course continue my duties as a doctor. But, under the circumstances, I can no longer take payment for those duties.’
‘Henry, please. The matter is closed.’
She finally speaks to Meqro about Ashbee a few days before they are due to leave, when the subject of their relationship is little more than academic.
‘Is Ashbee nice to you, Meqro?’
‘Yes.’ She smiles shyly. ‘You know about us? He didn’t want you to; he said you would be angry.’
‘Of course I know, Meqro; everyone knows. I’m not angry – not at all.’
‘But you do not like him, Fellora. He is a good man!’
‘I know he’s a good man.’ Flora is embarrassed she has let her feelings be apparent. ‘I just don’t like the way he shouts at you. The way he tells you to do things for him,’ she adds, when Meqro looks perplexed.
‘But I do those things for you all, so . . .’
‘I know, but he talks to you as though you were his kiffak.’ She uses the derogatory word for a menial servant.
‘But I am your kiffak, Fellora.’ Meqro laughs.
‘What if you had another baby? Wouldn’t that be difficult?’
‘Oh, no, it’s not like before! I loved Ferank. With Gilbert, it is . . . like, not love.’ She shrugs again. ‘So there will be no baby.’
‘It can happen anyway, without love – without even like. You know that, no?’
Meqro laughs, highly amused. ‘For the kallunat, I don’t know how it is, but for the Inuit, there is no baby without love.’
‘Oh,’ says Flora, and changes the subject.
On their last evening in Siorapaluk, Flora allows herself a hot bath. She sits in the tub in her room and contemplates her body with a mixture of vanity and regret. Late March sun fills her room with light. Her skin is white, matte and soft, with nothing of Meqro’s oily, golden sheen. She feels flabby after a winter of little physical activity, but that will soon change; what makes her sad is that no one else will caress these smooth, fleshy curves, her round, pretty breasts – or, what he had claimed, after some deliberation, was his favourite part of her body: her ‘cross’. She hadn’t known what he meant until he rolled her on to her stomach and traced the ticklish crease under her buttocks and the more than ticklish cleft between her thighs. Then he had traced it with his tongue . . . She slides her fingers between her legs and starts to stir herself, knowing that this, also, may be the last for a long time. She tries to think about something other than him, but her thoughts go where they will. And then she is in the bath, as she was that time in the Victoria, when she leant on the sweating, sea-green tiles, possessed by such hunger . . .
She makes it very slow, because that way it will be better, and she wants to remember every single thing – every caress, how it felt. Most of all, she wants to remember his desire for her, his abandon, and her answering want – not just want, but an onrushing force – an energy so powerful she had no words for it, has none now, but knows it, can almost relive it, and does not want it to end.
Afterwards, she wallows in the tub in a drifting trance until the water grows cool and she is driven to clamber out, stiff, with shrivelled hands.
She rubs herself dry, feeling both calm and jumpy – an alert excitement that is first cousin to fear. She has always felt like this on the eve of a departure. This adventure, she reminds herself – not worries about Ashbee, or Aniguin, not anything and certainly not anyone else – this is why she is here.
Ellesmere Land, 78˚22’N, 83˚54’W
April 1898
That is why she is here, but there is an odd atmosphere in her camp, and she does not know what she can do about it. It has been ten days since they split from Henry, Ralph and Kudloq: ten days in which the atmosphere in her party has slowly worsened. Ashbee is by the tents, writing his diary: a diary he is not, under the terms of his contract, obliged to show her. Tateraq is miserable and withdrawn. She goes up to him as he examines the dogs’ paws, his face grim. She squats beside him.
‘How are they?’
‘Alineq has cuts on her feet. She won’t last much longer.’
Flora nods. Once the snow melts, they will have less use for the dogs.
‘Is everything all right, Tateraq?’
‘Ieh.’
She can’t remember when he last looked her in the eye. ‘You seem worried. Is something bothering you?’
‘No. I’m happy.’
Flora hesitates, knowing there is little point in pursuing it.
‘If there is, I hope you’ll tell me.’
He murmurs, but to the doomed dog. He will kill it tonight, to feed the others. She trudges over to the tent Ashbee shares with Tateraq; Flora has her own, pitched five yards away. He looks up.
‘Tomorrow we should get to the head of the fjord we saw from up there.’ He is excited. He has already begun to sketch the fjord on his map – their first glimpse of new coast, beyond which they may find – who knows? – islands suitable for the ‘dangerous detritus’. ‘Perhaps it will be called Athlone Fjord!’
‘We’ll see. Has Tateraq said anything to you? He seems unhappy. It’s not like him.’
‘He’s more likely to tell you than me. His English isn’t that good.’
‘Mm. Will you have a look at the ignition on the stove tonight?’
‘Of course.’
.
Half past ten and the sun has just set. Every day there is another half hour of daylight. They’ve made good progress. She tries not to think about how much she wishes her companion was Ralph. Or Henry. She tells herself that Tateraq will get over whatever is bothering him – sled travel has that effect, scrubbing the mind bare of all that is not immediately present. Probably, it is the dogs . . .
When she finishes her diary entry, Flora crawls into her tent, eats a square of Fry’s chocolate, then, turning several variables over in her mind, falls asleep, the taste of sugar in her mouth.
Chapter 49
New land, 79°27’N, 86°19’W
May 1898
‘There . . . to the left of the dark cliff.�
�
It is Sorqaq who sees it. Jakob and he are making camp on a stretch of gravel beach. Their fourth day on new land – the land he saw six years ago, a lifetime ago, from a hilltop.
For days they have walked through thick weather, but today, for the first time since crossing the strait from Ellesmere, the clouds have blown out and granted them their first real glimpse of what they have found. Inland, the ground rises to an ice cap that glistens in the sun; on south-facing slopes, snow is melting. Jakob can hear the gurgle of hidden water, feels the tenuous warmth on his face.
‘I don’t see it.’
Sorqaq points east, back across the frozen strait to Ellesmere.
‘Smoke. Black smoke. A fire.’
Jakob takes off the blue-tinted glasses that protect his eyes and shields them with his hand; the glare off the sea-ice is intense.
‘Damn, you have good eyes, Sorqaq. Oh, wait . . .’
There, faintly visible against the snowy hills, a dark stain rises straight into the air.
‘I suppose it could be the British.’
.
Jakob feels a stab of irritation. They had agreed, he thought, not to tread on each other’s toes. She had said, at Christmas, after that awful conversation, that her team would cross the strait and head south-west, aiming for the unmapped portion of Ellesmere between Bache Island and Jones Sound; his party would head north-west across Ellesmere. He had not said what he hoped to find there. In this vast country, there should be an ocean of space between them.
Four days ago, his party crossed a frozen strait to this untrodden land, then he and Sorqaq turned south to follow the coast, while Welbourne and Aniguin headed north. If it is indeed an island, they will meet on its western shore, some time in the future. They had held a brief celebration, trying not to get ahead of themselves (it could be only a peninsula), but, standing on the desolate shore, Jakob experienced an excitement, an innocent glee he had thought gone for good.
.
He takes out his sextant and begins to plot their position. What he wants to do more than anything is crawl into his sleeping bag and pull a blanket over his eyes, but you don’t give in to tiredness while there is work to be done. He has learnt the Eskimo trick: you tell yourself that to behave in any other way is impossible, and then it is.
