The Novels of Beryl Bainbridge Volume 1

by Beryl Bainbridge

  ‘I didn’t say good-bye properly to the Missus, sir. I wasn’t as attentive as I might have been.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I said. ‘It’s hard to be as one would like.’

  ‘I never kissed her goodbye, sir.’

  ‘We all have our regrets,’ I said.

  When he’d gone I thought about Kathleen and that business of the photograph. Last year, long before the expedition got underway, she sent me a picture of her friend, the dancer Isadora Duncan, in one of her extravagant poses. I imagine Kathleen expected I’d be as enthusiastic over it as she was. I wasn’t, and sent it straight back. If the truth be known, I found it absurd.

  Kathleen has often lectured me on the necessity of my being shaken out of entrenched attitudes and of widening my horizons – before we sailed she said I had perhaps taken her too literally – and though I long to comply, if only to please her, I still think Miss Duncan something of a joke. But then Kathleen’s background was very different from my own, and her family far from conventional. Mumbo’s normal enough, but the same can’t be said of their clergyman brother who often speaks from the pulpit with a barn owl perched on his shoulder. Once, in an extraordinary bid to raise money for his church, he drove round the parish with a walrus honking in the sidecar of his motor-cycle.

  I wish now I hadn’t sent back the photograph. It hurt her. I was hurt too; she did go on so about the qualities of grace, sensitivity and simplicity inherent in children, poets, fiddle-players, painters, factory-workers, hedgecutters, dancers – everyone under God’s sun save poverty-stricken naval lieutenants.

  I was sitting there, lost in thought, when Bill pulled up a chair and asked if I’d given any more consideration to his going off to Cape Crozier to the rookery of the Emperor penguin.

  ‘No,’ I told him, ‘I can’t say that I have. Though now you mention it, it occurs to me you might combine it with an experiment in diet, bearing in mind the Polar journey.’

  ‘An excellent idea,’ Bill said, looking eager.

  ‘Perhaps each man could be put on a different proportion of fat to carbohydrates. What do you think?’

  ‘An excellent idea,’ he repeated, and added, ‘It will be a terrific feather in the expedition’s cap, you know, if we manage to pull it off.’

  He was, of course, talking not of the Pole but of the Emperor penguin, a creature which cannot fly, lives on fish which it catches in the sea, never steps on land, not even to breed, and is the most primitive bird in existence. Unlike every other Antarctic bird which migrates north to breed, the Emperor goes south to a stretch of sea-ice so bleak that it’s forced to use its own feet as a nest for its single egg; there’s a little flap of skin hanging from the lower abdomen which serves as a covering. Ever since the Discovery days, when he’d seen chicks in September, Bill’s been dreaming of bringing home a clutch of these eggs. According to him, a detailed examination of the embryos should provide the missing link between birds and reptiles.

  ‘When would you be thinking of going?’ I asked.

  ‘Late June, early July,’ he said. ‘We should only be gone about ten days.’

  ‘And who would you want along with you?’

  ‘Bowers,’ he answered promptly. ‘And possibly young Cherry.’

  ‘Good Lord, not Cherry,’ I protested. ‘Far better to take Lashly or Crean.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’d rather not take one of the men. They never look after their clothing, and besides, it’s more fun travelling with one’s own kind.’

  Poor old Bill’s never been at ease with men of a lower rank. It’s not that he regards them as inferior, rather that he detests giving orders. I told him I couldn’t give a definite answer, not right away. I promised I’d think about it, when I had less on my mind.

  After he’d gone I thought about Kathleen again. I still don’t know why she picked me from all her other admirers. She’s always said she doesn’t know either, beyond she wanted a son and ‘knew’ I should be his father. That, and what she refers to as my ‘heavenly’ eyes, which in moments of arousal apparently turn from blue to mauve. She told my mother, who was considerably taken aback, that she’d ‘liked Con quite a lot’ until Peter was born, and afterwards fallen violently in love. I’m only too thankful she didn’t bring up the business of my eyes changing colour.

  My love for her hasn’t brought me contentment how curious it is that passion has so little to do with feeling cheerful – but on occasions the intensity of our relationship has filled me with energy and gone some way towards obliterating the paralysing apathy which takes hold of me in times of stress or disappointment. If I’d met her when I was younger I would almost certainly have wished to die for her. Now I want to live.

