by Stef Penney
‘How long were you on the ice cap, Mr Welbourne?’
‘Eighty-eight days.’
‘My goodness. That’s a long time. Did you find game?’
Welbourne barks with laughter. ‘That’s what the Eskimos ask! They don’t care about . . .’ He glances at Jakob. ‘Are we allowed to say where we have been?’
‘I don’t see why not. Mrs Athlone is familiar with the territory.’
‘So I gather.’ Welbourne looks at her – despite the pain he must be in – with decidedly chivalrous appreciation. ‘Well, ma’am, to answer your question, we did find game, in the vicinity of Sherard Osborn Fjord and Victoria Inlet. We managed to shoot some musk oxen and two caribou. Good thing too. It was nip and tuck. We’ve been to the north coast of Greenland and we looked at the Arctic Ocean. We saw a bear on the sea-ice up there, but we couldn’t bring him down, I’m sorry to say. I think that would have been the most northerly kill in the world! But we’ve proved there’s no land further north in that vicinity. Or, rather, Mr de Beyn proved it. I was just along for the ride.’
‘Mr Welbourne speaks less than the truth. I couldn’t have done it without you – or Metek and Sorqaq.’
‘I congratulate you. That’s an enormous achievement.’ Flora glances towards Jakob, who is looking at his right foot, now in Haddo’s lap. He doesn’t answer. He must be pleased to have proved Armitage a liar. He doesn’t look pleased.
‘Are Metek and Sorqaq still with you?’
‘Metek has gone to his family in Etah. Sorqaq is here.’
All through this exchange, Jakob keeps his head turned towards Haddo, as if he can’t bear to have Flora in his sight.
‘Do they need medical treatment?’
‘They seem well. Tired, of course, but no frostbite at all. Remarkable.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever known a case of an Eskimo with frostbite. They seem to have an immunity to it, perhaps through being acclimatised from birth. Or maybe there’s something in their blood. It would be an interesting field of study . . .’ She addresses Welbourne.
‘It was certainly extraordinary how they could perform quite intricate manoeuvres without gloves, when it was so cold we couldn’t do anything at all.’
Haddo finishes his examination of Jakob’s face and ears.
‘Well, Mr de Beyn, the damage is not deep. If I may, while I take a look at Mr Welbourne, I will let Mrs Athlone take over; you needn’t worry . . . you’re in good hands.’
‘I know what an accomplished nurse Mrs Athlone is. She helped to take off this finger – when we met before.’
Jakob holds up his left hand. His eyes meet hers, as if challenging her to deny that that was the last time.
Haddo moves on to Welbourne and Flora sits in the chair next to Jakob with a bowl of water and a sterilised cloth. He holds out his right hand, and she begins to rub the dead skin off his fingers. Underneath, the flesh is red-raw.
‘Tell me if it’s too painful.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘I’m sorry these are the circumstances of our meeting again.’
He makes a non-committal noise – hardly reassuring. Damn you, she thinks, and then chastises herself.
‘Do you remember the geologist on our previous expedition – Mr Dixon?’
‘I do: a big, black-haired man. I liked him.’
‘He is here. He’s keen to meet you again. He remembers you very kindly from before.’
‘Oh.’ A faint smile crosses his face. ‘I’d like that.’
She smiles at him, catching his eye briefly. He looks away.
‘I’ll tell him. I’m sure there will be opportunities over the winter. There, that hand is done.’ She takes the other one. ‘Was the weather very bad on the ice cap?’
Jakob blinks, sucking in his breath, and says, ‘Not too bad, but one of our fuel cans leaked. We had to make do with what we had.’ After a pause, he adds, ‘I should have allowed a greater margin for error.’
She finishes the left hand and kneels on the floor to work on his feet. It feels more intimate to be holding his foot in her lap like this, more than touching his hands. Because we are used to shaking hands, she tells herself. Possibly, also, because she remembers kneeling in front of him, in another time and place. She is vividly aware of the pulse in his ankle. Her throat knots with an emotion she does not care to identify. She looks up once – his eyes are closed, his expression remote. She concentrates on sloughing off the disgusting tissue, makes her movements brisk and ungentle. She stokes her memories of anger and despair and fear. Nothing else is of any use to her.
