She felt utterly insignificant. Antarctica reminded you of that, she thought, by showing her size and power in relation to your own.
If he were here, Anton would have stood by her and even if she didn’t get her way, his love would have buffered her each night, his touch would have soothed her disappointment, his regard and his desire would have been a balm on her self-esteem, letting her float across the feeling that no one really liked her. Some of the men desired her – she hadn’t lost that ability – but none looked at her with simple, frank liking and neither of the women did either.
It was her own fault. She’d played them off against each other, teased and pricked them, needled them, divided them. In the end, for all her machinations, it wasn’t worth it, for Ingrid’s husband could simply wave his hand and say this is how it shall be.
She longed, for a moment, to crawl into the bunk beside Mathilde, to lay her head in the hollow where Mathilde’s neck met her shoulder, bury her face there and close her eyes, feel the simplicity of warmth and contact.
She shook her head. She should go to the saloon and have a coffee, or onto the bridge. She should indulge in human conversation, laugh a little, flirt a little, get out of this dark frame of mind. The gloomy weather would lift soon, the water wouldn’t be so black, the sun would come out and these dark imaginings would go back where they belonged.
A knock at the door made her jump. Mathilde didn’t move and Lillemor felt a moment of concern as she went to answer it.
It was Dr Stevensson. ‘How’s the patient going?’
Lillemor stood aside to let him in. She could smell alcohol on his breath as he passed. ‘I’m worried. She hasn’t moved.’
He took Mathilde’s pulse, opened an eyelid and shone his torch inside, repeated it on the other side. ‘She’s fine,’ he said, his voice horribly hearty. ‘I’ll call in again before dinner.’
‘I don’t think you should give her any more,’ Lillemor said.
‘Don’t you worry. I’ll be the judge of that. She’ll be so much better after a rest.’
He stopped by the door and lifted his gaze from her chest as though it were an effort. ‘Coming up for a drink before dinner, Mrs Rachlew?’
‘It’s been a difficult week,’ he said when she didn’t answer at once. ‘Not surprising Mrs Wegger’s had trouble coping. Some upsetting sights.’
‘I suppose so,’ Lillemor said.
‘Can I walk you upstairs?’
His hunger was palpable and Lillemor felt herself retreating. It was one thing to inflame men with desire in London, when you could get into a taxi afterwards and go home. It was another in this queer world where every action and gesture took on its own significance and there was so much time to brood. She may need to be more careful, she thought.
‘I’ll follow shortly,’ she said, and gave him a bland smile.
After the door was safely closed behind him, Lillemor went back to Mathilde and sat on the side of the bunk next to her. She reached out and stroked a stray hair back from her forehead. Mathilde wasn’t beautiful, but in sleep her lips were soft and full, her eyelashes long, the corners of her mouth sweetly dimpled. She looked terribly young. Was this what Hjalmar saw in her? Were he here now, would he lean down and press his lips softly against the fullness of hers?
Lillemor took her hand away and stood up. It was time to get out of the cabin.
CHAPTER 34
Ingrid woke in grey no-time. The engines were off and a deep quiet hung over the ship. Lars shifted in his sleep and swallowed. The sound of it, magnified in the silence, made her shudder. She extricated herself from the bunk without waking him, tiptoed to the porthole and put her eye to the crack in the curtain. All she could see was white. She got into her coat, noiselessly squeezed the door handle open and stepped outside.
The ship lay unmoving in dark, glassy water, surrounded by mist. The blizzard had blown itself out and the world was lit with a flat, white illumination that seemed to emanate from all around them. The exhausted crewmen, free at last from the tank scrubbing that had dominated their time in Antarctic waters, were not to be seen. It must be some very early hour of the morning, Ingrid surmised. Nothing moved around them and the surrounding icebergs towered above the ship.
She could have been in a fairy tale where the world had been put into an enchanted sleep. It made her think of the Snow Queen and Ingrid shuddered, not only from the cold. It seemed she had somehow turned into the brutal Snow Queen herself on this trip. Her longing to go to Antarctica had been an innocent one at the start, but now it felt tainted. She didn’t like who she was becoming.