  I start to think of her a dozen times a day, and then stop myself, for that way madness lies – it sends me into daydreams in which I sail into port, the bands playing and the flags fluttering, happy ever after in never-never-land.

  Lt. Henry Robertson (Birdie) Bowers

  July 1911

  Mid-winter night fell on June 22nd. We had an orgy, and no wonder, for on that date the sun began to turn back. I made a Christmas tree out of penguin feathers, split bamboo and ski sticks. Bill lay down on the ice and sang to the penguins, while I ran up and plucked at their backs. They were particularly immobilised by his rendering of ‘For all the Saints that on this Earth do Dwell’. Though I say it myself, the resulting tree was a work of art.

  Likewise the feast. We stuffed ourselves till we groaned – seal soup, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, Brussels sprouts, anchovy pie, plum pudding flaming with brandy, crystallised fruits, champagne instead of our customary lime juice. Captain Scott was extremely gay during the meal and talked about his experiences as a torpedo lieutenant. Really, when he’s in a relaxed mood there is absolutely no one more charming or likeable in the whole world, and that includes Uncle Bill. He positively lights up one’s heart.

  Outside the hut, as if in celebratory accord, the heavens put on their celestial crown, and all night long the aurora flashed its golden beams above the smoking crater of Mount Erebus. When I went out to take the meteorological readings, the snow rang to the thud of my footsteps. Beyond the Point the ice cracked as the temperature fell and the water rose.

  We all got presents, bought in mid-summer a year ago by mothers, sisters, wives, and long kept hidden in a special box marked ‘festivities’. None of the gifts came labelled; we just dipped in, and there was nothing showy or expensive amongst them. Titus Oates received a whistle, a pop-gun and a sponge, all of which pleased him no end.

  I expect the gun came from Mrs Scott, whom I won’t forget waltzing with in New Zealand. It’s all right a chap looking at one fair and square, but it’s damned disconcerting coming from a woman. She knew she’d got me pinned down, because she kept smiling. ‘Lt. Bowers,’ she said, ‘I assure you I won’t eat you.’ I didn’t altogether believe her, yet I admired her tremendously, and later was relieved to notice she looked at inaminate objects – lampshades, vases of flowers – with much the same intensity of gaze. My parcel included a ball of wool and some knitting needles, but I imagine these came from one of my sisters.

  Ponting gave a lecture, with slides, of the photographs he’s taken since we arrived; the shore party landing stores, preparing for the depot journey, Osman with his head on Meares’s lap, all of us round the table at the old Discovery hut, faces black with blubber smoke; lastly, an absolutely ripping study of the Terra Nova anchored in McMurdo Sound, the ice waves bunched like burst pillows in the foreground.

  His commentary was somewhat flowery. ‘Here we see the assiduous Dr Wilson in the process of making an artistic sketch of the distant view of the fairy slopes of the western mountains … here we observe Captain Scott, our gallant leader, overseeing the landing of the motorised transport.’ It didn’t help that he’d captured the Owner, mouth open in dismay, leaping back in shock as the biggest motor plunged through the ice and sank to the bottom of the Sound.

 
I’m afraid none of us were in a condition to be appreciative. I took it we were all embarrassed at seeing ourselves through the lens of the camera. I know I was. I can’t fathom why everyone says my headgear makes me look like a pirate; to my eyes I resemble my mother in her gardening hat.

  When the table was cleared we attempted to play Snapdragon, but such was the unholy din going on around us, what with the gramophone constantly being rewound, and Teddy Evans and Griff bawling out, ‘Blow, bullies blow, For Californ-i-o’, each verse growing more bawdy than the last, each chorus accompanied by a flurry of blows to the biceps, that we soon gave up.

