‘But you’ll know from your sister’s case that there’s very good medication now. With treatment, it’s a manageable disease.’
We listen to the faint tick of the analogue clock on the wall before Tom finally speaks. ‘My sister killed herself,’ he says flatly. ‘Hung herself by the neck three years ago. It wasn’t a manageable disease for her.’
I gaze back at him in shock.
Fuck. I never knew that. Never heard a hint of it around the base – I’m guessing Tom hasn’t told anyone. Probably not even the UNA doctors.
My mind reels. How to rescue this situation? I can’t help feeling I’ve blundered again, that I’m not managing this well. I instinctively reach out a hand in sympathy, but his body tenses.
‘Listen, Tom.’ I withdraw my hand. ‘I’ll monitor your headaches, and your other symptoms. And in the meantime, if you agree, perhaps we could arrange for you to talk to the psychiatric team at UNA – they can do a more thorough evaluation. More than likely it’s simply the effect of being so isolated, of your body clock thrown out of sync by the lack of daylight.’
‘But they hate me,’ he says abruptly.
‘Who?’ I ask, taken aback.
‘Everyone here. They all hate me.’
‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘That’s not true.’
I mean it. Tom’s quiet and serious and conscientious, and well liked on the station. He plainly has a huge crush on Drew, who pretends he hasn’t noticed and treats Tom with a steady friendliness.
‘We all feel like that sometimes,’ I continue. ‘Everyone cooped up together, little things get blown out of all proportion, people become snappy and irritable. It’s easy to feel that everybody’s against you, but they’re just wrapped up in their own worlds, dealing with their own stuff.’
He blinks back more tears and, without thinking, I kneel down beside his chair and pull him into an unwanted hug. ‘I’m so sorry about your sister.’ My own voice cracks with emotion. ‘But I promise, Tom, that isn’t going to happen to you.’
Tom endures the hug for another moment or two before pulling away
‘Thank you,’ he says as we both get to our feet, then he darts out of the door before I can even say goodbye.
19
21 June
Hell. I examine the sorry little bundle on my cabin desk. The home-made whisky truffles I’ve made for Rob – the name I’d picked out the hat for the ‘secret Santa’– look distinctly underwhelming in the container I’ve hastily fashioned out of printer paper. Everything about my gift shouts last-minute; despite having a month to prepare, I threw them together this afternoon, unearthing an online recipe and blagging the ingredients from Rajiv.
They’ll have to do. No time now to come up with anything else.
I wriggle into my black dress, quickly apply some make-up, adding a touch of concealer to my scar and the dark shadows under my eyes, dusting my cheeks with a liberal application of blusher that only emphasises my pallor.
I check out the effect in the mirror. Definitely a bit Morticia Adams – we should have gone with a Halloween theme; most of us could easily pass as goths or vampires.
Calling into my clinic, I remove a sachet of tramadol from the medicine cabinet, swallow a couple and tuck the rest into my bra. Just to see me through tonight, I promise myself. This much-anticipated dinner marks the winter solstice – as of tomorrow, having endured half our period of total darkness, we’ll be officially moving back towards the light.
As good a time as any to turn over a new leaf and kick this habit once and for all.
By the time I arrive in the lounge for pre-dinner drinks, nearly everyone is there. Everyone except Alex, I note – and Tom. I push down my concerns about both and gaze around, impressed with the transformation. Alice has twisted my garlands along strings of tiny coloured fairy lights and hung them across the walls, and dimmed the stark ceiling bulbs with makeshift fabric shades. Large pillar candles complete the effect, softening the harsh contours of the room into something cosier and more intimate. Hawaiian steel guitar music plays softly in the background.
‘There you are!’ Alice bounds over as I add my gift to the pile on the coffee table. She drapes a lei around my neck and gives me a hug. I’m relieved to see Alex arrive, dressed, like all the men, in a bright Hawaiian shirt and baggy cargo shorts.
Where on earth did they get those? Have they been planning this all along?
