Lillemor felt she was sinking underwater. The light shifted from grey to black and back again in surreal intervals. She clung to her bunk, the only place of comfort in a shifting world, and drifted in and out of consciousness.
She dreamed she was riding in the belly of a whale, or did she wake and imagine it? She thought she had nibbled at the crackers by her bunk, but the pile seemed undiminished when next she forced open an eyelid and looked. She felt the prick of the needle through a fog and surmised that Stevensson had given her another injection. Once she thought Mathilde was stroking her head and murmuring, but when she opened her eyes no one was there. Nonsense sentences formed in her head, every word unrelated to the last, the flow of them seemingly unstoppable until Lillemor felt she would go mad.
She couldn’t have said if a few hours or a day had passed by the time she woke properly. She lay with her eyes closed for some time, feeling the motion of the boat and trying to orient herself. She felt childlike and alone, as if waking from a nightmarish sleep and wanting her mother. After a while she opened her eyes. Mathilde was sitting across the cabin on the other bunk, watching her. It was unnerving.
‘Better?’ Mathilde asked.
‘I think so.’ Lillemor slid up into a sitting position and rubbed her face. Her belly growled, but with hunger, not nausea. The seasickness seemed to have passed. But the dim memory she had of Mathilde stroking her hair was at odds with the stern-faced woman before her, and she tried to gather her thoughts.
‘What on earth did that man give me? I feel like I’ve been asleep all day.’
‘Nearly three days,’ Mathilde said. ‘Some kind of new sedative, he said. He dropped by to top you up a few times.’
Lillemor shook her head to clear the muddle. ‘Three days? My God. What have I missed?’
Mathilde shrugged. ‘Not much. Waves. Wind. A few birds and a whale or two. Plenty of meals. They’re all waiting for you. The scenery hasn’t changed.’
Lillemor swung her legs around to the side of the bunk, put her feet on the floor and stood up slowly. The ship rolled and she put a hand against the wall to steady herself. She found her knees shifted of their own accord to keep her upright and her stomach seemed stable. She wondered what Mathilde had told everyone, and felt a stab of shame. So much for impressing the men of the ship with her adventurous spirit. It wasn’t a good start.
‘Looks like you’ve got your sea legs,’ Mathilde observed.
‘Well, I don’t intend to spend the trip in bed,’ Lillemor said. ‘What time is it?’
‘Almost lunch.’
‘Excellent. I’ll get dressed and you can help me find the saloon. How’s the food been?’
‘Not bad,’ Mathilde said. ‘But I’m sure you can find the saloon yourself. I’ve done you enough favours, I think.’
Perhaps there was more to mousy Mathilde than Lillemor had thought. It looked like she could be tough enough when she wanted.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said.
‘Of course you do,’ Mathilde said. ‘I think, Mrs Rachlew, we could say you’re in my debt.’
Lillemor made her way across the cabin to her luggage while she considered her response. Keeping her back to Mathilde, she opened the door. ‘How cold is it outside? Will I need my woollen underwear?’
‘It’s not that cold. I’m sure you’ll stand it if you wear a coat.’
Lillemor chose a dress and turned around. ‘I think we could help each other considerably on this trip, Mrs Wegger. If there’s anything I can do for you, I’d be more than happy to help.’
‘Good,’ Mathilde said. ‘I’ll be sure to let you know. And I prefer Mathilde.’
‘I prefer Lillemor. Glad we’ve got that straight.’
‘I’ll wait for you outside,’ Mathilde said. ‘I won’t be going to the saloon for a few minutes yet, so if you hurry you can come with me.’
She left the cabin and Lillemor made a rude face at her departing back. ‘If you hurry…’ she mimicked under her breath. She stripped off her nightwear and started pulling on her clothes, struggling to keep her footing as the ship rolled. She laced her boots, pulled on her woollen hat and hurried to the door. She kicked her toe misjudging the height of the sill and stumbled out. Mathilde looked at her without putting out a hand to help.
