by Stef Penney
Lester schools his face not to react.
‘How very strange. I know what I saw.’
‘Perhaps it was a Fata Morgana. I’ve seen extraordinary effects: a range of mountains that weren’t there, a city, even . . . I understand how one could be misled.’
Lester shakes his head. ‘It is a great pity that Dr Urbino is not alive to attest to what we saw.’
De Beyn gives an abrupt laugh.
‘It is indeed a pity that he’s not alive! You must know that he told me what he saw – and that was nothing at all. The fog never lifted. He said you could not even swear that it was the north coast, and not the shore of a fjord.’
Lester feels his heart pump strongly and steadily. He weighs his words. ‘No. Urbino did not see what I saw. But after he died, I wanted to share the credit with him. I wanted to do something for his family – for his name.’
‘A generous thought, but misguided. As it turns out, you have only shared the credit for a mistake.’
De Beyn’s eyes look very black in the lamplight, thrown into relief by his pale hair.
Lester shakes his head slightly. ‘It seems extraordinary . . . Do you have photographs taken from the coast?’
‘Yes. Would you like to see them?’
Lester waves a hand ambiguously. He tries to collect his thoughts as de Beyn goes into the partitioned room and returns with a folder. The photographs are small, but more than sharp enough. Each one is mounted and annotated with coordinates, date, time, direction. There is a precision, a thoroughness to the work that casts an unflattering light on his own efforts.
‘These cover the area you describe in your book. We couldn’t have missed an island such as you described. I’m sorry.’ He spreads his hands.
Lester is infuriated by the apology. As if de Beyn weren’t delighted. As if he weren’t crowing.
‘You were certainly fortunate with the weather. I must congratulate you, then, for improving on my work.’
De Beyn shrugs, and inclines his head. ‘One stands on the shoulders of those who went before. Metek was a great help, since he knew the country.’
‘Welbourne went with you?’
‘Yes. He can navigate as well, which meant we could corroborate readings.’
Lester tries to make his voice light and casual. ‘So, you plan to go home . . . when?’
‘August.’ De Beyn smiles. ‘If you reach the Pole, Armitage, no one will care about my findings. You’ll go down in history. I will be, at best, a footnote.’
Lester lies awake as night turns towards morning. His brain whirrs, turning over the facts, looking for an answer. De Beyn will return to America long before he will. He will denounce Lester as a liar. In some way, the man seems to hold him to blame for Urbino’s death. Behind the smiles and reasonable words, his dislike is clear. Lester wishes de Beyn would accuse him straight out, so that he could expostulate, show his real pain. Did people think he didn’t feel? He is as sensitive as anyone. But, as leader, you cannot allow yourself to go to pieces. You have to do what needs to be done, and he had.
What, now, is the thing that needs to be done? Should he plead with de Beyn? Should he ignore the bad news, hope his relative insignificance will lessen the impact, perhaps bury it altogether? Should he bargain?
He listens until he is sure that de Beyn is asleep. He gets out of bed and pauses, waiting for any change in the breathing from the other bunk. When he is sure there is none, he goes and tries the door of the partitioned-off room.
.
He’d noticed de Beyn glance towards the room, earlier – wondered for a crazy moment if someone were inside . . . but the flame from his candle only reveals the paraphernalia of photography: chemicals, folders, prints strung up on the wall. He scans the photographs – permutations of ice, rock, water – then turns to the folders, labelled with locations and dates. De Beyn was always meticulous. He reads the titles and pulls out one marked Thule. F. Glacier. It contains photographs of a glacier in an unfamiliar landscape. There is a glacier lake, sunlight dazzling off it. He replaces it, pulls out the others. More landscapes, some with people: a bearded white man, who must be Welbourne; Eskimos – he recognises Aniguin, and a younger, taller man he does not know; de Beyn himself. These four, in various combinations, in various places. Nothing out of the ordinary. Lester can be meticulous too. He searches further, on shelves, behind bottles, under the table. Maybe there is nothing – but that glance . . . Lester is not obtuse.
