‘I’m going to cry now,’ she says.
‘I already am.’
‘Foolish man.’
‘I know.’
‘Let’s go, then,’ she says. ‘There’s something on the quay I want to show you.’
‘Museum first, please. Nev says we shouldn’t miss it.’
‘OK.’
My heart’s racing. My mind is filled with all the days to come, my heart with the unbearable pain of living. I hold her close, wrap my arms around her. She’ll never be mine, though, despite all this, will she? Not like I’ve been hers since the first time we met. I don’t want her to be. Then she wouldn’t be the woman I fell in love with. I don’t do control. I can’t do control. I care too much.
When we get to the museum, it doesn’t seem such a sad, white place as I thought after all. The glass doors are open. The heat of the day stretches into the old place, warms the lino that looks like it’s been there since the day it first opened. Our steps echo as we walk in. It’s free, just a contribution requested, so I stick a fifty-dollar note in the box because I’m feeling generous. We ask the old man behind the glass where the Antarctic collection is.
‘Up the stairs. You can’t miss it.’
‘Thanks.’
Upstairs, we walk through a room full of old uniforms and stuffed animals. And then there’s a glass door with a handwritten sign: Antarctic.
‘Shouldn’t I be buying you a ring?’ I say before I push open the door.
‘That’s up to you,’ she says. ‘Maybe we could look this afternoon. Nev’ll know where.’
‘I guess you’re right.’
‘Let me in, then,’ she says. She tries to squeeze past me so deliberately awkwardly that she has to put her hands on my chest. ‘Come on, lover boy.’
‘I’m afraid that will have to wait till after the wedding.’ I laugh.
‘Are you being serious?’
‘Yes. I want to do it properly. There’ve been too many one-night stands and meaningless relationships in my life for me not to mean it.’
She hugs me. ‘I’m glad,’ she says. ‘Even if it’s old-fashioned.’
‘That’s me. The old-fashioned one. Let the world laugh. I don’t care.’
And then we go in. And stop dead. Because it’s so different to where we were yesterday. Because this isn’t a museum at all, it’s a memorial, a chapel of remembrance, a still, quiet old space that reverberates with memory. The huge windows look out over the bay, and the light through the windows is suffused with the blue of the sea and the gold of the sun. The curtains scatter dust. Here is history at its warmest.
We wander round the room. Our slow feet tap on the wooden floor. There’s treasure in every display case, and so much that’s not in boxes, so much out in the warm air. We can touch it without feeling guilty, without gloves on. I’m covered in goose bumps despite the temperature.
A sledge from Shackleton’s Pole attempt spans one of the walls. Under it is the head of a dog from Scott’s last expedition, called Beck. And next to him, a brass plaque commemorates the dead men. I look at Birdie, but her eyes are fixed elsewhere.
‘Look at this,’ she whispers. ‘Can you believe it?’
‘Eh?’
‘Look at what you’re leaning against.’
‘It’s a bench, that’s what it is.’
‘What’s the sign say?’
Saloon bench from Terra Nova. ‘Oh, hell.’ I pull my hand away and stand up straight, blushing.
‘Come on, then,’ she says. ‘Let’s sit down on it.’
‘That’s not right, surely.’
‘’Course it’s all right. It wouldn’t be here otherwise, would it?’
We sit down. She leans up against me.
‘It’s not the same as being there, though, is it?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know. I’ve never been there.’
‘You know what I mean. These are just reflections of the past. I want to be immersed in it. What’s there left to be learned?’
‘We’re always learning. Who says we won’t come across something new that someone’s just forgotten to document? That’s been lost somewhere but that’ll help you find out what happened in that tent?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Maybe it’s just because you’re excited.’
‘What about?’
‘Everything.’
She burrows her head into my shoulder.
‘Mmm. But about what the most?’ she asks.
‘You tell me.’
‘I asked first.’
‘Probably about the trip,’ I say.
‘Yes and no.’
‘About getting married.’
‘Yes, but you make it sound like I was getting married to someone else. Not to you.’
‘I’m just shell-shocked.’
‘But excited?’ she asks.
‘Very. I just want to get everything organised now.’
‘Mr Sensible strikes again. It’ll get sorted soon enough. Don’t worry.’
‘I’m not worried.’ I get up. ‘What was it you wanted to show me?’
‘Just another echo. Out there. You still want to see?’
‘Yes.’
