by Laline Paull
Wednesday, 24 January 1894
Farthest North: The Norwegian Polar Expedition 1893–1896 (1897)
Fridtjof Nansen
15
The next time Sean saw Parch was a week later, at a summer party on the roof-garden of a bank in the Square Mile. Under a thunderous sky the crowd drank Pimm’s and champagne cocktails and ate foie gras and oysters. Parch circled through the crowd until they could spontaneously bump into each other, and Sean remained where he was, to allow it.
‘Forgive my ghoulish interest,’ Parch said after the first salvo of pleasantries, ‘but I’ve heard that the inquest date for poor Tom Harding has been set. A whole week – is there really that much to say? Yes, I’m a bad person, I saw it on a memo. All right, I peeked. No one likes being disintermediated – I introduced you, but now I’m not supposed to know anything.’ He sighed. ‘Hashtag bag-carrier.’
‘Stowe knows about the inquest?’
‘Well, you impressed him, like you do everyone. He takes a friendly interest in your well-being. And before you accuse me of stalking you and throw me over the parapet, here—’ He gave Sean a business card, for a Nicholas Sawbridge, King’s Counsel. Chambers in Lincoln’s Inn, private office in Mayfair.
‘Why?’
‘Here’s what I know about inquests,’ Parch said. ‘Everyone wants someone to blame. And if my master consults said important lawyer and puts a load of work his way, then he must be pretty good.’
Sean tucked the card away. ‘And you’re doing this because …?’
‘Sharing is caring. No obligation.’
‘None taken.’
Rather than his Lincoln’s Inn chambers, Nicholas Sawbridge KC chose to meet Sean two days later at his private Mayfair office. After the grandeur of the foyer with its haughty receptionist and mantelpiece dripping marble grapes, it was a surprise when down the staircase bounded a man much younger than Sean had expected.
In buoyant middle years with a good head of hair just greying at the temples and a lean tennis-player’s body, Sawbridge had keen merry eyes behind retro tortoiseshell spectacles. He welcomed Sean into his wood-panelled office that was more of a club room, with its humidor in the corner and dark tartan carpet. After offering Sean a drink and cigar of his choice, both of which Sean declined, and ascertaining he did not mind, Sawbridge re-lit half a Cohiba Siglo VI from the big crystal ashtray on his desk, and they got down to business.
Sean told him how he learned of the reappearance of Tom’s body—
‘No.’ Sawbridge looked over the top of his spectacles. ‘You got the traumatic news by phone from Joe Kingston—’
‘Kingsmith.’
‘Kingsmith, I’m sorry, telling you that Tom had been found. Talk about his body “reappearing” and it might give the erroneous impression that you’d seen it before.’ Sawbridge pulled out a transparent file insert, in which Sean recognised his own Sunday Times interview from three years ago, part of its Polar Heroes feature.
‘Marvellous interview, by the way, hit just the right note. Sorrow, courage, patriotism. And great god, what a feat of survival.’ When Sean said nothing, Sawbridge put it down and continued. ‘Well, I base my information on your account here, in which your old friend and valued business partner was very much alive the last time you saw him. Correct me if I’m wrong.’
‘Tom was alive.’ Sean had a strange sense of floating. The smell of the cigar smoke, the fresh shoe polish on Sawbridge’s brogues beneath the desk. The muffled traffic sound through the double-glazed mullioned windows onto Brook Street. He reached for his water glass and found it empty. Sawbridge replenished it.
‘Jolly good thing you came to me,’ he said. ‘It’s one thing to know on paper what you have to do, it’s another to be in the room and feel all those eyes on you. It’s not a business presentation, it’s not an award ceremony. It’s a very intense experience.’
‘But it’s not a trial.’
‘Absolutely separate, purely a fact-finding inquiry. Much as the bereaved frequently want to apportion blame and guilt – which is only human nature, and who can blame them – that’s not what the coroner’s interested in. So I can promise you there won’t be any sentencing or anything like that. We are going to present ourselves in a spirit of respectful cooperation, and assist our good coroner in creating a true account of what happened. Which is to say, it’s going to be bloody awful and you need to be ready for that. Are you fit?’