Lillemor regained her balance. ‘Lead on,’ she said. Mathilde turned away from her without another word.
By lunchtime’s end, Lillemor realised just how much she had missed while sleeping. Mathilde knew the names of the dogs and when she called down to them from the catwalk, they jumped and barked at her voice. Mathilde had engineered a seat between Hjalmar and Nils at the captain’s table, leaving Lillemor between Horntvedt, who was perpetually grouchy, and Hans Bogen, the historian, who was fussy and dull. She was far away from Lars and Ingrid and their end of the table seemed to sparkle with interesting conversation, while the men either side of her ate silently.
Lillemor, with brief glances, watched Mathilde. She and Hjalmar conversed with a warmth that seemed more than warranted by mealtime proximity and they were often talking privately rather than to their companions at large. Mathilde had seemed a plain woman when they’d first met in Cape Town and at their dinner at Kennedy’s, Lillemor had seen how easily she became terrified. It was only then Lillemor had had the idea of taking Mathilde’s place. The plan had worked, in the main – here she was, on board, on the way to Antarctica and it was clear Mathilde had little interest in being the first to land. But it was disconcerting that she’d seen through Lillemor’s machinations so clearly.
Mathilde was smiling at Hjalmar as they talked, and her face looked years younger. Not pretty, she wasn’t pretty, but she had dimples that appeared when she smiled, and they were an asset of which she could make much, if she chose. Lillemor strained her ears to hear their conversation. He was talking about Amundsen and his explorations of the North Pole. Lillemor wished she was close enough to join in. It would be wasted on Mathilde, who in all likelihood knew nothing of polar exploration history, while she, Lillemor, who’d studied it, could possibly tell Hjalmar a thing or two he didn’t know.
Lillemor turned her attention to Ingrid, who’d given her a friendly enough smile and a kiss on the cheek when she arrived in the saloon, together with queries about Lillemor’s health, but now seemed rather distracted. Lillemor wondered what brought her to Antarctica. She certainly wasn’t the kind of woman who came because she couldn’t be apart from her husband. Was she really just enjoying the latest holiday, or was she, like Lillemor, driven to be the first woman there?
If she did want to be the first, there’d be no question of whose name was attached to any discoveries or landings. But there were sometimes ways around expedition leaders. The very first landing on Antarctica was still being disputed. The expedition was under the leadership of Henryk Bull, but when the time came for a landing at Cape Adare in 1895, three men claimed to have leaped from the boat first, including a junior seaman. The matter of who had set foot first on the mainland had never been resolved. In such moments and by such slender margins were reputations made and histories written, Lillemor knew.
Ingrid would be the priority in any Antarctic landing and hers the name bestowed on any piece of landscape that needed it. Mathilde was inconsequential and Lillemor knew her own part in the trip might go either way. She was the youngest of the three – thirty years old – while Ingrid and Mathilde must both be closer to forty. She was the strongest and the fittest, but she’d lost ground in the embarrassing three days of seasickness. She needed to work her way up to the interesting end of the table, ingratiate herself with those who mattered, demonstrate her capability and make sure that if opportunities arose she was ready to take them.
Lillemor turned her attention to the men. The biggest fish to fry here on the boat were Lars, Hjalmar and Horntvedt, and she judged them the way she usually did, by speculating on what they’d be like in bed. Would Lars bring his power with him, treating a woman’s body like something to be conquered? Or was he one of those powerful men who liked to become little boys in bed, wanting one place in their lives where they could surrender?
Hjalmar was handsome and confident, a man who liked discovering new things. He was the latest of Norway’s dashing explorers, the one who could never settle with a woman, even if he married her. Lillemor thought she had lost Hjalmar’s sympathy after he saw her manipulations get her own berth on the ship. It was annoying – she’d been doing all of them a favour after all, and she’d have to work to bring him back on side. She’d remind him of his friendship with Anton.