We walk out of the museum hand in hand. We head down to the quay, across concrete paths, past modern ships.
‘That’s Quail Island over there,’ she says. ‘Where Scott and Shackleton trained their dogs and ponies.’
‘D’you want to go over there?’
‘No. There’s only one ferry a day and we haven’t got time.’
There’s an old tug moored here. She rises and falls with the gentle swell, and her side rubs quietly against the tyres protecting her from the seawall. It says Lyttelton on both sides of her bow. The gold writing reflects in the calm water.
‘Is this what you wanted to show me?’ I ask.
She nods. ‘She’s not in bad shape, is she? She’s probably over a hundred years old.’
‘And what makes her so important to you?’
‘She took all the ships bound for the Antarctic out of the harbour.’
‘So Terra Nova, too?’
‘I think so.’
‘Cool.’
‘That’s what I thought. And she’s still working.’
‘Shame Terra Nova’s lost.’
‘Yes. Anyway, that’s it.’
‘I’ll give Nev a call, then. To pick us up.’
‘No. Let’s get a cab.’
The whole way back, her legs won’t keep still. Her whole body’s in motion and just can’t stop. I put my hand on her thigh, but still it goes on.
‘All sorted?’ Nev says, grinning, when we get to his office.
‘I think so,’ we both say, as one.
‘Nothing I can do, then?’ he asks.
‘Tell us where there’s a decent jewellery shop,’ Birdie says. ‘We need some rings.’
‘You’re joking,’ he says.
‘No,’ I say.
‘Wait till Welland hears about this. He’ll be spitting blood that I found out first.’
‘Why?’ I say.
‘Oh, he’s a sucker for a love story with a happy ending,’ Nev says.
‘He can be a bridesmaid, then,’ Birdie says.
‘And you can be my best man,’ I say.
Nev comes over to us, gives us each a hug. Shakes his head.
‘You’re gonna need a licence from the Department of Internal Affairs,’ he says. ‘That’ll take a day or so. And you have to give them three days’ notice of when you want to get married.’
‘And how long’s the licence valid for?’ I ask.
‘Three months.’
‘So we could get married after we get back, if we end up going tomorrow?’ Birdie asks.
‘Sure thing. It’s not looking good, though. Still really high winds and hardly any visibility.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ Birdie says. ‘Let’s just cut the crap. How likely is it we’ll get out there tomorrow? Nev, be honest.’
‘Less than ten per cent, I’d say.’
‘We might as well go home then,’ she says. ‘I can’t stand just sitting round here. I’ve got to do something.’
‘You’re not thinking of going the Argentina route, are you?’ Nev says.
‘I wouldn’t do that to you.’ She sits on his desk. ‘Could you do me a favour, though?’
‘Like what?’
‘Call Internal Affairs and get them to waive the three days’ waiting, get them to marry us tomorrow.’
‘Why?’
‘No more waiting,’ she says. ‘Not for anything.’
‘Can’t make any promises,’ he says. ‘Give me a minute.’ He shoos us out of his office and closes the door. Ten minutes later the door opens. ‘They’re thinking about it,’ he says. ‘They’ll call back later.’
‘What did you do?’ Birdie says.
‘Nothing.’ He shrugs. ‘Come on, there’s something I want to show you while we wait.’
He takes us into a huge hall in the basement. It’s the Trust’s warehouse and workshop, and it smells of oil and sweat and freshly cut wood.
‘This is where we keep some of the stuff that’s come back from the huts, and we’ve not been able to deal with yet.’
‘Like what?’
‘All sorts. The stuff on the shelves is interesting enough, but it’s not as exciting as what we’ve got in the freezers.’
‘In the freezers?’ I ask.
‘Some of this is so fragile, we bring it back from the Ice frozen, and keep it frozen until we can process it.’
‘Why not just leave it out there?’ Birdie asks.
‘’Cos it might get lost again. We find a lot of artefacts under ice that we’ve chipped away, or under snow we’ve cleared and dug out. And some things can’t be left over there.’
He opens one of the freezers.
‘Here’s a shirt we found at Shackleton’s hut at Cape Royds. Probably Murray Levick’s from the 1907 expedition.’
‘Not important,’ Birdie shrugs.
‘I knew you’d think that,’ he says. I don’t think she’ll ever manage to shake this solid Kiwi. ‘And that’s not why you’re here.’