‘Fit? Yes.’ Sean looked at the wood panelling behind Sawbridge’s head. There was a knot, from which the grain swirled out. He looked away.
‘Ever seen Tom Harding’s dead body?’
‘What? No!’
Sawbridge clapped his hands together, as if breaking a spell.
‘My dear chap! I’m giving you a taste of what it might be like. A sudden mischievous question out of the blue, like that. Excellent reaction, by the way. We want a clear round, no spooking or refusals – I’ve got a pony-mad daughter, I’ve picked up the terms – but to revert: this tragedy occurred three years ago. Now to the conscious mind that can be both a lifetime and, depending on any trauma, five minutes ago. The judge – or coroner, in this case – always says they make allowance for the passage of time, but in fact they tend to press rather hard on areas of uncertainty. Clarity makes their job easier, so we will give it to them. And everyone goes home not exactly happy, but at least with a sense of closure, which is the point of the event.’
Sean understood. He recounted the details of Joe Kingsmith’s early morning call, and his own journey up to Svalbard the same day. He heard the change in his voice as he related those details. So did Sawbridge.
‘Anything of note, this last time?’
Sean shook his head. The bear stared at him from the edge of the glacier, black light spilling from its knowing eyes, willing him closer.
‘Nothing to do with Tom, anyway.’
‘But anyway. Just in case.’
‘I saw a bear. That’s all.’ Sean felt an odd sense of betrayal, saying it.
‘A polar bear?’ Sawbridge’s face lit up. ‘I really must see them before they’re all gone. Reservations just aren’t the same, though of course it’s the only way to save them now. Was it doing anything?’
‘Just standing.’ Sean hadn’t even told Martine.
‘Wasn’t there a bear involved in the accident in the first place? I seem to remember hearing something about that.’
‘There was an incident with a bear earlier that day. Eclipse tourists. We were delayed in Longyearbyen because of them.’
‘That’s right! Attacked them, didn’t it? Rather gory. But nothing to do with your group?’
‘Nothing whatsoever. Except we were delayed overnight because all the helicopters were requisitioned for medevac, including the one we were going to use.’
‘So the next day – the day of the accident – you all went up to Midgard Lodge. No bears involved there.’
Sean shook his head. Sawbridge made a tiny pencil note.
‘I’ve been reading up on the Arctic, since knowing you were coming in. Utterly gripping. All those brave fellows. Can it really be peaceful there, like they say? Sounds rather terrifying.’
‘It’s both. It’s sublime.’
‘Now there’s a word you don’t hear very much. I really must go, while it’s still there.’ Sawbridge studied Sean. ‘I do hope you’ll trust me. The more you can tell me, the better I can steer our ship. That’s how you must think of it: it’s a voyage through this inquest, and there will certainly be some weather. And in my experience with my clients, when there’s been a close relationship with the deceased, the worst weather comes from within. It’s going to hit you again, make no mistake.’ He laid down his cigar. ‘Let’s not pretend that this is not about death. And forgive me for bringing up something else that is painful but pertinent: your divorce.’
‘What’s that got to do with this? And how do you know?’
‘I always research my clients, part of the jo
b. The reason it matters is that, not only did you have the traumatic experience of the accident and the loss of your friend and business partner – one of them, anyway – but that was then followed by your divorce, in the following year.’ He paused, reading Sean’s silence as permission to go on. ‘For the purposes of context, was there overlap with your current relationship? You would be amazed what opposing counsel might think is relevant to mention, even in the supposedly non-adversarial environs of an inquest. Miss Delaroche?’
Sean looked at the carved nymphs either side of the fireplace, and their small nubile oak breasts.
‘Yes, we were having an affair while I was still married. But by the time of the Midgard trip, the divorce proceedings were almost concluded. I’m now divorced and Martine is my partner in both business and life.’