‘You look nice,’ says Alice, approvingly, but I know she’s being kind. I admire her bright turquoise blouse and cute yellow shorts, cut high to expose her slender legs and likely driving all the men to distraction – Tom excepted. Sonya, too, has gone with the evening’s theme, with a long flowing skirt and a bright lacy crocheted vest. Even Caro has dug out a pair of rainbow-patterned leggings and topped it with another Hawaiian shirt she must have borrowed from one of the boys – it completely hides her swelling stomach. She looks relaxed and cheerful. If she’s worried about her pregnancy situation, she’s doing a good job of hiding it.
Only Sandrine, like myself, has passed up on the theme of the evening – wearing smart black trousers with a red chiffon blouse and matching lipstick. She catches my eye, her expression blank, then turns away.
I stare at her back, wondering. Could she be the one who deleted Jean-Luc’s videos?
But why would she? And why do it from my terminal? It doesn’t make sense.
Forget it, I tell myself sternly. Enjoy tonight.
Noticing the far wall has been covered in cards and messages, I wander over for a closer look. They’re all from the other Antarctic stations – some fifty in total – wishing us a happy midwinter. Most are group photos of the other teams, clustered together on the ice, some waving, all grinning – Rob must have printed them off from various emails. The text underneath is written in half a dozen languages: English, Russian, Spanish, French, German, Japanese, even Chinese.
‘Cocktail?’
I turn to find Arne standing behind me, holding out a glass of amber liquid, the rim frosted in sugar, a miniature turquoise parasol leaning on the side.
‘Thank you.’ I take a sip. It’s sweet and fruity with a warm alcoholic kick. ‘Mmm … what is it?’
‘A riki tiki – pineapple and mango juice, with coconut and spiced rum.’
‘Wow … very tropical.’
‘We do our best.’
I nod at the photos on the wall. ‘Amazing how many of us there are out here.’
‘About a thousand in total,’ says Arne. ‘Though nearly five times that in summer.’
I imagine them all, like us, celebrating the shift from one season to the next, welcoming our slow but inexorable release from the darkness.
‘Did you know midwinter has been celebrated in Antarctica for over a century?’ Arne takes a sip from his own glass. ‘It’s a big deal. When I was at McMurdo it was pretty much a full-on party for a week.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’ He grins. ‘We did everything. Costume parties, murder mysteries, games tournaments, drinking competitions, the lot.’
‘Sounds like fun.’
‘Apart from the hangover. I was in bed for two days afterwards.’
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Drew watching me. He tips me a wink and I smile back, taking another sip of my cocktail. It really is delicious, and for the first time in days I relax a little. I’m pleased to see Tom, wearing a smart black suit, talking to Sonya. I suppress the urge to go over and give him a hug.
‘You look great, by the way,’ Arne adds.
I respond with an appreciative smile. I sense people are making an effort to be nice after my showdown with Sandrine three days ago, and I wonder how much they know. Were we overheard? Or have they just picked up on the atmosphere between us?
‘You look good too,’ I add. ‘Where’d you all get those shirts?’
‘Kristin sent this one over for me.’
‘Your girlfriend?’ I’m not sure Arne has ever mentioned her by name – at
least not to me.
‘Not any more.’ He wrinkles his nose and seems a bit embarrassed. ‘We split up a few weeks ago.’
I stare at him, surprised. ‘Oh shit. I’m sorry.’
‘It happens.’ He sighs. ‘Especially out here. What is it you call them, long-haul relationships …?’ Arne looks at me enquiringly.
‘Long distance relationships? Though you’d be right about long haul too.’
‘Yes, long distance. Well, anyway, they are hard, especially in the Antarctic.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s not as if you can pop home for a visit.’
‘All the same, I’m really sorry to hear that. Was it mutual?’
‘Mutual?’
‘Did you both agree it was the best thing? To split up, I mean.’
‘Pretty much. It’s normal in Iceland.’
I frown. ‘Normal?’
‘Women over there aren’t so serious, they’re more …’ he searches for the word, ‘casual about things. They don’t stick around in bad relationships.’
‘Was yours a bad relationship then?’ I take another sip of my drink – I can already feel the alcohol going to my head, loosening my tongue. ‘Sorry, you don’t have to answer that. I think I’m a little tipsy.’