He digs deeper down into the freezer, carefully, but with purpose, and pulls out a big package. He closes the freezer and unrolls the package. It’s a sleeping bag.
‘Reindeer bag, as usual,’ he says. ‘Found it at Evans last season. And look at this.’ He turns out the top of the bag. There are some very faint markings on a white tag.
‘What does it say?’ Birdie asks.
‘Can’t you decipher it?’
‘I think I can, but I don’t want to guess,’ she says, and takes the bag from him. She puts her nose right into the opening, sniffs, pulls a face, and stares at the tag. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d reckon there were three letters on there.’
‘That’s what I think,’ Nev says.
‘Can you be sure?’
‘Once we’ve worked on it. But it all takes time,’ Nev says. ‘Too much time. Better late than never, I suppose.’
‘D’you really think it’s Cherry’s?’ she says.
‘I think the letters are AC-G, but I wouldn’t say so publicly. I can’t find any records anywhere saying he took his bag with him when he left the Ice.’
‘Incredible,’ she says. ‘And it just goes to show how crazy we are to get addicted to this stuff. Wild theories.’ She laughs. ‘I’m really glad we got to see it.’
Nev’s closing the freezer when his mobile rings. He looks at it, shakes his head, walks off into another room to answer it, comes back out a minute later, a broad grin on his face.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘You’ve got it. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Better get moving.’
Birdie runs up to him, nearly knocks him off his feet when she launches herself at him, legs around his waist. ‘Thanks, thanks, thanks,’ she shouts, smothering his squirming face in kisses.
‘That’ll do,’ he says, embarrassed, and levers her off him.
I just shake him by the hand.
‘Listen, folks,’ he says. ‘I’ve got shitloads to do. This weather’s cocking everything up out there. Should we meet for dinner tonight?’
We look for lunch in Christchurch and get it from several shops. After we’ve bought our rings, we find bookshops and books and time to read. In the sun, and with sticky hands from the cakes, we eat as we read. We don’t need to talk to be together, and holding sticky hands is fun. Shit, I feel like I’m about eighteen again, but without the uncertainty or the fear.
Around each familiar corner, we discover the unexpected and new. A market today where yesterday was emptiness, songs where there was silence, crowds where there was loneliness. The day passes without withering. It’s evening before we have drawn breath. Is this what real love is like?
We sit outside for dinner, Nev, Welland, Birdie and I, in the centre of Christchurch, almost in the shadow of the statue of Scott made by his widow, Kathleen. Strange to be here, eating, drinking, being happy, when he reminds us of thirst, starvation and death. Welland does most of the talking. He’s so excited you’d think he was getting married.
After dinner, Birdie and I sit outside the hotel in the crimson dusk. She’s borrowed another cigarette from me.
‘Separate rooms tonight,’ I say.
‘Why?’
‘Mustn’t spend the night before the wedding with you.’
‘Superstitious old git.’
‘Some things never change.’
‘I’m glad,’ she exhales her smoke. ‘How can we resist each other?’
‘Common sense?’ I say.
‘Anticipation?’
‘Respect?’
‘Love?’ she says.
‘Probably.’
She rubs her eyes. ‘I’m exhausted.’
I think she looks scrummy. I pull her towards me and take a deep breath of that lemon scent.
‘Hey, old man, I thought we were going to wait.’
‘We are. I just want to feel you close to me.’
‘You might get carried away.’
‘I’ll rely on you to stop me.’
‘I don’t think you can do that. I’m relying on you to stop me.’
‘Ha.’
One kiss lasts an age, two kisses an eternity. I lose myself in our embrace.
Alone in my room now, I’m about to turn the light off when Nev phones.
‘You all set for tomorrow?’ he says.
‘I think so,’ I say. ‘That’s why I’m shitting bricks.’
‘Don’t. Just enjoy it while you can.’
I can hear the laughter in his voice, and the excitement, and some emotion. It’s strange to have made an unexpected friend. I don’t make friends easily. And it’s odd that John’s not here, although he told me not to be such an arse when I phoned him to tell him so, and when I started crying because I felt like I’d betrayed him by not getting married in England. He told me it wasn’t important, that he’d probably have his hands full sorting out my domestics when we got back. Because that’s what he’s used to doing – picking me up when I’m down. There will be times, he said, there will be. And I’ll have to find my way through those. Except it’ll be different, because there’ll be no real escape. Because vows are just that – vows, promises, pledges. For always.