“You’ve never told him about the Resistance business, of course?” I said.
“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to tell any father that about his son—not unless I had to.”
There was a long silence after that. There was nothing I could say. She stared past me, her mind far away, out there in the white wastes of the Antarctic where she was going. Suddenly she finished her drink. It was a quick, decisive movement, like the ringing down of the curtain. “I can hear dance music,” she said with a sudden hard brightness. “Let’s go and dance.” As I rose, she put her hand on mine. “Thank you,” she said, “for being—so nice.”
I don’t know how she managed it, but we had a lovely evening. Perhaps it was reaction. Maybe it was sheer effort of will. But her gaiety, which was forced and brittle as we went on to the floor, became quite natural as we danced. She danced with her body very close to mine. She seemed to want to dance with complete abandon, and she danced divinely. Once she murmured, “You said we’d never meet again.” Her lips were almost touching my ear. In the taxi going back to the airport, she snuggled close to me and let me kiss her.
But when the taxi swung in through the gates of the airport she straightened up. As she made up her face, I saw the worried look was back in her eyes. She caught my glance and made a wry face. “Cinderella’s home again,” she said, and her voice was flat. Then with a sudden rush of warmth she took my hand in hers. “It’s been a wonderful evening,” she said softly. “Perhaps if I’d met somebody like you—” She stopped there. “But there’d have to have been a war first, wouldn’t there? You see I was a spoilt little bitch myself.”
It was just on eleven. The others were waiting for us. We went straight out to the plane. Ten minutes later the lights of Cairo were vanishing below us and the black of the desert night stretched ahead. We settled down to sleep.
It must have been about four in the morning that Tim came through from the cockpit. The sound of the door sliding back woke me up. He had a slip of paper in his hand. He went past me and stopped at Bland, shaking him awake. “Urgent message for you, Colonel Bland,” he said, speaking softly. Bland grunted and there was a rustle of paper.
I turned in my seat. Bland’s face was white and puffy. He was staring down at the slip of paper that trembled in his hand. He swallowed twice and then glanced across at Judie, who was fast asleep.
“Is there any message to be sent?” Tim asked him.
“No. No, there’s no reply.” Bland’s voice was barely audible. It was as though he’d been belted in the stomach and all the breath had been knocked out of him.
“Sorry to bring you bad news at this time of the morning.” Tim went back to the cockpit. I tried to get back to sleep. But I couldn’t. I kept on wondering what was in that message. Somehow I was certain it had some connection with Judie. Twice I turned round. Each time Bland failed to notice my movement. He wasn’t asleep. He was sitting there, slumped in his seat, his eyes open and staring at the message.
Dawn came and with it a glimpse of Mount Elgon on the starboard beam. Shortly afterwards the snow-covered peak of Kilima Njaro was above the horizon and we were landing at Nairobi for breakfast. We all sat at the same table. Bland didn’t eat anything. I thought at first that he was suffering from air sickness. The last part of the flight had been pretty bumpy. But then I saw he kept on glancing at Judie. He looked almost scared.
Bonomi, who was sitting next to me, suddenly leaned closer and said, “What is the trouble with Colonel Bland? He looks as though he is very seek about somethings.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But he got a message during the night.”
When we got up from the meal I saw Bland motion for Judie to join him outside. He wasn’t gone long, and when he came back he was alone. “Where’s Mrs. Bland?” I asked. “Is anything wrong?”
“No,” he answered. “Nothing.” His tone made it clear it was none of my business.
I lit a cigarette and went outside. I thought maybe Judie had gone to powder her nose. But as I turned the corner of the building I saw her walking alone across the airfield. She was walking aimlessly, as though she’d no idea where she was going and didn’t care anyway. I called to her. But she didn’t answer. She just kept on walking, following her feet, changing her course like a ship without a rudder.
I ran after her then. “Judie!” I called. “Judie!” She stopped then and half turned, waiting for me to come up with her. Her face was quite blank. “What’s happened?” I asked. Her eyes were empty, her whole being withdrawn inside itself. She didn’t answer. I caught hold of her hand. It was cold as ice. “Come on,” I said. “Tell me. It’s the message your father-in-law received during the night, isn’t it?” She nodded bleakly. “What did it say?” For answer she opened her other hand. I took the crumpled ball of paper and spread it out.
It was from the South Antarctic Company, dispatched at 21.30 hours. It read: Eide reports Manager Nordahl lost overboard from factory ship stop further information later signed Jenssen.
Her father dead! I read the message through again, wondering what I could possibly say to her. She’d worshipped him. I knew that from the way she had talked about him in Cairo. He’s a wonderful person. I remembered the way her eyes had lit up when she had said that. The message didn’t say how it had happened ; didn’t even say if there’d been a storm. It just said—lost overboard. “Who is Eide?” I asked.
“The captain of the Southern Cross.” Her voice sounded numbed.