Arne smiles at my obvious discomfort. ‘Not bad exactly, no. But we’d fallen into a bit of …’ he sighs, scratching his nose as he searches again for the right phrase ‘… a bit of a hole. I could have made more effort, I can see that now.’
‘Okay.’
‘We still like each other, we just don’t want to make the kind of commitment you need to take things on to the next level.’
‘Kids, you mean?’ Christ, Kate, shut the fuck up.
Arne gives me a quizzical smile. ‘I guess, though Kristin already has a child. That’s one reason we want to stay friends. Margret, her little girl, likes having me around – when I am around, of course. That was a big problem, actually. Kristin felt it’s too confusing for her daughter, me disappearing for such long periods. She wants more …’ He grasps for a word again.
‘Stability?’ I offer.
‘Yes. Exactly that.’ He drains the rest of his glass. ‘Anyway, how about you? You never talk about your own situation. Do you have someone at home, Kate?’
I shake my head. ‘Not any more.’
Arne waits for me to elaborate, and something in his expression tells me he’s genuinely interested in my answer. That this isn’t just small talk. I have a strange sense that I’m at some kind of crossroads, a chink of light breaking through the gloom that has engulfed my life for the last eighteen months.
A thaw, perhaps, in my icy heart.
I’m about to answer when Rajiv appears, banging a small brass gong. Where on earth did he get that?
‘Food is served!’ he booms.
The moment is lost, and I’ve no choice but to trail Arne and the others into the canteen. Drew and Sonya, whose job it was to deck it out, have worked a kind of magic. Fairy lights strung across the walls, pristine white cloths on the tables, and napkins fanned into wine glasses. Candles interspersed with posies of what appear to be fresh flowers.
I peer at them, assuming they’re plastic, but find they’re actually crocheted with embroidery thread, stalks supported by wire stems.
‘Did you make these?’ I turn to Sonya, amazed.
She nods.
‘Wow, they’re incredible.’
‘They’re not so hard,’ she says, nevertheless glowing with pleasure. ‘There are lots of patterns on the internet.’
Caro snorts. ‘Yeah, I tried a couple. Only mine looked like something a cat might throw up after a banquet of multi-coloured mice. Believe me,’ she nods at the posies, ‘those take some serious skills.’
Once we’re all seated and served with food, Sandrine raises her glass of champagne in a toast. ‘Here’s to midwinter!’ She smiles around at all of us, her gaze sliding quickly over mine.
I ignore the slight, raising my own glass to join the others – all except Caro, who’s using migraines as a handy excuse to stay off the alcohol.
‘And here’s to sun!’ says Ark. ‘Only fifty more days until we see it again.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Sonya adds, and we all take another slug.
That done, we tuck into our food. Rajiv, Ark and Luuk have excelled themselves. Beef wellington for most of us, nut roast for Tom and Alice, the station’s two vegetarians. Freshly baked bread with thyme and walnut. And best of all, some of Drew’s divine salad with a delicious raspberry balsamic dressing. I eat it in a couple of blissful mouthfuls.
‘Wonderful.’ I beam at him across the table. ‘Great work.’
‘Thanks.’ He returns my smile, but there’s a tightness in it. A little ice of his own. Did he notice me talking to Arne earlier?
Does he think something is going on?
I flash back to that night after the final sunset, our fumbled encounter in that narrow bunk. Feel a renewed sense of shame and guilt.
I shouldn’t have done that, and I can’t risk making that mistake, I decide, with a surreptitious glance at Arne, who’s chatting to Caro and Alice across the table.
However much I might like it to happen.
After the meal, we return to the lounge, stomachs full of fruit tart and Tom’s home-made after-dinner mints. ‘Gift time,’ Caro declares, handing us each our present as we settle in our seats. I examine the pastel stars and flowers stamped in poster paint across the brown craft wrapping paper – whoever made mine has really gone the extra mile.
I watch Rob open his gift first – he seems pleased enough with the whisky truffles, generously offering them around. Then I unfold the pretty paper from my own present. The second I glimpse what’s inside I know exactly who they’re from. I lift out a pair of exquisite hand-knitted socks decorated with little white snowflakes against a gorgeous sky-blue background. I gaze at them in wonder, then turn to thank Sonya.
