by Stef Penney
Then, three months later, she ends it; her husband is seriously ill. This is the first time she has mentioned him, although Jakob seems to have known she was married. Perhaps she has thought better of the affair. Perhaps she has been found out. Perhaps her passion was passing and shallow. She does not explain.
In the envelope with the letters were a handful of photographs. A few were snaps of Flora Athlone (as she was then) in Greenland, on a beach. One particularly engaging photograph shows a very young Flora with an Eskimo girl, whose head only reaches her chin. They are looking at each other and laughing, mischief lighting up both faces. And there was another photograph – the one his mother only showed him a few days before he left. In this last picture, the same young Flora is sitting in an armchair in a dark interior, smiling shyly at the camera. Only, here, she is naked, her skin glowing like a pearl in the light from a window. When Randall saw it, he laughed with embarrassment.
‘This is her – the girl on the beach? The old devil!’
His mother sighed. ‘Really, Randy. I know I’m your mother, but I expect you’ve seen pictures of naked women before.’
‘Well, you didn’t show me this before,’ he said. ‘You know, she’s not bad.’
‘I hope you’re not going to smirk like that when you meet her.’
‘Mom, for heaven’s sake!’
He was amused more than anything (and titillated) – which now makes him feel hot with shame, although he really cannot connect that soft-fleshed girl with the old woman before him. His embarrassment was less to do with the girl’s nudity than with the expression on her face. It is such an intimate picture – so clearly that of a woman looking at her lover – that he cannot mention it.
.
Now the Snow Queen breaks the silence with a sigh.
‘Do you plan to write about that?’
‘No! Please don’t think that. I wouldn’t dream of it. My family – especially my mother – would love to know . . . well, anything you could tell us about him. The north was such an important part of his life. Whenever he came back to New York, he lived with Mom’s family, but she said that he was always itching to leave again. No one in the family could really understand it. But you must know what that was like. And, of course, we would love to know what happened to him, in the end. If there’s anything to know . . .’
‘Oh,’ she says again. ‘It was all so long ago.’
‘I understand it might be difficult to talk about.’
Randall looks at her, feeling the resistance in her. He could almost shake her. Of course she has the right to her privacy – but he and his mother have the right to know, don’t they?
‘We may never get another chance to find out. I . . . Please . . .’
The woman is gazing out of the window.
‘I realise he was only a small part of your life. But he was greatly loved and missed by my family.’ He pauses, hoping for a sign. ‘I’m named after him.’
She looks at him accusingly. ‘I thought your name was Randall.’
‘It is: Jakob Randall Crane. When I was at school, I decided “Jakob” was old fashioned.’ He grimaces in apology.
She examines him again. ‘Your eyes have a look of him.’
He smiles. ‘That’s what Mom says.’
She seems to be meditating. She looks at her watch. Randall finds himself praying that the bad weather will continue.
‘Shall we go for a walk? We have time.’
Randall grins. ‘It would be a pleasure. Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me. I don’t know what I can tell you that will be of any use.’
.
Wrapped in coats and scarves – it is only a little above freezing – they walk away from the box-like buildings into the grey morning.
‘If we go south-east,’ she says, ‘we will come to the lake.’ And before he can agree or otherwise, she sets off briskly.
‘This is south-east?’ he asks. When she nods, he says, ‘How can you tell? There’s no sun.’
She looks at him. ‘I just know.’
Across the empty highway, a low rise is covered in spruce. It is not a picturesque country, in Randall’s opinion: the landscape is flat and scrubbed-looking, with nothing but monotonous dark trees to cover its bareness.
Randall takes out his Luckies and offers her the packet.
‘No, thank you. I’ve never smoked. He smoked, of course. They all did.’
‘They?’
‘All the men, up there. All the time. And the Eskimos. Tobacco was a big part of trade with them. They couldn’t get enough of it.’
Randall laughs. ‘Very convenient, to get your trading partners addicted to something that only you can supply.’
‘Oh, it started long before we were there.’ She looks at him rather sharply. ‘But you’re right. There were so many things that only we could supply.’
She walks quickly. Randall almost has to hurry to keep up.
‘We met again, your great-uncle and I, on my second expedition, in ’98. Did you know that?’
‘No. You mean in Greenland?’
‘Yes.’
He waits for her to go on. She continues walking, looking straight ahead into the trees.
She says, ‘He wasn’t a small part. Not at all.’
They climb over a bank of shattered clinker that has been left by the road menders. Randall holds out his hand to her. She doesn’t take it.
She says, ‘He was greatly loved by me, too.’
Chapter 44
At sea, North Atlantic
May 1897
Self-righteousness is the most disgusting of human traits, intensifying other faults and curdling virtue; Jakob fought it on one hand, but (he has to admit) enjoyed it on the other. It enhanced the energy with which he swept away difficulties; it gilded his tongue when talking to sponsors; it made him more serious and more passionate. He was rather appalled to discover this capacity in himself, but then he has never before felt himself entitled to it.
