I sat back and stared out of my window at the red glow of the port navigation light. The Kent coast was sliding from under us. Ahead, the corrugated surface of the Channel was lit by a crescent moon. And above the drone of the engines I caught snatches of Bland’s conversation.
“The equipment has arrived … cable two days ago from the Cape … Tauer III is picking it up … I’ve ordered Sudmann to wait for us … all prepared for test.”
I think I was too excited to sleep. In the end I got up and went through into the pilot’s cockpit. Fenton was at the controls. Tim was pouring coffee from a thermos. “Well, there’s the last you’ll see of England for a bit,” he said, nodding through the side window. “Should begin to get warmer to-morrow. Getting on all right with Bland’s party?”
“I’ve hardly spoken to them,” I said. “Bland and the girl have just had a hell of a row. Now he’s talking to Weiner about some new equipment or something. Weiner’s German, isn’t he?”
“That’s right. He’s an expert on electrical harpoons. He’s on loan to Bland from one of the big Ruhr companies. Poor devil! Think of it. Four months in the Antarctic. Flying over the Alps is quite cold enough for me.”
“Is Bland going out to the Antarctic, too?”
“Yes, they’re all going as far as I know. There’s a boat waiting for them at the Cape to take them out to the factory ship. I gather there’s some sort of trouble on board the Southern Cross. Anyway, Bland sounded as though he were in a hell of a hurry to get out there.”
“Do you mean to say the girl’s going, as well?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know about her,” he answered. “She only joined the party at the last moment. According to her papers, she’s Norwegian by birth and South African by marriage. Looks rather a poppet.”
“She doesn’t behave like one,” I answered. “More like a wild cat. And she’s all tensed up over something. It’s an odd set-up.”
“You should worry. You got your ride, didn’t you? If you want company, go and talk to Aldo Bonomi. There must be something behind the bounce, for he’s one of the world’s best photographers. Like some coffee?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’ll sleep better without it.”
He set down the flask. “That reminds me. I’d better hand out some blankets. You might give me a hand, will you, Duncan.”
Back in the main body of the plane everything was just as I’d left it. Bland and Weiner were poring over sheets of figures. The girl sat staring out of the window. She didn’t look up as we came through. It seemed as though she hadn’t moved since I went through into the cockpit. Bonomi, however, had fallen asleep, his mouth slightly open, his snores lost in the sound of the engines. We handed round the blankets. “Breakfast at Treviso,” Tim said as he went for’ard. I settled in my seat across the gangway from the girl. She had wrapped her blankets round her, but she still sat tense and wide-eyed. My thoughts drifted to South Africa and the new world that lay ahead. I still had a sense of excitement about it. It wasn’t real yet. I thought of Table Mountain as I’d seen it once before in a vivid dawn from the bridge of my corvette as I convoyed reinforcements for Egypt and the Sicilian campaign. What sort of a job would Kramer find me when I got there? The drone of the engines gradually lulled me to sleep.
A frozen dawn showed us the Alps as a wild barrier of snow-capped peaks with the crevassed glacier ice tumbling down through giant clefts. Then we were over the flat expanse of the Lombardy plain and setting down at Treviso for breakfast.
I was right behind Bonomi as we went into the canteen. I was curious about Bland and I thought Bonomi the most likely of the four to gratify my curiosity. He picked a table away from the others and I seated myself opposite him. “I gather you’re a photographer, Mr. Bonomi,” I said.
“But, of course. You have heard of Aldo Bonomi, no?”
“Er—yes, of course,” I murmured quickly.
The corners of his mouth dragged down and he spread his hands in a little gesture of despair. “You do not fool me. You have not heard of Aldo Bonomi. Where do you leev, Mistair Craig?” His brown eyes gazed at me pityingly.
I thought of the people I met at the office and at my rooms. I was right out of his world. “And you’re going to take pictures of whaling in the Antarctic?” I said.
“Si, si.” The waiter came and he ordered, speaking fast in Italian. “May I order for you, Mistair Craig? I think I get you something good.”
“Thanks,” I said. And when the waiter had gone I asked him whether he liked the idea of going to the Antarctic.
