by Ann Turner
Both Helen and Nancy scowled. ‘Those papers are precious, my dear,’ said Helen. ‘There’ll be no drinking or eating while they’re out. I have cotton gloves for us to wear.’
‘All the originals are here,’ said Nancy. ‘The archives only have copies.’
‘Isn’t that the opposite of what you’d normally do?’ I asked, surprised, and they both laughed.
‘We do as must needs,’ said Helen. ‘I could never part with Daddy’s papers, and he didn’t want me to either. He left strict instructions.’
‘You’re very lucky that you’re going to see these,’ said Nancy.
We quickly finished our coffee and climbed a broad staircase. At the top of a second flight of stairs was a small door. Helen went ahead and opened it.
Old timber shelves lined the walls, filled with boxes of paperwork, neatly filed.
‘What you want is over here,’ said Helen, leading the way.
I carried down a total of twenty-four boxes. We placed them in chronological order on the kitchen table, and on sofas in the adjoining lounge room. Helen passed us each a pair of cotton gloves and once they were on, she opened the first box and brought out a stack of papers browning at the edges. They were hand-written, in English.
‘Let’s see what we have here,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been through these.’ Her hands trembled as she began to look.
‘Well, we each need a heap,’ said Nancy, ‘or we’ll be here all year.’
I took my batch and found myself staring at research notes. They seemed to be for Erling’s book. For the first hour I scanned ghastly descriptions of how, by the time Erling and his family arrived at South Safety Island, some of the ships had been adapted to process the whales on-board rather than have to take them all to shore. Pelagic whaling allowed the whalers to slaughter and process thousands more whales, stripping off the blubber either on factory ships, or towing the whales to a safe harbour and flensing them beside the boat. They were killing so many whales, there wasn’t room for them all at Fredelighavn. But the shore station used the whole of the whale with no wastage, and Erling’s father Lars, and later Erling and his brother Olaf, enjoyed processing guano as well as oil. Erling gave vivid descriptions of the various cookeries involved along the way. I started to scan quickly, whipping through page after page, not wanting to fill my head with the horrible images.
‘You’re a fast reader,’ said Helen. She’d only got through a few pages, savouring every description of her father’s – which meant she probably didn’t have accounts of whale slaughter.
‘May I?’ I said, and reached out to her pile.
‘You don’t like yours?’
‘It’s about life on board the ships and what they did to the whales.’
‘Then here you go.’ Helen gave me the rest of her stack. ‘This stuff’s interesting.’ She opened a fresh box while I started to read through my new papers. She was right – it was a daily description of life on shore: the operation of the bakery, fights between the pigs, which ships were being fixed in the repair yard and problems with the conveyor belts around the station. There was, however, no mention of tunnels. I moved to another box and pulled out its yellowed papers.
These were about the entertainment at Fredelighavn: a list of films that were screened in the late 1940s and early 1950s. Mainly old horror movies, a lot from Val Lewton: Cat People, Curse of the Cat People, The Body Snatcher, I Walked with A Zombie. I smiled to think of the whalers and their families enjoying being spooked at the end of the earth.
They’d also put on plays, organised by Ingerline. There was plentiful description of the productions – surprisingly, Shakespeare, and a few Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals. Ingerline seemed to have become anglicised. It occurred to me I hadn’t yet asked an obvious question.
‘Did Ingerline come to Nantucket?’
‘Granny Inga? Of course. Winter, she was always in Antarctica, because that’s summer down there. But each Northern summer when it was winter in Fredelighavn she lived right here with us. Every second year, that is. In between she lived with Uncle Olaf or Uncle Julius in Larvik in Norway. Uncle Julius ran the company from there. The Larvik Fishing Company. It was a real family affair. Granny Inga had raised her sons well. And she hoped we’d all go into the company one day, me included.’
‘What was she like?’
Helen’s face relaxed and her eyes twinkled. ‘Fun loving. Adored the theatre and movies. But she could be strict and stern too. After my granddad died she really was the force behind the company. A true matriarch. And of course it was Granny who expanded Fredelighavn and made it into a real village, and that was early up, in the twenties. Daddy didn’t put that in his book, I told him he should have. But I think he thought it might make his father look weak.