  Some time in the small hours Titus danced the Lancers with Anton, the Russian groom, who put up a wonderful performance, flinging his legs about like a man possessed by demons. Originally, he was only hired by Meares to look after the ponies as far as New Zealand, but he proved such a stalwart little worker, the Owner kept him on. Poor Anton, he didn’t know what he was in for. Uneducated as he is, he’s taken the darkness badly. Not having a grasp of the turning of the earth, he has a superstitious fear the sun has gone doolally for ever. Convinced that the phosphorescent lights which leap up from the sea are evil spirits, he chucked his precious ration of cigarettes into the water to appease them. Oates caught him in the act. His belongings are ready-packed under his bunk for the return of the Terra Nova. All he wants to do, or so he told Titus, is to get back home and marry his one-legged sweetheart.

  After this display, Titus went round asking whether any of us were sweating. If we said no, he promptly dabbed our faces with his sponge, now dipped in gravy, and shouted, ‘Well, you are now … by Jove you are!’ Then he rushed about shooting everybody with his pop-gun. We’d toasted the returning sun in milk, but I expect he’d mixed his with something more fiery. Finally, he aimed his gun at Captain Scott and asked, ‘How doth Homer have it? I blew it into the cerulean azure.’ To which Captain Scott replied, ‘You’re a good fellow, Titus. Why not call it a day?’

  This was a hint for the company to retire pretty sharpish, and we did, all except Titus who slouched off to the stables, where at intervals he could be heard blowing blasts on his whistle.

  Meares, who’s a great traveller, began to whisper us a bloodcurdling story about the Chinese and their war with the Lolas, one of the eighteen tribes on the borders of Tibet. The Chinese took a Lolo hostage, tied him to a bamboo bench, slit his throat and dipped their flag into his blood. Then they cut out the poor devil’s heart and liver and cooked them for supper.

  ‘What rag?’ asked Gran, and for some reason this made us burst with laughter, or rather we stuffed our faces into our mattresses to drown the roars we made.

  Some time after, Titus returned, shook Cherry awake and asked him if he was responsible for his actions, and Cherry called out plaintively, ‘Go away, you shan’t have my liver!’ which set us all off again.

  I was just drifting into sleep when Titus tumbled Meares out of his bunk and demanded to know if he was fancy-free. Meares punched him. I was astonished the Owner, a very moderate drinker, didn’t rise up and give them both a roasting.

  Five days later, Bill, Cherry and I prepared to leave for the penguin rookery at Cape Crozier. We had two sledges, one tied behind the other, both heaped high with camping equipment, provisions, pick-axes, ropes, repair kits, hurricane lamps, medical supplies, etc., also a case full of scientific gear for pickling and preserving. Their combined weight was enormous – 757 lbs.

  I never thought the Owner would let us go, not with the Polar trek only three months off, but somehow Bill managed to talk him round. To reach the rookery, where temperatures often register 100 degrees of frost, it’s necessary to scramble down cliffs exposed to blizzards sweeping ferociously across hundreds of miles of open snow plain. And all this in the dark! Exciting stuff, what?

  Since our return to Cape Evans I’ve been putting my fourpence in with the best of them, and I rather imagine the Captain wanted to give me a treat after the appalling events of the breaking up of the sea-ice. At any rate, he raised no objections as far as I was concerned, though he balked at the idea of Cherry floundering about the Crozier cliffs in the depths of winter. I suspect he was thinking of the fate of seaman Vince. He gave in eventually – Bill badgered him so.

  Cherry’s terribly bucked at being included. He’s down on the list as assistant zoologist to Uncle Bill, and has come in for a fair amount of ragging, seeing all he studied was the classics. ‘We’re well aware of your qualifications for Antarctic exploration,’ Teddy Evans told him in an unguarded moment during the mid-winter feast. ‘A thousand pounds and an ability to read Latin and Greek.’

  We were standing there adjusting the loads when Captain Scott approached; frowning heavily. ‘Bill, why are you taking all this oil?’ he asked, looking at the six tins lashed to the second sledge. Bill muttered something to the effect that it was better to be safe than sorry and that we’d be bringing most of it back, but one could tell the Owner was annoyed. He’s understandably loth to squander provisions on anything other than the southern journey. All the same, as Bill later remarked, we could hardly be expected to embark on such a mission carrying nothing more substantial than a tin of Huntley and Palmer biscuits and a blubber-streaked copy of Bleak House.

  I think I know what ails the Owner. He’s absolutely sound as regards what’s right, but he lacks conviction. He simply isn’t stupid enough to be convinced his is the only way. In the circumstances, it’s a dangerous trait.

