Death on the Ice (47 page)

Oates reached into his pocket and brought out a crumpled piece of paper.

‘What’s this?’

‘A cheque. To cover my costs.’

‘Costs?’

‘The cost of me being here so far. I want to go home.’

‘Titus—’

‘I’m sick of this place. Sick of the ponies. Sick of the people. Present company and one or two others excepted.’

Gran shook his head. ‘But we know this well in my country. The winter glooms. It goes when the sun shines.’

‘The sun is shining.’ Outside was a cold but dazzling day, the ice so white it looked as if it had been bleached over the winter. The group had not yet had time to have an impact on the landscape with their comings and goings, which would soon scar it with sled tracks and blot it with animal droppings. For the moment, it was pristine.

‘It takes time to chase away this feeling. But it will change.’

‘I want to resign, Trigger.’ He poked the fire dejectedly.

‘I thought your regiment wanted you at the Pole.’

‘It does. But what chance do we have with these crocks?’ He indicated the ponies with a thumb. ‘With the mules, perhaps. But I can’t wait that long.’

Scott had asked Oates to order some new animals for the following season. He had put in a request to the Indian Office for Himalayan mules. If the Owner failed to make the Pole that season, he’d wait out another winter and try again with better livestock. Oates wasn’t sure he could tolerate the place that long.

‘He might do it this time around, Titus. It’s a bit of a circus, very complicated, but as Uncle Bill says, you just never know. He might reach it.’ Bill Wilson and the other two had recovered from what was now officially known as the Winter Journey to Cape Crozier, although Bowers called it The Eggspedition. Everyone expected the doctor to be one of the Polar party, unless something catastrophic happened to him.

‘Yes, but that still might mean an extra winter in the hut if we didn’t get back in time for the ship. You wouldn’t catch me suffering another one of those if I can help it.’

‘So you don’t want to go? To the Pole?’

‘Of course I bloody do. But I won’t, will I?’

‘Well, you have a greater chance than I do.’ Thanks to his increased work load, Scott’s attitude had improved towards Gran, just as Wilson had said it would. But there were limits. ‘I think the Owner believes there are enough Norwegians heading for it as it is.’

Oates gave a small laugh at that, breaking the mood. Outside they heard the chugging of the motor-sledge’s engine. Scott had given overall charge of those to Teddy Evans. Oates thought that more of a poisoned chalice than even the aged ponies.

‘Look, Soldier, I spoke to Bill and Debenham and they both said you might well be selected. Because the Owner would like the Army represented. Would you stay then?’

‘He isn’t going to tell us who the four are, is he? Not till he is sure.’

‘No, but, as I said, you have a better chance than most.’

‘I expect you are right.’

‘You know I am.’ Gran thought for a moment. He was well aware that the winter blues were dispersed by light and exercise, both in short supply during the long night. ‘Come on, there’s football outside. The spring championship. I have been promised centre-half at last.’

‘I’m fine here.’

‘Have you written to your mother?’ Gran asked.

‘No. Debenham’s been at me to do so, so I’ve started a journal for her to read.’

‘I told you it would be good for you. A record.’

‘Is it? You know I’m not one for words. It seems to make me maudlin.’

‘Why?’

‘It makes you confront things, doesn’t it?’ Gran didn’t reply. ‘I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone else. It has been preying on my mind more and more—’

‘The dark does that. Magnifies things. Good and bad.’

‘This is both. Good and bad.’ He allowed himself a small smile. ‘Although why I should tell a foreigner—’

‘Because I am a foreigner. An outsider. I don’t judge the way the English do.’

‘No, Trigger, you don’t.’ Oates took a deep breath as if steeling himself. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his face. ‘I once, a long time ago—’

‘Soldier.’ They both looked up. It was Scott.

‘Sir.’

Gran cursed the Owner’s timing. He knew that such a moment with Oates was unlikely to come round again in a hurry.

‘Bill Wilson tells me you are still down in the dumps.’

‘Out of sorts.’

‘Been in here too long with your ponies, I expect.’

Oates shrugged. ‘Yes.’

