‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me you’d come clean with the Trust?’
‘Because I didn’t.’
‘So it’s OK for me to look like a total dickhead, then?’
‘No. I just assumed you’d reckon I’d talk to them, because you prefer things to be played straight.’
‘How am I supposed to second-guess you? You always do what you want anyway. I’ve got no influence over you whatsoever.’
‘More than you thought, obviously.’
‘Might as well be none, the way you carry on.’
‘Oh, please … you don’t tell me everything.’
‘Not about the rest of my life, maybe. But about this project or whatever you want to call it I do.’
We’re walking through Hagley Park opposite the hotel. It’s a warren of pathways and bushes and those immense trees. You could get lost in here. And you can shout without being overheard.
‘Birdie, we’ve got to be able to trust each other a hundred percent on this. Not just because we’re looking for something that’s important to us.’
‘Why, then?’
‘We might only be going on a jaunt, but it’s dangerous out there, no matter for how long anyone goes, or where they go. People still die out there, you know.’
‘And?’
‘It’ll be even more dangerous if we can’t rely on each other, if we’re bearing grudges because we’ve not been open with each other.’
‘I’m not bearing any grudges.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I don’t, actually. You’re the one making a big deal out of this, not me. You’re the one who’s banging on about it all the time.’
‘I wouldn’t call an hour all the time.’
‘Oh, come on. You’re like a broken record. Just leave it. If you don’t like the way it’s going, you can just stay here when I fly. Or swap your ticket for an early one home.’
‘Jesus wept. You make your own bloody rules and expect people to do just as you want.’
‘That’s because I’m selfish and focused.’
‘You admit it, then?’
‘I’ve never denied it. You know I haven’t.’
I shake my head. I don’t know what to say. We walk along in silence. Suddenly she stops.
‘Adam, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Maybe I even thought I had. And I wanted to make sure this was a bona fide project for the Trust to be committed to rather than us just swanning over there like tourists. I didn’t want to lie anymore.’
I shrug.
‘Look at me,’ she says. ‘Look at me.’ She spreads her arms. ‘This is me. This is the way I am. But … This is difficult. I’m … I’m changing, and it’s because of you. And that’s not easy to cope with, not easy to accept.’ She looks up into the tops of the trees, then back at me. ‘I need my secrets. I need all sorts of things. It’s weird, asking myself new questions, up here.’ She runs her hands through her spiky hair, starts pulling at it. ‘And it confuses me. It’s not something I’d reckoned on. I … I’m not very good at this, am I?’
‘At what?’ I ask.
‘Explaining myself. I’ve never had to. Never. And now I feel like I have to, and I don’t like that. It makes me feel vulnerable.’
‘Don’t. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t even want to change you. I’m not even trying to.’
‘Maybe that’s what’s so scary. I don’t want you to think I’m just looking for a surrogate father.’
‘It never crossed my mind,’ I say.
‘Really?’
‘Really.’ I reach for her hand. Kiss it. ‘Let’s start again.’
‘Yes, let’s.’
We walk back into the hotel hand in hand.
Dinner is fun. Nev brings along a group of people I’ve never heard of. Birdie obviously has, because she greets them all by name. I can’t help admire the way she handles herself in company. I can’t do this small talk chatter and smiling routine. I’m too shy for it. Even though my hands are still warm with her touch. Even though what she said to me in the park has given me some sort of stupid hope for what might become of us when we go back to England.
Once we’re sitting down, I feel less out of it. As the evening wears on and the wine flows, I relax. We talk of nothing but the Antarctic, past, present and future. I sense that all of us – the ex-mayor, the director of the local museum, Nev’s assistant, Nev – are addicted to that continent brooding out there, 4,000 miles south, and to everything to do with it. Everything we talk about that’s happened here, in this real world, has some sort of parallel out there, has somehow been touched by what’s happened out there. I realise that its presence extends beyond its physical boundaries, that Christchurch is connected – by an umbilical cord, almost – to it.
I take to these people, especially Welland, the museum director. He and Nev are like brothers. Birdie said to me on the plane that she liked Kiwis better than Australians, because they were more upfront, but more laid back. That they wouldn’t do you over. I can understand that now. And I like the feeling of being able to talk with them about what the hell I feel like talking about without having to think too hard about how it comes out of my mouth. The evening ends too soon, really. Although I’m flagging by now.
‘I’ll just have another glass of wine with my last smoke,’ I tell Birdie when we’ve seen them all off in the lobby.
‘See you in a minute or so, then.’
‘Ten minutes.’
‘I might be asleep.’
‘Good. It’s been a long day.’
‘Yes.’
Outside, the night is fresh, a hint of warmth in the air. Spring is on its way. Strange to think the Antarctic spring is colder than our winter. I savour the few minutes of solitude after all the talking. I can’t quite get used to being here. And when I go back in, it’s obvious the porters have now heard why we’re here, because they wish me luck on the Ice when I say good night to them. Somehow it makes me feel really proud, like I’m a real explorer, although I know I’m not one, makes me feel ridiculously happy.
There’s a note under my room door. Gone to bed. I figured we could both do with some decent sleep. I know I always keep you awake, so don’t be offended. Just thinking of you. Bx
I can’t argue with her thinking. I’m dog-tired and half drunk by now. And I don’t feel very attractive. I look at myself in the mirror in the bathroom, and my body looks bloated. But my arms look like a strong man’s from a hundred years ago. That’s worth a little smile at myself. At least I like one part of my anatomy.
