Wilson’s counterpart, Koettlitz, Karina sounded his name, was not a doctor, but some other kind of medical man. They had set up this experiment together. But it wasn’t only Wilson and Koettlitz who were interested. Everyone had eagerly signed up, and most of the party were now eating extraordinary rations – those that is, who weren’t in the control group. At the start, it had been easy – in the cold, men mostly craved fat. The crew shovelled in bread and dripping as if it was nectar in an attempt to sate their hunger pains. They’d eat blubber on its own. They’d eat anything.
At night, she’d noticed, with their appetites piqued, the men dreamed of even huger feasts than Clarke prepared – and he was not one to stint. Their desires surprised them. Shackleton found he missed Dover sole and cabbage. Able Seaman George Vince lusted after sausage and mash. The favoured recipes of wives and mothers were doted on as if they were memories of lost loves, more cherished than the images of half-naked women the men hid among their things. Jam roly-poly. Spotted dick. Barley broth. Even when Clarke produced these dishes, they weren’t the same. The whole team was committed to this expedition but their bodies were tethered to civilization. To food.
‘We’ll enjoy a dinner out on The Strand,’ one whispered to another. Or ‘Fish and chips at Sarti’s. With mushy peas.’ The differences between officers and men were easy to spot.
Shackleton had agreed to forgo meat. He would not have said it was his favourite food – a predilection for cheese or even fresh fruit (which was not available either) would both have ranked higher, in normal circumstances. Karina noted that Clarke’s rhubarb tart was excellent and Shackleton had to admit, it would come somewhere near the top of his list. Still, he eyed the stewed seal flesh on offer tonight and realized his mouth was watering.
‘You all right, old chap?’ Wilson checked.
Even at this early stage, the fellows banned from meat seemed to show different behaviour to the ones banned from consuming starches. Forward thinking, Wilson had not only been looking for physical changes in his subjects but also mental ones. So far he had seen little of either. It was still early days.
‘I’m fine,’ Shackleton assured the surgeon, the odd stray vowel not entirely masked by years of stolid service with largely English crews. His brogue sometimes broke through at mealtimes. As he bit with relish into a slice of bread and dripping an idea was forming – something to take his mind off sirloin steaks and liver and bacon.
Later, after dinner, Shackleton bided his time before making the suggestion. The voice in his head had stopped its throaty whisper. Skelton and Ferrar were playing cards for piles of pennies they could not spend.
‘I say,’ the sub-lieutenant looked up from his book. His tone was creamy. ‘Why don’t we write a newsletter? I miss The Times, don’t you?’
The idea was greeted enthusiastically by everyone except Scott, who scanned it for any whiff of dissent or ego. The officers and men alike had taken to Shackleton. He was a natural leader and if he burned too brightly the captain would certainly douse his fires. However, Shackleton’s idea took hold. One man pulled out his sketchpad and offered a drawing. ‘How about this, old man? Your first submission.’
Another fellow mumbled something about poetry and Skelton said he’d sort out some photographs.
‘Capital! Leave it to me,’ Shackleton said, adding soberly, ‘If you don’t mind, that is.’
‘Well of course you shall be the editor, Shackle,’ it was generally agreed. ‘Why, it was your idea.’
Shackleton could swear he heard a soft tut.
That night, fifteen journals recounted the founding of the paper and a full forty mentioned the football match but not one gave voice to the fear that they were learning to live with. They knew the rules. When bad weather set in you must call the storm a frolic. It is nippy today and I found myself peckish, one man scribbled in a letter that he would not be able to send for a year. Then he assured his wife that he was safe. Now they were here, there was not a man among them who had not wondered, Dear God, what will it be like in winter?
Still, those first few weeks, the polar summer prevailed. Karina continued to stalk them, enjoying their discovery of the eternal sunlight. To a man, they were unsettled by it. Here, after all, nothing was as it seemed – the sea turned to ice, the ice was land and the night was bright as a summer day. It was a place out of time and nature.
At night, she watched the ship as she sat on the edge of the glacier, swirling her legs in the icy water under the white ghost of the moon. Aboard the men who could sleep were dreaming.