Horntvedt was an interesting proposition, with his unrelenting sternness and his professed wish that women stay in their rightful place. It could be fun to surprise a man like that, to show him he wasn’t in charge. Or he might be thoroughly unpleasant, the same in bed as he was out, or worse.
Nils: too nice. There’d be no challenge in bedding him; it would be sweet upon sweet with no spice in it.
She turned her gaze on Hans, every inch the historian, bespectacled and quiet, easily overlooked when they were all together. He was gazing at Ingrid and Lillemor caught something in his expression. Behind his glasses there was longing on his face. Lillemor stored the information away for later consideration.
The men were important, but she needed to befriend Ingrid, and quickly, in case favours were on offer. She’d seen Ingrid’s relief at the prospect of getting rid of Mathilde and taking Lillemor instead. It would be better to align herself with Ingrid rather than Mathilde, she thought.
Photography was her unique skill and she needed to use it to her advantage. They’d all want a record of this voyage once it was over, especially Lars, Ingrid and Hjalmar. Perhaps she might yet travel with Hjalmar on the smaller ship, on the pretext of photographing his explorations. A photographer might be included in things that she would otherwise miss.
It was time to get out her camera, and to start recording the voyage in her journal too. Smart expeditioners laid depots along the way, and that’s what she was doing now. Emotional depots that she could draw on as the final stages approached.
‘I’m going up to the bridge,’ Lars said, finishing the last of his drink. ‘Hjalmar, could you look after the ladies, please?’
Hjalmar, still eating, smiled. ‘Always a pleasure. I won’t be a minute, ladies, if you don’t mind waiting a little.’
‘Not at all,’ Lillemor said, raising her voice to be heard from the other end of the table. ‘Ingrid, Mathilde, let’s wait for Hjalmar outside.’
She pushed her chair back and stood, and Mathilde and Ingrid followed. The three of them pulled on their heavy coats in the saloon’s vestibule and stepped outside.
It was a shock, moving from the cosy interior of the saloon to the external reality of a ship surging through the wind and waves of the Southern Ocean. Even in the darkness it was possible to sense the horizon stretching out in every direction and the ship moving further away from civilisation every hour. They went down the steps to the mid deck and crossed to the railing. Lillemor blinked in the wind as she positioned herself in between Ingrid and Mathilde.
‘When will we start seeing icebergs, do you think?’ she asked.
‘Lars says by tomorrow, in all likelihood,’ Ingrid said. ‘I can’t wait.’
‘Me neither,’ Lillemor said, glancing behind to see if Hjalmar was coming. She couldn’t resist a little investigation. ‘I bet Captain Riiser-Larsen has left some broken hearts behind when he’s gone off exploring,’ she said, lowering her voice.
‘I expect so,’ Ingrid said.
Lillemor turned to Mathilde. ‘Did I hear you and Hjalmar talking about Amundsen?’
Mathilde nodded. ‘He was telling me about one of his rescue missions. Do you know, if Hjalmar hadn’t got all the men squeezed on one plane and into the air, they would have died after their other plane was damaged.’
‘Well, it’s true enough, Mathilde; he was a hero,’ Lillemor said. ‘But not an infallible one. They spent weeks carrying snow to try and make a runway before someone worked out they just had to stamp on it to flatten it. That lost time nearly killed them all.’
There was a laugh from above them. ‘Sadly you’re right, Mrs Rachlew.’ Hjalmar’s voice came from the stairs. Mathilde frowned at Lillemor.
Lillemor smiled. It looked like she was accurate about Mathilde’s weakness. ‘Ah, Hjalmar, here I am blackening your name,’ she said. ‘How frightful of me.’
The three of them turned to meet him as he came down onto the deck.
‘It’s true; we were so cold and frightened we lost our judgment,’ he said. ‘If we’d had women with us I doubt we’d have been such idiots.’
