‘Don’t fret so much, Alex …’
At hearing my friend and cabin-mate’s name, I almost gave myself away, stepping backwards involuntarily and nearly colliding with several drums of paraffin.
‘Don’t tell me not to fret. Unless we do something …’
‘What?’ Now Lawson’s voice also dropped to a whisper. ‘Alex, you heard Rourke as well as I did. Anyone who voices any opposition will feel his wrath and I, for one, don’t want to spend the next eighteen months locked in my own darkroom.’
‘But if a few of us stood up to him …’
‘That’s dangerous talk, Alex.’
‘Still, my point is valid.’
‘Only in the event that there actually are “a few of us” on board who think the same way. Otherwise it’s the sort of thing that will get us shut away down here. Or worse.’
‘Worse?’
Lawson hesitated before speaking again.
‘Like Jimmy James.’
‘That was an accident.’
Lawson snorted gently. ‘Perhaps. But in any event, I have no intention of being the next one to suffer an “accident” at the hands of Dick Ryan.’
The two men fell silent then, and after some minutes, I decided to retreat back to the chartroom and consider my next move. I must confess that I found myself in something of a conundrum; clearly such dissident behaviour cannot be permitted aboard the ship and no decent man could stand idly by and allow it to flourish. On the other hand, much as it pained me to admit it, Lawson did have a point about Mr Rourke and so I was also loath to inform the leader of my discovery, fearing that his response might prove as regrettable as the offence itself.
On top of that, of course, I was somewhat crushed to discover that Alex, who I’d come to regard as a friend and something of a confidant aboard, was so effectively masking his true feelings about me, and that he was prepared to share them with a man as callow as Randolph Lawson.
This consideration, however, I had to put aside, in the interests of choosing calmly my best course of action. I decided to remain in the chartroom to confront the two when they emerged from the darkness, telling them I’d overheard their conversation and demanding an immediate and complete end to that sort of mutinous collusion, else I should have to take the matter up with the Leader.
Before this meeting was able to eventuate, however, I was called to the deck to handle some minor matters with Mr Ryan and by the time I was able to return below Randolph was already back in the wardroom, fiddling with one of his cameras and exchanging lewd stories with Greg and George, and Alex was deep in conversation with Michael Burke about the finer aspects of barometric pressure, and so my moment of opportunity had passed.
* * *
TEN
CROSSING THE LINE, IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE. ENVY. MY OWN PERSONAL ABYSS. A PORTENTOUS CALM. CONFRONTING ALEX. A MOST PERPLEXING ENCOUNTER. THE LINGERING EFFECTS OF MORPHINE.
There is a long nautical tradition practised among those who travel south to Antarctica, which generally occurs as the ship passes over the 60 degree line of latitude. Those aboard who are ‘crossing the line’ for the first time are called before a representative of King Neptune and are initiated with much ceremony into that select group of men and women who have, across the years, made the long trek across the wild ocean and into the high southern latitudes. In most cases, this initiation involves some form of grotesque anointment – in my case with a heady combination of galley slops and various other aromatics such as Vegemite and dehydrated egg powder – and the kissing of a fish. The whole event is usually taken in good humour and generally leads to much frivolity and comradeship aboard.
For me, though, on my Antarctic voyage, my personal ‘crossing of the line’ occurred almost a week after I’d kneeled before King Neptune on the mess deck of the Aurora, and it had nothing to do with geography.
Having discovered the journal of William Downes, tucked away so conveniently below the shelves, I stood for some minutes, leafing randomly through the pages and attempting to distill some sense of precisely what it was that I’d discovered. The first words: ‘Having arrived in Hobart this evening aboard the SS Loongana, I have established lodgings for myself in a respectable boarding house …’ seemed innocuous enough, but some of the later entries, even when considered in the small excerpts and snippets that I was reading, exuded such an immediate sense of menace that I could not easily put the book aside. Imagine yourself in my place, opening a page randomly to be confronted with the following sentence:
Piotre still weeps constantly. He is half-bald now from tearing at his hair, and anybody brave enough to venture near him finds themselves assaulted with either a barrage of incomprehensible pleading, or darkly threatening abuse …
I ask you, how could anyone resist the power, the sheer insane potential, of a sentence like that?
