Under a Pole Star

by Stef Penney

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says. ‘If Pualana doesn’t know, no one will. They are remarkable. It is our duty to preserve them.’

  Despite her words, there is something frightening and awe-inspiring about the mummified bodies, with their noiseless, gaping mouths and stiffly poised, grasping fingers; perhaps that makes her speak more sharply than she might otherwise have done.

  The most striking of the four are the first they found – the woman whose face is so whole and ghastly – and the last. This is the body of a small child dressed in immaculate furs, its face perfect, even the lips and eyelids intact, slowly dried into an empty mask of innocence. It could be a doll. Flora can picture the stir the infant mummy will make on display in London. She supervises their packing in chests stuffed with hay and ice, and knows she has something unique. She tells herself how pleased Freddie will be.

  Chapter 26

  London, 51˚31’N, 0˚7’W

  September 1893

  Months later, in London, seeing the mummies’ faces uncovered no longer bothers her. She has grown accustomed to them. Under the disappearing white bloom, the skin is a leathery ochre. But the flesh has retained its shape and the furs show no sign of dis­integration. She lightly strokes the fur hood of the screaming woman with her fingertip. She doesn’t touch the skin itself, or the abundant black hair.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t need to reiterate,’ says Flora, reiterating, ‘just how important it is to preserve their appearance exactly as it is.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Dr Murray. He is curator of Northern European Antiquities at the British Museum, and is fascinated by the mummies. They have agreed on a long-term loan, with a forthcoming exhibition. ‘You understand that the white mould will disappear, as it is merely the result of surface dampness. The method of preservation is different to those of ancient Egypt, being natural, but the results are similar. I don’t think that the cold is particularly important now, as long as they are kept in a state of desiccation.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Flora is anxious. Since they arrived in London, she has housed them, at enormous expense, at a brewer’s premises that has a compression refrigeration unit.

  ‘Oh, yes. I think so,’ says Murray. He sounds confident, but he cannot be sure, because he has never seen anything like this before.

  .

  After she concludes her meeting at the museum, Flora goes home to Kensington. It is two weeks since she returned from Greenland. Even now, she feels a nervous flutter on going to the flat where Freddie lives. Where she lives, she means . . . Where they live.

  She opens the front door. She pauses for a moment, as she always does, then calls out, cheerfully, to her husband. In the short period between their marriage and their departure for the north, this flat never felt like home to her, and now, even less.

  Freddie left Godthåb the previous September. Governor Carlsen arranged his passage on the last Danish ship of the season. He spent some time in a Copenhagen hospital before going on to a spa in Bavaria to recuperate. He arrived back in London only a few weeks before she did.

  Having had only one letter from him – brought by Captain Traill on the Resolve in August – Flora did not know what to expect. Her first sight of him was when the ship docked at the Pool of London, and Freddie was there to greet her. He was impeccably dressed, but moved with painful slowness, leaning on a cane. Startled by the presence of photographers, confused as to what to expect, annoyed by the pimple that had that morning erupted on her chin, Flora was wary and almost silent. They posed together for the Northern Chronicle before they had exchanged a word in private. When they arrived home, she burst into tears, and felt fraudulent as Freddie comforted her, instead of the other way round.

  ‘I’m sorry; I’m just tired, and . . . you must tell me how you’ve been . . . What do the doctors say?’

  Freddie spoke calmly, but she wept again at the tale he told. His lower vertebrae gave him constant pain; the pelvic fracture was incompletely fused. The poor healing was due to his underlying illness, and so – he said with a grimace that was meant to be a smile – his exploring days were over.

  ‘You will have to do it on your own now, Flora. Or rather – continue on your own. Perhaps it was always meant to be this way.’

  ‘Freddie, it’s far too soon to say that . . .’

  She was sitting beside him, holding his hand. He had not attempted to touch her since they met, apart from putting his hand on her arm, for the cameras. But Flora, who almost never touched him after their failed intimacies, could do so now.

