The servant who opened the door told them Mrs Christensen and the children were at the beach and that she could walk down to meet them. Mathilde’s shoulders slumped, but she took the children’s hands again and continued around the side of the house and onto the open lawn. They set out down the slope, skirting around bushes and trees. The sounds of distant laughter grew gradually louder, until they came around the side of a large rock above the beach.
The children were gathered around Ingrid, who was crouched down, her bare feet ankle-deep in the sand. A large fish was flapping desperately in the centre of the circle and it seemed Ingrid was instructing one of the children on how to kill it.
‘Put your foot on its head if it won’t keep still, silly,’ she was saying. ‘No, like this.’
She took the boy’s wrist, wrapped his hand around the cleaver and raised it high. ‘Hold on tight. Now bring it down hard and fast, like I showed you.’
The cleaver fell but the boy lost his nerve at the last minute and flinched. The blow glanced off the fish, which flapped again frantically. The other children laughed and jeered at him.
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Ingrid took up the cleaver and with a sharp blow parted the fish’s head from its body. ‘Don’t let it suffer.’
The boy twisted away from her, his face crumpled, and began to cry. Ingrid looked up and saw Mathilde and her children.
‘Mathilde!’ she called. She stood up. There was a streak of fish blood on the apron she had tied over her white dress, a dress that Mathilde would be too frightened to wear out of the house if she ever came to own such an expensive thing. Ingrid’s red hair was tumbling out of its clasps and she bent to wipe her hands in the sand.
‘My dear, I stink of fish,’ she said. ‘Cato just hasn’t the stomach to kill them, I’m afraid.’ She looked at Mathilde’s children, standing on each side of their mother. ‘Hello, Ole. Hello, Aase. Would you like to do some fishing?’
They dropped Mathilde’s hands with cruel speed and ran to Ingrid. She waved at someone else in the rabble and another boy stepped forward, pulled some reels from a basket and took the children down to the waterfront.
‘Thank goodness you came along,’ Ingrid said, pushing her hair back with her forearm. ‘I’ve had enough fishing for today. Coffee?’
‘Thank you,’ Mathilde managed.
‘Let’s go up,’ Ingrid said. ‘Here, I promise not to get my hands on you!’ She slipped her arm through Mathilde’s elbow. ‘It’s so good to see you. It’s been a long time. I’ve thought of you a lot.’
She chattered brightly as they climbed the grassy slope and made it to the stairs of the terrace without Mathilde having to say a word. Ingrid called for a servant, ordered coffee and disappeared to wash her hands. ‘I’ll be back in just a moment,’ she said, untying her apron.
The light was brilliant, glinting off the water, and Mathilde shifted herself to face away from it, pulling her hat down low. She could feel herself crumbling.
‘There, that’s better.’ Ingrid stepped out to the terrace again and seated herself. She looked at Mathilde for a long moment. ‘There’s something I want to talk to you about. But first, how have you been keeping?’
‘Really quite good,’ Mathilde said, forcing a smile.
‘It can’t be easy,’ Ingrid said, and patted her hand.
The servant arrived with the tray of coffee, to Mathilde’s relief, and she took a few minutes through the pouring and serving and nodding and stirring to remember why she had come.
‘There’s something …’ she said at last.
‘Yes?’
‘A man. Mr Lund. He keeps visiting. He comes every day for afternoon tea.’
‘Don’t you like him?’ Ingrid asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But I’m not ready. So I want you to tell him not to come any more.’
Ingrid looked at her with a perplexed expression. ‘I don’t think I know Mr Lund.’
‘He told me you’d said I would like some fish.’
Ingrid laughed, and then put her hand out in apology when Mathilde stayed silent. ‘I’m sorry. I think your Mr Lund may have used my name to get you to open the door.’
‘He says he works for your husband.’
‘That’s probably true. Half of Sandefjord works for my husband,’ she said, and picked up her coffee. ‘Mathilde, how long has it been?’
‘A year and a half,’ she said. ‘Not long.’
‘But you’re a young woman.’
‘I’m not ready to entertain men in my kitchen!’
