‘Lieutenant,’ he says to Kat, gesturing skywards, ‘Commander Amundsen is flying to the mainland later this morning, then heading back to Bergen. I understand he wants a word.’
Kat gives the captain a sloppy salute. He smiles and tells her she’d better sharpen up, because her sidekick won’t be around to stick up for her for a while.
‘Sidekick?’ I ask, as soon as Kat has gone. ‘What’s up with those two? And why is he going to Bergen?’
‘Because,’ the captain says, taking a notebook and pen out of his pocket, and sitting in the chair near my bed, ‘that’s where he’s based. He’s on secondment with us from the Norwegian Navy. A Special Ops man. We’re lucky enough to have him for a year.’
‘He doesn’t have much of an accent.’
‘He’s bilingual.’
‘You know he has something against me? He said I’d regret being rescued. What’s his problem?’
The captain raises his hand. ‘Enough, Harry. Surely Commander Amundsen is the least of your concerns?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You had responsibility for communications and safety equipment on The Watch. There were significant failures with both. My questions are just the beginning. There’s sure to be a maritime inquiry. You’ll be up to your neck in it. So will the Scott Foundation as the owner of The Watch. And so will Drew McLeish because he was responsible for preparing the ship.’
Drew. The captain is right. Per Amundsen is the least of my concerns. Protecting Drew and his reputation is what’s really important.
Drew McLeish and my father sailed skiffs in Pittwater when they were boys. In adolescence they took holidays together, crewing on ocean racing yachts. Then they went their separate ways—Drew left school when he was fifteen and joined the merchant navy; Dad finished school and went to university.
By the time Mum and Dad raised the money to finance The Watch, well before I was born, they were well-known environmental scientists with a string of documentaries to their names. Even so, it took time to convince Drew to join them as Dad’s second in command. This was partly because Drew has never pretended to be anything that he isn’t—an honest, modest, largely self-educated man, who cares about his planet. He always called Dad a ‘bloody greenie’. He must have thought the same of Mum, but he’d never have sworn at her.
After Mum was killed and Dad badly injured in a car accident in Brazil, Drew took over as captain of The Watch. He’s a founding member of the Scott Foundation as well. The foundation was set up not long before Dad died. He put most of his assets into it, and gave it ownership and control of his ship.
My students had exams in December so I wasn’t supposed to be on the Antarctica voyage. But then I got a voicemail message from Drew.
‘Little health problem, Harry,’ he said. ‘Doc needs to do more tests. I can’t go to Antarctica after all, and the foundation wants you to replace me. It’s a great crew, and The Watch has never been in better shape. Tom Finlay will captain the ship, but we need you to take over my other duties. And you can do the front of camera work. The ship will be leaving on Friday. Want me to call your headmaster and explain the situation?’
Drew had seen the doctor because he’d had problems with his balance. His brain scans showed signs of dementia, even though he’d seemed to be as sharp and organised as ever. I told him I’d go to Antarctica for him, and we’d get a second opinion when I got back.
The night before The Watch was due to leave, I called him at eleven and woke him up.
‘So the computer upgrade’s happened?’ I said. ‘We had all sorts of trouble with the readings when we went to Guatemala.’
‘All fixed, Harry. Weeks ago.’
‘Valves all good? Have the watertight checks been done?’
‘More than once.’
‘And the navigation and other equipment, in case we lose the satellite?’
‘You’ll find everything you’ll ever need on the bridge.’
‘Lifeboats okay? Jackets, storm gear, flares?’
‘Just go to bed, will you?’ Drew said. ‘It’s all shipshape and ready to go.’
It was only a few days ago that I realised how much Drew’s short-term memory had deteriorated. And how the rest of the crew and I had relied far too much on what he’d told us. But by then it was too late. The Watch was at sea, hopelessly off course, battling dangerous seas and winds. And that was before we hit the iceberg.
When the captain of the Torrens clears his throat I adjust my position on the bed, gingerly moving my shoulder into a more comfortable position.
