Lars propped himself up on one elbow. ‘Don’t let’s fight over this. You won your victory. I brought you with me.’
‘But I came to see Antarctica.’
He held out his hand. ‘And you will. When Hjalmar and I have done our reconnaissance in the catcher, I’ll have Horntvedt bring the ship to land if we find it. You won’t miss out.’
Ingrid fought down her anger for another moment and then walked back to the bed. She got in and rolled away from him. He curled around her back and she forced herself to relax against him, leaning back in the familiar position that inevitably led them both into sleep. His breathing slowed and Ingrid slowed her own to match it.
The wind sped up outside and she heard the scream of the saw descending on a whale carcass. She pressed her eyes closed and tried to remember the icebergs, but the insides of her eyelids were red.
Ingrid felt Lars kiss her cheek. She pretended she was still asleep as he climbed out of bed and dressed. She heard him pause at the door but she kept still, facing away from him and after a time she heard the cabin door close. She lay in bed listening to the thumps and clanks as Thorshavn rose and fell, coupled to Solglimt. She couldn’t bear to watch Lars and Hjalmar preparing for their adventure, but lying in bed left her free to dwell on Mathilde.
It occurred to Ingrid that she could speak to Hjalmar herself, making it sound like Lars had asked her to deal with the matter of Mathilde discreetly. She checked the clock. There may still be time to catch him alone before he departed with Lars. She got out of bed and struggled into her outdoor clothes, clumsy with haste, her bootlaces in a tangle. In the end she groaned with exasperation, wrenched the door open and rushed out. As she stepped on the icy deck her feet skidded, the laces tangled around her ankles and she went down, arms and legs flailing, hip and elbow connecting with the steel in a sharp jolt of pain.
She came to rest staring up at the sky, and as she waited for the pain to subside and her thudding heart to return to normal, she saw it was blue for the first time in at least a week.
‘Mrs Christensen? Are you all right?’ Tobias, the mess boy, was holding a tray and staring down at her in concern.
Ingrid sat up. ‘I’m fine. I just slipped.’
He helped her to her feet. ‘Thank you,’ Ingrid said. ‘Do you know where Captain Riiser-Larsen is?’
Tobias grinned. ‘Flying!’ At her perplexed look he pointed towards the rear deck. F18 and Qarrtsiluni were strapped in their usual places. Ingrid peered more closely. She could see the outline of a head in the pilot’s seat. Qarrtsiluni wasn’t just her private refuge, it seemed.
‘His favourite hidey spot,’ Tobias said.
Ingrid took a coffee from Tobias, descended the steps and crossed the deck, her soles clanking on the metal and making the two planes quiver. She stopped at Qarrtsiluni, the coffee cradled in her hands. With a creak the door opened. Ingrid saw Hjalmar pull the lever, and the steps folded out, coming to rest on the deck beside her. She gripped the handrail, stepped up, ducked her head, and entered.
Hjalmar took the proffered coffee without a word. Ingrid lowered herself into the rear seat while he drew up the steps and shut the door. It was only a little warmer inside the cockpit than out, but its snugness felt comforting. As Hjalmar gulped the coffee Ingrid looked across his shoulder. Through the tiny windscreen the vast landscape around them shrank. Through that portal she could see nothing of Thorshavn or the factory ship, just sea, sky and icebergs, neatly framed.
‘I can’t help thinking of Amundsen in here,’ she said. ‘Do you think they died quickly?’
Hjalmar sighed. ‘No, I don’t. I saw the wing float that was found. It had been interfered with after the crash. Someone was still alive.’
Ingrid felt a pain in her chest. ‘You never told me that.’
He shrugged. ‘Did you really want to know?’
She watched his profile. His face was naturally cheerful but at the mention of Amundsen it creased with grief.
‘You must miss him,’ she said. ‘Although I know you had some differences.’
Hjalmar glanced back at her. ‘He never forgave me for supporting the Italians in going to the North Pole. He refused to speak to me for the last two years of his life.’
Ingrid was silent as Hjalmar took a puff on his pipe. There was no one else who shared this understanding, no one who’d known and loved Amundsen like they both had. The man had wounded them both, she realised.