‘So tell him not to come any more.’
Mathilde shook her head. ‘You don’t understand. He’s very determined.’
‘Don’t open the door. He’ll understand that.’
‘My children like him. They open the door to him, even when I tell them not to.’
They sat in silence for a few moments. Ingrid ate a small slice of cake. Mathilde finished her coffee and set it down on the saucer. She looked down at her hands, lying in her lap limply and suddenly lost the battle to keep her tears under control. Her shoulders began to shake. Ingrid, staring down at the fjord, didn’t notice for a few moments until Mathilde gave an audible sob.
‘Oh, my dear,’ she said, putting a hand on Mathilde’s shoulder.
Mathilde thought she might have got through it if Ingrid hadn’t touched her. She leaned forward and put her hands over her face, the dreadful sobs beyond her control to halt.
‘Now listen to me.’ Ingrid drew Mathilde back up to sitting and patted her cheek. She lifted a napkin and wiped Mathilde’s eyes and nose. ‘This is no good. Not for you; not for them.’
‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ Mathilde said, struggling to regain herself.
‘No, I don’t,’ Ingrid said. ‘But I can see you need some help.’
‘I just need to be left alone. I’m all right on my own.’
‘I doubt that,’ Ingrid said. ‘But this is what I wanted to discuss with you. What about a holiday?’
The concept was so alien that at first Mathilde had no idea what Ingrid was suggesting. She looked at her blankly.
‘Lars and I are going on a cruise,’ Ingrid said. ‘Come with us.’
Mathilde recoiled. ‘What about the children?’
‘They’ll be perfectly happy with their grandparents. I’m leaving my children too, so they can come here and play together. Come on, Mathilde. It will be a great adventure. You need it.’
‘Where to?’ Mathilde asked, in spite of herself.
‘You won’t believe it,’ Ingrid said. ‘Antarctica!’
Mathilde laughed, a response as sudden and surprising as her tears. ‘Antarctica,’ she repeated. It was as impossible to imagine as Venezuela.
‘It might be just what you need,’ Ingrid said. ‘Somewhere quite different. New people. Nothing to worry about.’
Mathilde was filled with an urge to get away from Ingrid. She’d been right to avoid her. The woman was capable of anything in the name of kindness.
She rose to her feet. ‘That’s kind of you, Ingrid,’ she said. ‘But I really can’t go on a trip right now. I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time.’
Ingrid stood too. ‘Think about it, Mathilde.’
‘I’ll get the children,’ Mathilde said, stepping back. ‘Thank you for the coffee.’
She turned before Ingrid could say anything more and hurried down the lawn to find Ole and Aase. What on earth had made Ingrid even think of inviting her to go with them? She must have had a dozen female friends better suited to such a trip.
Mathilde found herself shaking her head in disbelief as she strode onto the beach. Antarctica. As if she needed another winter.
She’d forgotten how fast word could travel in Sandefjord. The next morning, before she’d even planned how to busy the children and herself for the day, there was a knock at the door. Mathilde stamped down the hallway, annoyed at Hans Lund for coming so early and determined to see him off. But when she threw op
en the door, it was Ole and Gerd.
‘Oh,’ she said, standing still.
‘Hello, Mathilde,’ Gerd said. ‘Can we come in?’
‘Of course.’ Mathilde stepped back.
They both smiled at her oddly as they came into the house. She followed them down the hallway and into the kitchen. Gerd went to the stove and started the coffee preparations herself.
‘Let me,’ Mathilde said, making her way over. ‘Sit down, please. I’ll call the children.’
‘No need,’ Gerd said. ‘We want to speak to you first.’
Mathilde looked from one of them to the other. ‘What is it?’
‘The Christensens called us last night, on the telephone. Said you’d been around for a visit.’
‘That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?’ Mathilde asked.
‘Yes, my dear,’ Gerd said. ‘It’s very good. We were thrilled. Ingrid told us she invited you on a trip.’
Mathilde busied herself with the cups. ‘Oh, she said something about it. Somewhere ridiculous.’
