Out of the Ice

by Ann Turner

  I ducked inside again and collided with Travis who was coming out. ‘Follow me,’ I whispered and went quickly upstairs, taking care to make no sound. All the doors off the corridor were shut. I stopped, making sure Travis was behind me. I whipped open the first one. The bed was fully made up with pillows and a thick blue and white eiderdown. I strode across and pulled open the covers. The sheets looked clean and had a pleasant scent of fresh air tinged with salt. ‘Good enough to sleep in,’ I mumbled and walked out. There were no wardrobes or cupboards, nowhere to hide.

  The next room was similar: a single bed with sheets and blankets that smelled fresh and inviting. On a freezing day in a blizzard, I could imagine curling up here myself.

  The third room had a double bed, again comfortably made up. There was a huge wooden wardrobe. I flung open the door and stepped back, alarmed. It was full of clothes.

  Carefully I went through them, coathangers clanging quietly, matching my rattled nerves. The clothes were boys’ outfits: woollen trousers and thick woollen shirts in a checked pattern. The size of a teenage boy. They would fit the boy I thought I saw in the ice, the boy who looked like Hamish. I shivered, hoping I wasn’t going mad. These clothes were from decades ago. Why would a boy be down here wearing them? Now I wasn’t even making sense to myself.

  Travis stepped forward. ‘Vintage 1950s,’ he said. ‘They’d sell for hundreds.’

  ‘Don’t get any ideas,’ I warned, but my mind was already far away, trying to remember what the boy in the cave had been wearing. Was it a checked shirt or a T-shirt? I shut my eyes, trying to visualise, but all I could see was his face, screaming for help.

  I pulled out a shirt. It was a pale lemon check pattern, 1950s-style, heavy and warm. Two more were checked in red and blue.

  I took out hand-knitted woollen jumpers and thick coats. They were also vintage, from the days when Fredelighavn was alive. On a top shelf in the wardrobe was a row of woollen caps.

  I hadn’t found any other clothes in the houses I’d seen. Was this whole thing staged? A show village, just for me?

  Although, if the boy existed, he hadn’t been acting. I had seen – or imagined I’d seen – real fear. But if it was all in my head, why? We were tested for psychological health before we came to Antarctica, and were briefed to tell our Station Leader if we had problems. I didn’t want to confess anything – certainly not to Connaught, who probably thought all women were crazy anyway. Not even to Georgia. I determined to keep my thoughts to myself.

  I went to the door of the fourth room and stopped abruptly as I heard a faint trace of movement. Travis nodded – he’d heard it too. I turned the carved wooden door handle and could feel Travis tensing his muscles behind me, flexing up ready to defend. The door swung freely and we looked in. The entire room was empty. Sunlight beamed through a window onto the floorboards, cutting a rich yellow swathe of light.

  ‘That’s odd,’ said Travis, looking around everywhere. I did the same: up and down, across the smooth, timber-lined ceiling with no manhole, no break. Along the white walls, and the floor. There was nothing.

  We retreated downstairs to the kitchen, where Kate was checking through cupboards: some were empty, some were full of canned food. There was no sign of an entrance above, or below. Nothing to explain the rustling.

  The bathroom hadn’t been used for decades and had no trapdoor or manhole.

  Frustrated and perplexed, we moved on to the house opposite. It was huge, the largest of all, painted the colour of a ripe orange, with beautifully carved white fretwork on its porch covered in long, delicate icicles. The lounge room was first off the passage – it was almost the size of a ballroom. Its floorboards were waxed and mellow, the wide planks wafting a delicious honey perfume. On the walls hung portraits, and one in particular drew me towards it. In a huge gilt frame, a woman with piercing blue eyes and long blonde hair swept up in a bun peered down sternly. She wore a simple white cotton blouse fastened at the neck by a carved brooch of a whale. Beside her hung a portrait of a serious- looking man, fair-haired, blue-eyed, in a navy sea captain’s uniform, his face etched in deep ridges from sun and salt and life on the wild ocean. Around them were paintings of their children – three snowy-haired boys.