Smoke drifted back towards her, strong and earthy, and the stench of the factory ship seemed to recede. At home she didn’t like the smell of tobacco, but here, with a need to inhale something that didn’t stink of viscera, it seemed appealing.
‘May I?’ she asked, reaching out her hand.
He passed it back and she grasped its stem. Suddenly the request seemed terribly intimate, to put her own lips where his had been moments ago.
‘Don’t draw the smoke in,’ he said.
Ingrid puffed and felt an illicit thrill travel down her body. The long, dark pipe tasted undeniably of him. She could feel herself blushing and was glad he hadn’t turned to watch. She took a couple more puffs. Her head spun and she closed her eyes. The tobacco crackled and glowed in the pipe bowl. Ingrid cupped her hand around it to extract the heat before returning it.
‘I could come to like that,’ she said.
He put his lips to the stem and suddenly Ingrid wished she had wiped it. The cabin, with two bodies in its confined space, was beginning to warm up.
She sensed that Hjalmar regretted speaking of Amundsen, and changed the subject. ‘You must be looking forward to joining Norvegia.’
He nodded.
‘You don’t care much for this business.’
The silence was so long Ingrid thought he wasn’t going to answer. She had just opened her mouth to speak again when he did.
‘My business is going places no one else has been. When I came here four years ago, the Antarctic was full of whales and empty of men. Now there are two hundred and fifty ships and ten thousand men hunting whales.’
The windscreen was fogging from their breath and Hjalmar reached forward with a gloved hand to wipe it clear.
‘Mathilde says you think whaling is wrong,’ Ingrid said.
‘I don’t think any creature can survive such an onslaught for long. I fear the whales will go the way of the fur seals.’
‘But Lars operates under the strictest guidelines.’
He swivelled. ‘I’m not criticising your husband. I know he instructs his crews to work under those regulations. But he’s just one fleet owner. There are ships from half a dozen nations whaling here. We’re a very long way from where regulations are made, and Antarctica is not a place where regulations stick.’
‘No,’ Ingrid said slowly. ‘I’m beginning to see that.’
‘Every whaling industry in the past hundred years has fished its grounds until there were no whales left.’
The wind whistled through the plane’s stays and in the distance, muffled through the cockpit, Ingrid could hear the scream of Solglimt’s bone saw. ‘I need to speak with you about Mathilde. She has some foolish idea of going home on Norvegia.’
‘And that would be quite impossible?’
Something in his voice made her pause. Perhaps he did want to take Mathilde with him. ‘Completely impossible. You mustn’t let her think otherwise.’
‘I’m surprised you’re so old fashioned,’ he said. ‘The world’s changing, as I told Lars when he first refused to take you. A woman on a ship isn’t the scandal it would have been once, as you know.’
Ingrid tried to think of another approach. Lillemor, she thought, would have no trouble convincing him. What would she have said?
‘You’re only just divorced, Captain. Are you looking for another wife?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ He swung around.
Ingrid mustered all her nerve to meet his eyes. ‘Mathilde is a widow with children. Do you intend to marry her? Or just leave her alone back
in Sandefjord after your jaunt on Norvegia? It’s easy for you to think there’s no scandal, being a man. For Mathilde it would be a scandal by any count back in Norway, and would ruin her chances of finding another husband. She’s probably not thinking of that clearly, as she seems to still be grieving. Her judgment’s poor.’
He eyed her in silence, until the moment became uncomfortable. Qarrtsiluni rocked in the wind.
‘Are you giving me an order?’ he asked.
Ingrid slid forward in her seat. ‘Could you let me out, please?’
Hjalmar cracked the door and icy air streamed in, metallic with the smell of freshly flensed whale. He pulled the lever to unfold the steps. Ingrid climbed down.
‘I’m sure we don’t have to make it an order.’
‘On Norvegia I’m the captain,’ he said.
‘Lars makes the ultimate orders on all his ships.’
‘I won’t forget that.’ He pulled the lever to raise the staircase. He reached across and took the door handle. ‘Thanks for our little chat, Mrs Christensen,’ he said, and pulled it shut with just enough force to qualify as a slam.
