Death on the Ice (11 page)

The children had jam and cake at the village school at three p.m., while 275 adults sat down for dinner an hour later, with Oates at the centre. His appetite still feeble, he picked at the beef and mutton, although he enjoyed two glasses of rich brown ale.

Afterwards, they decamped to the lawn, where a small, bunting-draped dais had been erected. The desultory showers that threatened to blight the day had passed, and the sun shone on the honeyed stone of Gestingthorpe and the lightest breeze flapped the flags and banners.

The Reverend Bromwich made the first address to the satisfied throng. He stared out over a sea of flushed and grinning faces. ‘I must thank Mrs Caroline Oates and her family for their remarkable generosity.’ There were cheers and heartfelt applause. ‘And it is an honour and a privilege to be allowed to officially welcome Lieutenant Oates home. A genuine example of an Englishman and a patriot, loyal and true to king and country. We were all very moved to read the accounts of his bravery.’ He turned and looked at Oates directly. ‘Indeed every other Englishman’s heart must have soared when he read of your valour. My emotion left me choked, with pride and pleasure that this was one of ours. Yet look at him.’

Those nearest craned to see Oates, standing next to his mother, cheeks burning, a fixed smile on his face. If they had looked closely, they might have noticed he was taking discreet support from Caroline Oates and his brother Bryan, who had sandwiched him. Although he had devised a way of padding the shoe to make his legs equal length, putting his weight on the damaged left leg for any length of time still caused a nagging ache.

‘This is a man who did his work without swagger, without fuss, without thinking of himself. It was as if he were doing some everyday task, not fighting for the life of his men. So we give thanks to God for his safe return. And we give thanks to Mrs Oates once more. As part of the jubilations, she is—’ Caroline Oates shot the vicar a glance, but he ploughed on. ‘No, I have to say this. She is to fund the recasting of our church’s poor cracked fifth and sixth bells.’

The roar of approval banished any doubts Mrs Oates had about the public announcement and she nodded to acknowledge the cheers.

Oates was feeling the effect of the sun on his neck, and longed to undo his collar. His knee was throbbing and he could feel the familiar spikes of pain in his thigh. ‘I have to go in soon,’ he whispered to Bryan.

‘They want to hear you, brother.’

The vicar, though, was reluctant to vacate the stage, and ultimately it was left to Lillian and Violet to find a pretext to lead him away, to lubricate his hoarse voice. Oates hobbled to the platform and took the three stairs slowly, leaning on the rail. The crowd fell silent. He found he could think of nothing to say other than thank you.

‘Speech!’ someone yelled.

‘No speeches. The good vicar has made a fine talk for all of us. And I would like you to remember that, although I made it back in almost one piece,’ he tapped his leg, ‘many of my friends and colleagues did not. I know what much of the continental press has said about our soldiers out in South Africa. Let me tell you, if there were a Boer here’—there were boos at the very thought—‘if there was a Boer here, he would agree with me that our soldiers did us proud.’ Another cheer. ‘So, if I could ask for a minute’s silence for fallen comrades.’

Hats were whipped off and gazes lowered. Bryan winked at him. It was a neat ploy to diffuse the call for any more speechifying. When the sixty seconds was up, Oates said: ‘I thank my mother, sisters and brother for nursing me back to health. I thank you for coming, because there are no folk like the folk of Essex. And I think you should enjoy the rest of the day!’ He pointed towards the stream that ran through the property. ‘The swings and roundabouts and amusements await you.’

Bryan was there to help him down as the clapping rang in his ears. ‘Well done.’

Oates felt his head swim from the sun and the ale. ‘Take me inside.’

Bryan tried to steer him to the drawing room, then the morning room, but Oates insisted on going into those parts of the house where carpet gave way to linoleum. He settled in the kitchen, where the staff was trying to make headway against the devastation left by the party. Amid the clatter of pots and pans and the barked orders from Mrs Melton, the cook, Oates accepted a glass of water from Alice, the scullery maid, and eased himself into a wooden chair, pushing his damaged leg straight out and massaging his aching thigh.

Bryan crouched down. ‘Will you be all right? I should go back out.’

‘Spotted a young lady, have you?’

‘No. Yes.’ Bryan blushed. ‘And I dare say our war hero could have the pick of many a maiden out there.’

Oates sipped his water. ‘You know the army’s opinion on that. If I want to advance, I should delay marrying.’