Now, the Micmac ploughs through heavy swells over the Grand Banks and, for the first time in months, there is nothing he can do to help. Fog accompanies them, and vast clouds of seabirds, swirling noisily over the grey water, dipping into the rich broth below the surface. Despite the cold, Welbourne and he spend much time on deck – Welbourne with a rifle slung over his arm, looking for things to shoot, Jakob staring at the horizon in an attempt to quell his seasickness. They see seals and dolphins, and, one day, a pod of right whales just off their bows. Aniguin spends most of his time in his bunk, asleep.
The week before they left, Jakob and Hendrik took the ferry to Blackwell’s Island to visit their father, and Jakob explained that he was going away again. As usual, Arent de Beyn was largely silent, although whether this expressed disappointment, disapproval or indifference was hard to say.
Aniguin received another letter from Flora Athlone, telling him of her plans to arrive in Siorapaluk in a few weeks’ time, and he found that he could read it aloud with a notable absence of feeling. Then he took Aniguin to visit the graves at Mount Olivet. Ivalu, Padloq and Aviaq were buried in a corner of the hospital grounds, under a grove of chestnuts. The graves were marked with simple white crosses, each inscribed with a name and date. Brilliant grass grew over them.
‘I was thinking, Aniguin, there should be a plaque, explaining who they are,’ said Jakob, as they stood and looked at the three mounds. Aniguin didn’t seem to know what to do there, but he took off his bowler when Jakob doffed his, and stood with it in his hands.
‘What is a plaque?’
‘A notice. A marker, so that people remember them.’
Aniguin sniffed. ‘I will not forget,’ he said.
‘No. I know. I also wanted to ask you, I should have done so before, but . . . it might be possible to take their bodies back to Greenland. Not no
w, but in the future. Would the families – would you – like that?’
‘Why?’
‘You could bury them near your home.’ He did not know if it was customary for Eskimos to visit their dead.
Aniguin turns away. ‘No.’
‘Right. Yes . . . I just wanted to ask.’
Throughout the visit, Aniguin seemed uncomfortable; he had acquiesced to the suggestion that he visit the graves, but Jakob suspected he hadn’t wanted to come at all. After all, the dead were taboo. Thinking about it now, he realises Aniguin never disagreed with any of his suggestions, until the one about the bodies. His way was to agree politely, to smile; he expressed gratitude and appreciation in his soft voice. He laughed easily. Jakob wonders whether his whole experience of America was an unmitigated horror.
.
Now, when Aniguin comes on deck, inhaling the sharp air, he smiles with what Jakob hopes is genuine pleasure. He can smell ice, he says, long before they see any. The Micmac’s captain claims that icebergs smell of cucumbers. When the first berg hoves into view – a great bolster of ice, striped like a humbug – they stand at the rail, sniffing. Jakob cannot detect cucumbers, just a raw, faintly acrid tang that does not smell like anything else in his experience.
The thing that gave him most pleasure in the last weeks before sailing was his rekindled friendship with Clara Urbino. They met frequently, lunching in a restaurant near her department store. Jakob had the irrational sense that, by talking to her, he was indirectly including Frank in his plans. He found it comforting to be with someone who knew the most discreditable things about him (there was very little she didn’t know) and yet still seemed to feel genuine affection for him. There was no coquetry in their friendship, no expectation; it was undoubtedly that which made it so easy.
A few days before they sailed, he met her for the last time. He was unnerved by the proximity of his departure.
‘Is something wrong, Jake?’
‘If I’ve made mistakes, it’s too late to correct them, but I think about everything I’ve ordered, and checked, and’ – he shook his head – ‘even if I find nothing wrong, I can’t stop.’
‘As you said before you went north with Frank, people live there all year round, making do with what the country provides.’
‘True, but that doesn’t stop me from worrying.’
‘Jake, from what I know of you, I’m sure it will be all right. Not that my opinion carries much weight in these matters.’
‘You’re wrong. Your opinion means a great deal to me.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s something I wanted to say to you. You’ll probably think I’m crazy.’
Clara looked at him in astonishment. ‘Yes?’
‘Please don’t dismiss it out of hand.’
Clara looked wary.
‘We . . . um, understand quite a lot about each other, wouldn’t you say? We have a great deal in common. And we . . . that is, I’ve never had such a good friend as you, Clara. I’ll be thinking of you, while I’m away, and there is no one I will look forward to seeing again, as much as you.’
He thought of the words he had rehearsed, but now they seemed silly, so he simply said, ‘Will you marry me?’
Clara burst out laughing, then stopped and looked at him. ‘You’re not serious.’ She was smiling.
‘Yes, I am. I don’t mean right now . . .’
She looked down at her plate. ‘I’m . . . startled.’
Jakob smiled, rather wanly. ‘I know this is very sudden and that it must seem strange.’