Sawbridge’s pleasant expression did not change as he made another tiny pencil note.
‘So, whilst business has thrived, on a personal level it’s been fairly turbulent. Following the accident, as documented in that marvellous article, you went straight on with business. Barely a week’s recuperation.’
‘There was a lot to do.’
‘And entrepreneurs drive themselves ten times harder than everyone else. How’s the sleeping?’ Sawbridge peered at Sean. ‘Sleep’s vital.’
Sean shrugged. ‘Could be better.’
‘Been bad how long?’
‘I suppose … since the accident.’
Sawbridge steepled his fingers and tapped them on his lips.
‘I have an idea, if you’ll consider it, that might be very useful for us as we approach this process. I’d like you to consider the possibility that you might be suffering from PTSD. Post-traumatic—’
‘I’m not.’ Sean said it so fast they both laughed. ‘Seriously.’
‘No then, that’s splendid. However, and I’m not speaking out of turn and she’d never name names, but there is a very fine therapist in London who helps top-level military clients. Going to see her could be an excellent investment before we enter the inquest.’
‘PTSD is for people with no legs. Not businessmen who had a shock.’
‘You’d be surprised. Jenny Flanders sees some extraordinary people in public life as well as the military. My job is to take all possible measures to prepare you for what is to come. Bereaved families need to complete their grieving process; that is not the aim but a very important by-product of an inquest. They have a hunger for all the details, and to identify the person or organisation responsible for the death of their loved one. This is natural. Going to see Jenny Flanders, a pre-eminent therapist in the treatment of PTSD, shows that you too have suffered, though you survived. It is a signal to the coroner, and it is a signal to the press, should they be there.’
‘It’s Tom. Of course they will.’
‘Right. So expect mud to be thrown. Expect pain and raw grief in that room – and expect some of it to be yours. My job is to help you survive it. To that end, in all good conscience, I urge you to see Jenny Flanders.’
Sean thought of the blizzard on the M20.
‘I’ll see if I can fit it in.’
I sat in my kayak day after day waiting for the seals. The water was, as the natives say, ‘merely oil’. The air was calm as an empty room and the sun like liquid fire on the glass of the sea. The hunter must not move, for the slightest shift of his body will disturb the small craft and frighten the seals away.
It is then that the mind begins to wander crazily. I dreamt without sleeping, resurrected forgotten episodes from my childhood. Suddenly great mysteries became for the moment plain to me. I realised I was in an abnormal, or supernormal, state and revelled in it. I cannot explain the feeling exactly, but it seemed that my soul, or spirit, or what you will, was released from my body, my life and obligations, and it soared impersonally, viewing everything as a whole.
I have often wondered if this was a touch of brain fever, or ‘kayak disease’ – or merely a state which everyone experiences at one time or another. I have never known, and no one seems willing to talk about it.
Arctic Adventure: My Life in the Frozen North (1936)
Peter Freuchen
16
Jenny Flanders worked from her home, a gracious house on the far side of Thurloe Square, facing the Victoria and Albert Museum. Her consultation room was on the first floor, in what would once have been the grand reception room. Now the space was piled with boxes and tottering piles of books, as if she were in the process of moving in or out.
Sean took in the good furniture and worn silk rugs as much as Jenny Flanders herself. She was a middle-aged woman with kind blue eyes, a blonde bob, and an all-beige attire that evoked a robustly sprung roll of cashmere. In an armchair against the tall bright window, she waited for him to reply.
Why was he embarrassed? Sean shrugged. He felt unbearably scrutinised.
‘Well, to be here, in the first place. Complaining about anything, when I’ve got all my limbs and faculties. I’m a very fortunate man, I know that. I live the life people dream of.’ He adjusted to a more at-ease position on the sofa. ‘Racing drivers don’t look at the barriers, they look at the track.’
Jenny Flanders considered. ‘Is that how you feel? Like a racing driver?’
He had told her about the drive back from the funeral, but briefly.
‘I mean you don’t focus on all the things that could go wrong, or have gone wrong. You look ahead at where you want to go.’