He opens a box which contains blank sheets of photographic paper. He is about to replace the lid when he notices that the stack inside looks uneven. He empties it out. Underneath the blank sheets is a packet wrapped in brown paper. A single word is written on it in pencil: Naasut.
The word has no meaning for him. His heart begins to race as he unfolds the paper. He is puzzled by the first photograph he sees. He is astonished by the second.
It comes to him that ‘naasut’ is the Eskimo word for ‘flowers’. But they are not pictures of flowers.
Chapter 54
Neqi, 77˚52’N, 71˚37’W
November 1898
He struggles awake through meshes of dream. Fresh in his mind is a morning three years ago: his first, waking in England. He had no idea where he was, knew only that he could not hear the grinding of the engines, nor feel the sickening heave of the Etruria. Perhaps he had drowned, and this was the afterlife; why had he been afraid of this? He luxuriated in the silence, the solidity, the strip of sunlight bleaching the wallpaper in front of him. And he thought, how glorious to have arrived . . .
Blissfully, he stretched out his limbs in the bed – a soft, generous bed, wonderfully unlike the mean bunk in second class – until his foot touched something firm and warm, which moved. And he remembered, in a brilliant rush, everything. He rolled over – Flora lay with her back to him, but he knew that she was awake, that she was waiting, that she did not know what to do. He stroked a hand down her bare shoulder, murmured her name (amazing, saying it out loud), and she turned over and looked at him. Her eyes were wary, but when he smiled, as he could not help doing, an answering warmth kindled in them. In the past, whenever he had made an amorous conquest, the morning after was clouded by doubts, misgivings, second thoughts, but that morning, he felt none of those.
He said, ‘I was afraid I was dreaming. Are you flesh or are you spirit?’
She dropped her eyes, smiled as she said, ‘I am flesh.’
The three surviving members of the British expedition – Flora, Dixon and Haddo – left for home in August. Although painful, it was also, in his heart of hearts, something of a relief when the Clansman finally bore them away. Flora had been intent on keeping their relationship hidden from Ralph and Henry, worried that she would lose all authority. Jakob thought he understood, but was still hurt by the way she withdrew – layers of reserve sweeping in and hiding the happy, uninhibited girl of the valley, until she would barely look at him in company. Frustrated and uncertain, he was driven to ask if she regretted their promises. He accused her of being ashamed of him, even (he knew this would wound) of being a coward. She reacted with such passionate, furious denial that he was chastened, and then she cried. As he held her in his arms, he was gladdened, relieved and ashamed.
There were few private moments once they were back on the mainland, and those they had were charged with something akin to desperation. She reminded him of how he had sometimes been when he was younger, the way she threw herself into loving as if passion could obliterate doubt. He was concerned, although not to the point of saying anything. But, the night before she was to return to Siorapaluk, when Welbourne had tactfully slipped away, she went limp and turned away from him in his bunk, mid-embrace.
‘I can’t. It won’t work. I can’t.’
She was on the verge of tears.
‘Shh. It doesn’t matter. I won’t either.’
‘I
don’t want the last time to be like this.’
‘It isn’t the last time, darling.’
He pulled her back into his arms, but she would not be consoled.
‘You were right. I’m a coward. I’m afraid.’
‘No. What are you afraid of?’
‘Of people, censure, everything. Of being alone and having to . . . protect us.’
‘Well, I don’t need protecting. And it won’t be as bad as you think. You won’t need to talk about us. You don’t have to say anything about it.’
‘I’m not ashamed.’
‘I know.’
‘I’m not afraid that I’ll change my mind.’
‘Good. I’m not afraid of that either.’
She caressed his hip. In the light of the hurricane lamp, her eyes were sad. She pulled him towards her.
‘I want you to, even if I don’t.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You don’t want to?’
‘It’s okay, really.’