He leant over the table and lowered his voice further: ‘I know about Lucille. I don’t expect you to change. But there’s no one I care about more than you. I want you to be safe . . . safer than you could be on your own, perhaps.’
‘You don’t pretend to be in love with me, then?’ She smiled, as though this were a relief.
He shrugs. ‘Whatever that means. If two people care for each other as much as I believe we do . . . isn’t that worth a great deal?’
She sighed, but there was a warmth in her eyes, a flush in her cheeks.
‘I don’t know what to say, Jake. You’ve astonished me.’
‘May I leave you with the idea?’
‘What has brought this about? You’ve never struck me as a man who wanted to settle down.’
‘I suppose not. I always wanted to be free, and I have been. I’ve led a selfish life. But I’ve thought a lot, recently, about what’s important, and affection and companionship seem to me the greatest things in life.’
Clara looked at him, and the last traces of her smile left her.
‘When you explained about Frank and his Eskimo girl, you described it as the need for comfort – the need to cling to someone before you leave for unknown dangers. Isn’t this the same thing?’
Jakob bit back the denial. He thought of Swedish Kate, of how she had accused him, rightly, of wanting to save her. With her, he had been swept away; but, with Clara, it was a sober decision, he believed, born out of sincere affection.
‘Perhaps, partly. But I do love you, Clara; when we are to meet, I so look forward to being with you. I think we could be happy.’
‘Did you ask the lady in Europe to marry you?’
‘Ah . . . As I think I told you, she was already married.’
‘People get divorced nowadays.’
He shrugged uncomfortably.
‘I read in the paper that Mrs Athlone is going back to Greenland this year.’
Jakob went cold, and hoped she didn’t notice. He hated the way his whole being jerked at the name.
‘Yes.’
‘I always wondered if it was her.’
Jakob swallowed. He lifted his eyes to her with an effort.
‘It was. I think it’s unlikely that we’ll meet. It’s a huge country, and, even if we do cross paths . . . It was all over, two years ago.’
‘But you’re . . . concerned about seeing her?’
Jakob shrugged. ‘A little. But it will go. And we may not meet at all.’
‘I still care for Lucille. I don’t know if that will change. It would, if I could will it so.’
He nodded.
Clara reached for his hand. ‘Jake, dear . . . I’m touched by your kind offer. By the time you come back, we may both feel the same – or we may feel differently. Let’s wait until then.’
Jakob looked round and summoned a waiter. He ordered pudding. They sat without talking, then Clara said, ‘I suppose I wonder what you are thinking. If we were to marry . . . where would love be? The kind of love . . . You know what I mean.’
‘The kind that is painful, and short-lived, and against our better judgement? I don’t believe I will feel that again. I believe we can do better.’
Clara looked at him in surprise, amusement pulling at her mouth.
‘You’re talking like an old man, which you are not! Do you really think I would save you from that?’
He was startled, and a little hurt. He said, ‘You make it sound selfish.’
‘I think it a reasonable question.’
‘Perhaps wanting to be with someone is always selfish. Your company is dearer to me than anyone else’s. So, to answer your question: yes.’
‘And you think you could save me from that?’
He was shocked (though why should he be?) by her question. ‘I don’t know. I know that I want to protect you from all unhappiness.’
Clara smiled sadly. ‘I don’t know that affection, however deep, is sufficient armour against that sort of love. I don’t want to believe I’ll never feel it again, however painful or ill-judged it may be.’
Jakob couldn’t think of anything further to say. Clara appeared to be thinking deeply, a slight frown on her forehead. After a few minutes, he said, ‘I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to upset you before I left.’
‘Oh, I’m not upset . . . I’m not used to this sort of thing! I should thank you.’
‘Oh, God . . .’ He waved his hand in dismissal. ‘Please don’t think about it again – or do, if you want to. As you say, who knows what will have happened by the time I come back.’
He smiled to cover his despondency. It wasn’t that he’d expected a declaration of love, but the idea had seemed, in his mind, something entirely good – a solution, a talisman.
‘I’m sorry I surprised you like this. Knowing I’m going away for so long, I wanted to . . .’ He shook his head. ‘It was selfish. I’ll miss you, Clara.’
‘I’ll miss you too.’
.
He did not regret asking her. Whether she said yes or no (it would almost certainly be no), there would be something to happen on his return, which made his return somehow more certain.
After lunch, their ways coincided for a block, and when they paused on a corner under a linden tree, he asked if he might kiss her goodbye.
‘No, certainly . . . Oh, all right,’ she said, and so he did, gently pressing his lips to hers, and was sure he felt an answering tremor. He looked into her eyes, noted her quickened breathing. He grinned, suddenly heartened.
‘There, was that awful?’
Clara laughed. ‘I must go. I will be late! Come back safely.’
.
Why securing some sort of avowal had mattered so much, he couldn’t afterwards say; perhaps she was right and he was afraid, although what he was afraid of, he didn’t know. Much later, he remembered how he had said to her, ‘I do love you.’ The small word did not seem significant at the time.