‘Granny wanted men to be with their families down there so they wouldn’t go rough. She organised those homes to be built. Before it was just barracks, with two separate bathhouses. A few years back I took a cruise down to Antarctica, when they started opening things up to tourists. Of course we couldn’t go to Fredelighavn but the ship stopped in at Grytviken on South Georgia. That was another whaling station run by Norwegians. Although the operations were actually owned by an Argentinian company, as Granny Inga liked to point out – so it wasn’t through and through Norwegian like ours.’
‘I know it,’ I said. ‘I’ve been there.’ I smiled to myself. I’d always thought of Grytviken as Norwegian because both the station and the South American company had been set up by a Norwegian captain. Granny Inga would have chided me.
‘Then you’d see it’s a very different place. Just one big house for the Station Head, and the barracks. It had the bakeries like us, and all the blubber-boiling sheds and guano sheds and all. But it doesn’t have the houses, does it? Not the civilised village. Although it does have a church. Granny Inga wanted hers to be more beautiful. That’s why she put that gold orb on top of the steeple.’ Helen sat back and grinned.
‘Did Ingerline run Fredelighavn for a long time?’ I asked, growing increasingly amazed by the woman, a pioneer who had been largely written out of Erling’s official history.
‘Granddad Lars passed away in 1948. I was only six, so I don’t remember him much. It was Granny I knew, the way she organised everything through the toughest years. The whale numbers were declining and there was growing hostility about the entire whaling enterprise. But Granny stuck to her guns. I loved being with her. Down at Fredelighavn and here on Nantucket. We all treasured her. The whole island – she was like a piece of living history.’
‘I adored Inga,’ said Nancy. ‘She was a formidable dame.’ The two friends laughed.
‘She died in 1982 at ninety years of age,’ said Helen. ‘She was determined to meet that milestone, and she did. Of course by then the company had been wound up years before. But Granny still alternated her time between Nantucket and Norway.’
It was remarkable to hear Ingerline spoken of with such familiarity. I was beginning to know her. The portrait I’d seen in Fredelighavn hadn’t captured her at all. If the whaling station were ever opened up to tourists, I would recommend historians record an oral history from Helen. If there were to be a museum, Ingerline would be given her rightful place in history. Apart from the sickening fact it was wholesale slaughter she was leading, her feats in designing the village were noteworthy.
Fredelighavn stood for so much. The vision and bravery of those who’d formed it was extraordinary, given they were building in the most inhospitable place on earth. That they were so bright and yet so wrong in what they were doing at the Larvik Fishing Company was a tension that might create a fascinating quandary for tourists to ponder. The ignorance about whales could be compared to the ignorance about global warming; how people could be caught up in something they didn’t, and couldn’t, comprehend.
‘A penny for your thoughts?’ said Helen. ‘You look a million miles away. Perhaps you need more coffee. If you go into the lounge room, I’ll bring some. But
don’t go near the boxes.’
Nancy and I hurried in, eager for refreshment and more blueberry muffins.
‘I do hope you open up Fredelighavn,’ said Nancy. ‘I’d so love to go there.’
• • •
By the end of a very long day I knew a lot about the village but there was still no reference to tunnels. I’d scoured everything to do with the cinema and new bakery, the area where poor Peter had supposedly fallen through the ice, but there was nothing to indicate any underground structures. Of course they might not have told Helen the truth about where the boy had met his fate. If he had fallen through into a tunnel they might have wanted to keep her well away for safety. And if the family company owned everything, how much better did it seem that it was an accident of nature and not one of human negligence.
Helen declined Nancy’s invitation to dinner and so it was just the two of us who walked through the icy night back to Annie Coffin’s Inn. Nancy had left a chicken-and-tomato stew cooking slowly all day, and now its aroma filled the air, the homeliness bringing a prick of tears to my eyes. We ate rapidly, starving after our long hours of reading.