  Ingerline? I studied the woman. It was hard to tell her age, but she might have been close to forty. The painting was perhaps from the 1930s. If it was Ingerline, this was not what I had expected. Having built a cinema, I’d imagined her to be fun loving, but this woman looked strict and humourless. Maybe it wasn’t Ingerline – there must have been other captains and their wives running the whaling station after Lars Halvorsen. Presumably Ingerline didn’t stay until the demise of the place in the 1950s. How many years had she been down here? How could I find out?

  Travis was gazing at the wide blue eyes that sparkled as if the woman were alive, and the full red lips beneath her pert nose. I found it hard to envisage this beautiful woman living here in this harsh environment. ‘She was good looking. Who is she?’ said Kate, and I jumped.

  ‘Steady on,’ said Travis, taking me by the elbow. ‘Are you okay? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.’

  I laughed. ‘Do I?’

  ‘You know this woman?’ said Kate.

  ‘I think she’s Ingerline Halvorsen.’ I shuddered as I heard myself say the name out loud. My nerves really were stretched. ‘Although perhaps not.’

  I strode out of the room and down the hallway. Children’s bedrooms were on both sides, with little carved white beds, fully made up with pillows, white sheets and thick blankets. Colourful childlike paintings covered the walls on yellowed paper, the edges curling up.

  The kitchen was large, with an enormous table. I counted ten thatched chairs placed neatly around it. There was an electric refrigerator, pale pink, 1950s style, in one corner. Its door hung slightly ajar. There was nothing inside.

  I opened a corner cupboard. It was lined with empty shelves.

  There was a pot on the elegant coal-burning stove. I opened the lid and saw frozen water.

  Cups sat face down on the bench beside the kitchen sink, as if they’d just been cleaned.

  Other cupboards were full of bags of tea, coffee, flour and sugar.

  I pulled down the stove door and smelled inside. The air was stale. It didn’t seem like it had been operated in a long time.

  ‘I’m sick of nothing adding up,’ I said. ‘This room looks like it’s just been used but then it seems it hasn’t been. This place is doing my head in.’

  ‘We need to find someone who knows about Fredelighavn,’ said Kate. ‘Aren’t there Norwegian scholars who’ve studied it?’

  ‘Not that I know of. It’s been an Exclusion Zone for years, so no recent study.’

  ‘There must be records. Shipping records, that kind of thing,’ said Travis.

  ‘Do you know where?’ I asked.

  ‘Sorry. I’m just an electrical engineer. But my father’s an academic, a history professor at Harvard.’ He blushed. ‘He left when I was thirteen. But I remember Dad researching through the night in his study. Sometimes I’d sneak in and watch until he’d look up and kick me out.’

  ‘Do you still see him?’ I said, surprised that he and I had a similar background.

  ‘Unfortunately no,’ said Travis, with a tinge of anger and sadness that I recognised.

  ‘What was his area?’ asked Kate.

  ‘American naval history. That’s why I know about the shipping records. They go way back.’

  ‘I’ll try to put out a few feelers in Norway,’ I said. ‘I don’t know anyone there but I’m sure I’ll find a way.’

  ‘I could help,’ said Travis. ‘I’ve got plenty of spare time.’

  ‘They don’t work you hard enough,’ said Kate and Travis laughed, his white teeth bright in his smooth tanned face. He caught me looking at him, and turned to me keenly. I turned away and headed upstairs, feeling myself blush. ‘Let’s see what’s up here,’ I called, floorboards creaking underfoot.

>   The first rooms had single beds with white sheets and floral eiderdowns. The master bedroom was at the end, stretching wide across the whole building. It was sunny and airy, the bed made up with pink sheets and a thick pink eiderdown. There were two large wardrobes, and photographs on a small table. I peered at them and reeled back in alarm: there was a photo of an older Ingerline – or the woman in the portrait downstairs, whoever she was – now in her fifties. And she was wearing a dress, blue with white bands, 1950s-style, exactly like the one worn by the woman I’d glimpsed in the mirror in the pink and blue house. If I was seeing ghosts I really was losing my mind.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I said, over-loudly. ‘I want to open that shed we couldn’t see inside the other day.’

  I turned on my heel and fled.

  ‘But we haven’t looked in the wardrobes,’ Travis called as he flung one open.

  Kate followed me. ‘What’s wrong, Laura? You’re scaring me again.’