Jakob describes for Welbourne something of the circumstances of the Americans’ last night in Siorapaluk, five years ago. He says the missing finger was his own fault.
‘Mrs Athlone must think me a poor excuse for an Arctic traveller.’
‘Of course not. Anyone can suffer frostbite, if conditions are bad enough. It is often a matter of luck.’
There is a silence, and she realises that her remark has not come off; she has come across as patronising, or worse. She is grateful when Haddo turns to her and asks, in a low voice, if she can leave the hut so that he can ask the men ‘some more . . . ah . . . questions.’
.
She steps into the pitiless night. There is no prospect of immediate escape – they have to stay at least until tomorrow morning. She is exhausted, but feels overwhelming relief to be out of the hut and his presence; at one point, she thought she would succumb to the threat of tears, but conquered them. She maintained a professional and friendly demeanour – she thinks – despite his behaviour, which was so terse it verged on rudeness. On seeing her, he had looked . . . appalled.
What did she expect? She should not have come.
Chapter 46
Siorapaluk, 77˚47’N, 70˚38’W
October–December 1897
It occurs to Flora over the following weeks – when she and Haddo are back in their own house – that she is not the only one wearing a mask. Here in Greenland, clamped into this sliver of shore between ice cap and frozen sea, everyone hides their feelings behind a smile. Indulging in strong displays of opinion or emotion is too costly when life is so precarious. No one can survive alone. She has the impression that everyone walks on thin ice. Their presence – the British, the Americans, and the whalers, when they came – has made the smiling mask worse. No one disagrees with them, or denies them. The Eskimos can’t afford to offend. We cannot form real friendships, she thinks, no matter what we say, because friends should be equal, and here – except for a few rare moments – we can never be equal.
The possible exception – she hopes – is her friendship with Meqro, who was delighted to see Flora again. Despite being an unmarried woman with a child, at the bottom of the pecking order, Meqro has grown in confidence since they last met. She lives with her widowed father, Ehré. She is lucky that he is still a good hunter, and that he has not remarried, which would make her position difficult. Aamma is four years old, and shows traces of her father in her features. They live near the British hut, so Meqro can work for them, making winter clothes and helping with their housekeeping. A couple of other women are employed in this work – Flora tried to employ those who most needed help: women without husbands, like Meqro, and a young girl called Atitak, who has a terrible, disfiguring squint. Flora is generous (generosity is easy to show here); there is not enough work for everyone who wants it.
Often, there are three or four of them sitting on the floor of the hut, sewing and talking, but Flora is happiest when it is just Meqro. Then, if she has finished her work, she sits on the floor beside her and takes her ulu – her crescent-bladed knife – and joins her in scraping the inside of a raw pelt. No Eskimo woman ever sits idle, and Flora has picked up the habit of finding something to occupy her hands. She is clumsy at such work, but it is soothing to do something useful. Aamm
a plays nearby with seal vertebrae, or, encouraged by Flora, scribbles with a pencil on scraps of paper.
One day, Meqro says, ‘Te Peyn brought me a letter from Ferank’s mother and father. They say they are happy to hear about Aamma, that it comforts them to know of her. They say they wish to help her. They say that, if I want her to come to America, they will look after her and give her a life there. I don’t know what I should do.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘I don’t want her to go, but I ask you, Fellora. If you think she would have a better life there, then I will make her go.’
‘Would you go too?’
Meqro looks down at her ulu. ‘I don’t think I would like it. I think of what happened to my friends . . . It’s dangerous for us there. But perhaps it is different for Aamma. Ferank was her father. If something happens to me, or my father . . .’ She shrugs.
‘I can’t tell you what you should do, Meqro.’