Determined to shake the idea, Ingrid went downstairs to the deck and crossed to the railing, her breath blowing icy clouds on the still air. She ignored the cold, as it tried to work its fingers inside her collar and around the edges of her sleeves, and slowed her breathing down until it was almost soundless. Her eardrums sang.
There she was, at last, away from the factory ships, away from the stench of dead whales and the boilers working furiously. The smell still permeated her clothes, but compared to the stink that surrounded the factory ships, it was mild. Away past the bergs and the scattered pack ice, the ice barrier reared up in a towering cliff, as if some mighty axe had cleaved off the edge of the continent. Aptly named, it prevented further incursion.
Ingrid stared at the white line against the grey sky. Would she ever truly feel Antarctica, observing it from a ship? It was always a blur of white in the distance, as much of a dream as it had been back in Norway. It always kept her out.
She heard an explosive exhalation of breath across the water. Above the glassy surface a mist of vapour rose from a whale’s blast. A moment later a second, smaller mist rose and she heard the second whoosh, loud in the silence. She wanted to clap or shout, somehow scare them off. Hadn’t one of their kin warned them to stay away from metal ships and throbbing engines? But with no engine running, there was nothing to alert them.
Ingrid pressed her hand against her chest to slow the pounding. They were far from the factories now and none of the catchers had followed them this distance into the pack ice. Perhaps she could watch the whales without fear this time, with no one on board pointing and jostling for a gunner’s tip, and no one to see if she smiled at the kill.
The ripples from their rising spread in large circles, moving out wider until they reached the ship’s hull and splashed against its indifferent sides. Ingrid stared until her eyes burned, trying to guess where they might emerge. Then there was another breath, so loud and close it made her jump.
Against Thorshavn’s flank she could see a whale. It was smaller than she expected – was it a humpback? Most of the whales she’d seen were dead, and from their grossly distended shapes it was hard to discern distinguishing features.
The whale stayed on the surface and blew a second time and the fishy scent of its breath rose to Ingrid’s face. She leaned over, wishing she could see through the water to the bottom of the icebergs and the mysterious creatures that swam among them. What was down there? Ingrid looked at the small whale again, and then blinked. Underneath it, the water was turning a brilliant blue, as turquoise as the inside of an iceberg. The shape rising from the depths was so vast she thought she’d conjured a monster from her own imagination. She drew back with a gasp as it broke the surface and the breath was so explosive this time that she thought for a moment some catcher, waiting, invisible, nearby, had fired.
It was a mother and her calf, Ingrid saw, and the mother’s body ran alongside Thorshavn and out of sight. This could only be a blue whale and to the marrow of her bones Ingrid felt its size in comparison to her own. The creature looked big enough to flick her tail at Thorshavn and send them crashing into the ice barrier. Much bigger, it seemed, than the blue whale they’d shot from the catcher.
The calf arched its back and dived out of sight, but the mother lingered and after a moment Ingrid dared to come again to the rail and look down. The whale manoeuvred her huge body in t
he water, her tail sinking down out of sight as she raised her head the way the humpbacks had done. Her breath hung on the air and the mist of Ingrid’s breath intermingled with it.
She can’t see me, Ingrid told herself. It was impossible. The whale’s eyesight would surely be as blurred in the open air as Ingrid’s own would be underwater. Yet the whale pivoted, turning her body to the side and revealing a dark, round eye that seemed to be looking straight up at her.
The whale held her gaze as if it sensed that the ship carried the essence of her kin in its hold, the boiled-down oil of whale – blue, humpback, sperm and minke alike – distilled and mixed in its tanks.
The calf rose again and the mother began to sink back into the water. Ingrid leaned perilously over the railing. The whale turned her eye away as she went down and Ingrid wanted to cry out in anguish, wishing for a way to express remorse for the two thousand whales whose oil lay under her feet.
