Under a Pole Star

  ‘Of course. Our ship is not expected until mid-August. I’m sure you could wait until the house is finished, if that suited.’

  ‘Or, perhaps, two of us could come back with you, for a brief visit. How far is it?’

  ‘We’re at Neqi – about twenty miles north.’

  ‘Ralph, could you continue here with Edwin? We can persuade some of the men to help you.’

  She turns to Aniguin again and speaks to him in his language. Jakob knows that Aniguin speaks good English, so feels a little slighted by her . . . showing off, you could call it, if you were being uncharitable. Dixon agrees they can get on perfectly well. He is the one that Mrs Athlone’s eyes go to most often, Jakob notices – the one, he imagines, she relies on for support.

  ‘I think we can accommodate Mr Armitage’s wishes.’ There is the faintest sting in her voice.

  Jakob tries to ignore it, his voice becoming louder and more genial in response: ‘Wonderful. We look forward to showing you some American hospitality, although I’m afraid we have run out of real coffee. Ha ha!’

  Jakob wishes he did not smile and laugh so much when he is nervous; it gives people the impression that he is keen to be liked, when, the truth is, he doesn’t care. Mrs Athlone nods and gives him and Erdinger a small smile, but it looks like an effort. She certainly knows how to talk down to people, Jakob thinks, and decides that she is not very attractive, after all.

  .

  Jakob and Erdinger pitch their tent a little way from the British camp. Cloud covers the sun and the temperature drops. Rime forms on the inside of the tent with their breath.

  ‘Jesus,’ says Erdinger, who finds relief from tension in coarseness. ‘What a set-up! Have you ever come across anything so cock-eyed? Do you think they take turns – once every three nights?’ He laughs. ‘I guess not – have you ever seen three guys look so miserable? How they hope to get any work done is beyond me. I guess Armitage can stop worrying: the whole thing’s a farce.’

  ‘I thought you were an egalitarian? “Equality for all.”’

  ‘For all men. I wonder why they let her get away with it.’

  ‘Probably the same reason we let Armitage get away with it. We’re paid to.’

  ‘But, Christ, why is she the leader? At her age? And where’s the husband? If there is one. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

  Jakob grunts, to discourage him, but can’t stop his mind running along similar lines. He too wonders about the absent Mr Athlone, and about their sleeping arrangements . . . but that is a dangerous train of thought. Erdinger, next to him, begins to breathe more heavily, and there is a rhythmic rustle in his sleeping bag. Ostentatiously, Jakob rolls towards the tent wall and pulls the hood of his parka over his head.

  .

  In the morning, frost smoke rises from the fjord. The British have chosen a picturesque spot: Siorapaluk lies on a grassy, sandy bay, sheltered by smooth red hills – far more enticing than the cliffs at Neqi. Jakob walks over to the half-built house to talk to Dixon, and they spend an hour discussing the work Jakob has done, and what, in turn, Dixon hopes to achieve. Jakob learns that Mrs Athlone is also a scientist: a meteorologist who is studying magnetic variation of the aurora. They will do some exploring, he understands, but mainly to the south, along the coast of Melville Bay.

  ‘What I really want,’ says Dixon, glancing up the bay, ‘is to get on to the glaciers here. I don’t think anyone has done any work on them.’

  ‘Yes, you need several years here. Think what you could do . . .’

  They smile in understanding.

  Before they leave, Jakob pulls out a small fossil he brought with him, and presses it into Dixon’s hand.

  ‘From Ellesmere: 80˚32’ by 86˚13’, if I remember right.’

  Dixon looks at the ovoid creature that left a record of its existence printed on a piece of shale, and an unbecoming blush spreads over his cheeks.

  ‘But this is one of your specimens. I couldn’t accept such a thing.’

  ‘I have so many. It’s a shame you can’t come too. I have photographs of the glaciers on Ellesmere; I’ve been experimenting with techniques to photograph the ice. Not entirely successful, but you might find them interesting.’

  Dixon looks torn. ‘I’d like that very much, but it’s imperative we get the house finished.’ His glance goes towards Mrs Athlone, who is by the tents with Seddon, supervising the loading of a sled.