I certainly couldn’t and so I settled myself in a comfortable chair, tucked into a corner of the library, and commenced reading the journal from the start. Slowly, inexorably, inevitably, I found myself drawn into the world of William Downes. I worked my way through his months in Hobart, his frustration at the long delays to their departure, his elation at finally putting to sea. I bathed in the gentle bonhomie of his description of Christmas day (little did I know then what was to follow) and experienced in my gut the first clutches of dread as I travelled with him through that terrible gale. I almost felt as though I’d personally watched Ivan vanish over the side of the ship into that black water, the unfortunate Pirate clutched to his chest.
And while I was reading, an awful thing happened.
Envy.
The bane of any writer’s existence. That horrible moment when, engrossed in someone else’s words, you realise with a start that their characters, their setting, have all become real to you – a living thing – and somewhere, deep in the unacknowledged depths of your soul, you silently utter those five fateful words.
‘I wish I’d written this.’
It’s a moment all writers experience at one point or another. It might only happen once or twice in your whole career, but it will happen. You read the masterwork of one of your friends, one of your peers and colleagues, and you lose yourself in it. You swim in the sublime perfection of their metaphor, the genius of their subtext, the effortless flow of their language and, at the same time as you revel in their success, there is also that tiny, hideous voice, deep inside you.
‘I wish I’d written this.’
Of course, you haven’t. You didn’t. You can’t. And so it’s generally easy to bury that insidious little voice even deeper. Ignore it and it will go away, eventually, because it must.
Usually.
Unless you happen to find yourself holding the perfect story in your hand, and also understanding, in the same awful moment, that although you haven’t written it, neither has anyone else.
At least, not yet.
In that moment, I looked into my own abyss.
And, as the saying goes, the abyss looked back into me. And I knew, right then, with shocking, instantaneous clarity, that in this case I didn’t need to wish.
I could write it.
Myself.
And in that moment, I crossed the line.
Also in that moment, the door to the library opened and one of the stationers, a man I’d met just a couple of hours earlier, entered the room, making his way to one of the internet-enabled computer terminals on a desk on the far side. At first he didn’t notice me, but when he did, he threw a curious glance in my direction.
‘Sorry, didn’t see you there.’
‘It’s not a problem,’ I replied.
‘Will it disturb you too much if I get online here for a while? My wife …’
‘No, it’s fine,’ I lied. ‘I was just about to go, anyway.’
‘Righto, then. What’re you reading?’ He nodded at the journal, which I now clutched, closed, in my lap.
‘Nothing. Just reviewing my notes for today.’
‘You�
�re the writer bloke, aren’t you?’
‘That’s right. Got here just this arvo.’
‘What do you think?’
‘About Casey?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s … certainly beautiful.’
‘At the moment. Wait until a blizz sets in. Then you’ll really know about Casey.’
‘Let’s hope it does. I’d like to see it.’
‘You’d be the only one, then. It’s a pain in the arse. So, found yourself a story, yet?’
The question, even though it’s one I get all the time, took me completely off guard, coming as it did so soon on the heels of my moment of envy.
‘Excuse me?’
‘What are you gonna write? About Casey?’
‘Ah. To be honest, I’m not a hundred per cent sure just yet. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Well, you won’t be stuck for material, that’s for sure. Plenty of yarns worth telling down here. I could tell you a few meself.’
‘That’d be great …’ I stood. In my hand, the journal felt as though it were made of lead. All I wanted to do in that moment was take it and be somewhere else, anywhere else. ‘But I’ve just realised how late it is. I’d better turn in.’