She shifted as she felt a presence in the silent night. Behind her, on the ship, Skelton, the footballing hero emerged on deck. He was swaddled in material – padded like an Esquimaux. He walked down the gangplank onto the ice and cut through the huts and tents, past the football pitch and towards her. Karina sighed as he stopped at the edge of the water and took in the view.
He couldn’t sleep. It was too light and he was hungry. Lazily, she considered batting him over the edge, but then, he had done so well for the team. Perhaps, she thought, the earthly concerns of men were engaging enough to save his life. Skelton, oblivious to the danger he was in, settled into the silence. Karina let her foot splash and Skelton smiled as he looked on, thinking that there must be some kind of sea creature beneath the swell. Later he would note in his journal that the glacier was the most beautiful place on earth.
Such encounters felt domestic. She was like a little girl with a doll’s house, following the men across the plane, hiding screws and opening doors. At night, she prowled the corridors and watched them dreaming or sat on the lee of the hill, looking down on her grave. There was a seriousness about Scott’s crew with their endless experiments and earnest plans. As time wore on, she found that she no longer wanted to hurt them. She mined Scott’s memory gently, in her own time, for every scrap of information about Hooker until there was nothing left.
And then he came. He appeared in front of her. It was deep in the light night and the air was thick and calm. At first, she couldn’t see him properly. The vision was blurred. ‘Joseph,’ she said, and felt a tear trickle. A single, human tear the like of which she hadn’t felt in a generation. But it wasn’t Hooker who appeared out of the mist. It wasn’t his voice.
‘Karina?’ the man sounded bemused. ‘Hej,’ he said. Hello.
He smiled and then she knew him. One old man was like another. But not that smile.
‘Thebo?’ the name dropped from her lips. ‘How did you get to be so old?’
He lowered his eyes. ‘Oh, Karina,’ he said.
And behind him, like a light show, there was a vision of Maine. How could that be Thebo’s happiest place? she thought. And then she saw a picture of two children – a faded callotype of them, playing in the yard. He had it in his pocket. And she knew. She stood and glared at him and he couldn’t meet her eyes.
‘You didn’t die,’ she said.
Thebo shrugged. ‘I knew you would make it back to Europe. That’s what you wanted. I knew Marijke would bring you home. I was so lonely.’
If there had been air in her lungs, the shock would have knocked it out. ‘Didn’t you find love?’ he asked, breathless as if he was apologizing. ‘What is this place?’
‘I died here,’ she said. ‘I found love and I died. I stowed away on a British ship after you left me.’
Thebo glanced over his shoulder. Maine was clearly calling.
‘You abandoned me,’ she said, ‘you lied,’ understanding dawning and it was then that Karina screamed. It was a sound like no other she had ever made. Aboard the Discovery, Shackleton got out of bed. He felt a vein of ice in his blood. Outside, Karina lashed out but Thebo was insubstantial. ‘How could you run away? How could you? I almost starved.’
‘The mate,’ Thebo said simply. ‘He wanted to be captain. We arranged it so you’d get the captain’s share to see you through till Marijke sent your passage.’ Thebo peered at her. ‘You still look so young,’ he said. ‘Yo
u did not mourn me, did you?’
She couldn’t bear it. She took off. Below her, Thebo faded into the street scene and the air closed over his balding head. He hadn’t apologized. There was no lying in death. There was no point in that. Karina reeled. A faithless, lying husband. That swindler of a mate. Where was the justice? She raged. Frustrated, she flew up to the snow clouds and pulled down a blizzard. She sailed with the northerly winds, far out to sea until, like crashing into a wall, it all went dark. In the end, she found herself back on the ice shelf with the Discovery moored alongside. Thebo didn’t die and it was all for nothing. Nothing at all. The sound of her crying was mistaken for wind whistling aboard ship. A freakish summer storm, the men said. And in the end, all she could think of was those children in the garden. His children. His grandchildren. The little ones she never bore. Her wasted spinster’s life.
