Under a Pole Star

  ‘I’m sure that a lady such as Mrs Cochrane would have had nothing to fear.’

  Flora checks herself. Gallantry often takes the guise of obtuseness – and vice versa.

  ‘I was about to tell him that I never experienced any great difficulty – I think because the Arctic is a very practical place. The Eskimos taught us that. Survival is the beginning and the end of everything. It makes things very clear, very simple. Isn’t that so, Commander?’

  ‘Very true,’ he says. ‘Shall we go in? Is everybody here? Have we lost Dr Metcalfe?’

  .

  It is not true, and never could be. Things were not simple, either at that time, or later. Randall Crane sticks near to her as someone goes to find the missing oceanographer, and, leaning close, murmurs in her ear, ‘Which was it for you, Mrs Cochrane – escape or glory?’

  Flora purses her lips. Some people don’t know when to stop.

  ‘Mr Crane, can you imagine a society which makes it almost impossible for you to gain an education, or have a career, or travel alone without being abused, or keep the money you earn, or behave as you want without risking disgrace? Or do anything other than follow the most restrictive, silly, demeaning rules? And, if you lived in such a society, wouldn’t you want to escape it?’

  The young man looks startled. Perhaps he was expecting an answer as flippant as his question.

  ‘But in the Arctic you were with your colleagues still – men from home. And you said that you could never be alone. So did you really escape it, even there?’

  The missing scientist arrives, making a joke of his lateness. The commander turns to Flora and proffers his elbow, to lead her into the mess.

  For dinner, they are served broiled reindeer, accompanied by a Californian wine (the alternative being Coca-Cola). Flora tries to forget the young man’s troubling persistence – she weathered it, and tomorrow there will be no time for talk. But she is nagged by his final question; cannot decide what her answer would be.

  Chapter 22

  New York, 40˚42’N, 74˚00’W

  Spring 1893

  My companions and I battled icy winds, plodding over the rough surface. Our feet were in agony from frostbite, and our clothes were frozen stiff, but the warmth of our bodies melted the frost as we toiled, rendering them heavy, wet, and cold. Ice formed in balls on our beards and on the fur linings of our hoods, making it even harder to see. The dogs – those few that remained after illness and treachery – were near the limits of their endurance, as were we men. But the ground was gradually sloping downwards and I dared to dream that my goal was within my grasp. We had walked five hundred miles through the most inhospitable land on earth, and at last we came to the summit of a mighty precipice. I was in the lead, and felt my dogs come to a halt of their own accord. Hardly able to believe my eyes, I shouted to the others. My voice was hoarse with lack of use. They came stumbling up to join me. And there – far below us, and stretching away in an unbroken plain to the horizon – was the flat, crumpled ice of the Arctic Ocean. We had come to the end of the world!

  I turned to the doctor and we shook hands, too overcome with exhaustion and emotion to speak. We had established beyond any doubt that Greenland was an island – an island whose north coast faced that elusive prize – the North Pole.

  But the best and most extraordinary was yet to come. We pitched camp and boiled up some pemmican and biscuit, and then the thick weather began, imperceptibly, to lift. At this latitude, in May, the sun never sets. I stood on the summit of the cliff I had christened Cape Flagler – over a thousand feet in height – and watched as the horizon cleared. And then, to my astonishment and joy, away to the northwest, my eyes perceived something that no human eyes had ever seen before – a new land! I called to my companions, Dr Urbino and the hunter, Metek, who quite literally danced with joy, and we stood and stared at that undiscovered land as long as the fog permitted us.

  Battling the Ice; An Expedition to Northwest Greenland, 1891–2

  Lester Armitage (New York, 1893)

  By the time he finishes the latest chapter, Jakob is trembling with shock and rage. He grinds out his cigarette, mashing it on his plate far longer than is necessary. The diner is not far from where he and Frank used to eat lunch when they were students. He stares at the book, wondering if he has made a mistake. No, there it is on the cover – Lester B. Armitage. His own name appears in the first few pages. His own journey on Ellesmere is – albeit sketchily – recounted. But this, in the chapter he has just read, is the first whisper of the discovery of new land, and he is convinced it is a lie.