He gave a little shrug to his shoulders. “It is business, you understand.”
“But it’s a rather unusual assignment, isn’t it?”
“Unusual? Per’aps. But my business is often unusual. One day I take pictures of a zoo, another day I am photographing the Rand mines. Then again I am with the Canadian Railways.”
“You travel quite a bit then?”
“But, of course. Oh, you do not understand. I am Aldo Bonomi. Everyone wish for my photographs. One week I am in America, next I am in Paris. Travel, travel, travel—I am always in trains or aeroplanes.”
“And now you’re going to the Antarctic with Colonel Bland. Tell me—what do you think of him? You heard the row he had with his daughter-in-law? Is there something wrong on board the factory ship?”
His hand fingered his little green and red bow tie. “Mistair Craig—I never talk about my clients. It is not good for business, you understand.” The flash of white teeth in his swarthy face was half ingratiating, half apologetic. He smoothed his hand over the shining surface of his black hair. “Let us talk about you,” he said. The waiter came with our breakfast. As he poured the coffee, Bonomi said, “You emigrate to South Africa, yes?”
I nodded.
“That is very exciting. You throw up everything. You go to another country and you start again. That is the big adventure. You have no job, but you go all the same. That needs guts, eh? You are a man with guts. I like men with guts. You like a drink with your coffee?” And as I half shook my head, he said, “Just a leetle one, so I can drink your health. Besides, I like to drink with my breakfast.” He turned to the waiter. “Due cognaci.”
“What makes you think I haven’t got a job?” I asked as the waiter disappeared.
“If you have a job, then you do not need to ask for a ride. It is all fixed by your company. I know because I am always working for some company. But tell me—what makes you leave England?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know,” I said. “I just got fed up.”
“But something make you decide very quick, eh? Oh, I do not mean something serious, you understand. Life, she is not like that. Always it is the little things that make up our minds for us.”
I laughed at that. “You’re right there.” And suddenly I was talking to him, telling him the whole thing. He was conceited, effeminate-looking and full of his own importance, but he was easy to talk to. “I suppose I’ve been feeling a sense of frustration ever since the war ended,” I explained. “I went straight from Oxford into the Navy. When I came out I had a queer idea that my country owed me a living. Then I found that commanding a corvette didn’t qualify me to run a business. I finished up as a clerk with a firm of tobacco importers.”
“That is not so much after commanding a ship, eh?” He nodded sympathetically. The waiter came with the cognac. “Salute!” he said as he raised his glass. “I wish you buona ventura, Mistair Craig. And what is the little thing that brings your frustration to a head, eh?”
“A fiver,” I said. “Mr. Bridewell, the man who ran the business, gave us each a fiver on New Year’s Eve. But the fool had to make a speech about it.”
“And you do not like this Mistair Bridewell?”
“No. It wasn’t that. He’s a decent little man. And it was a decent gesture. But I couldn’t stomach the lecture. I thought it was a hard way to earn a fiver. I went out and got drunk with it. And during
the course of the evening I ran into Bartlett, the pilot of our plane. He told me he was flying to South Africa with two spare seats and I decided to chance it.”
“I understand. But do you know what conditions are like now in South Africa?”
“Oh, I know the post-war boom is over, the same as it is in England. But a fellow I met during the war said he could always find me a job if I came out.”
“Ah, yes—a fellow you meet during the war.” He shrugged his shoulders and stared at his drink. At length he gave a little sigh and said, “Well, I wish you luck. I hope the job he have for you is a very good one.”
Tim Bartlett came in then and said it was time to leave. We finished our drinks and walked out to the plane. But as we roared down the runway and swung into the blue of the Italian skies, South Africa seemed suddenly less exciting. I should have contacted Kramer about that job first. I’d known it all along. But I’d pushed the thought into the back of my mind. Now, as South Africa became a reality—and a rapidly nearing reality—the problem of that job loomed more and more important.