FIFTEEN
She left. The South Polar Times and the football matches seemed senseless now and she did not require entertainment. There is nothing to do, she thought, as she laid herself on the side of the ice mountain and disappeared into it as if she had melted away. But she could not settle. She thought of Ven and her childhood summers. She thought of Thebo living in Maine, happy for years. The waste of it. And Joseph too. The thoughts tormented her and from the ship, the men’s voices niggled, like a fly buzzing against a pane. She turned away, but she still had the vision of Scott’s crew, trudging across the ice. They are haunting me, it occurred to her, and half annoyed and half intrigued, she returned to Winter Quarters Bay, deciding there was more to see. She could not sleep anyway.
Last out of the hold, the motor was winched into the light.
‘Call me when it’s ready to fire up,’ Scott instructed.
‘Yes, sir.’ Evans nodded curtly.
Taffy, as the men called him, set himself the task of checking the spark plugs and oiling the axle while, with a heavy heart, Karina sought information about this strange machine. She saw Scott with Hooker again, outside the house in Glasgow as they shook hands in front of a motor just like this one. Joseph, what does it do? she asked, but he did not answer.
In Scott’s memory, there was a good deal of enthusiasm for the idea of flying across the ice at a steady five miles an hour. It is a carriage that does not need horses, she realized and it occurred to her she had seen these in Maine, behind her good-for-nothing husband.
When Taffy’s work was done, almost the entire crew gathered. Skelton set his camera on a tripod as Evans opened an oil can and peered inside.
‘Well?’ said Wilson.
‘It’s frozen, sir.’
Wilson shook the can in the hope that Evans was mistaken. The group slumped. The cold had yet again outfoxed them. Karina’s heart sank further. Nothing worked here and Thebo hadn’t even died.
Wilson checked the remaining cans. The attaining of the motor had been considered something of a coup in London.
‘It’s no good. Get back to work,’ he waved off the men, who were still gathered hopefully around Evans.
One of the able seamen, George Vince, stumbled clumsily as he turned. Invisible, Karina removed her foot from his path. Vince had cheated on his wife, she saw. And in doing so, had lied to his mistress. Wilson rolled his eyes. The last thing he needed was an ankle injury. As the men disappeared, he turned to Evans. ‘I’ll tell the skipper.’
Inside, the doctor knocked on Scott’s door.
‘I’m afraid it’s become apparent that the motor is not going to be reliable, sir,’ Wilson announced. ‘It’s the fuel. It’s frozen.’
Scott sat back in his chair. ‘We did not think of that.’ Like Karina, his mood plummeted. The uselessness of the vehicle represented poor planning and as such was an affront to the expedition.
Outside, Karina sat regally in the upholstered leather seat of the carriage like a sculpture on the ice. There was no staying and no going for her, she realized. Like the motor-sled, she was defunct. There was no point in being here but she couldn’t leave – couldn’t even disappear. It had all been the most monstrous mistake. What was the point?
In the end, the captain had the men winch the thing back into the hold. There was a small chance if the temperature heightened that the fuel would thaw. Such seekers after glory, Karina snarled and the idea angered her, adding to all her other anger – Thebo’s lie, her mistakes, Hooker’s faithlessness. Ross had come to the Antarctic to do one thing – he wanted to make a map. By contrast, Scott’s dreams were peppered with a hundred wants and needs. He longed to be loved, to be known, to be admired. He was greedy. And she had had enough.
Once more, she tried to leave. The day-to-day watching of the crew’s efforts felt like a bruise now and it ached. Hooker had sent them. The very names the men used as they pointed out landmarks were redolent of her life aboard the Terror. And their quest was pointless in any case. How could such frailty ever reach the pole? It was impossible. Still, their presence continued to niggle and the fact she could not ignore them made another, smaller cage of her world – trapped by one man after another and until now, always believing she had been free, though even in death it seemed, that wasn’t true.
Not far from the village of huts and tents at Winter Quarters Bay, her body still lay packed below the ice. Decades of storms had blown over it. When the Erebus and Terror had sailed off, the grave was quite near the shore, but the sea had frozen fresh ice beyond it and now it lay further inland. The ice had thickened slowly, year by year but Karina could still see her body, deep under the thick white crust, her skin waxy, her flesh shrunk, Hooker’s old journal splayed to one side and her greatcoat now a rag slung around brittle frozen bones.
