Collector of Lost Things (30 page)

The bird sat upon its prize with a splayed belly. Occasionally it would lower its head and nudge the egg sideways with its beak, as if in disbelief. When Clara offered some food, the auk ate quickly.

‘Now you are hungry!’ she said, laughing. ‘Well, you must eat as much as you wish, because you have been truly splendid, and we have been so worried about you. Eat, and rest, and we shall continue to look after you.’

It eventually became so cold in the anchor locker that Clara and I were forced to return to the saloon. We stood by the stove, trying to warm ourselves. Bletchley was in his customary armchair, next to the fire, fast asleep. I noticed the scratched shape of the star, on his right boot, to remind him which side port and starboard were. It had been inscribed by a different man than the one I recognised, now.

‘He is peaceful tonight,’ Clara said, regarding him with the same caring attitude as she had in the anchor locker. ‘He was quite excited earlier, when he saw the northern streamers. They were a little too much for him to take.’

I nodded, afraid we might wake him. Briefly, a tremor flickered across his face and I wondered—not for the first time—whether he was merely pretending to sleep. Soundlessly, I took Clara’s hand, and led her to my cabin. Inside, we sat together on the bunk, sharing whatever warmth we had, and it seemed the most natural thing to do. There was an air of celebration.

‘Do you mind being in here?’ I asked. She shook her head shyly. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘It’s quiet tonight.’

‘Yes.’

‘I like the silence.’

‘Me too.’ She seemed thoughtful. ‘I was used to it as a girl. But they say silence is the bedfellow of madness. It can make you hear things.’

‘Such as what?’

‘Things you didn’t want to hear.’

I nodded, blowing into her cupped hands to warm them. Her skin smelt of the bird’s feathers.

We sat listening to the sighing of the ship at night, as it moved against the anchor. There were occasional footsteps on deck above us, the gentle knock as ice touched the hull, the ticking of the ship’s clock from the back of the saloon. Every so often, a distant bird, screeching, a lone skua searching the bay. We could hear Sykes, asleep in his cabin, coughing every ten minutes or so and, directly through the wall, an ominous silence from French’s cabin. Often, I had heard him long into the night, writing, the scratch of a harsh nib on the paper. But at that moment, all was quiet. He might have been fast asleep, or he might be staring at the flame of the candle that he liked to have burning upon his desk. This image of him, intently awake, unnerved me. I remembered how he had glared at me as I led Clara away from the whales being targeted. Equally it was possible to imagine he was angled, tall and insect-like, against the wall, trying to listen through the wood.

‘We must be quiet,’ I whispered.

She took off her shawl and folded it carefully, stroking the fabric until it was smooth. She placed it on my desk and, in an unexpected and swift movement, climbed beneath my blankets. I sat perfectly still, perched at the end of the bunk, unsure what to do. She lay very quietly. I thought she might be falling asleep, and that it would be thrilling to watch her do so. Then, quite suddenly, with her eyes firmly shut, she broke into the most wonderful smile. She pulled the bedclothes to one side, inviting me in.

I remember that night more vividly than any other night of my life. Quickly, I lay down beside her. My familiar bed was filled with strangeness, the feel of Clara’s satin dress, her sleeves trimmed with lace and ribbon bows, her feet in woollen stockings, her toes wriggling happily to keep warm. Her fingers, too, seeking to interlock with mine, as if in extremity she was a different person, active and playful. I lay rigid and bewildered alongside her, trying not to touch her, but the bed was so narrow it was unavoidable. She turned upon her side to face me. We were inches apart.

‘You are trembling,’ she whispered.

I nodded, unable to speak. I was thirty-two years old, but without any sensual knowledge or experience of women. I felt completely at a loss.

‘You may hold me,’ she said, quietly. The cabin was unlit, and her eyes were two perfect holes in front of me, without expression. I smelt her breath mingling with the perfume of her hair. This was everything I had dreamt of, to have Celeste this close, to call her mine. I placed a nervous hand upon her waist.

‘This is perfect, Eliot,’ she said. ‘You make me feel like a child again. Edward and I used to get into bed together and hold each other. We would pretend we were married—sometimes we would put the blankets over our heads and imagine we would never be found.’