The trip over the Med was bumpy; the sea very blue, but flecked with white. The Western Desert looked cold and drab. Cairo came up at us marked by the geometrical square of the pyramid at Giza. An icy wind blew dust across the airport. Tim told us there’d be a six-hour stop there. We’d start again at ten. Bonomi went off with a journalist friend who’d arrived in a B.O.A.C. plane. Bland decided to rest. His big face was pale and sweaty. He looked ill and exhausted. Weiner was suffering from air sickness. I stood around, wondering what to do with the time on my hands. Cairo wasn’t one of the places I’d got to during the war. I’d just made up my mind to go and find some place to get a drink when a voice behind me said, “Mr. Craig.”
I turned. It was the girl. She looked cold and pale. “Could you—would you mind taking me into Cairo—for a drink or something?” Her grey eyes were wide and her mouth trembled slightly. I think she was on the verge of tears. She was all wound up like something that’s tied too tight and ready to burst.
“Come on,” I said, and took her arm. I could feel the tightness inside her. She wasn’t trembling, but it was there like a charge of electricity. We found a taxi and I ordered the driver to take us to Shepheard’s Hotel.
There was a long silence as the taxi rattled out through the airport gates. I didn’t hurry her. I knew it would come. She suddenly said, “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Inflicting myself on you like this. I—I don’t think I’ll be very good company.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Just relax.”
“I’ll try,” she said and closed her eyes.
At Shepheard’s I took her to a table in a corner. “What’ll you have?” I asked.
“Whisky,” she said.
I ordered doubles. We tried a little small talk. It didn’t work. When the drinks came, she drank in silence. I gave her a cigarette. She dragged at it as though her nerves were screaming out for a sedative. “Wouldn’t it help to tell me about it?” I suggested.
“Perhaps,” she said.
“It’ll help spread the load,” I added. “It always does. And it’s not likely we’ll meet again.”
She didn’t say anything. It was as though she hadn’t heard. She was gazing at a noisy group at a nearby table. But she didn’t see them. God knows what she saw. For a girl who couldn’t be more than than twenty-five, her face looked almost haggard. Suddenly she said, “I’m scared about my father. I don’t know why I’m scared, but I am. It came over me last night in the plane. It was as though—” She put her elbows on the table and rested her head in her hands. “Oh, God!” she said in a choking voice. “It all seems such a mess.”
I wanted to do something to comfort her. But there was nothing I could do. I lit another cigarette and waited.
At length she raised her head. “All last night,” she said, “I was thinking about my father and Erik—down there in the Antarctic.”
“Erik is your husband, is he?” I asked.
“Erik Bland. Yes.” She nodded.
“And your father’s there, too?”
“Yes. He’s the manager of the factory. He’s also leader of the expedition.” Her fingers were clutching her glass so hard that the knuckles showed white. “If only Erik weren’t there,” she whispered. And then with sudden violence, “If only he’d been killed during the war.” She looked at me sadly. “But it’s always the wrong ones that get killed, isn’t it?” And I wondered whether there was somebody she’d been fond of. She looked down at her glass again.
“I’m frightened,” she said. “Erik’s been working for this for two years. Through his mother, who’s Norwegian, he’s got a lot of Sandefjord men of his own choosing into the crew. And now, this season, he’s persuaded Colonel Bland to let him go out as assistant manager. They weren’t a fortnight out of Capetown before he was cabling that my father was turning the Tönsberg men against him. There were other cables and then finally one which said: Nordahl openly saying he will have control of the company soon. My father would never say a thing like that—not in front of the men. I know he wouldn’t. It’s all part of a plan to drive a wedge between him and Colonel Bland.”
“Is Nordahl your father?” I asked.
“Bernt Nordahl—yes. He’s a wonderful person.” Her eyes came alive for the first time since I’d met her. “Nineteen seasons he’s been out in the Antarctic. He’s as tough and—” She checked herself and her tone flattened as she said, “You see, Bland’s just had a stroke. It’s heart trouble. He knows he hasn’t got long to live. That’s why he finally agreed to Erik going out this season. Normally he wouldn’t. He knows he hasn’t sufficient experience. But he wants Erik to follow him in the company. It’s natural. Any father would. But he doesn’t know him. He doesn’t know what he’s like.”
“And your father does?” I suggested.