Scott spoke with all passion he could muster. ‘Soldier, I need you. You are part of the plans for the southern party. It’s four hundred miles to the Beardmore. I need the horses to make it. I think you are the only man who can get them there. The ponies are in far better condition than last year, thanks to you. You are certainly the only one who can encourage Christopher to move.’

Gran nodded in agreement. Despite being treated for his worms, Christopher remained at best spirited and at worst dangerously violent. Only Oates could handle him without risking a split skull.

‘What do you say? I can think of nothing left undone to deserve success. Unless you refuse me.’

Oates stood. As always any animosity he felt towards the man dissipated when faced with his determination. Scott had his faults, but lack of courage wasn’t one of them. And the suggestion that he might put the entire enterprise in jeopardy was too much. ‘I couldn’t do that.’

Scott beamed, the smile that transformed his face from worried, grey man into the sparkling commander. ‘Good man.’

‘We’re just going outside for some football,’ said Gran.

‘Splendid, Trigger. I’ll come and watch once we’ve taken the magnetic readings.’

As Oates passed, Scott slapped him on the back and then did the same for Gran. He spent a few more minutes looking at the remaining horses. Jehu looked pained simply standing there, and he knew Oates wondered if it was even worth taking him. He reckoned they’d be shooting him by Hut Point. The horses were sadly depleted in number and in strength, and it galled him to have to rely on such animals—any animals—for success.

Outside, the tractor spluttered and died. He heard a bad-tempered Teddy Evans shouting abuse, at man or machine he couldn’t tell.

As he walked out, he squinted into the unfamiliar light at the men playing football. They were watched by a small group of penguins, like dinner-jacketed fans on the terraces. His breath clouded the air in front of him, but hung there. The wind had dropped, the sky was a pale cornflower blue, streaked with translucent strings of clouds.

A distant dark line moved from left to right across the ice, just in front of Cape Barne. Cecil Meares of the foolish mouth, exercising some of the dogs, letting them run in the traces with an unloaded sledge. They moved like an express train.

Beyond them, a small sphere hovered in the sky. A balloon, released by Bowers and ‘Sunny Jim’ Simpson—the meteorologist whose nickname came from a popular cartoon—hovered dead still in the air, not a current to disturb it.

Turning his attention back to the ad-hoc match, Scott watched Debenham go up for a ball, miss, and come down heavily. The sound of his knee striking the ice was sharp and made him wince. Debenham lay on his front, not moving, while the others gathered round.

Atkinson came running over the ice towards Scott, concern on his face.

‘What is it?’

Atch pointed with his damaged hand to the kennels. Beneath the mittens, Scott knew it still showed signs of the frostbite he had picked up when he got lost in the blizzard. He had been wandering for six hours before they found him. His fingers had puffed to the size of eclairs. His scarred foot and mangled hands meant, bar a miracle, Atch had ruled himself out of the final group for the Pole once and for all. ‘One of the dogs has died, sir.’

‘What of?’

‘We don’t know. Bill is with him now.’

‘I’ll be along shortly.’

As Atkinson left, Scott swore under his breath. He watched Evans and Lashly trying to coax life out of the seized tractor, the chimney coughing blue or black smoke as the engine refused to catch. Lashly was a reliable man, a good choice, but Scott felt he had erred in making Teddy his second-in-command. He was a fine navigator, but a bit of a duffer when it came to other activities. Scott corrected himself. Evans had spent the winter assiduously repairing and strengthening some of the equipment and his skiing and stamina were first rate. In his heart, Scott knew his main objection was the fact that he didn’t care for Kathleen and they had clashed in New Zealand. He had to overcome that. Such sentimentality would have no place when it came to selecting the final four who would go to the Pole. Then again, Evans had also cost him Reg Skelton, with his petty squabbling about ranks. If anyone could have got the best out of the tractors, it was Reg. Perhaps he shouldn’t have acquiesced quite so easily, but, like a naïve bridegroom, he’d been blinded by the size of Evans’s dowry.

