Sun at Midnight (15 page)

In the car they didn’t talk much until the signs for Heathrow were flashing towards them. Trevor had always been an alarmingly fast driver.

‘How do you feel?’ he asked.

‘I feel like an impostor. I’m not Mum, I’m not a pioneer or even an innovator. I’m scared that I’m going to turn up down there and someone will tap me on the shoulder and say, “Excuse me, we were expecting Margaret Mather.” I’m afraid of letting her down.’ And myself, she could have added, although that never seemed to loom as large in the ranks of anxieties.

Trevor took his hand off the wheel and patted her knee. He was overtaking a truck at the same time and Alice shrank in the passenger seat.

‘Never feel that,’ he ordered. ‘You can never be an impostor.’

She smiled and he took hold of the wheel and righted the car again.

‘We’ll see,’ she temporised. She was leaving many things behind but she carried his love with her, a thread as fine and as strong as a spider’s silk.

They checked in her baggage and drank airport coffee at one of the depressing Terminal Three bars. Trevor bought her a sheaf of newspapers and magazines, and the handles of the plastic bag dug into her fingers as they walked around, killing time. She thought she had never loved him as much as she did now.

‘What was it like, seeing her off all those years ago?’

‘I wanted to plead with her not to go. So I was glad when she disappeared, that I hadn’t given way to begging. Then I just waited for her to come back.’

If you want to keep someone, you have to set them free.

At the departure point, Trevor stood behind the barrier and watched while she queued up to have her passport checked. She turned back before slipping past the screen that would hide her from him.

She blew a kiss and her father held up his hand.

Then she walked forward, out of his sight, towards the luggage screening machines and the distant south.

The huts of Kandahar loomed closer through the mist and spray.

When Alice looked again there was a line of surf and black rocks. A jetty broke out of the fog and so did two more orange-suited men, standing up to their chests in water. One of them, extraordinarily, was grinning widely. The other was whistling, as if this scene happened every day.

The engine was cut. The two men seized the rope that ran along the pontoons and hauled the Zodiac through the surf to its mooring. Alice hoisted herself from her ignominious position in the bottom of the boat. The Zodiac driver had his back to her, busy with shipping the outboard. His hood and goggles masked his face, and she had no idea which of the team members he might be. The two men in the water held out their arms, she sat up on the pontoon and they lifted her effortlessly over the surf and swung her down on to the icy beach. She staggered, unused to solid ground, and they grabbed her to set her upright again.

‘Welcome to Antarctica,’ the smaller one said.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Up on the rocky bluff a door opened and a shaft of yellow light shone through the icy murk. A moment later Alice was stumbling into Kandahar Station.

The two men had led the way, swinging her baggage between them as if it weighed nothing.

Inside the doorway she reached for her sodden hat and pulled it off. Wet hair fell around her cheeks, and sea water dripped off her and puddled on the floor. She glimpsed a big table, laid with an oilcloth, mugs and plates. There were shelves with a clutter of books, CDs and video tapes. The wooden walls were decorated with pictures and maps, all related to Antarctica, and with dozens of photographs of penguins and sunsets.

‘Hello, Alice,’ Richard Shoesmith said. ‘Welcome to Kandahar.’

She blinked and tried to compose herself. Her eyes stung and her nose ran. ‘I’m very pleased to be here,’ she managed to gasp.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Richard asked.

Laughter at the absurdity of this exchange, as well as relief, welled up inside her. Kandahar might be remote, but
with Richard it was just as if she had arrived by the four-fifteen train for a particularly well-organised country-house weekend.

‘I’d love a cup of tea.’

The bigger of the two men who had helped her out of the dinghy peeled off his waterproofs and squeezed her fingers in a powerful handshake. He was broad and solid, almost as bald as Trevor, and his fleece top stretched across his stomach.

‘Russ Amory. Base manager.’

The other one was young, slim and black-haired, with a gold stud in his left ear. He shook her hand too, much more gently.

‘Arturo Marenas. Climatologist.’

‘Hello, Russ, Arturo. I’m Alice Peel.’

Russell roared with laughter. ‘We guessed as much.’

She looked around the room again.