  Jakob follows his gaze. Casually, he says, ‘Is Mr Athlone involved with the expedition in some way?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He is . . . was . . . joint leader with Mrs Athlone. But – most unfortunate – he had an accident before we reached Godthåb. It was sufficiently serious that he has had to stay there while he recovers. Terrible business, poor man. I should say, though, that he was never sole leader of the expedition. It may seem strange, but, among us all, Mrs Athlone is by far the most qualified to be here.’

  ‘Yes, of course. But how unfortunate, as you say. Poor fellow.’

  Dixon seems unwilling to say more.

  ‘He will recover fully?’

  ‘Yes, we hope.’

  But he looks troubled. Jakob wonders if Dixon was chosen partly for his decency. He wonders what the unfortunate man is like, and what was the ‘terrible business’ that befell him. He wonders about the serious girl now walking along the shore to her tent, as if she carries a heavy burden. There are many things he is curious to know, but time and protocol prevent him asking.

  Chapter 18

  Neqi, 77˚52’N, 71˚37’W

  July 1892

  They already knew there was going to be an American expedition in the area. And they know the leader, Lester Armitage, by repute, as his fund-raising efforts came to the notice of British newspapers. In fact, his publicised intentions worked in their favour, as his quoted saying that Smith Sound was the ‘American route’ to the North Pole helped to unlock patriotic British wallets. Flora, who feels a certain proprietary interest in the area herself, anticipates their meeting with mixed feelings.

  Aniguin walks at her side. She wishes Ralph were here, but he is so much more use, practically, than Seddon, that it makes no sense to leave the doctor in charge of building. There is also the consideration that Daneforth and Seddon do not get on well if left together, and any task left to them slows down drastically. This is what much of leadership boils down to: the tedious juggling of conflicting egos. She wonders, as she is constantly wondering, what Freddie would have done, whether she has made the right choice. But Freddie is a thousand miles away, lying in the governor’s house in Godthåb, and she has to decide these things for herself.

  Now, as they round the last cape between the British and the American bases, Mr Erdinger walks on his own, up ahead. He has said hardly a word to her. Perhaps he is uncomfortable meeting strangers, or women. That is the charitable verdict. The uncharitable one is that he is rude. Maurice walks with Mr de Beyn, who seems friendly enough, although somewhat lacking in gravitas. Perhaps it is just his odd laugh, which is high-pitched and somewhat infectious. He is laughing now. She cannot imagine what Seddon could be saying to provoke it. Perhaps Mr de Beyn is one of those who laugh at their own witticisms.

  .

  ‘Why do white men no longer come for the whales, Fellora? Some do, but not so much as before.’

  Having walked in silence for an hour, Aniguin returns to a question that has been puzzling him.

  ‘The price of whale oil has gone down, Aniguin. People have found other ways to light their houses.’

  ‘What ways?’

  ‘They have found gas . . . An air that burns. It comes from coal . . . the black rocks that burn, you remember, that we used in the engine of the Vega?’

  Aniguin ponders.

  ‘That is a clever thing. Is there not the black rock on Umingmak Nuna?’

  This – the land of musk ox ??
? is the name they give to Ellesmere Land.

  ‘I have heard so. It is difficult to turn the rocks into air, I think. Harder than hunting for seal.’

  ‘I should like to see such a thing.’

  ‘If you come back with me to London, Aniguin, you could see those things and more. People would be happy to meet you. You could bring Ivalu.’

  .

  She now sees, set back from the shore, the alien outline of the Americans’ hut. From the tupiks come shouts, and people stream out to see the newcomers. Flora looks for familiar faces. It has been years since she was here, but one by one she picks them out. There is her friend, Meqro, who must now be around twenty, and her father, the bearded and wild-looking Ehré, who terrified her when they first met. Meqro screams, ‘Fellora! Fellora!’ and trots towards her, wreathed in smiles. Flora holds out her hands to her old friend.

  ‘Meqro. I’m happy to see you.’

  ‘I too am happy, Fellora. Deeply happy,’ Meqro mumbles, and then retreats into shy smiles as others crowd round them.

