Sun at Midnight (49 page)

Now there was Rooker; passion that was held somewhere at bay but which still had the power to overwhelm her and a hunger in her that she hadn’t yet learned how to assuage.

Finally, in a burst of terror and wonder, the birth of her child. She had felt the absolutely imperative and uncontrollable impulses of her own womb. The unexpected birth of an unplanned baby was the antithesis of everything that had happened in her life before and nothing would be the same again.

Alice automatically turned her head to gaze at Meg, asleep in the crib beside the bed. Devotion shone through her confusion and the doctor saw all this.

Alice said, ‘Yes. You are right.’

‘And so it will take a little time for you to adjust and accept that this is what has happened to you. You will feel panic and fear that you cannot do what you know you must.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘I have seen many, many mothers with their newborn babies. I think, I believe, all will be well for the two of you.’

‘Thank you,’ Alice said.

‘Try to sleep, or at least to rest. I would like you to stay here maybe for three or four days, while we observe your Margaret. Is that possible?’

‘Of course, if that’s what is best for her,’ she answered unhesitatingly.

Later that day the telephone rang beside her bed.

‘Alice? Is that you?’ From halfway across the world her mother’s crisp voice was instantly recognisable. ‘I must say, I would have preferred a little more warning before becoming a grandmother.’

‘I know. You’ll have some knitting to catch up on.’

This was such an outlandish idea that they both burst into laughter and everything was all right. Margaret wanted her daughter to come home, and she was deeply excited about her granddaughter and namesake, and her voice gave as much away even though she couldn’t quite frame the words.

Then Trevor came on. ‘Ali, I am concerned about you,’ he said.

‘Don’t be. Meg is beautiful and I’m longing to show her to you. I’ll be home soon and we can talk then until we’re hoarse.’

‘What about Peter? He rang this morning, he was frantic for news of you.’

‘He’s her father. We’ll have to work out between us what that means.’

There was so much to tell Trevor, all of it impossible on the telephone. Then a thought struck her. ‘How does Pete know? Did you tell him?’

Trevor said, ‘Your mother and I haven’t spoken to anybody. A young woman from Mr Lewis Sullavan’s organisation telephoned to advise us against it. But, darling, it’s not a secret. In fact, you should get ready to be famous.’

‘
What?
’

‘You’re in Sullavan’s paper this morning. The rest of ’em’ll be following suit. The baby’s hit the headlines as the First European Citizen of Antarctica and you are Dramatic Snow Birth Heroine. Or some such,’ he concluded drily. ‘There are even pictures of you and Meg on the Internet.’

Alice fell back against her pillows. She hadn’t reckoned with this, but now she realised her naivety. Of course Lewis’s generosity with chartered planes and private clinics would have a double edge, and that edge was forthcoming publicity for Kandahar and the joint European Antarctic programme. The first season had ended in disaster, which meant there would be no scientific discoveries, glamorous or even routine. A heart-warming human-interest story laced with helicopter action and heroism was exactly and perfectly what Lewis needed. It was providence.

‘Oh, God,’ she said faintly. The pictures taken by the Chileans while she was dazedly waiting at Santa Ana must be the ones that had found their way on to the net.

‘Mmm. But don’t worry too much, old thing. Next week’s chip wrappings, you know.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

Later, when Alice was dozing after Meg had finally fed herself into milky tranquillity, the phone rang again. She snatched it up, hoping against the odds. But this time she heard a voice that had the colour and consistency of golden syrup; a familiar voice although not the one she longed to hear.

‘This is Beverley Winston.’

‘Yes.’

Don’t even think about jealousy. To be jealous of other women where Rooker was concerned would be to condemn herself to a life of agony. How had she described him to Cecilia? As a man you can’t put reins on.

And that was if she were ever to see him again.
I will
,
somehow, she resolved, as she did over and over in her waking hours. When she slept he filled her dreams.

Beverley wanted to know whether she was comfortable, whether she had everything she wanted, that the medical attention was good enough, how the baby was getting on. Alice thanked her and insisted that all was well and then thanked her again. Beverley asked in a friendly, concerned way about the flight from Kandahar and the birth. Alice thought for a second, then answered her questions. If there were going to be stories about her in Lewis’s newspapers and magazines, they might as well be factually accurate. Her voice only grew warmer, and she couldn’t help it, when she described what Rooker had done.

