So here I am in hospital, on an exercise bike, with a clip on my nose and a tube in my mouth. I’m puffing and panting, and some young bloke’s checking my pulse every minute or so. My chest is sore. They shaved some of the hair off so the electrodes don’t come loose. In front of me, a screen shows my heartbeat. This is ridiculous. And all because of her. This is what a man in love will do. Even if it’s unrequited.
It’s four weeks since we met. I’ve spent a lot of time at her place in those four weeks, reading those books in her library. Trying to sort out audits with accountants. Cooking for her in a kitchen I don’t think she’s ever used. Meeting a load of uninteresting people as part of my work. Meeting a load of people who wouldn’t know passion if it snuck up on them and hit them in the face.
But I’ve not got any closer to her in that time. There’s a distance between us that’s difficult to explain, difficult to quantify. She’s out in front of her canvases when I’m reading, and when I’m cooking. One minute she’s all sweetness and light, the next minute she’s hyper. And the next she moves so slowly it’s difficult to understand how she has the energy to paint or to be obsessed. She jumps from one extreme to the other without transition, without warning.
I never stay there overnight. I sleep at John’s place during the week, not always drinking too much and, strangely, not always talking about her. But when we do, he warns me. He tells me I’m being a fool, that I’m getting myself in too deep and trusting too much in someone I know little about.
Yet I go back to her every day. Sometimes it’s early in the morning, if I’ve got no meetings. Sometimes it’s in the afternoon, and sometimes late in the evening, just for an hour, just to inhale her scent, to be somewhere close to her, just to be there. Because I’m addicted to her, to her tempers, to her obsession. But I don’t have the will or the courage to bring things to a head. I’m content just to let it drift, to see where it might lead. I’m a tree bending with the wind.
Scott’s diary has left a deep impression on me. I still think we should try to steal it, but she tells me it’s not important. It’s more important to get all these tests out of the way, she says. Why? Because that’s what’ll get us down to the Ice, as she’s taken to calling it. Because she’s applied to the New Zealand government to go down there. They run some programme called Artists to Antarctica that’s meant to encourage people to create Antarctic art, that’s supposed to raise awareness of Antarctica everywhere.
‘What’s the point?’ I say.
‘What do you mean what’s the point?’ she answers. ‘Isn’t it obvious? The more art we create about it, the more people will understand about the place and its history.’
‘And?’
‘So the more people understand, the more they’ll be interested.’
‘In going there?’ I say.
‘No, in understanding. I don’t want more people to go down there.’
And so it goes on, until she convinces me that it’ll be fine. Or at least until she thinks she’s convinced me. I still don’t like the idea of flying down there. Oh yes. She persuades me to go down there, too. The things love makes us do.
‘What do you mean, you’ve got a place for me, too?’ I say. ‘That easy, is it?’
‘Not really. But I applied for an assistant to go with me in the first place.’
‘But who were you going to take?’
‘I hadn’t worked it out. I knew someone would turn up.’
‘No way that I can do all this on my own. There had to be someone else.’
‘So I could’ve been anyone, then, could I?’
‘Well … yes … sort of.’ She blushes. ‘But I’m glad it’s you.’
That’s the first explicit sign of any kind of affection. Actually, there’s not been much since. The past few weeks we’ve been filling in all sorts of obscure forms for the folks in New Zealand, and we’ve spent Lord knows how much each on these health checks. And even then it’s not certain we’ll get accepted onto the programme. It’s all like shooting in the dark – with blanks.
We arranged to meet here this morning. I got here early, as usual. I’m early for everything. I stood outside the hospital chain-smoking, and, when there were only five minutes to go till our appointments, I texted her to let her know I was already here. Her text back simply told me to ‘chill’. Great. Anyway, they’d put aside a room for us where we could leave our stuff. They’d arranged consecutive appointments for us. First to the doc for a general chat, then eye tests, then blood tests, then the cardiac tests. And then back to the doc, still just in shorts and T-shirt, to discuss the results of the bloods – which included a test for HIV. What’s the point of that? Who the hell are you going to give HIV to when you’re freezing to death? You’re not exactly going to be feeling frisky, are you?
The doctor makes himself comfortable in his old chair and adjusts his tweed jacket. He tells me he moved here when he was twenty, over forty years ago, from Iraq. He’d always wanted to go back to his family, but couldn’t. The troubles, you see – like your Ireland, just worse. I nod. What a dreadful life, to be in exile for forty years. I warm to him. I like the rhythm of his voice, the scratchy singsong of his language. He looks weary and sad. Anything else is irrelevant for the half-hour he talks to me.
And at the end of that little oasis of time in the middle of the rushing, he tells me that I’m fine. Not in bad shape for a man who smokes too much and drinks too much.
‘Everything in moderation,’ he says, as he shakes my hand. A good firm handshake, too. He smiles at me. ‘Always in moderation.’
‘I’ll try,’ I say, and hate lying to him. ‘Thank you.’
Birdie’s waiting for me, back in the windowless cubicle they gave us. She hasn’t changed back into street clothes yet. It’s the most naked I’ve ever seen her, but it’s not very naked. And most of her is hidden by the Formica-topped table she’s sitting behind. She doesn’t stop reading when I open the door.
‘And?’ she asks me. ‘What did he say?’
‘He said I’m fine.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Nope.’
‘Same here.’ She looks up. ‘But he took a long time to say it.’
‘He’s homesick. And sad. And lonely.’