‘We don’t have to do this now,’ he says.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Really. Ask whatever questions you like and I’ll do my best to answer them. I’m not sure what went wrong. Drew did everything he could to make this voyage a successful one …’
CHAPTER
3
Three months have passed since The Watch went down. I take the lawyer’s letter out of the envelope and read it again.
Dear Miss Scott,
As you are aware, The Watch’s mayday call in December had a negative impact on a scientific study led by Commander Per Amundsen. It is my view that, notwithstanding Law of the Sea requirements regarding rescue, he may have a personal action against you in negligence. This could result in a substantial award of damages.
Commander Amundsen has agreed to a formal mediation. The mediation will enable you to meet face to face, to determine whether this dispute can be settled without recourse to expensive and protracted court proceedings. The commander will have legal representation at the mediation. I strongly recommend that you engage a lawyer to ensure that your own interests are protected.
Please contact me at your earliest convenience.
Yours faithfully,
James Talbot
The maritime authorities weren’t satisfied with many of my explanations about what went wrong in Antarctica, but since we hit a berg and the weather conditions were extreme, they didn’t prosecute the Scott Foundation or any member of the crew. Per Amundsen was obviously unhappy with that decision. He said I’d regret being rescued. I guess this is what he was talking about.
When Drew jiggles my foot to get my attention I put the lawyer’s letter on the side table between us. Then I lean over, straighten Drew’s jumper over his shoulders and roll up the cuffs to free his hands. We’re sitting on the deck at the back of my house with our feet propped up on the railing. My knee still locks up if I straighten my leg too quickly, and the torn tendons in my shoulder haven’t quite healed, but my injuries are nothing compared to what’s happening with Drew. His dementia is progressing at a terrifying rate. I’m losing a little more of him each and every day.
‘Come on, Harry,’ he says. ‘Rain’s easing. Let’s walk along the beach.’
‘We’ll finish our afternoon tea first.’ I hand him his cup, and put a cheese cube on a cracker for him. ‘The sister at your care home says you’re forgetting to eat. Look at you, you’re a bag of bones.’
He smiles. ‘Where’s Maggie? And Matthew. Where’s your father?’
‘Mum and Dad died a long time ago, Drew, but they’ll always be with us. You know that.’
Just about everyone Drew has ever come into contact with loves and respects him. He has fans all around the world. But his short-term memory is so poor now that within a minute he’ll have forgotten what I said. He eats the cracker and takes a sip of tea. Then he rests the mug on the arm of the chair.
We both gaze over the balcony railing out to the Pacific Ocean. It’s been overcast and showery all day, and more dark clouds are gathering over the ocean. Waves pound the coarse yellow sand along the shore from the northern end of Avalon Beach, where I live, to the southern end at the heads. The swell is enormous, and every few minutes a wave crashes onto the rocks at the base of the cliff at the south and gushes over the rocks to the ocean pool beyond. The council built the pool decades ago. It’s popular in the summer months, but a group of elderly locals�
��the Avalon Amazons—swim there every morning, summer and winter.
‘What are you looking at, Harry?’ Drew says. ‘You tell me all about it.’
‘This cloud reminds me of New Guinea, and the afternoon storms. Remember how you carried me on your back for hours one evening because you wanted to get back to The Watch before the rains came? I must’ve been ten. Mum was cross because I was quite capable of walking.’
Drew smiles, a smile that crinkles his eyes. And suddenly it’s as if the last few months of his illness never happened.
‘My back went crook for three days afterwards. Couldn’t tell your mum about it or we’d both be in the dog house.’ He laughs and takes my hand. ‘Said I had a sore throat and stayed in bed. Remember that, Harry? Remember that?’
‘I brought hot toddies to your cabin, with lemon juice, honey and brandy.’
I reach for my sketchbook when a young kookaburra flies onto the railing. He dips his head to the side and puffs out his chest feathers. My hand darts over the page, trying to capture the image before he flies off again. I’m smiling when I turn to Drew.