My hand felt awkward and heavy upon her side. I tried to brace it with my elbow, not wanting to remove it, but afraid of keeping it there, also.

‘Have I said something wrong?’ she asked. ‘Is it because I mentioned Edward?’

‘No,’ I replied, ‘of course not.’

‘I don’t want to upset you. We don’t have to talk, not if you don’t wish to.’

‘But I want to know everything about you.’

‘Just hold me,’ she said.

‘Like this?’

‘Do you ever wonder whether moments such as these are really happening?’ she asked. ‘It feels as though I’m dreaming this.’ She stared quietly at me. ‘Pinch me,’ she said.

‘Pinch you?’

‘So I know this is real.’

I hesitated. My hand felt hot on her waist.

‘On my leg,’ she urged.

‘Why?’

‘To know this is not a dream.’

I moved my hand, full of doubt, to the soft length of her dress and the leg beneath. I pinched her.

‘Harder,’ she whispered.

‘No.’

She looked entirely lost. I pinched her again, more firmly. She winced, taking a sharp breath. Then her mouth relaxed and she smiled, gratefully.

‘We’re not dreaming.’ She paused, watching me. ‘Thank you for all that you told me, earlier.’

‘I should have told you before.’

‘But let us not talk about the past. Not now.’

I nodded, obedient to her lead. But I felt nervous, unable to move, afraid I might be indecisive, afraid I might start to shake.

‘Eliot, you must breathe deeply,’ she whispered. ‘That’s right. Now, let the breath out, it will calm you.’

I took a second slow intake, before releasing it. And as I did so I felt her bend towards me.

‘Shall I tell you where to touch me?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘Here.’ She took my hand and guided it among the pleats of her dress. I felt the soft flat texture of the silk, in complicated arrangements of hems and folds, then the touch of her skin beneath—and a single quiver jumping from the tips of my fingers to her body.

‘I will show you what to do,’ she said. I believe she said it, because I felt I was drifting towards her, crashing with softness against her and feeling her roll into me. I noticed her hair laid across the pillow, like a dark stain spreading through water. I stopped, afraid, momentarily haunted.

‘Don’t lose heart,’ she whispered. Emboldened, I felt a strength in my arms and across my shoulders, a completeness of spirit and courage that ran down my spine.

‘This?’ I said.

But she seemed already beyond me, drifting, as if slipping underwater, her body rippling with a current that lifted and moved her, surfacing, sinking, resurfacing once more.

I thought of the aurora streamers. Perhaps they were still lying across the ship like a blessing; how blessed I had felt to see them, and how blessed I felt now, to lie next to her. When I touched her wrist, it was as if a residual charge of static, heaven sent, remained on her skin, rising in each one of the tiny hairs on her forearms.

‘The Northern Lights have transformed us,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I will tell you a story. When I was a child I had a book—a hand-tinted book with water-coloured illustrations, where a ship was besieged in the ice. It was such a beautiful book. The ship—I forget its name—was surrounded by bears, and then the Northern Lights lit up the sky and all the bears sat to wonder at it, and the men saw a path across the ice to safety. When I used to turn the page and see those lights, my whole body felt joyous and lifted. They do say books can transport you—I’ve never forgotten that feeling.’

‘I like that: how the lights shone a path to show them the way out. I had the notion, all day, that we were on the verge of seeing something wonderful. And then that egg. It felt like a premonition.’

‘The Arctic is a place for visions,’ she said.

I was immediately struck by her choice of phrase. It was the one Huntsman had used, when he had appeared in my cabin. ‘Why do you say that?’ I asked.

‘What did I say?’

‘That the Arctic is a place for visions.’

‘Did I?’ she said, falling asleep.

‘
Celeste?
’ I whispered.

She smiled, vaguely. ‘My name’s
Clara
,’ she replied. ‘I feel unreal—I feel as though I have been lulled into a dream … You’re not real, either, are you, Eliot?’

Her hair still lay across my pillow. The neck of her dress had an inlaid pattern of rose petals embroidered among the fringing. The tops of each stitch had the same smoothness, and I was struck by how soft and feminine she was. The ship was a world of men. It was made from cables and hawsers, canvas and barrels. And its currency was muscle. The men wore dark and heavy woollens, with mittens against cold and boots against grease. Their faces were dirty and aged. Clara was made of a different substance altogether.