  ‘Dr Seddon stressed how long such injuries take to heal.’

  Freddie shook his head. ‘I have been told not to expect too much. The doctor in Bavaria has made a study of such injuries in syphilitics. He is the foremost expert in Europe. Steady degeneration, that’s the prognosis. No point beating about the bush.’

  ‘There are other doctors, Freddie. We will see someone here. Or in America.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course. But in any case, I have made my peace with it . . . really, I have. You should know what to expect. I know it sounds bad, but there are many worse off than I – that is one of the things I learnt in Bavaria. I saw many poor wretches. I’ve learnt to be thankful.’

  Flora had anticipated distance, resentment – even anger. She was unnerved by this humble acceptance. He had changed. She was suspicious, and then resentful. She did not want to be married to a saint.

  ‘There is something else I want to put to you, Flora. We’ve been apart for more than a year – longer than we were together. I’m telling you of my prospects for another reason. You may feel that you no longer wish to be married to me, and, if so, I won’t stand in your way. You could annul the marriage, if you so wished.’

  Because this thought had crossed her mind in the past year, and for many other reasons, Flora felt tears spill over again.

  ‘Do you no longer wish to be married to me?’

  Freddie caressed her hand. ‘My dear girl, I don’t pretend that we were the romance of the age, but I do love and honour you, and I will do my utmost to ensure that your career will flourish.’

  ‘Freddie, please, don’t. I can’t bear it . . .’

  ‘If I can bear it, surely you can?’

  ‘I don’t understand. Why did you marry me?’

  Freddie smiled, rather sadly.

  ‘I thought we could do something wonderful together. Perhaps my reasons were selfish. But I really thought we could be happy.’

  Flora looked at him and thought that he seemed a perfect stranger, a person she had never met before.

  ‘As man and wife are supposed to be happy?’

  Freddie licked his lips nervously. Flora had the sense that she was suspended over an abyss of unknown depth. Just then, footsteps sounded on the landing, and the door opened without a knock.

  .

  From Bavaria, Freddie brought back a private nurse. Somehow he had managed to find an Irishwoman, Eileen Capron. She is a rectangular, hard-faced woman of middle years, with black hair parted to reveal a pink scalp, and oyster-coloured eyes. She is experienced in cases like his, he says, and therefore invaluable. Despite this – and the glowing letters of recommendation from German doctors – from the start, Flora took a dislike to her.

  She interrupted their conversation with a dry cough.

  ‘Mr Athlone, it is time for your dose.’

  Such a soft, melodic voice should by rights have belonged to someone else. She stood by the door, looking down at her shelf-like bosom, a black pillar with a white capitol; she wore a kind of starched headdress that made Flora think of nuns, although she was not a nun.

  ‘All right, nurse,’ said Freddie. ‘Flora, dear, you will have to excuse me.’

  To Flora’s surprise, she is also nervous the first time she sees Iris again. Having encountered criticism since her return, she is afraid that Iris too
will judge her for leaving her injured husband to the mercy of strangers. But, as soon as she enters the familiar drawing room, awash with autumn sunlight, Iris’s welcome is profuse and warm.

  ‘Oh, Iris. It’s so good to see you. Sometimes I feel that everyone hates me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. They don’t hate you – to many modern women, you are a heroine. Anyway, what if they do? They talk about you.’

  ‘Well, for one thing, they might not buy my book.’

  ‘You’re wrong. The more controversy there is, the better. I read about your terrifying mummies. They sound frightful.’

  ‘They aren’t. They are pathetic, in a way, but strangely dignified. They’re so old, and so still. I did feel a ghoul carrying them away. Ralph Dixon – you know, the geologist – he was terribly against it. I didn’t know he was so religious. He said it was ungodly, even though they weren’t Christians.’

  ‘But people are fascinated. The paper I read said there is a little child?’