‘Yes. Very daring, but perhaps not the most advisable course of action, on the face of it. To make off with a company-leased helicopter in weather conditions considered too dangerous by the authorised pilot.’

This time Alice didn’t think. ‘To hell with the company,’ she said.

‘Did you like the flowers, by the way?’ Beverley asked after only a second’s delay.

‘Wonderfully gaudy. After the visual purity of Antarctica, you know.’

‘That’s good. Well, now, I won’t disturb you any more. If I might just beg you to let us take all the responsibility for dealing with media requests. It is a lovely story, of course. Everyone will want to know about you.’

Will they? Or will Sullavanco just make sure that they do know?

‘It’s no big deal, surely? She’s by no means the first baby to be born inside the Antarctic circle.’ It was true that Argentinian and Chilean babies had been born in remote southern communities, partly as a form of territorial marker.

‘She is the first European on a European base, and she is Margaret Mather’s grandchild.’

Of course.

‘Beverley, there is something I would really like you to help me with.’

The suggestion of a bargain to be struck quivered between them.

‘What’s that?’

‘Where is Rooker now? And the others? Where can I reach him and how can I speak to him?’

She would trade her story for information. Beverley briefly weighed this up, then murmured, ‘Of course, you don’t know, do you? They were all finally lifted out of Kandahar this morning and transferred to another ship. They are at sea now, I gather.’

So they were all safe. And what remained of Kandahar lay deserted, under the pristine blanket of fresh winter snow.

‘The ship’s name? And I’m sure that the Polar Office must have an address where he can be reached?’

‘The best way to handle it would be an exclusive interview with a young journalist, the one I am thinking of is very good and totally sympathetic, and some lovely mother and baby pictures.’

‘The ship? And an address?’

‘It’s the
Southern Mariner
. And I do believe Rooker gave us an address down in Ushuaia, and a reference from, ah, a building company. I don’t have either to hand, I’m afraid.’

Alice smiled, even though her jaw ached with the tension of this exchange.

‘I’d be so glad if you could get them for me. And then I don’t see why there should be a problem about an interview and a couple of pictures. If you think anyone is likely to be that interested?’

‘Excellent,’ Beverley said quickly and rang off.

For two days Alice struggled to establish ship-to-shore contact with the
Southern Mariner
, but it was a ramshacklesounding cargo vessel registered in Liberia and it didn’t include a satellite telephone amongst its amenities.

On the third day Alice and Meg were discharged from the Clinica Providencia. Cecilia Vicente and Alice’s two special nurses came out on to the steps to wave them off in a car with a Sullavanco escort.

Cecilia said, ‘I will not wish you luck because I do not think you need it. But I do wish you happiness.’

Their eyes met. ‘Thank you,’ Alice said. She didn’t think Dr Vicente could even guess how grateful she was. They hugged each other, quickly and wordlessly.

Santiago International Airport was crowded and the temperature outside was thirty-two degrees. Alice stood with Meg in her arms, obsessively watching the departure boards even though the escort wanted them to sit down in a lounge.

The
Southern Mariner
must be putting into port very soon, if it hadn’t done so already. There was an obscure flight scheduled to Trelew in Patagonia, and Alice was certain that she would be able to take a connecting flight from there to Ushuaia. She could go right now and search until she found Rooker.

But Meg gave a small snuffling whimper and nuzzled against her neck. Alice massaged the tiny back with the flat of her hand. To go looking for him would mean flying her premature baby to distant places, in a chase that might not even lead her to him.

She hesitated for one long, painful moment.

Then she turned round and boarded the overnight LanChile flight to Madrid. At the end of it she found Lisa waiting to whisk them through to London.

There was a thick blanket of cloud all the way from the Bay of Biscay. Meg woke up and wailed and wouldn’t be
pacified, and although Lisa looked at her in the expectation that she would know what to do, Alice had no more real idea than she did. A suited man sitting next to them sighed and irritably refolded his newspaper. Only the thought that she was almost home kept her from howling louder than Meg.