  ‘Absolutely nothing,’ I said firmly and rattled down the stairs. Someone was messing around with me, was my scientific view. I didn’t believe in the supernatural.

  Out in the street we waited for Travis, stamping our feet against the cold. The day was turning icy.

  Kate scrutinised me but I remained silent. I had no intention of telling her what I thought I’d seen.

  Travis came barrelling out. ‘Lots of old clothes. Men’s and women’s. Beautiful quality suits. Thick wool. And before you say it, no I didn’t touch them.’ He grinned. ‘Still, it’s a treasure trove. This place will make a phenomenal museum.’

  Was that what whoever was behind this was hoping? Or were the clothes simply original and left here like so many other things? I’d have to go back and take a closer look. I quaked at the thought of being near Ingerline again – the portrait or the ghost. And why, if I had seen her ghost, was she haunting someone else’s house – assuming this place, with the portraits and photographs, was hers?

  ‘You brought the jemmy iron?’ I asked Travis as I headed off.

  ‘Sure. It’s in my backpack.’

  I was beginning to know my way around. I took only two wrong turns before I found the locked shed.

  Travis wedged the jemmy iron between the doors and crunched them open. We shone our torches inside through the darkness – there were no windows – and saw nothing but a few old mattresses piled in a corner, with blue and white ticking stripes.

  ‘Check the floor,’ I said, entering. ‘Look for anything that could lead underground.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Travis, puzzled.

  ‘Because I say to,’ I replied. ‘If the shed’s locked, something must be here.’ I pulled the mattresses out from the corner and Travis helped. There was only concrete floor underneath.

  I walked around the shed, thinking about the massive building effort required to construct the village. Timber, concrete, corrugated iron and brick – it would have taken a lot of men to put Fredelighavn together each short summer, when the weather was warm enough to allow them to work. Which led me to a realisation: perhaps they left everything in the houses because they were certain they were coming back next season. They were used to doing that. Packing up and heading back to Norway in March each year, then returning the following summer. But if it was the whalers who locked this shed, and not Connaught, what were they trying to protect?

  Travis was casting his torch around the floor, following my instructions, searching for a trapdoor down into the ice. He shuffled with his boots, attempting to feel a ridge. Kate and I started to do the same.

  ‘What do you think is underground?’ he asked.

  ‘A tunnel to the sea. Through an ice cave.’

  Kate tensed and pursed her lips, clearly thinking I was off on another wild-goose chase.

  ‘Like smugglers,’ said Travis. ‘But why would they bother?’ He frowned. ‘There were no real laws when they were down here, were there? They could do whatever they wanted. So why would they hide anything? Or are you saying they were building underground for the weather, like at the South Pole? But it’s so much more benign here on South Safety, they wouldn’t need to.’ He walked close to me and stood studying my face. ‘So, will you tell me what this is all about?’

  Kate looked across, shadowy in the torchlight, waiting for my answer.

  ‘Not yet, Travis,’ I said. ‘Can we just do this. Please?’

  Disgruntled, he moved off. I hoped I wouldn’t lose his trust, or help. But I wasn’t going to mention the boy yet. Particularly not after I’d just felt I’d seen a ghost.

  ‘I think people may be hiding down here. It’s part of my job to find out,’ I said.

  ‘You think the guys in the cinema are living here?’ Travis whistled. ‘I thought they were just men from Alliance. Who the hell are they, then?’

  ‘I have no idea. But it’s possible they could be from another base like Esperanza, or Villa Las Estrellas. Argentinians or Chileans on orders to set this place up for my benefit, to make it more likely I recommend it be opened as a museum.’ Even as I formed the words, my mind butted up against the possibility. They wouldn’t need to stay here if they’d already set it up. It made no sense. I was clutching at straws because of the boy.

  ‘Unless,’ I said slowly, ‘Connaught’s conducting some experiment at Fredelighavn and they have no intention of stopping just because I’m here.’ I stared at the roofline, dashing my torch around, searching for cameras. ‘Did you get that if you’re listening?’ I called loudly.

  ‘Yeah, of course I’m listening,’ said Travis.

  ‘I didn’t mean you. Or Kate,’ I added quickly.