‘Isn’t he handsome? Like the fledgling who used to visit Dad and me at Newport.’
Drew frowns and peers at me as if he’s seeing me through a fog. Even before he opens his mouth I know I’ve lost him again. My throat works to swallow, and I blink back tears as I look out to sea. It’s drizzling, and the greys of the sea and sky blend on the horizon.
‘We’ll go down to the beach for a walk when the weather clears,’ I say. ‘See any humpbacks out there?’
He frowns. ‘What month is it?’
‘March.’
‘Not likely to see a humpback in March, Harry. Wasn’t that in your schoolbooks?’
Mum looked after my education until she died, and then Drew took it on. He filled out the home-schooling paperwork for Dad, and kept an eye on me. And whenever Dad was in respite care or hospital, Drew would send me money so I could join him wherever in the world he happened to be.
When I was fifteen I spent weeks living with him in stilted huts on the banks of rivers in South-East Asia. The village women forced me to eat even though their own children were far skinnier than I was. Drew cried when it was time for me to go home; I bit my lip and patted his shoulder, promising I’d be back before he knew it.
The following year, while The Watch was in dry dock, we catalogued the wildebeest migration from the Serengeti in Tanzania to Masai-Mara in Kenya. A few months after that we spent the summer on horseback with Mongolian herdsmen on China’s Silk Road. But then Dad’s health deteriorated further and he needed twenty-four hour care, and help setting up the Scott Foundation. I was almost seventeen, and it was two years before I travelled with Drew again.
He points out to sea. There’s a break in the clouds.
‘The worst of the rain is over. Let’s go and stretch our legs.’
‘You’re quite the weatherman today, aren’t you? But I’ll get our coats just in case. And when we get back we’ll organise the invitations for your birthday party.’
Drew is turning sixty-five in a few months. He always joked that the good thing about spending his life on boats was that he had a captive audience for his birthday party. Drew never married and doesn’t have children. Dad was like his brother, and Mum like a sister. And then he got me. We were always his family.
The kookaburra preens his chest feathers, and stretches his wings a few times. He flies to a branch on the spotted gum, just a few metres away at the bottom of the garden. I put my sketchbook on the table, on top of the lawyer’s letter. The mediation is scheduled for tomorrow after school. I’ll worry about it again when we get back from our walk.
CHAPTER
4
The legal firm’s conference room is on the twelfth floor of a Macquarie Street building, and overlooks the Botanical Gardens and harbour. Even though I’m on time, the men are there already.
When I was six years old, with no front teeth, we were in Venezuela. Mum was rowing across a piranha-infested river in a hollowed-out tree trunk to pick Dad up; he was abseiling sixty metres down a waterfall. I was photographed frowning. My lips were tight. The shot was used for publicity for years after that. I suspect I have the same expression now.
Per gets to his feet first. He’s strongly built yet slender, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. His suit fits him well. When he shakes my hand he looks at my mouth, and then he stares into my eyes. My recollection of the night he treated me for hypothermia on the Torrens is hazy, but I remember the rescue vividly, and his gaze is just as intense today as it was in the storm. His eyes beneath his straight black brows are dark like charcoal. And he’s tanned, which accentuates the narrow white scar on his cheekbone.
I shake hands with the lawyer, James Talbot, and mediator, Neil Reid, and then we sit at the circular table. It has an aged oak grain and is at least two metres across. Per’s legs are long, but even stretched out they’re still quite a distance from mine. He’s opposite me. His lawyer is on my right. The mediator is on my left.
I’m well prepared for this meeting because the legal studies teacher at school gave me a thorough briefing—on the mediation process, and the principles of negligence. I often sketch when I concentrate, so I pull out a small notebook and reach for my pencil. I attempt to draw Per as the scowling Scar from The Lion King. When the good lion Simba takes shape I have to turn over the page.
‘Miss Scott, I’m concerned that you don’t have a lawyer with you,’ the mediator says. ‘Have you understood everything so far?’