‘But, Fellora, you know what it is to be here, and you know what it is to be there, for a woman. Here, life is hard.’
‘It’s not easy anywhere. I don’t know America, how much it is like Britain. I don’t know the Urbinos, but . . . I would have thought Aamma would be better off with her own people, and certainly better off with you.’
Meqro smiles her delightful, sweet smile. ‘But her people are also Ferank’s people. And they are rich. They sent many presents to her. Little figures . . . Aja – so beautiful!’
Flora has seen one of these figures: a china-headed doll with a cross expression, dressed in silk and lace. It has been stripped, dismembered and disembowelled, the head broken in several pieces.
‘What did Te Peyn say? He knows them well.’
‘He was like you. He said he couldn’t say. But they are kind.’
‘I think it would be hard in America for a child who looks like her, who looks different from most people. Here, she looks like one of you – she is one of you.’
Meqro nods vigorously.
‘Ieh. It’s strange how the children look more like us than like you. The kallunat are strong in many ways – but in this, Inuit are the stronger!’ She laughs.
‘Yes, it’s true.’ Flora agrees, blushing, although she isn’t sure why. ‘You could both go to America and see what you thought. If you didn’t like it, you could both come back. It’s always possible to change your mind. America is not so far away: three, four weeks’ sail.’
Meqro grows serious again. ‘I don’t know. I cannot see what life is in America, without my people. I’m afraid.’
‘I know it was terrible, what happened to Ivalu and the others. There are diseases there. Kallunat diseases are bad for Inuit.’
‘Ieh. She is safer here.’
They fall silent. Aamma tears her drawing into small pieces and throws them in the air. Despite Flora’s efforts at teaching her to draw dogs and seals, destruction is her favourite game.
‘Qaniit!’ she says, and laughs. Snowflakes!
.
‘Has Aniguin spoken about his time in America?’
Meqro shrugs. ‘He said people listened to what he said.’ She jerks her head, as though finding this hard to believe.
‘He gave an interview to the newspapers,’ Flora says (she explains this), ‘and many people read it. So they did listen.’ She scrapes at a stubborn piece of membrane. ‘I know he suffered much there. Is he happier, now?’
‘Aniguin is never happy. Not from when he was born. There’s something wrong in his head.’ Meqro shrugs.
‘But something in him has changed. Have the Americans helped him, since he came back?’
‘Yes. Te Peyn is very kind. He has given him many things. Te Peyn is nice . . .’ She smiles, and sees Flora’s raised eyebrows and giggles. ‘No, no! Natseq tried to sleep with him again and he said no! He is married, now, to the sister of Ferank. No, not married . . . What do you call it in your country, before?’
‘Engaged,’ says Flora.
‘Ieh. He doesn’t want a friend any more.’ She shrugs. ‘Perhaps he’s too old.’
Flora peers at her pelt, at the traces of fat that cling to the inner surface. She puts it down. Her ulu, its curved blade bright as the quarter moon, weighs in her hand. She pictures it slicing through the skin of her wrist – up and down: she knows how – into the vein, bringing forth dark blood. She imagines slapping her friend’s smooth, round cheek, and is so horrified that she stands up, muttering an excuse, and walks out of the hut. Not that she would ever do that – not that she would ever do either of those things – but she wants to commit an act of violence, on something.
At the beginning of November, they throw a feast for the village to celebrate – or commemorate – the setting of the sun. This is the occasion at which someone suggests they invite the Americans to Siorapaluk for Christmas. The others second the idea, eager for new faces. Flora is non-committal. She has a horror of seeming forward. But she cannot tell the others why, so she assents. The odds are the weather will prevent it, anyway.