‘Marrying?’ Bryan looked shocked. ‘I was just thinking of an Essex Rose to mop your poor brow and keep you company.’

Such talk from his younger brother made him uncomfortable. ‘Preferably one who doesn’t know Tennyson.’

‘I heard that.’ It was Lillian, feigning horror. ‘You are a monster. I for one, didn’t believe a word of Reverend Bromwich’s speech. You are mean spirited and ungrateful.’

He nodded solemnly. ‘“We cannot be kind to each other here for even an hour. We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother’s shame; however we brave it out, we men are a little breed.” Forgive me.’

Lillian laughed at the quotation. ‘So you were listening. Mother wants to know if you are well enough to rejoin the celebrations. Or if you would like to rest.’

‘Please tell her not to fuss.’

Lillian laughed. ‘If dinner for three hundred people isn’t a fuss, I don’t know what is.’

‘And inviting the Dunwoodys.’

‘Now, now,’ she chided. The Dunwoodys were the area’s most prominent Catholic family and Carrie had a history of antagonism with anything papal. Especially where her children were concerned. One of the Dunwoody boys had once taken an interest in Lillian. He was sent off with a flea in his ear, in double-quick time. ‘That’s all behind us.’

Outside, he heard Violet shouting their names up the narrow back stairs, thinking they had bolted to the servant’s hall or even, reverting to childhood, the warren of storage rooms in the attic. ‘Laurie. Lillian. Bryan. Are you up there? Uncle Charles is here. Wants to meet the hero!’

‘I think’, Oates stared at Bryan to make sure his brother appreciated he was serious, ‘I would like to retire from being a war hero after this day. I’d prefer we didn’t mention it again.’

‘Then what shall you do?’ asked Lillian with affectionate sarcasm. ‘If you can’t bask in your military glory? Or turn a pretty girl’s head with a wound for king and country.’

‘That’s what I suggested,’ said Bryan.

‘Look what happened last time I turned a pretty girl’s head.’

‘Oh, Laurie, shush,’ scolded Lillian. ‘Don’t get all maudlin. What are your plans?’

Lieutenant Oates thought for a moment. ‘I shall buy some horses. They are a sad lot you have left in the stables. And as soon as I am able, I shall ride to the hounds.’

Bryan stood and clapped Oates on his shoulder. ‘Welcome back, Laurie.’

A
T THE BEGINNING OF
April, the last of the skuas disappeared north. Now the culled seals could be hung outside or placed in the snow-trench larder without fear of scavengers. As May loomed, the sun finally disappeared from the Antarctic sky for five long months. For weeks it had circled lower and lower, like a marble spun round a bowl, vanishing for longer and longer periods. Finally, as if in fond farewell, it had bathed Hut Point and its frosted hills in a soft, peach glow, making the ice look like tinted marzipan. Its departing flourish was a stunning blood-red horizon.

The film of elastic young ice that had surrounded
Discovery
eventually froze thick and firm, so that a skiff was no longer needed to ferry men and goods to shore. Ice anchors held the ship firmly in place.

Before the darkness fell there was a final seal cull, taking the toll to more than a hundred frozen carcasses, most of them stored in the trench-larder. An entire seal lasted the crew about a day and a half or perhaps two. There was enough, Drs Wilson and Koettlitz reckoned, for the crew to have fresh meat four times a week. They might the of boredom, but they wouldn’t starve. As daylight gave way to twilight, they fitted in the last football tournament before all games would have to be played by moonlight. Shackleton’s McMurdo Rangers had won, thanks to putting Taff Evans in goal. He might not be the fleetest of keepers, but the big Welshman was hard to get a ball past. Scott, his knee still giving him the odd twinge, acted as a linesman.

On the third day of total darkness, Shackleton followed the ropeway from ship to hut. There he fed the ever-truculent dogs—they had attacked and killed two of their own number for reasons nobody could ascertain—and checked the stores in Gregory’s Villa to be sure he had a decent supply of paper and inks. Satisfied, he walked out on to the ice, away from the hut lights, letting the night envelop him. He found himself on the lower slopes of the ice-quarry, where each day an early-morning party dug out the frozen blocks that would be used for drinking, cooking and washing. He stood and watched the heavens, marvelling that it could hold so many celestial bodies. Then, the show began, as if he had taken his seat in the theatre and it was curtain up. It started with a flash of unfamiliar colours, hues he would be hard pressed to name, flickering like cold flames across the sky.