‘These are just beautiful,’ I gasp.
‘Try them on.’ She nods at my feet.
I slip off my shoes and pull on the lovely socks. They fit perfectly.
‘Phew.’ Sonya looks relieved. ‘I had to guess your size from your boots.’
‘Wow, those are gorgeous!’ Alice turns to Sonya. ‘Would you make me some?’
‘My pleasure.’ Sonya smiles obligingly, though it strikes me as a big ask; with their tiny, delicate stitches, these must have taken hours and hours.
‘Thank you!’ I get up to give Sonya a hug. ‘I’ll treasure these.’
‘No more than you deserve,’ she replies, patting my hand in a gesture that brings tears to my eyes.
‘Okay,’ Rob announces, after all the gifts have been opened. ‘It’s show time!’ He disappears for a moment, then wheels in a big flat-screen TV, inserting a DVD into the player beneath. A few people groan – watching John Carpenter’s The Thing might be an Antarctic midwinter tradition, but some have clearly seen it a few times too many.
‘Everyone got a drink?’ Drew asks, handing out wine and beer to those who raise their hand. Then Rob dims the lights and settles back in his seat, while Tom distributes the little baskets of toffee popcorn he’s made for the occasion.
He carefully avoids eye contact as he hands me mine, I notice – something he’s done all evening. Is Tom regretting his visit to the clinic yesterday? Does he blame me for adding to his worries? Maybe I should find an opportunity to take him aside, make sure he’s okay.
Not tonight, I decide, chewing my popcorn. I’ll catch up with him tomorrow.
Watching the film, I allow myself a rare feeling of contentment, filled with a good dinner and a sense of … what? Family? All the tensions, the rifts, the dilemmas and questions have melted away – for the time being at least. We have endured half the winter, and need only get through another couple of months of darkness before we welcome back the sun.
It is, after all, a significant achievement to have made it this far.
‘Refills?’ Drew offers, as we take
a break halfway through. As I get up to have a pee, I notice Alex slumped asleep on one of the sofas, Caro sitting beside him with her legs tucked up under her and a glass of orange juice in her hand.
‘He okay?’ I ask her quietly, nodding at Alex.
He opens his eyes at the sound of my voice, then blinks, glancing about as if confused.
‘Wakey wakey.’ Caro nudges him with her elbow.
He returns her gaze, but there’s something unsteady in it. ‘I’m going to bed,’ he mumbles. ‘I feel shit.’ He heaves himself to his feet, stands there swaying slightly.
‘You want a hand?’ Drew gets up to steady him, but Alex waves him away. ‘See you in the morning,’ he says, staggering off to a chorus of goodnights.
To my relief, Alex’s early departure doesn’t put a dent in the evening. We watch the second half of the film, then spend several hours telling each other ghost stories. Even Sandrine seems to loosen up as the night wears on, relating a tale of her grandmother, whose house in the Ardennes was supposedly haunted by the ghost of a small girl.
‘Every mealtime my grandmother would lay a place for her at the table,’ our station leader says, after regaling us with a list of spooky goings-on. ‘That way she didn’t cause any trouble.’
‘Did you ever actually see her?’ Alice asks, eyes wide, all her scientific rationalism set aside.
‘Only once. I woke up early one morning and caught sight of her out in the garden, sitting on the swing. I knew it was her because she was wearing a white dress.’
‘A white dress?’ Tom frowns, confused.
‘According to village legend she died on the day of her first communion,’ Sandrine says solemnly. ‘Kicked in the head by a horse.’
We all gaze at our station leader, wondering if any of this was remotely true. Impossible to tell, her face the usual inscrutable mask, giving nothing away.
‘I’m too scared to go to bed now,’ whispers Caro, with a shiver.
Ark snorts. ‘There are monsters, for sure. But not out there, in the dark.’
‘What do you mean?’ Luuk asks.
‘The ones in here.’ Ark taps the side of his head. ‘Those are monsters you should worry about.’
The Dark Page 16