  There was a seal-killing party setting out at the same time, the Owner parading up and down to make sure things were ship-shape. He himself rarely accompanies these forays, and when he does I’ve noticed he’s apt to look in the opposite direction during the actual butchering. I’d thought it was because he couldn’t stand the sight of blood, but Bill says it’s the slaughter that turns his stomach. I must admit it’s a messy business; one has to club them on the nose before sticking a knife in their hearts, and they have extraordinarily expressive eyes. I can’t help remembering the Temple of the Tooth in Ceylon with its pictures depicting the Buddhist hell. One could only thank God they were fanciful, as most of them went beyond description for fiendish ingenuity, the worst torments being reserved for the killers of animals. In comparison, Dante’s Inferno would seem like a pleasure garden.

  A few of the fellows came up to wish us godspeed, all of them wearing expressions pitched between mirth and pity. I don’t doubt they believed us mad as hatters. Bill and I didn’t care. I’ve been five times round the world, and Bill quite as far in his mind, yet we still thought this an awfully big adventure. I’m not so sure about Cherry, but then, he generally looks as though he expects somebody to go for him with the boxing gloves.

  At the last moment Ponting wanted to take our photograph. Reluctantly we lined up – Bill with his hand on his hips, Cherry smiling bashfully, myself leaning on a skistick. Caught in the flashlight we froze, three men about to go bird’s-nesting.

  Cape Crozier is sixty-seven miles from Cape Evans, and within two days we covered the fifteen miles to Hut Point. It was to be the last time we achieved such distances on our marches. As early as the first day I think both Bill and I began to realise what we’d let ourselves in for. He didn’t smile again, not wholeheartedly. Though his mouth crinkled up, his eyes remained worried.

  On the depot-laying journey we’d got into a rhythm of marching, and when we camped we did so as a team, each man having routine duties to perform. While some unlashed the sleeping bags, others put up the tents, fetched snow for water, had the primuses assembled, the food bags undone and so on. But now there were only three of us, and the loads were terribly heavy, and none of us had ever been out in such degrees of cold. Other people had travelled to Cape Crozier before us, including Bill, but never in winter, never in darkness.

  Strain as we might we could never get up enough speed to stop our feet from going numb, for the snow clung to the runners in powdered clumps and acted like brakes, and we were forever stopping
to scrape them clear. We couldn’t see where we were going, where we were stepping, where the food bags were, or the straps for the sledges, couldn’t read the compass without using three or four boxes to strike one dry match. And when we did find what we wanted, the cords and the straps and the lashings had frozen to the hardness of wire which had to be undone and retied through three thicknesses of gloves. Cherry was foolish enough that first day to bare his hands to unbuckle his harness, and instantly Jack Frost bit all ten of his fingers. The next morning the fluid in the blisters had turned to ice. We were lucky in that the Owner had decided we should conduct a dietary experiment, for this cut down on the amount of bags we had to open, and we carried only pemmican, tea, biscuits and butter. It would be interesting to determine, he had speculated, as we’d sat of an evening round the stove, whether such restricted fare would provide all the fat, proteids and carbohydrates needed for man-hauling in extreme conditions.

  We panted like dogs when pulling the loads, and heard our breath crackle as it solidified on the air. We sweated from the effort, and that froze too. If we were quick enough, or had heart enough, we could jump up and down and shake the particles out above our boots, but mostly it sank into the material of our clothing and suited us in armour. Unless I kept my face turned away from the notebook in which I jotted down meteorological readings, a film of ice formed on the paper and rendered my pencil useless. We took hours to make camp and hours to break camp, and in between tottered like children across the immensity of that bleak and hiemal playground.

  Quite soon – I think we were approaching the desolate bay that lies between Hut Peninsula and Terror Point – we found we couldn’t shift both sledges together. When the temperature on the Barrier surface reaches a certain low point the runners can’t melt the crystals, and one can only advance by rolling them over and upon one other. I suppose it’s a bit like ploughing. We were forced to relay, which meant that for every three painful miles we covered we only went one mile forward. That first night there was no wind and we trudged back by candlelight and Jupiter.