There was an L-shaped desk with radio equipment and a computer under one window, and next to the door a row of cupboards and hooks marked with individuals’ names. At the opposite end was a metal-topped table, a sink and a big cooker, shelves with saucepans and dishes, a tall, humming refrigerator. The effect was cosy and crowded, but the homeliness still didn’t disguise the splintering wood of the walls and the chipped and curling lino tiles on the floor. Kandahar hut had been neglected and hastily brought back into service. There was none of the opulence that Alice remembered from the Sullavanco offices in London.

The indoor warmth was in sharp contrast with what she saw when she glanced through the window, which seemed to be cold nothing. The shoreline and the sea ought to have been visible, just a few yards away at the foot of the bluff on which the hut stood, but instead there was a faintly luminous, thick white wall.

‘Yes, it’s snowing a bit,’ Richard said at her shoulder. ‘Forecast’s not so good for the next couple of days. Won’t you sit down here?’

Russell sliced a loaf of bread and grinned at her. An immensely tall, cadaverous man came forward and was introduced as Nikolai Pocius.

‘Radio operator, me,’ he said in a heavy Russian-sounding accent.

Arturo was already at the table. ‘It is important to take one’s place early on the days when my friend Russ has made new bread. It would be a tragedy of the first degree to have not one’s fair share,’ he explained.

‘I see.’ She smiled.

She sat down next to Richard, who was at the head of the table. As he passed the jam and butter she realised that she was ravenous after days of seasickness. She bit luxuriously into a thick wedge of bread. It was as good as Arturo had suggested.

Russell poured tea and gave her a mug.

Richard explained, ‘We’ve got two teams out working in the field this afternoon. Valentin with Phil on the glacier and Laure with Jochen at the rookery. But Rook’s gone to pick them up before the weather comes in. I don’t know when we’ll be able to get outside again, if the forecast’s correct.’

Alice was fitting faces to names. She had read the expedition list over and over again, so it wasn’t difficult. There were four people here and two pairs still out at work. So the boatman, the ninth, must be James Rooker.

‘What happens while the weather’s bad?’ Alice asked.

‘We wait. Do what lab work we can. Write notes. Do housework. Painting and decorating, if we have a mind to it.’

‘And then wait also some more.’ Arturo shrugged. He
took a Marlboro out of a fresh pack and clicked his lighter to it. ‘Welcome to Antarctica.’

She glanced again at the dense whiteness beyond the window. The contrast between their precarious pinpoint of warmth and comfort and the hostile infinity that lay outside grew stronger.

Richard Shoesmith saw her face and lightly patted her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. It’s early season yet. There’s plenty of time to get out there and get the work done. We’ll be at Wheeler’s Bluff in two or three weeks’ time.’

Richard had written to her that Wheeler’s Bluff would be their first joint objective. It was a long reef of exposed rock that reared up out of the snow 200 miles inland from Kandahar. From their deep field camp at the Bluff, Alice would carry out a survey of the sedimentary layers and collect rocks for analysis and dating, while Richard searched for fossils. His examination and identification of whatever fossilised flora and fauna were present would in turn enable her to date her rock samples with precision.

‘That’s good,’ Alice murmured.

She wasn’t worried about the work itself. She was sure that she could do it when the time came and she was looking forward to losing herself in a new chapter of geological history. As she traced the sedimentary layers of ancient lakes or river estuaries she often felt as if she were reading the earth’s own book. It was just that in spite of the homeliness of new bread and raspberry jam, this place was as utterly unfamiliar as if she had landed on another planet. She also felt a prickle of apprehension at the prospect of snowbound isolation in a group of strangers. There was a long time in this place stretching ahead of her and only two months ago, before any of this was dreamed of, she had been walking across the sunlit Parks to where a punt was coming round a bend in the river.

‘Would you like to see where you’ll be sleeping?’ Richard asked kindly.

‘Yes, please.’

Arturo and Nikolai were still downing bread and jam.

‘Cake! There’s chocolate cake here,’ Russ cried.

‘I’ll come back for it.’

‘Don’t take the risk, with these two skuas around.’

‘I will be saving cake for you, Alice, don’t worry,’ Nikolai assured her seriously. Food was evidently a matter of importance at Kandahar.

The women’s room contained two sets of bunk beds, at right angles to each other, two sets of lockers and hanging cupboards, and a window looking towards where the sea should have been visible. One of the lower bunks was taken, and there were books on the nearest locker and photographs pinned to the wall. A part-curtain for the bunk itself had been made from a towel draped over elasticated wire. These would be Laure Heber’s belongings. Alice sat down on the other lower bunk and Richard put her kitbags on the floor beside it.