  Aniguin says loudly, ‘I said Fellora would come back. I saw this would happen.’

  Ehré says, ‘He did say that. You saw true, Aniguin.’

  Apilah, Aniguin’s father, ambles over. ‘Where is Mackie, your father?’

  ‘My father is at home. Perhaps he will come back next year, but the whale fishing is not so good any more.’

  ‘Is this your husband?’

  This question comes from many sides, as the Eskimos peer at Maurice Seddon.

  ‘No, no,’ Flora wants to protest strongly, but smiles as she says it. ‘This is Dr Seddon. He is a great angekok. I have a husband, but he had an accident on the ship. There was a bad storm, and he fell and broke some bones.’

  Her hand goes to her hip. According to Maurice, Freddie cracked his pelvis, and possibly a vertebra, when he fell through the open hatch during the storm. A hatch that should have been battened down. An accident that should not have happened. Now he has to lie still for months, just to have the chance of walking again. He should be in a hospital, but there are none. The governor’s house in Godthåb was the best they could do.

  The door of the wooden house opens and two men stride out. Both tall and weather-beaten, with scars of recent frostbite on their faces; one is big, with black hair, the other lean, gingery, lantern-jawed. She instantly knows which one is Armitage: the red-haired man radiates a steely, formidable energy. She notices Aniguin’s wife Ivalu, more beautiful than ever, walk out of the house behind them. Flora has heard rumours . . . Ivalu comes up to Aniguin and they touch noses with every sign of affection.

  ‘Mrs Athlone. A pleasure to meet you.’

  Lester Armitage extends his hand, unsmiling. ‘Come in and take a cup of coffee.’ His grip is firm; his eyes bore into hers, pale blue in a gaunt, ruddy face. His is an impressive presence: intimidating, even. A natural leader. She pulls herself more erect and does not smile. She wonders how she appears to him.

  He leads the way into the house. Flora and Seddon sit at the table. Flora hands over her gift of coffee beans and Meqro is instructed to do her worst. Armitage leans across the table.

  ‘You will not think me forward if I ask what your intentions are. After all, it makes no sense to duplicate work already done, or projected to be done.’

  Armitage turns his head from Seddon to Flora, and back again. His voice is rather high, his accent clipped; he sounds, to her ear, almost English, in contrast to the others, in particular de Beyn, who speaks with a more drawn-out, recognisably American accent.

  ‘Of course. Perhaps you could tell us what you have achieved?’

  Flora smiles, but cannot help being reminded of his appropriation of this part of the world ‘for America’ – the idea, after centuries of British whalers coming here! Seddon’s face is unreadable. She is grateful for his presence; he has a formidable quality of his own.

  There is a pause before Armitage speaks. ‘We have undertaken exploratory work to the north, both inland and along the coast, and made several discoveries there. Another party has mapped the west coast of Ellesmere Land, in effect filling in the gap between the Nares and Greely expeditions.’

  ‘That is impressive. Would you be so kind as to let us see your maps? That would be the best way to ensure that we don’t go over old ground.’

  Armitage stiffens. ‘I don’t think our maps are in a sufficiently finished state to be shown. I wouldn’t want to mislead you. And yourselves? What is your programme of work?’

  Flora hesitates; their original programme, since Freddie’s accident, is in tatters. She takes a breath and reminds herself that she is a scien­tist, whereas, as far as she knows, Armitage has no qualifications of any kind.

  ‘The primary purpose of our expedition is in my own field of meteor­ology. I’m concerned with magnetic activity and the aurora. We are setting up a series of weather stations on the coast and on the ice cap, and intend to keep the record for at least a year. We also have a geologist and specialists in animal biology, so it would be useful to know where your men have done such work.’

  Armitage’s jaw works, as if he is chewing on something unpleasant. Flora wonders whether she should appeal to his sense of chivalry and explain what has befallen Freddie. The Americans are due to leave shortly; any discoveries they have made will be publicised long before she reaches home.

  ‘You’re due to be here for a year?’

  ‘That’s what we planned.’

  ‘So, until next August?’

  He is looking at Seddon. Flora says, ‘Depending, of course, on the ice.’