  ‘Yes. It’s extraordinary – like an ancient doll. Actually, there is something awful about them. Sometimes I lie awake and I can’t get their faces out of my head, wondering if their souls are . . . roaming around unhappily, not knowing what’s happened to them, or where they are. I say to them that it’s all right, they’re only in East London.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like you. Have you acquired spiritualism in the north?’

  Flora laughs. ‘When you see them, you’ll know what I mean. Next time I go to visit Dr Murray, I’ll tell you.’

  Iris pours more tea and regards her critically.

  ‘I’m reminded of the first day you came here.’

  ‘You all but inspected my back teeth.’

  ‘You were so green. Terribly unsure, but defensive. Ready to lash out at a moment’s notice.’

  ‘I was not. You terrified me.’

  ‘You look different. You have grown up. More, even, than I thought you would. How were the men, after Freddie’s accident? They accepted you?’

  ‘They behaved well. But Iris, I spent almost every moment of every day wondering if I was making the right decision, or if I had done the right thing or said something in the right tone of voice . . . and whether one of them – Seddon, probably – would turn round and say, “You really aren’t fit to do this, you know.”’

  ‘But they didn’t.’

  ‘They restrained themselves.’

  ‘I suspect all leaders have those doubts. The good ones. How is Freddie now?’

  Flora sighs. She has never spoken to Iris of the problems in their marriage, but thinks that Iris has had her suspicions.

  ‘He’s in constant pain. He is brave. But they don’t think his prognosis is good.’

  ‘God, as bad as that? I thought it was broken bones!’

  ‘It was . . . but they haven’t healed. There was a . . . an underlying condition.’

  Iris frowns. ‘You don’t have to tell me.’

  ‘He has syphilis.’

  Iris draws in a sharp breath.

  ‘Oh, my dear . . . Are you all right?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He . . .’ She shakes her head.

  ‘Flora, I’m so sorry. But when did this . . . ? When did you know?’

  ‘He told me when we married. He didn’t want to put me at risk.’

  ‘My dear girl. You know what that means? If he knew when he married you, you could annul—’

  Flora shakes her head firmly.

  ‘I can’t leave him – not now. He’s done so much for me; I’ll always be grateful. We’ve reached an accommodation that suits us – or suits me. I just wish he didn’t suffer.’

  Iris looks suddenly weary; the muscles in her face sag without her normal vivacity to animate them.

  ‘Poor Freddie. But how could he . . . ? I encouraged you; I feel it’s my fault.’

  ‘Of course it isn’t! I chose . . . I choose to stay.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘I’m fine. We are . . . fine.’

  ‘Well.’ Iris looks at her for a moment. ‘I suppose you know best. What will you do? Stay at home and take care of him? Is it all up with the Arctic?’

  ‘Well, I have to finish the book; that takes up most of my time at the moment. But Freddie doesn’t want me to stop; he already talks about the next expedition. And he’s found a marvellous nurse. I don’t have to look after him, in that way.’

  ‘Thank heavens for Freddie’s money. How old is this nurse?’

  ‘Oh, old – at least forty.’

  ‘Darling . . . have a heart!’

  ‘She’s much older than you! And not . . . in any way attractive.’

  Iris pats her on the arm. ‘Please tell him that I—’ she begins, and then the front door bangs, followed by running footsteps on the stairs. Iris stiffens.

  Flora turns to Iris in surprise. ‘I’m sorry, should I go?’

  ‘No. That’ll just be Helen. I didn’t tell you I have acquired a secretary, did I?’

  As quickly as Iris lost her vivacity, it returns. She stands up and glances in the overmantel mirror with a small smile, pats the curls on her forehead.

  Flora has just time to wonder what Iris needs a secretary for, when the door bursts open and a young woman comes into the drawing room. She is fashionably dressed in dark grey, which emphasises a graceful figure. She has a face of singular and striking beauty, dark hair and large, dramatic eyes. The newcomer regards Flora with raised eyebrows. Flora looks questioningly at Iris, whose momentary look of intense feeling speaks volumes, and thinks . . . Oh.