‘Antarctica,’ Ole said.
She turned. They were both staring at her. ‘What is it?’
‘We think you should go,’ Gerd said, straight to the point as ever. ‘It’s a wonderful opportunity. You need the rest, Mathilde, and what excellent company you’ll have. It’s such a generous offer.’
‘I couldn’t possibly leave the children.’
‘But we’d love to have the children.’ Gerd reached out to catch her hand. ‘They need a change too, Mathilde. It’s not right to keep them cooped up here like this.’
Her grip was so hard that Mathilde’s fingers started to hurt, and she shuffled awkwardly. ‘I don’t want to go.’
Ole stood and laid a hand on her shoulder. It felt as heavy and unyielding as Gerd’s grip on her fingers.
‘You’re in a bad way,’ he said. ‘And not getting any better. You need a change, Mathilde.’
Mathilde felt like a child. ‘You can’t make me.’
‘It’s for your own good,’ he said. ‘You’ll thank us, once you’re away.’
Gerd tugged at her hand. ‘We’re terribly worried about you. At this rate you’ll end up in a sanatorium. Wouldn’t you rather go on a cruise with Lars and Ingrid?’
Mathilde’s shoulders sagged. She’d forgotten, in her grief, how Lars and Ole and a few other powerful men ran Sandefjord. She’d thought herself so far below their notice that they wouldn’t bother with her. But she was bound to the Wegger family now; the mother of its male heir. They’d allowed her to think she was her own creature only while she caused no bother.
‘It will be wonderful,’ Gerd said. ‘They’re leaving on a passenger liner in December for Cape Town, and then on to Antarctica. A great adventure. I’d go myself if I could.’
‘I’ll let Lars know to book your tickets,’ Ole said, when she didn’t speak. He gave her a gentle shake. ‘Aren’t you the lucky one?’
They let go of her. Mathilde sat down, her legs weak.
‘Bring the children to dinner tonight,’ Gerd said. ‘We’ll celebrate. We’re so thrilled to have them to stay. I promise you, we’ll look after them so well they’ll hardly notice you’re gone.’
Satisfied, they ignored her silence and made their farewells. Mathilde sat unmoving as they let themselves out. The sound of the door closing behind them shuddered through the house.
All she wanted was to savour her retreating memories of Jakob before they ceased to exist. She needed the children with her to recall him fully. Looking down into their faces, she could see him written there. She knew she wasn’t mothering them well in her grief, but she relied on them to keep her tethered to the world, to tug her back into it when she was ready. Now Gerd and Ole wanted to part her from the children and cast her adrift in a world of ice. Couldn’t they see it was the very thing most likely to unhinge her?
For a moment Mathilde thought wildly of Hans Lund. She could marry him, perhaps, and then Jakob’s parents wouldn’t have such power. They could take the children, go somewhere else, make a new life. But even as she thought it, she knew it was impossible. The children bound her to Jakob’s parents and there was no escaping the web of connections they had created.
She shook her head; straightened herself. She’d just refuse. That was all. They couldn’t force her onto the ship. She imagined locking the door, buying a dog, refusing to let the children leave the house.
Aase and Ole. The looks on their faces when Hans came knocking, the way they ran down the hall to open the door, the entreaty in their eyes when they asked to go out. She couldn’t do it, couldn’t imprison them in her grief.
A sanatorium, Gerd had said. It hadn’t registered in the moment she spoke, but as Mathilde sat there she realised what had been threatened. The ice or the madhouse. Both places without her children. These were her choices.
CHAPTER 9
The letter from Hjalmar was waiting for Lillemor in the front hall. She picked it up and paused before opening it. She realised she was shaking, and put a hand on the bureau to steady herself.
Since she’d first had the idea to go south, she had planned her Antarctic assault with the same care as Amundsen or Scott. The challenges and logistics were different, but her determination was as strong. Lillemor had read every account of polar exploration she could find. She knew her north and south, she knew the great journeys, the triumphs and failures. She knew Scott’s dying words on his way back from the Pole, and Amundsen’s pedestrian ones as he set down the daily details of his race to beat the Englishman.