‘Mediation enables the parties to a dispute to formulate solutions that have a greater likelihood of satisfying both parties,’ I say. ‘As opposed to litigation, in which the judge imposes a decision that may satisfy neither party.’
The mediator nods.
‘Which is not to say that Commander Amundsen doesn’t have an excellent case in negligence, should the mediation not result in a satisfactory outcome,’ the lawyer says.
My hair is in a ponytail. I tighten the band. Then I address the lawyer. ‘The inquiry’s findings into the sinking of The Watch were inconclusive. There was no clear case of negligence. And even if you proved it, I’d hardly be worth suing. All I own that has any value is my house, which is heavily mortgaged. Any money raised from its sale would disappear in legal costs. So why are we really here?’
Per sits back in his chair. He links his fingers together and puts his hands behind his head. He’s taken his suit jacket off, and the fabric of his white shirt stretches tightly across his chest. He has enough confidence for ten alpha males put together.
‘We’re here,’ he says, ‘as a result of your incompetence. I was on my way to Roosevelt Island when the mayday call went out. My colleagues and I had access to the research facilities at Roosevelt. They’re booked up months, years, in advance. I’d also scheduled five days of dives at the Ross Sea Ice Shelf. I had boat crews, lab technicians and other scientists lined up. Some of the dives were for the project I’m working on now. Others were favours for research teams with similar interests to mine.’
I try to speak factually like he is. I didn’t mean to muck up his research. Neither did Drew.
‘You’re looking into ice shelf disintegration rates, aren’t you?’ I say. ‘You need information on those to predict future sea level rises?’
He speaks between his teeth. ‘Yes.’
‘And I’m guessing none of your friends could step in for you?’
‘Correct. Because no one else is qualified to do what I do—dive in Antarctic conditions, and identify the types of glacial formations we’re interested in. My training gives me the ability to collect samples. Samples that are used to determine a variety of things, including where we might want to drill ice cores.’ He gives me a fake smile. ‘Ice cores are used to collect the data we need to further our research. They’re hundreds of metres deep.’
‘So you’d want to drill them in the right places?’
‘Yes we w
ould.’
‘I’m sorry about what happened.’
He rises to his feet. Then he paces. After a minute, maybe two, he faces me again.
‘By your own admissions to the maritime inquiry, you managed to lose vital equipment overboard, steer The Watch off its chartered course, and misread weather reports. And that was just the beginning. Sorry isn’t going to get you anywhere.’
‘So, be specific about what you want.’
Per sits down again. ‘I want a ship, on my terms, to get me to Antarctica. And,’ he picks up his pen, and rolls it across the table towards me, ‘written confirmation that you’ll provide it.’
I pick up his pen. It’s streamlined and silver, like a torpedo. I sketch a black rhinoceros with it, charging a spindly-legged flamingo.
‘Do you find this amusing?’ he asks.
I look up. ‘I’ve found nothing amusing since my ship sank three months ago. You threatened me then as well.’
When he raises his brows I turn to the mediator. ‘The commander said he’d make me wish I’d never been rescued. That’s threatening, isn’t it?’
The mediator spreads his arms out wide. ‘I suggest we continue our discussion in a spirit of reconciliation,’ he says.
I lay Per’s pen on the table so it’s pointing at his midriff. It shoots quickly over the polished surface when I flick it with my thumb. He catches it between his third and index finger without his eyes ever leaving my face.
‘I want a ship to take my team and me to Antarctica this December,’ he says, ‘and for another two Decembers after that. I need more flexibility than the navy can offer me. And I want to extend my research project.’
‘I recall you were sitting next to me when The Watch went down,’ I say. ‘I don’t have a ship.’
‘It was insured.’
‘Yes. But the insurance company is thinking about it like they would an old refrigerator. They’re offering replacement value, rather than new for old. The insurance payout would represent around half the cost of purchasing an updated vessel with equivalent capabilities.’ I clear my throat to steady my voice. Then I stand. ‘I’ve been trying to convince the foundation to buy another ship. It’s refusing.’
In At the Deep End Page 2