‘Yeah.’ The man laughed. ‘Summer down here’ll do that to you. No darkness and all, time gets away. Might see you around, eh? Wouldn’t mind a chat about this writing thing. I’ve got a couple of stories down that I’d like to do something with …’
I promised that we’d definitely catch up for a chat the following day and then, still clutching my precious find, and without jotting a single word about it in the library’s loans book, I turned and walked out.
It was that easy.
* * *
From the Journal of Lieutenant William Downes
31st December, 1921
Polar Exploration Vessel Raven
Approx. 57°36’S, 146°50’E
Not certain how much time I’ll have to write this entry. The barometer is dropping like a stone again and this doesn’t bode well for our chances of getting the rest of the way down to the ice unscathed. It’s only 1630 and already the sky outside is dark, heavy cloud rolling up from the south about three hours ago and completely obscuring the sun.
The sea is horribly unsettled, too. The swells have taken on an oily calmness, rolling below us with indolent ease. The wind has dropped to almost nothing and the sails are flapping uselessly against the sidestays, saggy and lifeless. Only the engine is keeping us underway and, in anticipation of another big blow, the Captain has ordered the galley stove extinguished, so it’ll be another cold meal of ship’s biscuit for us tonight.
In their kennels, the dogs have all gone surprisingly quiet, as have the men. Early this afternoon Captain McLaren ordered all decks secured – hatches dogged shut, the boats and any other deck-cargo double-lashed, the pumps primed and ready, all personal effects stowed. This work was completed a couple of hours ago and since then we’ve all simply been waiting, nerves on edge. Every time the Raven heaves herself up and over a set of larger swells, I find myself wondering if perhaps this is the beginning of things, and then being oddly disappointed to find only the same greasy, rolling smoothness on the other side of them. In truth, the atmosphere reminds me of being back in the trenches, waiting through the hours before dawn and the next big push.
Tensions are high between myself and Alex too, which I have no doubt is further colouring my general impression of our situation. Last night, once everyone had turned in, and we were safely tucked up in our bunks in the privacy of our cabin, I confronted him with what I’d overheard between him and Lawson in the hold.
I wasn’t certain what response I’d expected – probably an apology and some sort of explanation to put my mind at ease, ‘I’m a little under the weather at the moment’ or that sort of thing. Instead, from the darkness above my head, I could almost sense Alex growing tense in his bunk, and he spoke not a word.
‘I understand that this is a rough time,’ I told him, ‘and, Lord knows, everyone’s rather on edge. But for God’s sake, Alex, you must see that the sort of discussion you had with Lawson, if it were common knowledge, would just about tear this company apart.’
At that he rolled suddenly and violently onto his side and, in the thin chink of light coming under our cabin door from the wardroom, I could see him poke his head over the leeboard of his bunk so that he could whisper down at me.
‘This company’s already coming apart at the seams, only you’re too much of a fool to see it.’
I lay there stunned. I’d never imagined Alex – mild mannered, quiet Alex – capable of injecting so much vehemence into his voice and words. For a moment I thought to reprimand him over his manner of address, but instead I found myself filled with an odd kind of pity for him. Clearly he was scared and hiding his fear behind anger. Again it reminded me of France, so similar was his manner to that of many of the young blokes I met there during the hours before their first skirmish.
Above me, he withdrew abruptly back into his bunk and into himself and nothing else I said from then on drew any response. For several hours I lay awake in the darkness, debating my course of action before having to drag myself up on deck again at midnight for watch.
By the time I finally fell into my bunk again at 0400 Alex was sound asleep and, exhausted, I too fell into a deep slumber. This morning I woke, bleary-eyed, to discover him already gone from the cabin, his bunk made and his gear stowed for the day. In the wardroom, he greeted me just as always, warmly and in seeming good humour, but at the same time there was a distance in his manner and so I am not completely certain what to make of things now.