Every journey of exploration faced challenges before setting out. The real explorers were those who could navigate through them. Captain Riiser-Larsen had agreed to take her, she reminded herself. The only obstacle in their way was Unilever and its determination to grind down the Norwegian whalers until they were more desperate sellers of oil.
She picked up the letter opener and slit the envelope in a single motion. The paper slid out and she unfolded it.
I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Rachlew, Hjalmar wrote. It seems Consul Christensen wants his wife to be the first woman to visit Antarctica. Ingrid and a female friend are sailing with us on the resupply vessel Thorshavn, which is ferrying me south to meet up with Norvegia. The Consul has forbidden me to take any female passenger myself.
Lillemor threw the paper to the floor in disbelief and fury, and gave an impotent half-roar of the kind a woman was reduced to making when another opportunity was denied her.
Anton came running out of the parlour at the sound. He stopped when he saw her, then came closer and picked up the letter. He scanned it quickly.
‘Oh, darling,’ he said.
She kept out of his reach. ‘Those damned Christensens. Them and their great ancestors and their pure Viking blood!’
She thumped the bureau with her fist and groaned aloud, thinking of what had been snatched from her. Anton flinched. He hadn’t seen her temper yet, she remembered. She forced herself to take some deep breaths.
‘I bet Ingrid Christensen doesn’t give a damn about Antarctica,’ she said. ‘It’s just the latest season’s holiday. Last year Rio, this year Antarctica, next year bloody Tahiti. And so much for your friend Hjalmar. Doesn’t he rule his own ship? What kind of captain is he?’
‘The kind whose explorations are funded by someone else,’ Anton said. ‘In this case, Christensen. Hjalmar wouldn’t be exploring without the Consul’s backing.’
‘Well, he’s a sop then. I don’t care if he’s being funded. He should have stood up for himself.’
Anton reached out a hand. ‘I’ll make it up to you. We’ll go somewhere ourselves; have our own trip.’
‘It’s not just a trip!’
‘I’m trying to help,’ he said quietly.
She pushed him away. ‘I’m going out.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘I need to be alone.’ She turned and pushed blindly at the door, out into the English summer afternoon.
She w
asn’t a crier, so she wished for gloomy English darkness and a cold London fog to close around her and express her misery. But as she strode along the street, the world refused to cooperate. Children played and carriages and cars went about their business and birds sang. London seemed as merry as if the crash had never happened and Lillemor hadn’t received the day’s news.
Damn London. She’d arrived there thinking it such a big step from Oslo. One of the world’s great cities, full of bohemians and suffragists and adventurers, a place where a woman like Lillemor could make a mark on the world. She’d left her staid parents and her married sister in Oslo without regret, barely remembering to dash off Christmas cards to them, and set herself to join the main current of world events. In London, a youngish woman of modest but independent means could find any new adventure her heart desired, surely?
She’d met many of those famous women, some through Women’s Service House, and been there to celebrate the achievement of universal suffrage in 1928. Freda was past her climbing days when they got to know each other, but Lillemor liked her anyway. Though grief had softened Freda’s body and hardened her face, Lillemor could see the formidable woman she’d been.
In the aftermath of the Wall Street crash, Lillemor had volunteered to help out in Dr Marie Stopes’s Mothers’ Clinic to keep herself busy while she waited to see what adventure presented itself. She and Marie had become friends over the last two years. But now she was married and had turned thirty. Life was passing quickly and, with it, her chance to make something of herself.
When Ingrid and her companion returned, the papers would trumpet them as the first women to reach Antarctica and the chance of Lillemor ever being the first herself would be lost. She thought of Robert Falcon Scott, still celebrated as a hero though he’d been second to reach the South Pole. The British mourned him still, with a fervour far greater than the Norwegians showed towards Amundsen. Lillemor herself felt more kinship with Scott and his tragic end. Hjalmar should have borrowed the phrase from Amundsen’s telegraph to Scott: ‘Beg to inform, heading south’, the words that carried, in their unspoken brutality, the death of all Scott’s dreams.
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