‘We’ll find those tunnels,’ said Nancy, as we turned in for an early night, ‘don’t you worry.’ Neither she nor Helen had asked further details about why a boy might have been in an ice cave. That was their way, it seemed. Helpful but not nosy. The opposite of my mother.
I quickly put my mother out of my mind as I hopped into bed. She’d emailed twice asking me to phone, and I was avoiding it. I couldn’t deal with listening to her endless string of woes at the moment. No doubt her university was still pressuring her to retire and I didn’t want to be the one to tell her they were right. Although that would give her more time to interfere in my life. On second thoughts, I hoped she’d keep her job.
Just as I was falling asleep my phone pinged. I thought it would be Georgia, who hadn’t yet returned my email – but it was Sam Wiltshire, from Harvard. He could meet tomorrow.
I emailed back and set a time for lunch.
• • •
The next morning, I wolfed down pancakes perfect with fresh lemon and sugar while Nancy promised that she and Helen would keep searching Erling’s papers in my absence. She didn’t pry about my dash to Boston.
The buildings of Main Street twinkled in the early light as Nancy walked me down the hill. We passed an old pharmacy with the original counter and chairs for soda pops, a true traditional drugstore; there was an inviting bookstore, and shops with enticing displays of sofas, snug woven rugs and island artwork featuring bobbing sailboats in the colours of the rainbow. It all spoke of cosy rooms waiting to be filled with beauty and ideas, just like the ones I was leaving for the day. I looked forward to coming home to dinner and hearing how Helen and Nancy had fared.
We walked past sturdy brick buildings centuries old and up onto Straight Wharf. A few tourists were queuing in a snaking line, waiting for the ferry. There was a small shop, already open, selling exquisite drink coasters of colourful yachts, painted by a famous local artist. They were just the type of thing my mother loved, and I made a mental note to buy a set on my way back. In spite of everything, I did like bringing Mum souvenirs, especially nautical ones that made her too-big house feel more homely.
‘I’d better love you and leave you,’ said Nancy as I took my place in the ferry queue. She pressed a shiny penny into my hand. ‘Throw this when you go past the lighthouse at Brant Point. It means you’ll be back. It’s good luck.’
I thanked her. ‘And happy hunting,’ I said.
Nancy grew serious. ‘I know it would take a weight off Helen’s shoulders if she felt she knew the truth about her brother after all these years. And if you’re right that there’s a boy down there now . . . Well, I’d better hurry, hadn’t I?’ She kissed me and hugged tightly. ‘It’s just the way we do things here,’ she said warmly.
Her hair bobbed in the breeze as she strode back towards town.
I boarded the ferry and went up to the top deck, through the cabin and outside to the stern. We drew away through calm water the colour of forget-me-nots, grey and white houses peeking through bare branches sweeping up the hill, and little cottages crowded around tiny wharves at the edge of the harbour echoing the soft silvery hues. The Sankaty was docked, loading up cars and goods to take to the mainland. Higher up, a white church with a golden steeple caught the morning sun.
As we passed the lighthouse I hurled my penny into the churning sea. I looked back at the sandy spit, yachts bobbing in the Sound behind, receding as we picked up speed. Nantucket had already taken a place in my heart.
At Hyannis I hired a car, and two hours later in Boston Sam and I were sitting near the harbour in Little Italy, hunched over bowls of pasta full of sweet seafood in a spicy sauce. After catching up on news of mutual friends, I came to the point.
‘I met a fascinating scientist on South Safety Island at the Alliance Base. Professor Andrew Snowden Flynt. People call him Snow. I was wondering if you knew him?’
Sam’s curly brown hair and thick eyebrows set off his bright, animated face. ‘Can’t say I do. Is he at Harvard?’
‘Well, that’s the thing. He was but he’s just left. I was curious to know why.’
Sam frowned. ‘That’s an odd question.’
‘I was quite taken by him.’
‘So you’re keen on him?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Still single, then?’
‘Yeah, tell me about it.’
‘I’ll see what I can find out. I’m guessing you want to contact him?’ Sam grinned.