  ‘Helen, this is my great friend, Mrs Flora Athlone; you’ve often heard me talk of her. Flora, this is Miss Helen Tomlinson, my ­secretary.’

  Flora holds out her hand to the newcomer, who touches it briefly with gloved fingertips.

  ‘Lord, the bus was so crowded,’ says Miss Tomlinson, as though picking up the thread of a previous conversation, ‘There was an awful fellow on it, wouldn’t leave me alone. I had to change seats twice.’ Then she looks at Flora properly, having made her wait, a sly smile flickering over her lovely face. ‘Hello there.’

  ‘Flora has just come back from a year in the Arctic. She’s the explorer, you remember?’

  ‘Well!’ says the girl. ‘I bet you’re glad to be back. Must be horrible an’ cold down there.’

  Iris smiles at Flora with a look of helpless, proud apology. ‘Helen is from Stepney. Geography isn’t her strong point, is it, Helen? I’m not sure what is.’

  Chapter 27

  London, 51˚31’N, 0˚7’W

  Winter 1893-4

  Brooklyn, October

  Dear Mrs Athlone,

  I hope this letter finds you well, and that you are now settled back at home. I trust that your husband is restored to health.

  Since you were kind enough to write with news of Ayakou and Meqro, you might be interested to hear of recent developments over here. Having sent Dr Seddon’s note to Mr Armitage some time ago, I have finally heard that he intends to do something for the man. He has been busy raising the backing for another expedition, but since the Panic earlier this year, money for such endeavors is scarce and I do not know when (or indeed, if) it will take place. I will keep pestering him.

  As regards the question of Dr Urbino, his sister has not told the rest of the family yet, but in time, may do so. The problem (if I can clumsily put it that way) is that Dr Urbino was engaged to be married, and we do not want to add to his fiancée’s grief. I hope to go back north soon, and when I do, I will have the child’s welfare very much in mind. Frank was the best friend I ever had, and his daughter deserves a fair deal.

  I should perhaps say that I will not return with Mr Armitage (not that he has asked me). I do not know whether you have read his book, but there are things in it that do not accord with my memory of events, or my knowledge o
f the people involved. The publishers may be to blame for this, of course. It may be wrong of me to tell you this, but I feel as though I can trust you with my opinion.

  If it is not an imposition, I would like to present to you the book I have been working on. It is a short geological treatise on Ellesmere. Let me say immediately that I would understand if it is not of overwhelming interest to you! But perhaps it would be to your colleague, Mr Dixon. I am quite pleased with the photographs, and you were kind enough to say something about them in your previous letter. On that note, I am also taking the liberty of sending copies of the photographs I took in Neqi. I never did have time to print them there; there was always so much to do.

  [Here, words are crossed out and illegible]

  I often remember meeting with you and Dr Seddon in Neqi. It is one of my happiest memories of the place.

  I look forward to reading your account of your experiences in Greenland. I wish you the best of luck with your writing, and assure you that I remain,

  Your friend,

  Jakob de Beyn

  There is the small, clothbound volume, indifferently printed. She flicks through it and puts it to one side. A second, smaller envelope was inside the first – she opens it and a few photographs slither out. She is disturbed, in a way she does not quite understand, to see herself like this. In the first picture, she stares into the middle distance, severe and self-conscious, a strand of hair blowing across her cheek; in another, she and Meqro stand together, smiling at each other. She was right: he had caught her off-guard, their fleeting expressions frozen forever. But it makes her smile, remembering that evening on the beach. It is one of her happiest memories, too. There is a third picture, which shocks her, because she was unaware he had taken it: it shows her sitting on the ground, holding hands with Simiak, and captures a moment of intense feeling between them. It makes her feel strange, the thought that he has looked at her face, and her face so full of emotion, when she didn’t know.