  On their return from the north, Armitage had announced that they had established insularity, but that was all. He seemed dissatisfied. Would he not have been overjoyed at having discovered new land, rather than in the sullen mood that had persisted for the rest of their stay? In contradiction to the printed passage, Frank denied they had seen anything from their furthest north. He said – Jakob can hear his voice saying it – the fog was so thick they could not even be sure it was the north coast. But here, in black and white, Lester states that Frank was with him, that Frank saw this new land and knew it for what it was. Here, in black and white, are the coordinates of his discovery: ‘Dupree Land’.

  .

  Could Lester keep such a discovery to himself? He is, above all, a man who likes to be in control. Could he have sworn Frank to secrecy – and would Frank have obeyed? Frank was never one to hide his feelings – had always been incapable of doing so. That day on the beach, his confidences had been all the other way – that they could not affirm it was the north coast, that they had discovered nothing; that they had not even known where they were.

  Armitage has made a claim that will advance his ambitions, and the only man who can confirm or deny its truth is dead. What if (he can’t be thinking this, surely?) – what if Frank’s death wasn’t an accident? No, that’s crazy. He is not a monster . . . Jakob lights another cigarette, becomes aware that his hands are shaking.

  The youth behind the counter takes away his cup of cold coffee, saying, with a smile, that he is not supposed to do this, but they won’t tell anyone. Jakob picks up the fresh one, grateful for the small kindness.

  ‘It is a good book?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  The youth gestures to the volume. The lunch crowd has dwindled and the diner is almost empty.

  ‘I ask, it is a good book? You have read for one hour without pause.’

  Jakob looks down at the book, at a loss for words.

  Two days later, he is on his way to the Urbinos’. He has a standing invitation to spend Sundays at their house, and Frank’s parents claim that his presence is a comfort, so he goes. He thought about making an excuse this time, because they will want to talk about Lester’s book, and he doesn’t know what to say.

  While he is knocking the rain from his hat in the porch, Clara opens the door. She lives downtown, sharing an apartment with Lucille Becker, but spends weekends with her parents. Johnny comes when he can, but now that he has joined a law firm, his work often prevents it. Anna has never moved away.

  Jakob follows Clara into the sitting room. Anna glides towards him. She holds out both hands to him – a faintly disturbing habit she has developed. Her eyes glitter with tears and her face has an unhealthy pallor. He wonders if she sleeps. Frank’s death hit them all a terrible blow, but it seems to have affected Anna most of all. She dresses in mourning from head to foot, whereas Clara has gone back to her regular wardrobe. It has been nine months since Frank’s death – eight since they learnt of it in the letter Armitage wrote from Nova Scotia. But every time Jakob comes to their house, her grief feels as fresh as the first day he came.

  ‘Jake . . .’ Anna allows him to take her hands briefly. ‘So good to see you.’

  He presses her hands firmly and then, just as firmly, lets them go. ‘And you. How are you?’
r />   ‘Oh, well . . .’ She gives him a brave smile. ‘We carry on as best we can.’

  Jakob has begun to wonder if Anna will ever give up her role as chief mourner. She has embraced it with such fervour, he sometimes thinks she enjoys it.

  Marion Rutherford and Mrs Urbino greet Jakob and ask after his brother and family. Both women wear black. Marion carries a familiar volume.

  ‘Mr Armitage’s book! Have you read it, Mr de Beyn?’

  ‘No . . . not yet.’

  ‘Oh!’ Marion’s eyes gleam. ‘I read it through in one sitting. I simply couldn’t stop before I’d finished it. It’s wonderful, isn’t it, Sophia?’ She turns to Mrs Urbino and touches her on the arm.

  ‘Yes, wonderful,’ murmurs Mrs Urbino, whose look of pleasant bewilderment has only intensified since her son’s death.

  ‘Such a fitting tribute to dear Frank. He was a hero . . . A hero,’ she repeats in a hollow whisper.

  ‘Yes,’ says Jacob.