‘I don’t like you making fun of us.’ There was no laughter in Ingrid’s voice.
Hjalmar became serious. ‘I’m not at all. Women bring out the best in men, I believe.’
‘Funny then that you’re not taking any women with you,’ Lillemor said, to see how he’d respond. ‘No explorer seems to want women along, no matter how nicely we ask.’
‘Unlike Mawson, I wasn’t inundated with requests from women to come on my expedition,’ Hjalmar said. ‘But then, I’m not nearly so handsome as he is.’
Lillemor laughed. ‘Oh, you’re not so ugly, Hjalmar.’
‘Just let me light my pipe, ladies,’ Hjalmar said. ‘Then I’ll show you inside the planes, shall I?’ He began packing tobacco into the bowl, standing with his back to the wind to shelter it.
‘It’s rather a pity we’re not coming with you,’ Lillemor said. ‘Mathilde and I think exploration sounds much more romantic than whaling.’ She glanced at Ingrid and smiled. ‘Although of course we’re very pleased to be guests on Thorshavn.’
Hjalmar lit the pipe, puffing rapidly. ‘It’s not romantic. Just you wait till we’re in bad weather. When the boat’s iced from stern to aft and the wind’s strong enough to sweep you off the deck, you’ll be grateful to be safe in Thorshavn’s big steel hold and not shivering on little Norvegia and praying she won’t be splintered on a growler.’
‘Are you ever afraid?’ Mathilde asked.
‘All the time,’ he said. ‘Exploration means heading into the unknown, in a boat small enough to move easily through the ice. We could be caught and crushed, or sunk or lost at any time. If someone as experienced as Amundsen can die, any of us can.’
He glanced at Mathilde and cleared his throat. ‘Of course, it’s a different matter on Thorshavn.’
‘Why do you do it?’ Mathilde asked.
‘The question explorers always get asked,’ he said. ‘It’s so expensive and so dangerous, why do we keep going?’ He leaned against the railing and rubbed his chin. ‘The Poles have a pull on you. Once you’ve visited, you always want to come back.’
‘Really?’ Lillemor asked.
‘I’m like a fool in love,’ he said. ‘The North Pole is my first love, but now I’ve been south I have a secret mistress and I can’t stay away from her.’
Lillemor saw the colour rise in Mathilde’s cheeks and sensed Hjalmar’s sudden embarrassment. It was banter he might have made with a woman like Lillemor, but not with the three of them.
‘I think this is such a fascinating question, with so many answers,’ she said. ‘Ingrid, I’d love to know – what is it that brings you south?’
Ingrid was looking out at the ocean. ‘My husband’s business interests are here. He very much wanted to see them first hand.’
‘But what about you?’ Lillemor persisted.
‘When I was a child I wanted to go to the South Pole, especially after I met Amundsen. He promised I could go with him, but when the time came, he made the decision to go south after he’d already left Norway, so I missed out. It looks like this is the closest I’ll get.’
Interesting, Lillemor thought. She turned to Mathilde with an eyebrow raised.
‘I’m here to rest my nerves,’ Mathilde said. ‘My family thought an expedition to Antarctica would be a nice way for me to relax.’
There was an awkward pause. ‘And what about you, Mrs Rachlew? Why did you want to come with us?’ Hjalmar asked.
‘I met Amelia Earhart a few months ago and I was inspired,’ Lillemor said. ‘I think it’s time women did courageous and wonderful things. I’m very grateful to have this chance.’ She was looking at Ingrid as she spoke, hoping the woman would feel her sincerity.
‘Let’s go and have a look at the planes,’ Hjalmar said. ‘Did you know, ladies, Qarrtsiluni is a Lockheed Vega, the same type of plane Amelia Earhart flew across the Atlantic?’
As they followed Hjalmar towards the back of the boat, Lillemor thought of Amelia. No woman had yet flown over Antarctica, she remembered.