We curled together into the space, the blankets rising so that a draught kept my back almost permanently cold. She filled my bed with her smell, of perfume, of a malty warmth that I had often smelt on board but never quite realised where it came from, of her breath.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, her voice thick with sleep.

I stroked her hair tenderly, knowing that this moment, which felt so simple and pure, was one of the best of my life. As she sank further into sleep, drifting away from me as I watched her, I felt urged to chase her, a remaining question that was in need of answer.

‘For what?’ I whispered.

It took her a few seconds to reply: ‘For saving me.’

In the middle of the night I woke, startled. Clara had gone. I sat up in bed, trying to read the unfathomable darkness at the far end of the cabin. It was solid and menacing. Carefully I pulled the felt curtain to the side, expecting to see Huntsman, and was relieved to see nothing but the bare planking above the washstand, the knots in the wood that were so similar, at times, to eyes.

Through the window I saw the bay filled with icebergs, their bases darkly shadowed, and the tallest of them topped with brilliant orange light from a rising sun.

S
ITTING IN THE ROWING
boat, I felt watched by the men at the oars. Privacy is a luxury not afforded on a ship, and I was uncertain whether I was already the subject of rumour or not. Cabin doors opening in the middle of the night, the tread of a woman’s feet, in stockings, crossing the saloon. The soft click of a latch.

The men were taciturn, pulling rhythmically at the oars, grimacing with the effort, and in their grimace there seemed to be an edge of amusement, directed at me. I tried to ignore them, as a gentleman should do, trying instead to concentrate on the glorious forms of ice we were passing. It certainly was a beautiful morning. The ice glowed bright blue and was carved smooth by the sea, dripping in the crisp light, each drip catching a single jewel from the sun. The air was brittle and cold, as if it too might have an element of ice in it, and like a lens that was sharply cut, it brought everything into vivid focus and intensity. I should have been captivated, but all I could think about was her. The night she had spent with me. Then her disappearance. I had not seen her at all since I woke.

Even French made time to admire the ice, although his orders were given in his usual dismissive tone. Pull here, avoid that, and so on. One berg passed so close it had to be boomed off by the men. The tip of the gaff hook glanced off its side as if it were glass. On the other boat, Sykes sat hunched in his thickest pea coat, a handkerchief held close to his mouth, and his collar turned up as was his habit in small craft. ‘This is the last stop we shall make,’ he had informed us, after breakfast. ‘If you wish to go ashore, you are welcome, although this trading place is poor and insubstantial. When we landed here last summer, the Esquimaux were preparing a dish of Greenland shark—the so-called
blind shark—
the flesh of which they had buried for a year. For the shark is poisonous and putrefaction is preferable. It was a repellent smell, which has never quite left my nostrils.’ He took no pleasure in his joke. ‘Its liver alone weighs a ton. But if you wish to visit, do.’

Bletchley, looking tired and restless, had listened to the captain, then shrugged his shoulders and moved to his seat by the fire, already wrapping his blanket around him.

‘We’ll leave you in charge of the ship, Mr Bletchley,’ the captain muttered, a hint of his old amusement returning.

Waiting on deck, hoping that Clara might emerge from her cabin, I went to the helm and observed the dipping-needle compass by its side. Its magnetic steel pointer was mounted in such a way as to tilt vertically the higher up the world we travelled. I had heard that compasses behaved erratically in the Arctic, that they wanted to point inward, towards the structure of the ship, or became so burdened by the need to point down into the earth that they were no longer free to turn. Sure enough, when I looked closely at the dipping-compass, its needle pointed straight through the deck. Up here, it points to hell, I had heard the men say.

As the boats were being loaded I took French to one side, pretending to ask his opinion of what clothes I should wear. After giving general advice and noticing I had taken him away from the men, he looked askance at me and said: ‘I assume you have something more pertinent to say than to get a mother’s advice for your warmth and comfort?’

The bird,’ I said.

‘Dead?’ he replied, quite without emotion.

I laughed, somewhat abruptly. ‘In fact, no. I have some surprising news for you. It has laid an egg.’