I took her arm and we walked on slowly for a while in silence. Then suddenly the pent-up emotion inside her broke out. “How did it happen?” she cried wildly. “He couldn’t have just fallen overboard. He’s been on ships all his life. Something’s wrong down there. Something’s wrong. I know it is.” She began to cry then, her whole body shaking, her head buried against me like a puppy that’s lost its mother. I remember thinking then that if Erik Bland had had any decency he’d have cabled her himself.
II
IT WAS SUMMER in Capetown. As we swung down towards the airport the scene was like a colour plate—the houses all white and Table Mountain a mass of brown rock against the brilliant blue of the sky. My stomach felt hollow inside me. Somewhere down there my future was waiting for me—if I could find it. I was excited and nervous all in one. It was the start of a new life. The very fact that the sun was shining in a clear sky gave me a wonderful sense of freedom. I’d left winter behind. As we touched down on the long ribbon of the runway I wanted to sing. Then I glanced across at Judie and the mood was gone. She was slumped in her seat, staring tensely out of the window the way she had been all the way from Mombassa. I remembered the ride in the taxi at Cairo. And then I remembered that moment on the airfield at Nairobi when she had broken down with her grief. I wished there was something I could do. But there wasn’t.
At the airport buildings I thanked Bland for the trip. He shook my hand. His grip was like iron, but his face was white. “Glad we could give you a lift.” He mumbled conventional good wishes automatically and then went out with Weiner at his heels. I said goodbye to Tim Bartlett and then Bonomi popped up like a jack-in-the-box, smiling and shaking my hand. “If South Africa is no good, Mistair Craig, you go to Australia,” he said. “Here is the name of a man in Sydney who is useful. Tell him Aldo Bonomi send you.” He handed me a piece of paper on which he had scribbled an address. I thanked him and wished him luck in the frozen south. He pulled a face. “I prefer to stay ’ere, I think.” Then he shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “But I sacrifice everyt’ing for my art—even my comfort.”
Then Judie was coming towards me. “Well, this is goodbye, Duncan,” she said, and held out her hand. She even managed a little smile. Her fingers were warm and firm in my hand. “Just two ships …” she said. “Are you going to a hotel?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll go to the Splendide. I’ll probably end up in some dingy boarding house, but just for a few days I’m going to pretend I’m important.” She nodded an
d smiled. “Where are you staying?” I asked her.
But she shook her head. “We part here,” she said. “We shall probably go straight on board. Everything is arranged. In an hour’s time we’ll be sailing out of Table Bay.”
I hesitated. I didn’t know quite what to say. But I had to say something. “I hope you—you—” I just couldn’t put it into words.
She smiled. “I know. And thanks.” Then suddenly on a higher pitch: “If only I knew what had happened. If only Eide or Erik had cabled details. But there’s nothing at the airport—nothing.” Her fingers squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry. You’ve got problems of your own. Good luck. And thank you for being so sweet.” She reached up then and kissed me on the lips. And before I could say anything she had turned and her heels were tap-tapping across the concrete floor as she went out to the car that was waiting for her. She didn’t look back.
That should have been the end of it. I should have got myself a job and they should have sailed for the Antarctic. But it didn’t work out that way.
I got myself fixed up at the Splendide and then rang Kramer. He was down in the book as a mining consultant. His secretary told me he wouldn’t be in till after lunch. In the end I didn’t get him till almost tea time. He sounded pleased to hear from me until I mentioned why I was in Capetown. “You should have written me, old man,” he said. “Then I could have warned you. This isn’t the moment to come out here looking for a job, not when you haven’t any technical qualifications.”
“But you said you could get me a job any time,” I reminded.
“Good God!” he said. “That was during the war. Things have changed since then. They’ve changed a lot in the past year. And you couldn’t have picked a worse moment than this. It’s sticky—very sticky, old man. Right now there’s a scare on and everyone’s got cold feet.”
“What’s the trouble?”
“One of these West Rand outfits—a company known as ‘Words’—has turned out a stumer. It’s only a small company, but everyone’s panicky—afraid the whole field may turn out the same way. But I’m throwing a little party out at my place to-night. Come along. May be able to fix you up with something.” He gave me the address and rang off.
I put the phone down and sat staring out of the window. The sunshine suddenly seemed a brittle sham. I went and had a bath. And whilst I was lying there thinking it out the phone bell rang. I flung a towel round me and went through into the bedroom. Had Kramer found me a job after all? I picked up the receiver. “Is that Craig?” It was a man’s voice, abrupt and solid. “Craig speaking,” I said.
“Oh, Bland here,” said the voice and my spirits sagged again. “My daughter-in-law tells me you commanded a corvette during the war.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Where and how long for?”
I didn’t see what he was driving at, but I said, “Pretty well everywhere. I took command of her in ’44 and had her for the rest of the war.”
“Good.” There was a slight pause and then he said, “I’d like to have a word with you. Can you come down to Room 23?”
“You mean here—in the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were sailing right away?”
“I’m staying here the night.” The tone was suddenly abrupt. “When can you come down?”
“I’m just having a bath,” I told him. “But I’ll be down as soon as I’ve dressed.”
“Fine.” And he rang off.