The four-month night begins. At first, it is not true dark; there is a month of perpetual twilight, but the twilight deepens as the sun sinks further below the horizon. It is the time of year when one has to be careful. At first, everyone pretends that it is no problem – the Eskimos have been looking forward to it! It’s a relief after that endless light, which never lets them rest, and winter is the season for travelling by sled, for visiting. However, there is also something oppressive. Flora wonders if the oppression comes from the people as much as the darkness. In the past, in winter, she and her father could sit for hours with Apilah and Simiak while neighbours came to their illu, sat around the fire, ate, smoked, repeated the same anecdotes and scraps of news . . . A neighbour might visit five times in a day. There was nothing new to say. They were sick of each other. But still they came. Flora discovered extremes of boredom she had never imagined. As far as she could tell, everyone was bored. In the ship, after such a visit, she was drunk with solitude.
For the explorers, the cold and the darkness are just two of the challenges to be met. But the transition from endless day to endless dark is a hard one. They have their work: they set up a weather station on the frozen sea; Ashbee and Haddo bring samples of seawater to study in the laboratory – it teems with busy, microscopic life – and Flora has set herself the task of photographing the peculiar clouds prevalent here. After the sun sets, there is less she can do on that project, but, the day after the feast, she records a breathtaking display of noctilucent clouds over the strait. The sky is dark, but the cloud is so high it catches the sun’s rays over the curvature of the earth and glows like white fire. Next to it, Deneb and Vega are crisp and bright. She makes exposures of different lengths, hoping one of them will capture it. She wonders whether, in Neqi, anyone else is doing the same.
.
Ralph is as steady as ever. Without him, Flora wonders if any of this would be possible. And she is pleased with Henry Haddo, a young man whose reticence (like her, he is Scottish) reminds her of herself. He is a skilful doctor, a scholar – he coauthored a paper on the incidence of scurvy in prisons – and he is unfailingly kind and patient with the Eskimos.
Ashbee is a different matter. On occasion, Flora hears him shouting at the girls for some real or imagined blunder. Once, he storms out of the hut, sees Flora, and walks in the opposite direction without a word. She goes into the hut to find Henry coming out of the lab, rather red in the face.
‘Has something happened? Ashbee just glared at me and rushed off without speaking.’
Haddo takes a deep breath. She thinks he is on the brink of tears.
‘It’s nothing.’ He tries to smile. ‘Nothing of importance.’
Flora puts it out of her mind. Later, in the laboratory, she discovers that the floor is wet – as though a lot of water had been spilt, or something had been cleaned.
.
‘I want to talk to you about Ashbee.’
Ralph and Flora have come for a walk along the beach, for privacy. The cold is metallic and a wind blows snow crystals into their faces.
‘You said, when we talked of inviting the Americans for Christmas, that we are not rivals, but we don’t know that, because we don’t know what their aims are. What is more ridiculous, we don’t know what our aims are, because I don’t know Ashbee’s purpose. I had to accept that when we left, but here it is no longer acceptable. We cannot deal with them honestly, not knowing.’
She sighs, her breath rushing into a white cloud.
Ralph shrugs. ‘Do we need to be honest with them?’
‘I . . . You surprise me, Ralph. I can’t make that decision without knowing. I want you to back me when I ask him to tell us the truth.’
There is a pause. ‘Of course.’
.
Over dinner, Flora brings up the subject, with the affectation of a levity she does not feel. If he refuses, she does not know what she will do.
‘Mr Ashbee . . . Gilbert . . . I think the time has come for you to tell us your purpose in being here. We all assure you of our complete discretion. But if I don’t know what your purpose is, I cannot deal honestly with the Americans. There is a certain etiquette to be followed. In spring, we do not want to get in each others’ way.’
Ashbee looks around the table at the others.
‘I gather you have discussed this.’
‘In the conditions that prevail here, our lives are in each other’s hands. There must be trust. And, for that, there must be frankness.’
There is a silence. Ashbee purses his lips.
‘I suppose it can do no harm now. Although I must insist you do not repeat to the Americans what I’m about to tell you. I reiterate that I am an envoy, and my sponsors have told me only what I need to know. As you’re aware, they are interested in new lands – islands – that are, potentially, habitable.’
Flora can’t prevent a slight, incredulous smile. ‘For what purpose? I fear you have come to the wrong place.’