  ‘It would be as well not to leave it too late; ice conditions are unpredictable. During some summers, Smith Sound does not open at all.’

  Flora smiles. ‘My father is a whaling captain, and I spent many years here with him.’

  Armitage stares in astonishment, to her satisfaction.

  ‘The winters are quite a different matter to the summers,’ he says.

  ‘I spent four winters here, so I’m aware of what we can expect.’

  She manages a light laugh, but still, for a second Armitage looks ferocious.

  ‘My biologist is away at present, but I’ll have one of the men run through the main points of their journey with you. I believe you have friends here; I’m sure you would like to spend some time with them.’

  He stands up, his chair scraping against the wooden floor, so Flora and Seddon do likewise. Almost as an afterthought, he says, ‘You will, of course, stay for dinner.’

  .

  It is a relief to get outside. Flora sees Urbino and de Beyn talking with some of the Eskimo women. They are laughing. Meqro breaks away and comes towards her.

  Flora and Seddon follow Meqro to her tupik, which she shares with her parents. Flora longs to talk to Meqro in private, but their homes are not constructed with privacy in mind; everything is communal – eating, sleeping, hunting, sewing. Even marital intimacy, as she remembers learning during her first winter, often takes place with only the thickness of a reindeer hide for shelter.

  They sit with Ehré, Kagssaluk and Meqro, and pick barely boiled chunks of seal meat from the pot over the lamp, which Seddon does neatly, with immaculate manners, and Flora with nostalgic pleasure. They tell her news: what children have been born, who has died, what the hunting has been like, how grateful they are to the Americans. At length, Flora says, ‘Meqro, perhaps you will show me again how to clean a hide. I have forgotten.’

  She says to Seddon, ‘Maurice, I’m going to talk with Meqro for a while. Will you be all right?’

  ‘Of course,’ Seddon says. Since coming north, she has called him Maurice, not because there is any real intimacy between them, as with Ralph, or even the semblance of it, as with Daneforth, but because it helps her to feel in command.

  .

  She sits on the gravel beach wi
th Meqro, who fetches a seal skin and her ulu, her crescent-shaped knife. Flora lost her own, a present from Simiak, years ago, so she watches as Meqro scrapes membrane and fat off the inside of the skin. She is quick and skilful. Flora asks about the children she used to know. Many are married. The village’s greatest hunter, Kali, was drowned hunting walrus, leaving his wife with two children. They were weaned, so did not have to be smothered. It is clear to Flora that they have missed the whalers and the goods they used to bring. Times have been hard. They are happy the Americans are here; Meqro and some of the other women have been working for them. Flora is not particularly surprised when Meqro confesses, with much giggling, that she is ‘friends’ with the tall doctor, whose name is Frank.

  ‘I remember when you liked Tateraq. I thought you would marry him.’

  ‘Huh. He was no good.’ Meqro shakes her head. ‘He tried to get Ivalu. He wanted the prettiest girl – I was not good enough. He was angry when she married Aniguin. Always fighting, those two. Then he came back to me, and I said no.’

  She shrugs, good-humouredly, and tells her that Ivalu, though married, sleeps with Armitage, and a girl called Mikissoq, whom Flora remembers as a small child, is the consort of the silent physicist.

  ‘And de Beyn?’ she asks.

  ‘Te Peyn was friends with Natseq, but not now – he only likes widows!’ She laughs, amused. ‘Ainineq is widow, but she is too old. And the other one, Shooll . . . Oh, Fellora, you must see him: so tall, and his hair is like the sun . . . but he does not like our women. I don’t know why.’ She giggles, bending over her skin.

  ‘They are good to you?’

  ‘Oh yes, they give us many good things,’ says Meqro. ‘They gave my father a gun, and they give me needles and buttons and other things. Fe-rank is so nice. He’s like a giant.’

  She smiles, and then, perhaps thinking of Flora’s misfortune: ‘Your husband is handsome fellow?’

  ‘Freddie? Yes, he is.’ Flora is surprised, having never thought this – or its converse – of him. ‘He is handsome, and brave.’

  ‘You are sad he is ill.’