  ‘What, you think Connaught’s got this place under surveillance?’ asked Travis. I shone my torch over to him and his face was full of alarm. ‘I’m in deep trouble if he has,’ he said, his panic quickly turning to hurt and suspicion. ‘You know I’m not meant to be here. Why didn’t you warn me? What else aren’t you telling me, Laura?’

  I cringed. ‘I don’t know for sure. It’s just one theory.’

  ‘What are your others?’ asked Kate stonily.

  ‘Nothing I’m clear enough to talk about, yet.’

  Travis leaned against a wall. ‘I need a cigarette.’

  ‘Well, you can’t unless you brought your own.’ I hauled the mattresses back into the corner and took photos of them.

  ‘Oh come on, just one packet, please?’ pleaded Travis. ‘If Connaught’s watching I’m in for it anyway.’

  ‘No,’ I replied seriously. ‘The EIA prohibits anything being touched.’

  ‘Kate played that record.’

  ‘And put it back just the way I found it. That was research.’ She walked up to him. ‘Travis, do you think Laura’s right? You’ve been at Alliance for a year. Does it seem possible that there’s an experiment going on down here?’

  Travis was silent for a moment, frowning. ‘If there is, they don’t come often. I’d know from the Häggies’ mileage.’

  ‘Unless they adjust it. That would be possible, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Not really. Tampering with the speedometer? Unlikely. Anyway, if this place is bugged or on film or whatever, why are we talking?’

  He marched out. Kate and I followed and I drew Travis close. ‘There may be cameras in the streets too,’ I whispered. He pulled away and shook his head.

  ‘You’re not straightforward, are you?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, and meant it.

  ‘Where next?’ said Kate.

  ‘Let’s go shed by shed.’ I started to walk off down the street towards the harbour, until I heard Travis call after me.

  ‘I need to eat!’

  Kate glanced at her watch and did a double-take. ‘It’s seven o’clock!’

  ‘No wonder I’m starving. You girls are slave drivers,’ said Travis. ‘Let’s go into a house with some decent furniture.’ He strode off.

  ‘Which one?’ asked Kate. Travis turned up another street and stopped outside the russet house with the whitewashed furniture inside.
Where we’d found the dead penguin in the cupboard.

  ‘This one’s my favourite. I could live here,’ he said.

  Kate glanced at me.

  ‘So you’ve been in?’ I asked evenly.

  ‘Yeah. Absolutely. It’s beautiful. Have you not been? Wait and see.’

  He bounded up the stairs and swung open the door. Kate came close to me. ‘I know,’ I whispered, ‘but why would he lead us here if he’d killed the penguin and left it? It wouldn’t make sense.’

  ‘Just strange that of all houses . . .’

  ‘Travis,’ I called, ‘wait up.’ But he was already far down the passage. By the time we got in, he was sitting at the kitchen table, his food unwrapped in front of him. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked as he bit into a thick biscuit layered with cheese.

  ‘This is where we found the dead penguin,’ I said, and he stopped chewing.

  ‘We laid her out on this table,’ said Kate, and Travis stood abruptly.

  ‘Don’t worry, she died of natural causes,’ I said.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Travis, placing his biscuit down on the table, pushing it away.

  ‘Do you promise me you didn’t have anything to do with that penguin?’ I asked.

  Travis frowned, indignant. ‘Of course not! As if I’d come here if I did. And I certainly wouldn’t be eating in the kitchen.’

  ‘If it was natural causes that killed the Adélie, what’s your problem?’ said Kate.

  Travis looked sheepish.

  ‘Travis?’ I tensed – he did know something.

  ‘Just . . .’ He stopped. ‘Could we visit the rookery? Come on.’

  I frowned and followed; Travis was afraid of the rookery. Was he more afraid that Connaught had bugged the houses and was listening in?

  Kate and I crunched through the ice on either side of him and none of us spoke.

  At the rookery the penguins were screeching happily, hundreds of thousands of pairs stretching as far away as the eye could see. Mutualling, white chests pushed together, beaks to the sun, tiny black wings flapping. New arrivals kept pouring in, waddling up the rocky hillside to join the throng, while others streamed down towards the sea, tobogganing on their bellies once they reached the ice.