The whale disappeared, leaving a bubbling whirlpool behind her, a dark tunnel leading into her underwater realm. Ingrid’s face was wet with tears that froze to her cheeks in the cold air, making the skin stiff. She hung there for a long time, until some slight movement caught her eye and she straightened up. Hjalmar was standing above her on the catwalk, holding his pipe. She could hardly bear him to see her at such a moment, laid bare.
The moment seemed to stretch out as wide as the ice. At last he took his pipe from his mouth. ‘I’d give up some of my greatest discoveries for what you just had,’ he said, his voice low.
Footsteps rang out; the day was beginning. Ingrid could see Tobias bustling along the deck – shortly he would be at her elbow with hot coffee. Her moment was gone and its passing was almost unbearable. She gripped the rail and tried to come back to herself.
‘I was just coming to wake you,’ Hjalmar said. ‘Captain Horntvedt says we’ll be coming out from the ice barrier and land isn’t far off. I presume you and your husband would like to see it.’
They gathered on the bridge again as the sheer edge of the ice barrier gave way to the familiar mess of pack ice. Ingrid stared into the shapes of ice and sky and water while the depth sounder pinged. The chaos of her feelings matched the chaos of the ice and she was equally without landmark or chart to orient herself. She was relieved that Lillemor, standing beside her, was silent.
It seemed the encounter with the whale had endowed Ingrid with some new appeal, for when she glanced up, Hjalmar was observing her. She steeled herself against whatever he might say, but he kept his peace and Ingrid was relieved. The chatter on the bridge was setting her teeth on edge. She wanted to be still and quiet, to press her ear against the hull down in the tank and hear the sounds of the whales singing in their ancient realm.
‘Klarius Mikkelsen, one of my captains, found land in this area on his last trip,’ Lars said to Ingrid and Lillemor, intruding on her thoughts. ‘He said it was near sixty-eight degrees east, a good tall headland, clearly visible. If he was accurate, we should be close.’
‘Excellent,’ Lillemor said, when Ingrid didn’t answer.
Lars had found time for his grooming before reaching the bridge, and he was immaculate. Ingrid knew why. Hjalmar had bestowed names from the Norwegian royal family on mountains and bays during previous discoveries, but Captain Klarius Mikkelsen, perhaps wanting to build favour with his employer, had named the entire stretch of coast after Lars. Ingrid knew the pleasure Lars felt at his name being laid down on the shoreline of ice and rock, and how he kept his pleasure close, not wanting to appear vain.
‘Weather coming,’ the first mate said.
The chatter dropped and everyone looked in the direction that Atle indicated. The familiar muffling of white was approaching them.
Lars frowned. ‘After this we’d best get out of here. I’ve taken enough risks with the ship.’
Ingrid nodded and he patted her on the arm. ‘I hope we find land today, for then you’ll truly be the first woman to see it. Apparently there’s a very beautiful cape there. I’d like to name it after you.’
‘No.’ Ingrid’s instinctive response surprised her and Lars looked down at her inquiringly. Lillemor was looking at her too, but warily, it seemed.
‘I want to at least step foot on land named after me,’ Ingrid said.
Lars smiled. ‘Understandable, I suppose.’ He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. ‘You’re cold! Do you need some more clothes?’
‘Just a coffee,’ Ingrid said. Tobias was bringing up the inevitable tray to the bridge and he came to the three of them first, his fair hair falling into his eyes as he proffered it. Ingrid wrapped her numb fingers around the already cooling cup.
‘I must get my camera,’ Lillemor said, and weaved through the press of bodies towards the door.
Sleet began to slant down and the visibility dropped. Ingrid could feel the windows being buffeted by Antarctica’s winds as Thorshavn slowed to a crawl. The depth sounder beeped and she realised that beneath their feet the ocean floor was beginning to rise.
The jokes died away as the water became shallower and everyone began to watch the windows. The ship moved with infuriating slowness, Horntvedt steering with stiff shoulders, his eyes darting from one window to the next. The clouds dipped maddeningly; visibility rose and fell in a heartbeat.
‘Consul Christensen –’ Horntvedt started.