When I wake up the sun’s already out, but my bedside light is still on. I must have fallen asleep fairly rapidly last night. All the tiredness has gone, and I’m out of bed in a flash. I have a quick shower, then head downstairs. Birdie’s already in the restaurant having breakfast. Typical.
‘Why didn’t you wake me?’
‘I reckoned you’d get up in good time. If you hadn’t been down here fifteen minutes before Nev was due to pick us up, I’d have woken you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
I barely have time to wolf down a couple of slices of toast and a coffee when Nev arrives to pick us up. Dead on 8.30, just like he promised. And I thought Kiwis were supposed to be laid back and easy-going. Especially after the drinking last night. Not the first time I’ve been wrong.
The Trust’s office is out by the airport. As we turn off the main road, I see a huge plane sitting outside one of the hangars. It’s got an American star on the side.
‘That’s the C-17, then, is it?’ I ask Nev.
‘Yup.’
‘Isn’t it supposed to have taken off by now?
‘Condition One out there now. I didn’t want to spoil your breakfast with the bad news. I wouldn’t be surprised if we didn’t get to fly out tomorrow.’
‘Bugger,’ Birdie says. ‘Any sign of it getting better?’
‘No way of telling. Like I said yesterday, sometimes it’s crappy for two or three days, and sometimes it blows through real quick. They only just managed the round trip yesterday. And then the weather got much worse overnight. Nothing we can do about it.’
‘Bugger, bugger, bugger,’ she says. ‘I suppose I’ll just have to try to be patient.’
‘That’s the ticket,’ Nev says as we get out of the car. ‘I’ve learned that, too, since I’ve been doing this job. And I’ve been lucky. Not missed a trip in ten years. Even if some of ‘em have been shorter than planned.’
We walk towards a low-slung white building. It looks very American in design to me, long and narrow. And sure enough, the Trust doesn’t just share it with Kiwi government agencies, but with the Americans, too, and the Italian Space Agency. Nev hands us a spare key fob each so we can get through the security barriers without him.
‘Not that you’ll need them,’ he says. ‘But just in case. Specially the smokers amongst us.’ He grins at me.
Dan, a government bod, has asked to meet us, so we’re given coffee and cake in his office. Good, because I’m still hungry. Birdie’s getting impatient, but she’s political enough to understand she needs to humour the bureaucrats if she wants her plans to work. She’s very adept at avoiding his most probing questions. He doesn’t know who she really is; just that she’s someone who’s working on the Cape Evans hut restoration project. And Nev’s sworn to secrecy.
Once we’re finished with Dan, we head back across the corridor to Nev’s office. We’re living on coffee. We pile into his room. He pulls out a huge map and folds it out onto the table.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘The stuff you sent me suggests that One Ton is about here.’ He points at a spot in the mass of white. ‘You reckon that, because it’s nowhere near the edge of the ice yet, the movement’s about 600 metres a year, and that it’s moving north-north-easterly. So it’s moved about 60 kilometres since 1913. Same goes for the final camp, which is somewhere here.’
‘Spot on,’ I say. ‘Although we can’t be sure of precisely what direction the ice has moved in. Lots of the research papers I read talked about lateral ice movement, so I tried to include some in the calculations, but there’s still a lot of uncertainty.’
‘We’re aware of that, but I reckon it’s worth taking a punt. If you find anything with the radar, you’ll do some exploratory drilling and get a video scope down there without touching anything. If it is the tent, you’ll mark the site, and we’ll send a TV crew out there next season to do a programme.’
Birdie nods, her lips tight.
‘Why not this time?’ I ask.
‘To be frank, the risk’s lower this way, financial and other. If you don’t find the tent, we’ve lost nothing. If you do find it, we’ll have guaranteed funds from just about anyone to do a Scott series, and that’ll raise more money for the hut.’
‘Suits me,’ Birdie says. ‘I don’t want to be in a film. But there’s something you’re not telling us, isn’t there, Nev?’
He’s a bit embarrassed by the question. Too nice a man by far.
‘Thing is, if you don’t get out there this week, there aren’t any seats till January, because we’ve already got lots of people booked to do projects out there, seeing as your project was a last-minute add-on. And that means you’d only have about six weeks before the last flight before winter.’
Birdie goes really pale. She has a bright red spot on each cheek. And she’s gripping her chair so tightly, her fingers have gone white. ‘Well, then I just hope the bastard weather picks up. For fuck’s sake!’
‘Sorry,’ Nev says.
‘That doesn’t help. It doesn’t help at all. Who do I have to slap to get out there? It’s not like we’re fucking immortal.’ She’s jumping up and down. ‘And don’t take that personally.’
‘I won’t. Come on. Let’s get our kit.’
‘Waste of bloody time,’ she says and kicks her chair over as she gets up.
She’s still chuntering away to herself when we walk across the grass to the logistics department. It’s a grey, squat, uninviting place. Nev clatters in through the swing doors, Birdie and I in his wake.
‘Where are ya, Warney?’ he shouts.
‘In the briefing room, mate,’ a voice shouts back.
We round a couple of corners. The room’s full of old sofas, an old coffee table, and a mountain of empty coke cans.
‘Been waiting for ya,’ the giant lying on the sofa says and sits up.
‘You know Dan, mate. He can talk the arse off a donkey,’ Nev says.
‘Well, yer here now, so I can get this briefing over and done with.’
‘What?’ I say.
‘You’ll get used to this,’ Nev says. ‘Antarctica is one briefing after another.’
‘God save us,’ Birdie chips in.
‘Procedure, ma’am,’ Warney says. He bends down. She’s about half his height. ‘And it’s actually for your safety rather than my entertainment.’
She laughs at him. ‘That’s all right, then. I’m all ears.’