  That is not at all the impression he formed. As Lester recounts it, on the northern journey, Frank forever stumbles in Lester’s wake, gasping for breath. Lester forges ahead; Frank follows – is trusty, loyal, submissive. Occasionally he is allowed to display a particular skill, as when he removed an abscessed tooth from Jakob’s upper jaw during a gale. This last, Lester made into a little comedic episode (‘The geologist is relieved’), which, for him (he remembers nearly crying with pain), it wasn’t.

  ‘Have you all read it?’ he asks.

  ‘I haven’t been able to finish it. It made me too upset.’ Anna’s voice dwindles to a choked whisper.

  Marion glares: as the deceased’s fiancée, she clearly believes she should not be upstaged in the matter of grief.

  .

  In the garden, Clara faces him.

  ‘You have read it, haven’t you?’

  ‘Was it obvious?’

  Clara shrugs. ‘No. They know you’re busy. What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Marion doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with it.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘I don’t know . . . It’s fine.’

  ‘Fine?’ She looks at him derisively.

  Jakob shrugs. ‘Some of the events’ – he hesitates – ‘are not exactly as I remember them.’

  Clara stares. ‘That wasn’t what I was expecting. Are you saying that Mr Armitage is lying?’

  Jakob lowers his voice. ‘It’s mostly a matter of bias, or . . . I suppose it’s a temptation, if you’re writing a book, to paint yourself in a good light, sometimes to the detriment of your companions.’

  ‘He is detrimental to the rest of you – to Frank?’

  ‘Yes, I think he’s detrimental to Frank. He undervalues his contribution. Sometimes he makes him seem . . . almost like a buffoon. And that’s unfair and wrong.’

  Clara looks upset. Jakob wishes he hadn’t come.

  ‘That’s my opinion. You’ll have to read it yourself. There’s no point talking about it till then.’

  ‘I will,’ she says. ‘But I’m just one of the women who wait at home and then listen to the men’s wonderful stories. You were there.’

  .

  Over lunch, Marion does something she has never done before: she astonishes everyone. She announces, with a sly glance at Anna, that she has found someone who is helping her in her sorrow. Everyone looks at her. There is a strange fervour about Marion, all the odder as she has never, to Jakob’s knowledge, displayed excitement of any kind.

  ‘What do you mean, Marion?’ asks Anna, with a hint of asperity.

  ‘I mean,’ Marion lowers her eyes, ‘I’ve been introduced to a remarkable woman – Mrs Jupp. She has a beautiful gift; the most wonderful thing. I ask you not to judge right away. I know . . .’ She laughs, a little nervously. ‘I know you may be sceptical, but she has . . . enabled me to talk to Frank. Actually talk to him!’

  In the silence that follows, she looks at Mrs Urbino. Her eyes are bright, but she looks as though she might weep. The sisters stare at Marion: Clara stern, Anna aghast. Lucille looks down at her plate – in embarrassment, Jakob feels, which he shares. Mr Urbino looks grave. A man of few words, he puts his knife and fork together and clears his throat.

  ‘Marion, dear, I know you are as grief-stricken as we all are, but in times of sorrow, the best way to find comfort is surely in prayer.’

  ‘Of course, but—’

  ‘This person . . . I’m sure she means well, but this sort of thing is against the teaching of our church.’

  Marion’s lips harden. ‘I only tell you because, of course, others may like to join me at Mrs Jupp’s.’ She looks defiant. ‘I know it was Frank who spoke to me, Mr Urbino. I know it. He said things . . . things she couldn’t possibly have known. It was his spirit!’

  She is trembling in her conviction. Her pale cheeks have a faint flush. Jakob finds himself, for the first time, almost admiring her – the girl actually has some guts, even if she is quite mad.

  ‘And what,’ Clara asks, ‘did Frank have to say?’

  Marion lifts her chin. ‘He had a message that was just for me, a beautiful message. But he also wanted to tell us – everyone – that he’s happy – yes! – and he doesn’t want us to grieve too much.’

  She stares around the table. After his first glance at her, Jakob drops his eyes. He wonders what Marion would say if he kept his promise and apologised for Frank’s infidelity.