‘There!’ Nils stabbed a forefinger at the glass.
Lars squeezed Ingrid’s arm excitedly and then let her go. There was a scramble as everyone tried to see what Nils was pointing at. The cloud dropped like a hammer, blanketing them in white and Horntvedt put the engines into reverse to stop the ship.
‘Something dark, I’m sure of it,’ Nils said, turning to Ingrid and Lars. ‘Keep watching in that direction when the clouds lift.’
Ingrid felt a moment of intense claustrophobia. She stepped away from Lars, who was too engrossed to notice, crossed to the far side of the bridge and rested her forehead against the glass. Such a thin layer to protect her from Antarctica’s might. She looked out at the swirling shapes in the fog. She wanted to go home, suddenly, where she understood night and day, summer and winter, north and south. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to be away from the vexed problem of Mathilde. She raised her hand and placed her palm against the glass. Her breath fogged the outline of her fingers and when she peeled her hand away, the place where her skin had pressed on the glass was clear and bright. Antarctica in the size of a handprint.
She turned to look at her companions, crowded against the windows, jostling each other for the first sight of the continent. There’d be a chorus of exclamations when they sighted it, and cheering, no doubt. Their backs were to her, and she was close to an outside door. She edged over to it. Only Hjalmar looked up. Ingrid sent him a silent plea to stay quiet as she slipped out the door. His answering gaze was unreadable.
It was bitterly cold as she walked away from the bridge and pressed herself into a niche that afforded a little shelter. From inside Ingrid could imagine a snowstorm as a quaint thing, its swirls of sleet making pretty patterns on the windows. Facing it directly, as with anything in Antarctica, was a different matter. She tucked her hands inside her coat sleeves and hunched her neck so that her collar sat high around her cheeks. She’d thought herself warmly dressed when she left her cabin that morning but Antarctica made a mockery of that.
It may have been foolish but Antarctica persisted in Ingrid’s mind as a woman. She held them back or let them close; she drove her blizzards on them in anger or closed the leads in the ice like a woman drawing the folds of her skirts around her. She threatened to crush them, but so far had let them live. It should have made Ingrid feel some kinship with her. But she was afraid that here, so close to their goal, Antarctica would be merciless. Thorshavn was moving slowly ahead and land was close. They were navigating blind.
A strong wind gust hit her. The whiteness swirled and changed, and Antarctica’s capricious fog rose like a curtain lifting. Thorshavn was facing
a headland that reared up above them, its rocks deep black against the white ice. Birds wheeled around its upper reaches, tiny specks giving scale to its immensity. For a precious moment the first sight of Antarctica belonged to her.
Ingrid had wondered, beforehand, if somehow Antarctica could sense the first arrival of humans. But she saw in a moment what an ignorant notion that had been. The place needed no human gaze to bring it into existence. It made fools of them for competing to get there, for attempting to chart and define its outlines, for thinking that anyone could own it. It was indifferent to them.
The headland rose skywards as if it grew up straight from the ocean floor. Ingrid could hear the distant clamour of birds and the scent of their rookery. It was an acrid smell, but an uncomplicated one, unlike the stench of the factory ships. She took a deep breath, welcoming it, and suddenly wanted to land with an intensity that hurt. She wanted to feel Antarctica against the soles of her feet. To go ashore there, to impose her minuscule humanity onto that mighty place – the thought was exhilarating and terrifying.
The door to the bridge opened and Ingrid heard voices. She turned. Lars was leaning out, gesturing.
‘There you are! Come in. It’s your big moment.’
Ingrid turned her back on the headland and walked to the door. Her fingers and nose were freezing and there was a lump in her throat. Her first sighting was over. It was hot and stuffy in the bridge and the rabble of voices hurt her ears. She’d only been outside a matter of minutes, but coming back in to the crowd of bodies and faces felt like crossing a threshold between worlds.
Lars held out his hand to her, smiling. ‘Horntvedt says this is part of Lars Christensen Land, named by Captain Mikkelsen last year. Is the aquavit ready?’
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