Randolph Lawson, on the other hand, poses no such problem. After breakfast I made my way to the poop to begin the morning rounds of the ship – a duty which, under normal circumstances, would fall to George, but which his gammy leg makes an impossibility. Emerging from the charthouse companionway, I found myself confronted by Lawson who’d clearly been lingering nearby, waiting for just this moment.
‘Downes,’ he asked, ‘may I have a quiet word?’
Without waiting for my assent, he proceeded to amble along the starboard side of the deck and leaned on a deck box a little away from any nearby ears. My first thought was to ignore the man, and his lack of manners, and simply continue with my own duties, but something in the arrogant confidence of his manner caused me, after a moment’s consideration, to see what he wanted.
‘I understand you were listening at keyholes in the hold yesterday,’ he said, delivering his barb with an easy smile.
I chose not to reply, but rather held my tongue and allowed the fellow to dig his own grave.
‘Understandable, of course,’ he continued. ‘I’m sure Rourke needs someone to be his eyes and ears among the men and so on and it might as well be you as anybody, I suppose.’
I fixed him with a cold glare. ‘Is there a point to this discussion?’ I asked, to which he simply smirked again, infuriatingly.
‘Rather. I suspect that, where Alex is concerned, you might have got the wrong end of the stick yesterday.’
‘I don’t see what business it is of yours.’ I replied.
‘None. None at all,’ he answered. ‘Except that I’m rather fond of the lad, and he does look up to you, you know? Despite his somewhat rash words to the contrary.’
Having by this time had my fill of Lawson and his smarmy manner, I enquired again what point he wished to make.
‘Simply this, dear chap – you clearly haven’t yet informed our illustrious leader about Alex and my little conversation yesterday, and I’d prefer the situation to remain that way.’
‘I don’t see that you are in a position to demand any such thing,’ I informed him.
In reply he winked at me, not in the least bit deterred. ‘Of course not. I’m not demanding anything. Just letting you know where I stand, is all.’
And with that, the impertinent rogue ambled off, making for the crews’ mess up
forward.
All in all, a most perplexing encounter. Not that I had a great deal of time to consider it, because while I was standing and watching the photographer disappear into the forward deckhouse, Mr O’Hanlon rushed out of the main companionway, looked around quickly and, seeing me, made his way directly over.
‘Doctor Dalby asks if you could join him in the ’tween deck, sir.’
Given that Stan O’Hanlon is, generally speaking, one of the least flappable men on the ship, his urgency was something of a concern.
‘Is there a problem?’ I asked, but he was already dashing back for the companionway.
‘Not yet, sir. But shortly.’
Concerned, I followed him down the stairs, past the chartroom door, wherein Alex was completing his morning readings, wearing a less-than-happy expression. As we made our way around the curve of the funnel shaft and through the bulkhead that separates the aft quarters from the ’tween deck, I found myself faced with a tight knot of men, gathered around the hammock of Piotre. The young Russian was clearly in some distress – as the men parted to allow me through, it was immediately apparent that he’d stripped himself almost naked and lay curled into a tight knot in his hammock, sweating profusely, his whole body slick and gleaming in the dull light of two hurricane lamps.
‘What’s going on?’ I enquired and Doctor Dalby, who’d positioned himself at the man’s head, glanced up at me, his unlit pipe clutched between his teeth.
‘Morphine’s wearing off. He’s waking up.’
A series of shivers wracked Piotre’s body and he mumbled something inaudible.
‘What’s he saying?’
‘No idea,’ the doctor replied. ‘It’s all Russian, of course.’
‘Can’t we give him something to ease the pain?’
‘Not possible. Mr Rourke’s orders. He’s to be brought around and on deck as soon as possible, to help secure the dogs.’
I almost expressed my opinion that this was an absurd decision, but caught myself just in time, suddenly aware of the crowd of men pushing close around, all straining for a view and hanging on every word.
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