Meanwhile, Debenham was being carried off the field in some pain. Scott had already had words with the young Australian when he had gone off by bicycle and found himself lost on the barrier six miles away. He had scolded him for that, because he hadn’t informed anyone what he was doing. It was only when they discovered bicycle and man missing that they put two and two together. And now this. Sometimes he felt like the headmaster of a minor public school, dealing with the remove. Still, he liked the colonials, they had a way of grasping the nettle of any situation, a pluck he admired. Debenham would recover. But what was ailing the dogs? Surely not some repeat of the
Discovery
fiasco?

Machines, men, dogs and ponies. They could all let him down, one way or another. It depends on luck, he had told his company. He hoped there was some of that over the horizon, too.

His calculations meant that leaving late for the Pole for a trip of 144 days and a return around March would mean
Terra Nova
and Pennell, her temporary master, might well have departed. The problem was, there were no funds for another year. He would have to ask some of the officers to forego their salaries, so money could be diverted to New Zealand.

The scheme for the Pole was simple. Sixteen in the party, gradually reducing till two teams of four were man-hauling and then, for the last dash, the final four. Strength was needed, which suggested Birdie, as long as the Crozier trip hadn’t had hidden consequences. There should also be someone from the lower decks. Lashly? Crean? Taff Evans? All keen and strong. And who of the scientists? Cherry? Taylor? Debenham, if his knee healed?

‘It’s in the lap of the gods,’ he said softly to himself, feeling a pang of an old loneliness, the weight of decisions, just like the agony of deciding whether or not to send Shackleton home.

The heavy leather football came over and landed at his feet and he hoofed it back to a chorus of cheers. They were one big happy family out there frolicking on the ice, but he could never, ever allow himself to join in with them. There always had to be a distance. Which made him a man forever alone.

He shook the feeling off. It was not a moment to succumb to melancholy. It was time to find out who the fickle gods of the ice really favoured, the English or the Norwegians.

N
ORWAY.

My Dear Kathleen,

How wonderful to meet a woman who is so like the ones one has dreamt of, but never dared hope to meet. Your husband is a very lucky man, to have you and have you love him so much.

I was concerned about how we parted. I know you were worried about that newspaperman, but, as I predicted, nothing appeared. You said you were afraid? Was that what you feared? Or are you afraid of passion? Perhaps your passion or mine? I feel they are both there, I see it in your eyes and on your lips I have never touched. Dare I hope that I will?

But you know I would do nothing to hurt your husband and child. All this might be something to bear, to tolerate, throughout what I hope will be many years of friendship. Even that will make my life far richer than it deserves to be.

Ah, but I am in Berlin again quite soon. Will you not join me? I will tell you the hotel. You could get a room.

Please do not be shocked by the suggestion. I am Norwegian and we have different ways of expressing ourselves, not in letters or words, but in deeds. They matter to us more than any declarations.

I have enclosed a ticket to the event so you can plan the travel. We have a few months, but I pray they go by quickly. I am also thinking of your man, out on the ice, I hope you know that.

Yours truly,

Fridtjof

Kathleen received the letter on the evening that Tomkins, an ugly bore, had tried to accompany her home from the theatre. He had not taken the rejection well, and she had been forced to be rude about his breath.

It was all too much. Each week there was some fool who tried to make love to her. She felt that she had become a challenge, as if she were a widow to be wooed. Every time she showed any gaiety, they took it as a sign she was open for business. Part of her wondered if there was a wager concerning it, but the thought was too awful to contemplate.

She was relying on Fridtjof to be a good friend, but even he kept crossing the line. She liked the Norwegian, but found the letter confusing. How could he think of her in that way yet have any sympathy for Con?

Get a room, he said, for one or two. He couldn’t mean two. Could he?

Kathleen had the maid make her cocoa and retired, still disturbed. She awoke after a horrid dream of being chased over the ice by hordes of Eskimos. As they all began to sweat from the exertion, the pursuers cast off their outer garments, leaving them strewn on the ice. Underneath the furs were the braying rakes of London, in full evening dress, apart, from huge fur boots. They began to chant her name. She backed away from them, and found the rotten ice cracking beneath her feet, plunging her into a freezing polynya. She sat up with a start, her heart thumping.