‘Oh well.’
‘You’re heartless.’
‘Just practical. I don’t want to get sidetracked.’ She loses some of her beauty now. Her face hardens, and the warmth goes out of her eyes, replaced by a cold fire. I’m appalled that she doesn’t care. Is this what she’s really like deep down? A hardness of soul that’s unattractive, repulsive, even. But I’m soft, too soft. So I let it pass and just burble on regardless.
‘And now what?’
‘We send the forms to New Zealand, along with the reports they’re printing off out there. And then we wait.’
‘How long for?’
‘Who knows? Does it matter?’
‘Well, yes, sort of. What do I tell the people I work with?’
‘Don’t tell them. It’s none of their business. Anyway, nothing’s going to happen for a while yet.’
She throws the papers onto the table and jumps up. She grabs me by my shirt and shakes me. ‘Why are you so up yourself?’ she shouts. ‘Can’t you just relax and enjoy yourself? What is it with you?’
She pushes me up against the examination couch in the corner of the room. She’s damn strong for her size. I can feel her heat against me. I feel myself reacting to her. She rubs up against me. No, I mustn’t. This is base. It’s not what I intended, not here, not now. I grab her by her shoulders, hold her at arm’s length, and slow my breathing.
‘What the hell are you playing at?’ I shout back at her. ‘I thought you didn’t want any distractions. Thought you only had time for this obsession of yours. And now this.’
She tries to wriggle out of my grasp, but I’m stronger than her this time.
‘Sorry.’ She’s turned back into her scolded girl alter ego. ‘I don’t know why I did that. You just annoy me sometimes. I wanted to shake you up a bit.’
‘That’s not fair. You know I care for you. You’ve known all along. One day you’re telling me blokes are just after one thing, and then you try it on. It doesn’t make sense.’
She says nothing. She’s not even looking at me.
‘Listen, Birdie, I’m too old for this. If I’m going to be with someone now, it’s got to be lasting, not just a quick fling type thing. I can’t do that anymore.’
‘Fine,’ she says. ‘Let’s go.’
She gathers her clothes and disappears into the toilet. I just pull my stuff on over my shorts and shirt, and leave before she comes out again. I’ve had enough of this. She’s too confusing, too hurtful, too dangerous.
Christmas comes and goes. I spend it alone, like I have the last three. I actually enjoy being on my own. It makes me feel free. I can choose to do what I want when I want. I have Christmas lunch at the pub in the village. It’s not the best meal in the world, but it does me. And then I go for a long walk over the fields. Crisp sunshine follows me, and my shadow has sharp edges. I’m actually quite happy for once.
The months pass. Birdie doesn’t get in touch with me. I don’t try to call her. It’s over as suddenly as it began. I don’t care about the money I spent at the hospital. At least I know I’m as healthy as can be expected. Do I care about not seeing her? Difficult to say. Do I regret not taking her up on the offer of her body? No, not in the least. Sex for its own sake is all very well, but not with someone you think you’re in love with. The moment I set eyes on her, I knew it would have to be forever, or not at all, not just a quickie in a consultation room in a hospital in London.
So life resumes its comfortable monotony. And there is a comfort in routine. It protects you from yourself. It numbs you to the pain of others around you. It’s warm and familiar, like a pair of old socks. It doesn’t surprise you, and it leaves you time to waste time. It is a joy. There’s just one thing, though. It has no colour.
Of course I don’t forget her. I love her, don’t I? And I’ve been bitten by her bug. I carry on buying books about Antarctica. I read them. I read The Worst Journey in the World twice, three times, fascinated by Cherry and his deep friendship with Bowers and Wilson, his profound grief at losing them, his desperate wish to immortalise them. It makes me cry over and over again. I read pro-Scott books. I even read Roland Huntford’s anti-Scott books. I read pro-Amundsen books, anti-Amundsen books. Books that obviously know what they’re talking about. Books that obviously don’t have a clue. And then I sleep. I sleep a lot. I’m waiting for spring. Because I hate the winter. I hate being cold and tired. But I like sitting by the fire on grey and miserable days, because I always hope tomorrow will be brighter. And that maybe someday my life will have a meaning.
I’ve started reading Worst Journey for the fourth time. Today has been truly rotten. I had to go down to London and back in a day. Four hours on the train for two one-hour meetings, meetings that achieved nothing. But I did make time to go to the British Library to have a look at the diary again. Does that mean I’m obsessed? I can’t judge. It’s just something to do. Or that’s what I tell myself.
The fire’s just got going. The evening is a gloom of cold and tiredness. The light from the flames colours Cherry’s book a pale yellow. The words make their own shapes in my mind. I lose myself in a different world again. I dance to the tune of an explorer’s voice.
I answer my phone without looking at the number on the display.
‘Yes?’
‘Adam?’
‘Birdie?’
‘We got our places.’
‘What?’
‘We got our places.’
‘Are you mad?’ I can’t believe this. ‘How can you call me after three months as if nothing had happened? It’s all done and dusted. All finished.’
‘I thought you’d be over it by now.’
‘You’re mad.’
‘And I’m outside your front door.’
I get up, walk through the house, and open the front door. There she is, with her big coat and her boots, her phone in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. She smiles. I can’t not let her in. She hands me the bottle.
‘A peace offering,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry for being an arsehole. I get carried away sometimes.’
‘I know,’ I say. And let her kiss me. She doesn’t just smell of lemons. She tastes of them, too.