She began to cry in earnest.
‘I wanted you to have this . . . to remember – and now I’ve spoilt it.’
Her eyes spilled over, cheeks gleamed in the lamplight.
‘You haven’t spoilt anything. It’s going to be all right. You are my wife, Flora.’
‘Yes.’
‘And when you’re in London, you should know I will think of you every night, like this.’
‘Snivelling?’
He laughed. ‘In my arms. Naked. Remember the Pope?’
To his relief, she smiled. ‘The good old Pope.’
‘I thought I’d ruined everything, that day.’
‘No . . .’ She kissed his shoulder and said, more fiercely, ‘No.’
‘Remember the bathroom, in Liverpool, with the green tiles?’
Her eyes changed; a different kindling.
‘When you washed me . . .’
‘I think about that.’
She looked down, and spoke into his skin: ‘So do I.’
‘What do you think about it?’
She smiled and pressed her lips to his chest.
He stroked her hair. ‘I will think about it when you’re not here. Every wonderful thing.’
She lifted her face a little.
‘No time since then?’
‘Oh, yes, lots of times . . . Like when you were so cold after swimming in the lake . . .’ He felt suddenly, uncharacteristically, shy.
‘Are you blushing?’
He laughed, feeling caught out. ‘I’m just saying, I don’t need . . . and I will think about the next time, when I see you again; that will be best of all.’
She had wriggled to face him again, was stroking him lightly, her thigh pressed against his.
‘I will think of that too.’
.
When they said their goodbyes, with dry-mouthed kisses, she held him so tightly it hurt, and her eyes were wet as she said, ‘Don’t doubt me, my darling. I will not fail you.’ Such a fierce look, as she held his face in her hands, that even after the awkwardness and uncertainty and unease, he didn’t.
And they exchanged letters, to be parsed out; thin fare, over the next year. The two he has read so far are soft with handling; in them, she begs his forgiveness; he knows the real her, the Flora of the valley, and when she is free . . . He loves her letters; they keep him warm on the coldest night. He carries them buttoned in the breast pocket of his shirt. He wrote his own swiftly, in the hope that, by doing so, they would reveal him more truthfully. He found himself writing phrases that seemed old and threadbare. He did not discard them; after all this time, clichés no longer frightened him.
Quiet in the hut. Still early. He sends out his thoughts towards her, imagines them winging over a map towards the dot where she is, succouring her . . . Swooping into her house in London, whatever that is like (down the chimney? Through the window?), into her bed, which he has never seen . . . and, then what? Words trickling into her ear? Ghostly hands sliding under her nightdress? In London, it must be lunchtime.
He hopes she is all right, that things are not too difficult, that she is not doubting, or suffering. He has the easy part. He shifts in the warm blankets, feels longing – a tender, beneficent desire . . .
He remembers lying with his head in her lap, sun in his eyes, undoing the buttons of her blouse. (She said, smiling, he looked as though he didn’t know what he might find.) With a fingertip, he traces a contour around her breast, marvelling that it can be both weighty and delicate. Areolas flushed the colours of Alpine dawns; tender cushions. He cups her breasts as gently as he can to – just – heft the warm weight, prolonging the moment until he brushes his lips across that fleeting, rosy softness. He craves the instant of stiffening, but wishes he could delay it, a little, because then the hard, round bead causes his lips to purse and his cheeks to hollow and his tongue to pay tribute. (She looked down, laughed, without explanation; he didn’t care.) She stopped laughing, pressed his head to her breast; he sucks her hard enough to make her moan.
The Eskimo name for this time of year, tutsarfik, means something like ‘it is listening’, and this morning, it is apt; the single bark of a dog is the only thing that interrupts the stillness. Jakob stamps down to the frozen shore, his breath smoking in front of him, a bucket dangling from one hand, a lantern in the other.