Next came the great sheets, sheer blue and green scrims of a sparkling damask-like material, blown by a cosmic wind, twisting, looping and drifting across the sky. ‘My God,’ Shackleton muttered to himself.

If God was up there, he was being very playful, rolling out fresh bolts of the sparkling cloth, spitting flashes of violet and magenta across them, creating dazzling multi-hued ribbons that tumbled over each other, snapped by an invisible hand.

He heard soft footsteps behind but ignored them. Ice dancers, the men called it, the ghostly echo of footfall, which seemed so real, you had to turn and look. Inevitably, there was nobody there. Just a trick of the ice, an auditory illusion.

Shackleton muttered to himself once more. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph.’

‘I’m sure they had a part to play in this.’

Shackleton spun around and peered at the figure standing behind him. It was no ice dancer after all. This man had on a camel-hair helmet, which covered all but the eyes and nose. ‘Bunny?’ It was the nickname for Bernacchi, the physicist, who shared Shackleton’s appreciation of poetry. When the skies put on a show, he always came out to tend his electrometers, often with Scott in tow.

‘It’s me. Wilson,’ the man said. ‘Hard to tell under all these layers.’

Shackleton then noticed the small prayer book peeping from a tunic pocket. That was Wilson’s giveaway. ‘Bill. I was just admiring the sky.’ Shackleton pointed to the tumbling bands of radiance. ‘What do you think causes that?’

Wilson crunched forward till he was beside Shackleton. ‘I don’t know. You should ask Bunny for the science. One thing is certain, no brush could capture any of it.’ He touched his prayer book. ‘So I just like to enjoy God’s presence.’

Shackleton remained quiet.

‘You don’t share that thought?’ Wilson was aware that Shackleton, like Scott and Royds, had become Freemasons prior to the voyage South. He was also aware that sailors often sought Masonic brotherhoods because it was seen as desirable for fellowship and promotion.

‘My faith isn’t as certain as it once was,’ said Shackleton. ‘There was a time when I read my prayer book more than you do. I don’t know if it’s God or not, Billy Boy … but there is something beyond our ken happening up there. And, yes, sometimes out here I do feel … ’

‘Go on.’

‘A spirituality. If Blake could find heaven in a wild flower, what would he make of all this? Although whether that spirit is your God or not I wouldn’t like to say. But perhaps, as Keats said, God is the perfect poet. There’s poetry up there, all right.’

‘Up there. But on the Barrier? All that shadowless expanse of whiteness. Melville said white was the colour of atheism.’

‘Melville was an old wind bag,’ replied Shackleton.

Wilson’s stiffened clothing crackled as he stepped forward. The huts were well behind them, but he knew the sound carried over remarkable distance. Words had wings in Antarctica. ‘I hear you are to edit the paper.’

‘Aye.
The South Polar Times
. You’ll contribute, of course?’ Wilson’s stock of drawings and watercolours grew by the day and the best were exquisite.

‘I’ll be pleased to.’

‘The paper’ll keep me busy. Along with barometer, anemometer and temperature readings, the theatre, the games, the lectures, the football and my turn as the pantomime dame. I don’t think the skipper has left us a moment of idleness.’

Wilson wasn’t sure if this was a criticism or not. ‘I think that’s the idea. It’s why all have to take turns at the readings. It will be a long time before we see that sun again.’

Shackleton looked up at the glistening sky and spoke softly: ‘“For winter’s rains and ruins are over, And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that wins.”’

‘It’s his job to make sure the night doesn’t win.’ They stood quietly for a few moments. ‘How do you think he is doing?’

Shackleton turned to examine Wilson’s frost-ringed eyes, the lashes like tiny icicles. He knew Scott was having episodes of self-doubt. The expedition to Cape Crozier, the one he should have led, had been a disaster. Royds, the leader, had sent Barne and a team back when food ran low. Then Royds himself failed to make the letter drop. All had suffered frostbite, Barne had nearly lost his fingers and one man, the popular Vince, had lost his life. Trying to walk an ice ridge in his felt boots, he had slipped and plunged over a cliff into the icy sea. ‘Did he ask you to come and ask me that?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘No. He wouldn’t.’ Shackleton pondered for a while. It was only out here, in the solitude of the ice, that they could have these conversations. There were precious few moments of privacy on ship. He could afford to speak honestly. ‘He’s done well. I think the death of Vince hit him harder than anyone. The calamities could have tipped the expedition into despair. Not just the skipper’s knee, but the whole sequence, from our efforts out there—’