I didn’t hurry over my dressing. I needed time to think it out. I’d got a damn-fool idea in my mind that I couldn’t shake off. It was that question of Bland’s about my being in command of a corvette during the war.
But at last I was dressed and couldn’t put it off any longer. I went out and took the lift down to the second floor. I knocked at the door of Number 23. Bland answered it himself. “Come in, Craig,” he said. He took me into a big room facing Adderley Street. “What would you like? A whisky?”
“That’ll do fine,” I said.
I watched him as he poured it. His hands shook slightly. His movements were heavy and slow. He gave me a cigar with the drink. “Sit down,” he said. “Now then, suppose you face facts, young man. You haven’t got a job and you’ve found that the prospects here aren’t too good.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said defensively, “I haven’t started to look—”
“I said, let’s face facts,” he cut in with the imperturbability of a man accustomed to being listened to. “I know a lot of people here. I’ve interests in South Africa, too. There’s a gold scare on and things aren’t going to be easy for a newcomer.”
He settled his big bulk carefully into a chair. I waited. He sat for a moment staring at me impersonally. Suddenly he heaved himself farther back into the chair. “I’m prepared to offer you a job with the South Antarctic Whaling Company,” he said.
“What sort of a job?” I asked.
“I want you to take command of Tauer III—that’s the towing ship that’s waiting to take me out to the Southern Cross. Sudmann, her skipper, and the second mate were involved in a car crash last night. They’re both in hospital.”
“What about his first mate?” I asked.
“He’s not on board. He was taken ill before Tauer III left the factory ship. I gather you know that Nordahl, the manager of the Southern Cross, is dead. It’s essential that I get out there as soon as possible. I’ve spent all day looking for a man to take command of Tauer III. But I can’t find anyone suitable. Those that are suitable don’t want to spend four months out in the Antarctic. It was only this evening that my daughter-in-law told me you had commanded a corvette during the war. These towing boats are ex-Naval corvettes, converted. I rang you straight away.”
“But I haven’t the necessary papers,” I said. “I couldn’t just walk on to the bridge of—”
He waved his thick hand. “I’ll fix all that. You can leave that to me. I take it there’s no technical problem? You can remember how to handle them, eh? You haven’t forgotten your navigation?”
“No. But I’ve never taken a ship into the Antarctic. I don’t know that—”
“That doesn’t matter. Now then, as regards terms. You’ll get the same pay as Sudmann—that’s £50 a month plus bonus. You’ll sign on for the season with the option of being landed at the Cape or taken back to England. You understand that your command of Tauer III will be a temporary one covering the trip from here to the factory ship. You’ll hand over to the senior mate in the catcher fleet. I can’t engage you over their heads. But we’ll find you something interesting to do. And you’ll have the same pay as if you were in command of the boat. Now what do you say?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’d like to think it over.”
“There isn’t time.” His voice had sharpened. “I want to know now. I must get out there and find out what’s happened.”
“Have you no further news about how Nordahl met his death?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered. “A message came through just after lunch. Nordahl disappeared. That’s all. There wasn’t any storm. No reason for it at all. He just vanished. That’s why I want to get out there.”
In the silence that followed I tried to shake my thoughts into some sort of order. I’d be away nearly four months. And then the search for a job would start again. Whilst, who knows, Kramer might have talked to somebody so that I’d get the offer of a job at this party. “I’ll need to think this over,” I said. “I’m seeing a friend this evening. I’ll let you know after that.”
His cheeks quivered slightly. “I want your answer now,” he said.
I got to my feet. “I’m sorry, sir. I appreciate you’re making me this offer. But you must give me a few hours.”
He was about to make some violent retort. But then he thought better of it. For a moment he sat, regarding the end of his cigar. Then he gave a grunt and levered himself up out of the chair. “All right,” he said. “Ring me when you’ve made up your mind. I�
�ll wait up for your call.”
I had a drink or two at the bar downstairs, hoping to see something of Judie. In the end I got the hall porter to call me a cab. All the way out to Kramer’s place the thought of Judie and her father’s mysterious death occupied my thoughts. I felt as though I were destined to be mixed up in the business. I’d felt like that ever since Bland had phoned me. And something inside of me had kept saying: Give yourself this one chance to get clear of it. Give yourself this one chance. But as soon as I reached the party I knew that it wasn’t going to be any good. I was destined for the Antarctic.
Kramer’s house was built on the lines of a Dutch farm. A lot of money had been spent on it. A good deal more had been spent on the interior. The party was in full swing. There was plenty of liquor about. The males were mostly business men. There were a lot of young women. Kramer greeted me with warmth, but the way he talked I might have come out there just to get an introduction to one or two of “the gurls” as he called them. He left me in the clutches of a pretty little thing who proved a salacious gossip. I passed her on to a man in the hardware industry and went to the bar.
A group of men were discussing the latest mining gossip. One of them said, “But suppose the mine wasn’t salted?”
“Of course, it was salted,” another replied. “If it weren’t absolutely certain, they’d never have dared go as far as arresting Vynberg. I thought all along the assays were too good to be true.”
The White South Page 4