Like Si Bevan, Charles Clarke, the Discovery’s cook, baked bread in the galley. He had a mate, Henry Brett, who in an hotel would be called a sous chef, but here was only cookie’s mate. Karina watched them. The galley at least was a good memory. Once she thought to season the stew differently and knocked over some salt so that Clarke did so.
She lingered there as the men got to work early. They were usually the first on board to wake. As the rest of the crew fixed their attire ready for the sub-zero temperatures and made for the mess. In the last throws of summer, it was not yet cold enough for the men to long for another ten minutes in their bunks more than they longed to fill their bellies.
Clarke was thin for a cook. Years in the galley had had little effect on his frame. If he had a vice it was for tropical fruit developed during the years he was stationed in India. He indulged himself daily in the fantasy of eating mango. That fresh orange rush was an impossibility here, for what little fruit there was in the Discovery’s store was drowned in syrup, preserved in tins, not jars, like all modern food.
There was no question where the cook would go on his death. He missed India as if she were his mistress. The Antarctic seemed dispassionate compared to the wild monsoons and scorching summer heat of Bombay. He’d be teased for saying it, but it wasn’t only the temperature that was cold now they had arrived – the landscape had a kind of coldness too. Charles was a passionate man and he realized immediately he sailed into Winter Quarters Bay that he’d made a mistake. This place did not suit him and he did not get on well with Henry, a dour northerner with an appalling lack of knife skills and a propensity for simply heating ingredients rather than cooking them.
Still, Clarke reminded himself, being on the expedition was an honour. Each man had competed for his place with a hundred others. The truth was, he had been curious to see the frozen wastes or what little of them would be afforded a man of his station. It never occurred to him that those afternoons gorging on mangoes would seem such a luxury or that things at Scott’s polar destination would be quite so hard. He regularly promised himself that his next ship would be a spice vessel of the merchant class. He swore that he’d gobble all life’s sweetness as soon as it was on offer and, for that matter, relish the prospect of a small bonus payment, which with expeditionary funds as they were, would not be forthcoming on the D
iscovery. He is no Si Bevan, she thought. Not a quarter of him.
Clarke finished the breakfast service and left Brett to clear the decks. The thick smell of baking still discernable on the air, he decided to take a walk. With his movements only partially restricted by layers of woollen clothes, he stepped onto the ice and started away from the tents.
He was the first to set his foot over her. The cook’s snow boots were standard issue, made from thick leather. He had pulled on only one pair of socks. As his sole slapped over Karina’s grave, he felt the cold run through him like a spike, while below a shudder rushed through her spirit, setting her on edge and summoning her to the spot in an instant, like an elastic snapping her away from the mountaintop where she had been observing the camp from a distance. You! she hissed, as if he had betrayed her, fury seeping out. Unaware, Charles Clarke continued. He measured his progress by his memory of Nottingham High Street, which ran for a mile. Today, he decided, he wouldn’t go further than the old haberdashery.
But he had called her. The footfall echoed a drumbeat played on what was left of Karina’s heart. She looked around as she reeled from being brought here with such violence and scanned the vista to see if more men might follow Clarke in desecrating her grave but the work parties were about their business yards off, facing the other way. Her teeth bared, and seeming sharper than in life, she sucked in cold air from the thin cook’s direction. She focused on the receding figure, as if she might swallow him whole. How dare he? How dare all these men?
Clarke’s leg gave way under him in the sudden rush. He stumbled but regained his balance and looked accusingly at the ground. There was nothing on which it was possible to trip. He stamped his foot as if there might be a fault with his boots. Karina, glaring now, spat the air back at him and the cook, eyes blazing, stumbled again. This time, he lost his balance and fell over. I’ll be lucky if that doesn’t bruise my knee, he thought as he scrambled to his feet, looking round. There was nothing for miles and only the camp behind him. The sudden icy breeze had come from nowhere. The bruises were already blooming up his thigh. A way off now, Karina crouched low, ready to pounce should he return and she didn’t look away till he disappeared back on board.
The Ice Maiden Page 14