It was to be expected, perhaps, that Armitage would seek him out, once he had heard news of the northern journey; and yet, he had thought the man would be too proud, or too embarrassed, to show himself. When they first heard that Armitage was back in the north, Flora worried for him: did he pose a danger? What might he do? Jakob had laughed – Armitage wasn’t that much of a villain. As for himself, after he and Welbourne had discovered the non-existence of Dupree Land, he felt his animosity towards Armitage diminish. It was strange; for so long, he had burned to prove the man a liar, and had dwelt on Frank’s death, blaming him; had hated him, really, as he hated no one else – his very existence a painful burr . . . Now that proof is in his hands, the burr has gone. So what if Armitage claimed he had seen a chimerical island, simply to raise money? And if he exploited Frank’s death to do so (perhaps the reason he gave last night was genuine – it is possible), somehow, it no longer seems of overwhelming importance.
Jakob sweeps the lantern from side to side, searching for a bank of clean snow – no easy matter in the village. When he finds a patch that is still unblemished by dog or man, he squats, and, with mittened hands, scoops it into the bucket. Fresh snow vanishes when it melts; to make one pot of coffee requires a bucketful. Collecting it is one of the tasks that give him satisfaction, that he refuses to delegate.
Armitage is as arrogant as ever – dismissive and overbearing – but Jakob can see him now as a man bent under an unendurable lash, harried by an ambition so voracious it burns up everything in its path. His eyes have always been haunted; last night, they seemed to beseech him.
.
Before he leaves, Armitage asks Jakob if they can have a private word.
‘Do you give me your word of honour that you’re not going to try for the Pole?’
‘We have no interest in the Pole, Armitage. You can rest assured.’
Armitage nods. ‘I intend to. I would like to put something to you, de Beyn. I suggest that, when you get home, neither of you mention anything about your northern journey, or about Dupree Land.’
‘Do you? Nothing we could say can make any difference to what you do here.’
Lester blinks. His eyelids are red, as if he has not slept. ‘I rather think you will not mention it. After all, Dr Urbino’s reputation rests on it.’
‘Only by your say-so. And I find your suggestion inappropriate in the extreme.’
Armitage lets out a huff of air and smiles.
‘An interesting choice of words. In any ca
se, I think you will not.’
‘Why?’
‘I suppose that, ah, I think . . .’ His tongue appears and moistens his lips. ‘Because Mrs Athlone is a woman with a very public profile.’
Jakob feels something cold at the base of his spine.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Simply that, if you do not mention anything about your northern journey or Dupree Land, then I will not mention your . . . liaison with her. If you talk or write about it, in any way that damages my reputation, then I will be compelled to do the same.’
Jakob discovers that his throat has turned dry, and it is an effort to get words out.
‘This is nothing but foolish gossip. I don’t know what you may have heard, but it is iniquitous to suggest—’
‘It probably would be nothing but gossip, but for your penchant for making evidence.’
Armitage’s eyes betray him – they slide towards the darkroom. Jakob’s follow. When did he go in there? Last night? This morning? He must have turned the place upside down . . . He feels his gorge rise.
‘You wouldn’t be that low.’
‘I’m not the one who has made a whore of Mr Athlone’s wife. That, I would say, is inappropriate in the extreme.’
Jakob is silent for several moments, then makes a gesture of defeat.
‘Very well. I give you my word I won’t mention Dupree Land. I will say nothing about the north coast. Neither of us will. Now give me back . . . what you have taken.’
Armitage stares at him. ‘After it’s all over, of course I will.’
A plank creaks. Jakob takes a step forward, and Armitage takes a step back. It is that that makes him sure that he still has the photograph on him – he wouldn’t have trusted such a thing to his men . . . Armitage watches, eyes almost starting out of his head, and then a thought that had not taken concrete form launches Jakob across the space between them. He seizes the man by the arms, the impetus propelling them both against the wall; Armitage’s head knocks against the wood with a crack, breath explodes from his lungs in a loud ‘hunh’.