  ‘Incredible,’ says Clara. ‘That certainly sounds like my brother.’

  Mr Urbino frowns. Mrs Urbino is looking at Marion and patting her on the arm. There is a violent scraping noise as a chair is shoved backwards.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Anna says in a choked voice, and rushes from the room.

  By tacit agreement, the subject is dropped. Marion maintains a wounded and dignified silence. Lucille asks Jakob about the geological treatise on Ellesmere that he is writing, and he answers dully. They then discuss the meteorite, which Lester is donating to the Museum of Natural History in Frank’s memory. It is, the family have heard, going to be known as the Urbino meteorite. They find this an honour.

  Over the next few days, Jakob tries to reread Lester’s book with greater detachment, but his suspicions only grow stronger. He is irritated that, although Lester has used several of his photographs, he has not credited him as the photographer. Not one photograph graces the brief account of the Ellesmere trip (the best work Jakob has ever done), and their achievement in mapping so much coastline is mentioned in passing. He knows that these are petty and self-regarding concerns, by and large – after all, it was Lester’s expedition and it is Lester’s book – but they serve to underscore his (everyone’s, surely?) impression that Lester considers every achievement of the expedition his own personal triumph. He paints himself as a lonely figure, accompanied by shadowy ciphers of scientists more interested in counting rocks than in the patriotic work of exploration. Adding to his sense of injustice is that, in the account of Frank’s death, he does not so much as mention the Eskimo hunter who was injured. Ayakou, a cheerful and willing worker, liked by all, has been omitted from the record.

  ‘How is your book coming?’

  Bettina asks this regularly – usually on Fridays when Jakob comes down to breakfast. Today he is late – he has not been sleeping well. He shrugs.

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘You’re working too hard. You look tired. Komm schon.’

  She places a cup of coffee in front of him and puts a hand on his shoulder.

  He smiles at his sister-in-law, but is astonished to feel a treacherous heat prickle his eyelids and throat. No one else wonders how he is, or tells him when he looks tired. Bettina sometimes has that effect on him – she behaves, still, as though he is one of her children and not really capable of looking after himself.

  ‘I’m not working hard enough. That??
?s the problem.’

  ‘I thought you had nearly finished.’

  Jakob sighs. He is finding it difficult to fulfil his brief: he has received a very small sum from a scientific publisher to produce a treatise on Ellesmere, illustrated with his own photographs. That should be easy enough. What is difficult is avoiding the feeling that this is a trivial affair when there are so many other things on his mind. And what is unique about the place is not its rocks, but the ice that covers them. That is what he wants to write about. He wants to recount their journey, in a way that will likely not please Lester Armitage. Under the terms of Jakob’s expedition contract, he cannot publish anything until the anniversary of their return, which is 29th August, but even then, he has been given to understand that expedition narratives are the sole preserve of its leader.

  ‘Jake?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Bettina shakes her head.

  ‘It’s as I keep saying: you need a wife. Someone to look after you.’

  Jakob grins. ‘What would Vera say?’

  Bettina and Hendrik’s daughter – now eight – has assured him that she intends to marry him when she grows up, and he has promised to wait.

  ‘Tch. You know the Mullers, from our old block? I saw Mrs Muller with the daughter yesterday. Maria . . . no? Well, she’s younger than you. My word, she has grown up pretty! So well dressed! And she works – very modern, although she’s very respectable. She works in a ladies’ clothing store. They were so interested when I told them about you. “How marvellous,” they kept saying. I must invite them to tea. They’d love to see you.’

  Jakob rolls his eyes and forks bacon into his mouth.

  ‘Mrs Muller told me something . . .’ She stops and seems to lose her thread. She looks down at the shelf of the dresser.

  ‘Told you what?’

  ‘Oh, you probably won’t remember them. They moved away before we did. The Gertlers. Cora Gertler was a friend of mine. Do you remember them? He was a taxidermist. Well, it’s so sad . . . She passed away – last Christmas. Cancer.’ She clicks her tongue. ‘She wasn’t much older than me.’