At last they were walking down the endless carpeted tunnels at Heathrow.

There was no wait for luggage. Alice had nothing but what she stood up in: a tracksuit, trainers and underwear that had been brought to her in the clinic (there had been an invitation from Sullavanco to buy whatever she wanted, but she had refused all except the minimum), some toiletries in a plastic zipper bag, and another bag of nappies and a change of clothes for Meg. She cupped the back of Meg’s bonneted head and held her own head high as they walked through the customs hall towards Arrivals.

‘Ready?’ Lisa smiled.

As they emerged the sudden blaze of camera flashes almost blinded her.

There was a babble of voices shouting out her name, Lisa’s hand firmly propelling her forward, a television crew, the staring faces of other travellers, and in the midst of it all a brief glimpse of Trevor and Margaret. Alice’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of them. Her mother looked stooped, but she was wearing a new red hat and Trevor’s hair fluffed out round the dome of his head like half a dandelion clock.

Before she had a chance to see properly, Lisa’s hand dug into her arm and expertly swivelled her to face the cameras. There was another storm of flashes.

‘Dr Peel is very pleased and relieved to be home,’ Lisa called out. ‘Nothing else at this time. Thank you.’

‘Let’s see the baby!’

‘Alice, did you plan to do this?’

‘What’s her name?’

Lisa wheeled them away from the press again. ‘That’s all,’ she said firmly.

The crowd fell aside and Trevor and Margaret emerged. Margaret was surging forward like a small, fierce hound on the scent. She scooped Meg out of Alice’s arms and gazed down into the puckered crimson face. Then she lifted her up to the cameramen and the passing Heathrow crowds and the invisible, clouded, English March skies.

‘Her name is Margaret.’ She beamed.

A big man in a dark jacket fell in beside them and with Lisa leading the way they were swept quickly to the nearest exit and a waiting limo. Margaret and Trevor and Alice breathlessly toppled into the back with Meg somewhere between them, Lisa beamed as the doors closed and assured them she’d be in touch later, and the car accelerated. A last long lens homed in on Alice’s stunned face as they sped away.

The three of them clutched hands and blinked at each other. Tears of relief and exhaustion and confusion ran down Alice’s face. Margaret gave her a folded handkerchief and Trevor massaged the hand that wasn’t holding Meg.

‘Meg has had quite an introduction to the world,’ he said mildly as they swept into the airport tunnel. ‘Let me have a look at her.’

Almost blinded by her tears, Alice put the bundle into his arms. He peeled back the white blanket to look at the baby and Meg’s bottomless stare met his.

‘I want to go home,’ Alice sobbed, as if she were a child again herself.

‘That’s just where we’re going,’ Margaret said firmly.

Alice sat wedged between her parents, holding on to both of them.

There was much to say, but not yet.

The bare twigs of the trees on Boar’s Hill were thickening with buds and the hawthorn hedges showed a wispy veil of green. The damp, smoky air and the glistening tarmac and the tedium of the morning traffic were so familiar, yet Alice felt utterly disorientated. She could still feel the thick heat of Santiago in her veins and behind her eyes lay the contradictory white vistas of Antarctica. As they drove up the lane she saw Roger Armstrong at the wheel of his Volvo and Felicity Armstrong in the passenger seat craning her head to get a look at them all.

Trevor murmured, ‘I told you, you’re famous. Felicity dropped in yesterday just to catch up, as she put it. To nose around for information, actually.’

‘That woman is a terrible bore,’ Margaret pronounced.

Alice carried Meg for the last five steps of the crazy journey, across the path to the front door and into the house. There was the sound of a clock ticking and the white cat lay licking his hind parts in a warm spot under a radiator. Nothing, and everything, had changed.

‘I’ll make a cup of tea,’ Trevor said. Alice and Margaret went upstairs together.

In Alice’s bedroom lay a Moses basket with a blue quilted lining, a pile of tiny folded garments and four packs of newborn Pampers, and a stuffed penguin made of black and white plush with an improbable bright-orange beak.

‘Jo brought the baby things over. She sends her love. And Peter came with the penguin. To make her feel at home, he said.’