‘Welcome to Kandahar,’ he said again.

‘Thank you.’

He hesitated, then added, ‘After a few days you’ll feel as if you’ve been down south for ever. You’ve struck a bit unlucky to have heavy weather to begin with, before you get your bearings. There are difficulties sometimes; when you’re cooped up, everyone gets on top of each other. It’s only to be expected.’

He shot her a sideways glance, tentative, half apologetic. He was giving her an oblique warning.

Yes, Alice thought. There was an edge, a certain wariness, in the atmosphere here. She had felt it already, out in the communal area. And Richard was right, of course. In an isolated, confined environment like this, small events
would take on major significance. She remembered Margaret admitting as much, even if only to brush it aside. ‘You learn to live with people,’ she had said. In Margaret’s day people had meant men. There were no other women.

On the shelf under the window there was a tube of handcream, a roll-on deodorant and a black quilted zipper bag with a Chanel logo that probably contained make-up. A lacy thong was drying on the wire next to the towel. The dainty femininity of all this was slightly surprising and also heartening. Alice wondered what her room-mate would be like and was glad to think that she might have an ally. It would be much harder to contemplate isolation like Margaret’s.

‘It will be fine. I’ll be fine.’ Her eyes met Richard’s.

‘Yes. I’m sure you are your mother’s daughter.’

And you, Gregory Shoesmith’s grandson.

‘I’ll, ah, leave you to unpack, then.’

Alice went on sitting on the edge of her bed. The white veil beyond the window thinned suddenly and lifted to allow a glimpse of ice cliffs on the other side of the bay, but it lasted only an instant. When the fog and snow closed in again the curtain seemed even thicker.

After a few minutes she heard the sound of different voices, and doors opening and closing. More people had come in. There was a burst of laughter and a blare of music that was quickly turned down. She shivered a little, more from loneliness than cold. Thinking that she didn’t want Laure Heber to walk in and find her at a loss, she unzipped her kitbag and busied herself with unpacking. After all the boots and fleeces and balaclavas and long johns were disgorged, her personal possessions made only a tiny pile. She put everything away, hoping that she wasn’t overflowing into Laure’s space. Finally, she stuck three photographs to the wall above her pillow. There was the famous one of Margaret sitting on the ice, face to face with a Weddell seal, one of Trevor
on a summer climb in the Mischabel, high above Zermatt, and one of herself with Becky and Jo. It had been taken by Harry on a beach in Cornwall, two years ago, before Jo’s twins had been thought of. The three of them were suntanned, with salt in their hair, sprawling in the sand with their legs twined together. They looked young, and silly and happy.

Almost an hour had gone by. It was 8 p.m., and the light beyond the window was still luminous and utterly opaque, even though she pressed her face against the cold glass and stared until her eyes stung. There was nothing to see except the thickness of snow and mist.

The outer door slammed again and she heard yet another set of voices. One of these was a woman’s. Immediately, as if she was about to be caught trespassing, Alice jumped up from her bed. She stood uncertainly, waiting, until the bunk-room door opened.

A young woman came in. She had bright, slanting eyes and a bell of dark hair, tousled now from her hat. Her cheeks were reddened by the wind. She held out her hand at once, not smiling. Alice shook it.

‘You are settled in,’ Laure observed.

‘Yes. I…I hope I haven’t taken up too much room.’

‘Pff.’ The other woman shrugged. ‘We are only two. My God, you know, it’s a blizzard out there. I think we only made it back thanks to Rook. You are welcome to Kandahar Station, Alice.’ She pronounced it, of course, Aleece.

There was a loud noise of metal banging against metal. It was time for dinner and Russ was beating a spoon on a tin plate.

The room was unnervingly full now. Alice hesitated in Laure’s wake. Richard was ladling soup into bowls from a big pan on the table in front of him. There was one empty seat left, next to Richard again, and she slipped into it. She
could feel the heat from the saucepan on her cheek. A hand descended on her arm and she turned her head to meet her neighbour. She saw a full, curly grey-black beard split by a wide smile, a pair of shoulders like a bull’s, a chest that seemed on the point of bursting the zipper of a pair of ancient red salopettes. He looked like Father Christmas’s much younger and more dissolute brother.