I nodded, smiling. Amused, Sam picked up his phone and tapped a contact. After a while a man’s voice came on the end of the line. ‘It’s me, Sam. Just wondering if you had a number or an address for Snow Flynt?’
I listened but couldn’t hear what the other person was saying.
‘An old friend wants to pay him a visit.’ Sam winked. ‘Wants to take him some flowers to thank him for something he did for her.’ Sam pulled out a pen and wrote the address on a paper napkin, along with a phone number I knew I wouldn’t use. Some things must be done in person.
As he went to end the call, I signalled for Sam to ask why Snow had left Harvard. Luckily Sam was quick on the uptake and did my bidding. After he’d hung up he leaned forward eagerly. ‘He got a position down there in Antarctica. Chose to give up his professorship. It must have been a big promotion. Although, my mate hinted he may have left under a cloud. There was no farewell, just an announcement and a sudden departure. Not the usual fanfare and emeritus and all that. So I guess he’s not really even a professor any more. It’s not like he went to another university.’
I tried to take in what I was hearing but it was making my head spin. Sam passed across the paper napkin with the contact details.
‘You sure you want to follow him up?’ Sam’s dark eyes caught mine. ‘Harvard’s not the sort of place people leave like that.’
• • •
An hour later I was back on the road, heading to Cape Cod where Snow lived in the small community of Chatham.
I looked at the map on my GPS – Chatham was quite close to Hyannis, and lay 90 miles south-east of Boston. It stuck out on the right elbow of the Cape, just before the land hooked up to the stretch that led to Provincetown.
As I drove into Chatham I was struck by how pretty it was. Houses were traditional grey-shingled cedar with white windows; gardens were lush and neat as a pin, with towering trees, many bare-branched at this time of year. Their leaves had all been picked up, as if an army of elves were keeping everything in order, letting nothing fall out of place. It was designer heaven, and it had a surprisingly calming effect on me. If only life could be like this in reality. There was no litter, no tackiness. It was a truly genteel, pleasant place. And when I wound down my window, there was the tangy, revitalising smell of salt.
Snow’s house was past the commercial harbour, and through the town. In Main Street the st
ores were alluring: little jewellery shops, bookstores, cafes. Many were open, their lights ablaze in the darkening afternoon. From the map I could see that Snow’s place was perched on the water, overlooking the wild Atlantic Ocean.
Huge gulls flapped in the wind like white and grey mop- rags. I passed an extensive lighthouse complex that hosted the US Coast Guard; the lighthouse itself was a tall white beauty with a black top striking up into the grey sky.
The navigation misled me and I ended up in a dead-end, at a private marina. Boats were moored along a canal, and on the other side, vessels sat hoisted and housed on a dry dock. There were a couple of men in a shed, working on an engine.
I parked and braved an icy wind to ask for Ocean Street. A man in oil-stained overalls, eyebrows crusted with salt that was whipping off the sea, directed me. In two minutes I was driving slowly by the house of Andrew Snowden Flynt, past but not present Harvard professor. I couldn’t see much because it was hidden behind a green hedge and tall, established evergreen trees. The grey-tiled roof looked impressive and high. I reached the end of the street and turned around, cruising slowly past again. I still couldn’t get a proper view.
I pondered whether to drive up to the solid timber gates and press the intercom. But I needed to collect my thoughts, so I drove back to town, parked in Main Street and went into the lone cafe that was now the only one open. The town had shut quickly. It was already five o’clock and the last ferry from Hyannis to Nantucket was at six-thirty. It would take me at least half an hour driving down the Cape to get there. I couldn’t linger, but neither did I want to leave.
‘Can I help you?’ A waitress with dirty-blonde hair bunched into a ponytail took my order. I asked for a coffee, figuring I’d have plenty to eat when I got back to Annie Coffin’s Inn.
When she brought a steaming mug of dark liquid I asked for a recommendation for a place to stay, as I was planning to return tomorrow.
‘There’s a very good inn just off Main Street.’ She scrawled the name and directions on a coaster. ‘Highly recommended. What brings you to us?’