She nodded. “Yes.” She hesitated and then said, “That cable Bland received at the airport last night—it was from my father. It said either Erik must be recalled or he would resign.”
I looked at her, trying to understand why she had married Erik Bland. She wasn’t beautiful. She was a little too stockily built for that, and that ridiculous little up-tilted nose gave her face a snubbed appearance. But she had grace. She had strength, too, and a bubbling vitality that showed even through the blank misery of her present mood. She’d been brought up on skis and long treks through the mountains. I’d been at the landings at Aandalsnes in 1940. I knew the country and to me she was all Norway with that lovely golden hair, creamy skin and wide, generous mouth. She was the sort of girl that’s born to fight for the right to live alongside her man. And from what I’d heard on the plane it was clear she’d made a wrong choice.
“Mind if I ask you a personal question?” I said.
Her grey eyes were suddenly on the defensive. “Go ahead,” she said.
“Why did you marry Erik Bland?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Why does any girl marry the man she does?” she answered slowly. “It was in 1938. Erik was very attractive. He’s tall and fair and very boyish. He’s a fine skier, dances beautifully and keeps a lovely little yacht at the Dronningen. Everybody thought I was very lucky.”
“And he was a sham?”
“Yes.”
“When did you discover that?”
“During the war. We grew up during the war, didn’t we? Before, all I thought about was having a good time. I studied in England and in Paris. But it was the parties and the ski-ing and the sailing that I lived for. Then the Germans came.” Her eyes, which had sparkled for a moment, clouded now. “All the boys I knew disappeared from Oslo. They went North to join the fighting. And when that was over, they were back, some of them, for a little time. But one by one they drifted away, some across the North Sea to join the Norwegian forces, some through Finland and Russia, others up into the mountains to continue the fight.” She stopped then, her lips pressed tight togethe
r.
“But Erik didn’t go,” I finished for her.
“No.” There was sudden violence in her tone. “You see, he liked the Germans. He liked the Nazi way of life. It fascinated him. It satisfied a sort of—it’s difficult to put into words—a craving for self-expression. Do you understand?”
I thought of the mother who adored him and the father whose personality and achievement had dominated his whole life, leaving him nothing to strive for. I could understand. I nodded.
“It meant nothing to him that Norway was fighting for her existence,” she went on. “He didn’t seem to understand—” Her voice trailed away. When she spoke again it was in a softer tone. “Perhaps it wasn’t altogether his fault. Life had been made too easy for him.”
“But why wasn’t he interned?” I asked. “He’s English, isn’t he?”
“Well—South African. He claimed Boer descent on his father’s side, and of course his mother’s Norwegian. Their police checked on him periodically, that was all.”
“Was Colonel Bland over in Norway during the war?”
“No. London. But Erik’s mother remained at Sandefjord. She’d plenty of money, so it didn’t make much difference to him.” She hesitated, and then said, “We began to have rows. I refused to go out with him. There were Germans at most of the parties he went to. He took them ski-ing, even out in his yacht. He just couldn’t see my point of view. Then the Resistance got going. I tried to make him join. I thought if I could only get him to mix with the boys who were going on with the fight he’d wake up to understanding what it was all about. I kept at him until at last he agreed to join. They thought he might be useful because of his German contacts. We forgot that the Germans might think him useful because of his Norwegian contacts. He went up into the hills for one of the drops. A week later the same dropping ground was used. The Resistance Group collecting on that drop was practically wiped out. Nobody suspected.”
“Except you,” I said as she stopped, her teeth biting into her lip.
She nodded slowly. “Yes. I got it out of him one night when he was drunk. He actually—he actually boasted about it. Said it served them right, that they were on the wrong side anyway. It was horrible. I hadn’t the nerve to tell the Resistance. He knew that and he—” She glanced up at me quickly. “Nobody knows what I have just told you,” she said. “So please—” She tossed the request aside as unnecessary. “It doesn’t matter though.” Her tone was suddenly bitter. “No one would believe it. He’s so devilishly charming. That’s the hell of it—to know what he is and see him keeping up his front of popularity. His father—” She spread her hands helplessly and sighed.
The White South Page 3