She’d lost him, she realised, with a sinking heart.
CHAPTER 25
The safety rope tightened around Lillemor’s waist as her foot scrabbled against the wall. For a moment she thought she was falling and the fright jolted her, until she realised it was just the oil sliding under her soles. She turned so her headlamp sent its beam down into the depths of the fuel tank. She saw headlamps flashing below and several turned up towards her. Four men were working on the tank floor with brooms, buckets and shovels.
‘Hello!’ she called. ‘How’s it going down there?’
‘Couldn’t be better, missus,’ one of them called up.
The first mate, Atle, was coming down beside her on a rope, his face drawing level with hers. ‘Are you all right?’
The glare of his headlamp blinded her for a few seconds. ‘I thought the factory ship stank,’ Lillemor said. ‘But this is lethal.’
‘Gives you a hell of a hangover.’ Atle drew level with her and let out a yell to the men lowering him down.
Lillemor jumped as the sound echoed around the tank. His descent halted and they hung at the same height, each clipped to the heavy rope, one foot jammed into a loop at the bottom.
‘Can we go to the bottom?’ Lillemor asked.
He shook his head. ‘There’s six inches of fuel sludge down there. The fumes are terrible and you’ll never get it off your shoes.’
He called up to the top: ‘Is Mrs Christensen on the way down?’
Shouts came in reply and Lillemor could see a large basket descending. Ingrid had refused to get into the tank on a rope, but Lillemor convinced her to be lowered down. In a few more moments she drew level with them and the winch stopped. She was gripping the edges of the basket, but she smiled at Lillemor.
‘Isn’t this something?’ Lillemor asked.
Ingrid nodded. ‘So how does it work, Mr Tang?’
‘It has to be spotless before we can put whale oil into it,’ he said, his voice booming off the walls. ‘There’s not much time after getting the fuel out, so we do shifts round the clock. It takes a dozen of us about three days with a steam hose and scrapers to get the fuel off the ceiling and walls of the tank. Those chaps down the bottom are cleaning up what’s left with shovels and buckets, and then we’ll give it a final steam and hose out.’
‘So a cigarette is out of the question?’ Lillemor laughed.
He didn’t join in. ‘Not a good idea.’
‘I’d like to go up now,’ Ingrid said. ‘I’m getting a headache.’
He called to the men above and Ingrid’s basket started to rise.
‘When will you be finished with this one?’ Lillemor asked. ‘I’d love to walk around the bottom.’
‘You’re a funny one, Mrs Rachlew. Most men don’t even like that. Should be done by tonight if all goes well.’
‘Excellent.’ She could see he was nervous having them in the tank. ‘I suppose we’d best go up then.’
As she neared the surface of the tank and sunlight flooded down on her, Lillemor thought she’d talk to Ingrid about encouraging Mathilde outdoors. She had declared that morning she wouldn’t come out of the cabin while they were at the factory ship.
They emerged from the tank into a clear, sunny day, with almost no wind. When the two of them thanked their helpers, they crossed to the railing, away from the factory ship. The clear weather had made the water sparkle in the sunshine and the icebergs looked even more imposing with their deep blue hearts. But the smooth weather was infuriating.
‘You couldn’t have ordered better conditions for exploring,’ Lillemor said. ‘We’d have been more safe than on the ferry at home.’
‘Well, at least we’ve had our little adventure,’ Ingrid said. ‘I don’t think Lars has ever been inside a tank.’
Lillemor didn’t reply. She’d been bitterly disappointed when she’d found they weren’t allowed on the catcher, and her idea of being lowered into a fuel tank, while fascinating, didn’t come close to making up for it.
‘We’ll have to talk them into taking us next time,’ she mused.
‘I tried talking Lars into it this time and got nowhere.’
Lillemor could see by the set of Ingrid’s mouth that she was still angry about it. ‘Perhaps you’re going about it wrongly. I don’t have many talents, Ingrid, but I’m good at convincing men to let me have my way.’
‘I can see that.’ Ingrid was watching the icebergs surrounding them and she peered more closely. ‘Is that them coming back already?’
Lillemor saw a ship in the distance. ‘The shape isn’t right for a catcher.’ She called one of the men over. ‘What’s that?’