She didn’t answer for a while. The room was silent, except for the second hand of a small clock he now became aware of. The ticks alternated in tone.
‘What happened on the motorway sounded rather serious.’
‘It could have been. But some survival instinct kicked in because I managed to park and put the hazards on. I thought it was a real snowstorm, but when I googled it, it was like a migraine checklist. Snowstorm effect, disorientation, strange noise in my ears like a howling wind. Triggered by stress. And what could be more stressful than Tom’s funeral with my ex-wife there who hates me and my daughter who won’t speak to me and Tom’s ex-girlfriend – that’s probably her permanent role in life now, as well as chief mourner – who wants to make trouble. It’s not surprising that I had some sort of reaction.’
‘Trouble?’
‘She said some cruel things to me at the funeral.’ He looked at his hands. ‘She doesn’t accept it was an accident. If something doesn’t fit with her world view, she just denies it. It’s why she lost her job – she was a field biologist up there – and she’d probably blame me for that as well, if she could. Sorry, but that clock is really distracting, could you move it out of the room? It’s like you’re trying to hypnotise me.’
‘Clock?’ Jenny Flanders looked around in concern.
‘I can hear it – listen.’ Sean looked around but could not see it. They both listened, as a motorcycle went past in the street. When that sound had faded away, so had the ticking clock. Anxiety moved around his body, settling in his hands. He folded them to keep them still. He felt the vibration under his fingers, faint and rhythmic. It was the second hand inside his watch. It couldn’t have been that. That would be crazy. ‘It’s gone now.’
Jenny Flanders did not smile.
‘Is there a particular aspect of the inquest that you’re focused on?’
Sean let out a slow breath.
‘It’s all online in the Sunday Times interview I did. About how I survived.’
‘I didn’t read it.’
‘Why not? And as I’m going to have to relive it at the inquest, I’m not going to do it now.’ He stared at a bowl of tulips on a table by the window, almost prostrate with the weight of their striped ragged heads. The petals were white, splashed with red streaks.
‘Everything’s online,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s bloody life and death laid out. My divorce, my work, pictures of me with women, skiing – pictures of me and Tom – a ton of pictures. It’s like whatever’s there becomes the truth.’ He sat forw
ard. ‘Why didn’t you prepare better to meet me?’
She didn’t answer. To Sean’s surprise, instead of jumping to his feet and walking out, he found himself extremely tired all of a sudden. He yawned, not caring if it were rude. Still Jenny Flanders did not respond.
‘You’re giving me the silent treatment too, are you? You hope I’ll burst, and spill my guts all over your old rug? It’s a very nice rug. You must have had it a long time.’ A small part of Sean’s brain was fascinated by his own attitude. His entire career had been based on networking, on relating well to everyone. His eye went back to the bloody tulips, lolling all over the table. Messy, insolent flowers. He had an urge to knock them aside. ‘And people come to you for this once a week? They must be in a bad way.’
‘You could come more often.’ Jenny Flanders startled him. ‘Twice weekly can be useful, at the start of a collaboration.’
‘Collaboration? Sounds like Vichy France.’
‘That’s an interesting association.’
‘No, it’s not. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.’
They sat in silence, Sean determined to wait it out.
‘I’m struck,’ Jenny Flanders said after a while, ‘by how you talk about Ruth Mott. As if she might have been the most difficult part of the funeral.’
So she had paid attention. And it was true.
‘She’s a very angry woman.’
‘You’ve known her a long time?’
‘From the time we were students. Me, Tom, her. And Gail.’ He shrugged. The air stilled in the room. Jenny Flanders had somehow tricked him; he’d been about to walk out before. He saw her eyes move, and realised he was fiddling with his empty ring finger. He stopped.
‘Sorry, but I thought I was here so you could give me some practical tools to manage the stress of the inquest. I’m not interested in trawling ancient history.’
Jenny Flanders continued to look at him with the same inscrutable expression, that still somehow held kindness. But not enough, Sean felt. Not actually on his side.