He shaded his eyes with his hand to see better. ‘Not one of ours.’
‘Let’s go up to the bridge,’ Lillemor said. ‘Horntvedt will know.’
When they reached the bridge, the radio was crackling. Instead of familiar Norwegian, a different language blared forth.
‘Any word from my husband?’ Ingrid asked.
‘They radioed in two hours ago that they were doing depth soundings, but nothing to report,’ Horntvedt said.
The radio blared again, the sound harsh. It was familiar to Lillemor but she couldn’t place it.
‘What’s that?’ Ingrid asked.
Nils gave her a smile. ‘English of course.’
‘But I didn’t get a word of it!’
‘Even the English have a hard time understanding Australians. Listen.’
When the voice came again, Lillemor concentrated. She heard ‘Whalers … Re-coaling …’ It was Freda’s accent, she suddenly realised, the vowels long and flat.
‘I didn’t know the Australians were whaling down here too.’ Horntvedt and Nils were both staring intently out the window at the ship, which was coming closer.
‘That’s not a whaler,’ Nils said. ‘It’s Discovery.’
Lillemor and Ingrid both hurried to the window and Lillemor pressed her hands to the glass. If Mawson had accepted her application, she would have been on that very ship.
‘Are they coming here?’ Lillemor asked.
‘They’ve sent no message,’ Horntvedt said.
‘Send them one!’ Ingrid demanded. ‘Lars has always wanted to meet Sir Mawson.’
‘Your husband is hours away,’ Horntvedt said.
‘I insist you send a message. I’ll meet Mawson myself on my husband’s behalf.’
‘I can’t do that, Mrs Christensen. I can only take orders from your husband and he’s not here. Perhaps you’re not aware that there’s animosity between Norway and Australia over this territory?’
Lillemor saw an angry line settle around Ingrid’s mouth. She turned back to Horntvedt and put on her most winning smile. ‘Captain, this is a historic occasion,’ she said. ‘Could you at least get Lars on the radio?’
Horntvedt refused to look at her. ‘The catcher is out
of radio range.’
‘For God’s sake, Captain Riiser-Larsen went on board Discovery last year and spent two hours with Sir Mawson!’ Ingrid snapped. ‘This is madness.’
‘He went on board and shook hands, and then Mawson went ahead with charting the land he agreed to leave to Riiser-Larsen,’ Horntvedt said, his face hard. ‘He’s no friend to Norway.’
Ingrid banged her fist on the window ledge and let out a groan of frustration. Lillemor saw Horntvedt look at her disapprovingly. In another moment he’d throw them off the bridge, she thought. Ingrid, in her usual manner, seemed inclined to keep arguing the point.
Nils came close, his face concerned. ‘Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in the saloon, Mrs Christensen. Can I accompany you?’
Lillemor stepped forward. ‘What a good idea.’ She took Ingrid’s hand. ‘Come on.’
‘I’m perfectly capable of finding my way,’ Ingrid said sharply to Nils. He stepped back at once.
Lillemor pulled on Ingrid’s hand, till it felt like she was half dragging her across the bridge. She managed to get the two of them out and the door closed before Ingrid could say anything else.
‘That man,’ Ingrid exclaimed, when they were out of earshot. ‘I could kill him.’
‘He’s an old fool, but don’t get us banned from the bridge,’ Lillemor said.
‘He wouldn’t dare!’
‘Oh yes he would. A captain is king on his own boat.’
Lillemor picked out the ship among the icebergs again. Its tall masts were coming in to clearer view, though it was still some way off.
‘I have an idea,’ Lillemor said slowly. Ingrid turned to her, and Lillemor couldn’t help but laugh. ‘He’ll wish he’d let us stay on the bridge when he sees it. But we need Mathilde. Come on!’
Lillemor started running along the catwalk to the cabins. She could hear Ingrid hurrying to keep up behind her as she reached the door of their cabin and grabbed the handle. It was locked.
Lillemor pounded on the wood. ‘Mathilde, quick.’ She leaned close to the crack of the door. ‘Mawson’s ship is about to pass. It might be our only chance to see him.’
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