Sweat-soaked socks loop over the backs of chairs; damp fur clothing hangs heavy from the ceiling. Seal meat spits violently in the frying pan, adding a gauzy haze to the already humid space. The dense meaty aroma sends saliva glands into overdrive. The men fidget and squirm in anticipation. Nobody can imagine anything more satisfying than the first bite of the seared black flesh. Lindstrøm is overjoyed.
‘Eat up, lads. Plenty more where that came from.’
During their absence, Lindstrøm has piled snow around the external walls of their dwelling to keep it warm and snug over the winter months. It represents a monumental physical effort. Now with his eight colleagues around the dining table, Lindstrøm is content to return to the kitchen and leave any shovelling for the others.
‘Eating a meal at a table,’ sighs Oscar. ‘What luxury.’
‘Eating a meal that’s actually hot – now that’s luxury,’ Johansen says sarcastically. He’s still grumbling about having to carry his meals from the cooking tent out into the cold then back into his own tent. ‘I know we’re saving on weight by only having one cooker, but it’s not practical and it’s certainly not fair on those of us who have to eat lukewarm food day after—’
Amundsen braces himself for the torture of sitting down on his crippled behind. He expects to have a full debrief on all aspects of their latest depot journey, but he’d like to enjoy his first meal back at Framheim in peace before launching into detail. ‘Okay, I think we all agree that the tent situation must be improved so everyone can enjoy the heat from the Primus, a hot meal and a chance to dry their socks and boots.’
Johansen murmurs his approval. The others look up from their meals but are too focused on enjoying real food after their month of pemmican to offer any opinion on expedition logistics.
‘Only vegetables for me,’ says Amundsen, refusing Lindstrøm’s plate of seal steaks. The return journey has been pure agony, with his haemorrhoids worse than ever. Lindstrøm’s plentiful preserves, tinned fruit and vegetables will aid his recovery, he hopes. Neither scurvy nor constipation exist in Lindstrøm’s vocabulary.
The sounds of eating, cutlery clinking, enamel cups of coffee clanking, snorts, coughs and the occasional burp echo around the table.
‘The dogs need hardening up,’ says Amundsen suddenly.
‘Two of mine died. Waited till we arrived back here,’ says Stubberud. ‘Can you believe that?’
‘That’s eight dogs we’ve lost during the depot-laying.’
Sverre looks up. ‘Is that counting Odin? You know he didn’t make it.’
Amundsen nods grimly.
‘He was so weak, even a ride on the sledge wasn’t …’ Sverre’s voice trails off. ‘How on earth are they going to make it to the pole?’
‘You mean how are we going to make it to the pole?’ snorts Bjaaland.
Silence meets his comment. Voicing doubt is reckless in the presence of the chief.
‘It’s just the cold,’ says Johansen. ‘If we’d had reasonable temperatures they’d have come through fine.’
‘I agree,’ says Amundsen, pushing his plate away and resting his pale forearms on the table to relieve some of the pressure on his rear end. ‘And food. They’ll need more food.’
‘More food means heavier sledges,’ says Helmer in a dispirited tone. ‘Heavier sledges means more food – it’s a bloody joke.’
‘Unless we lighten the sledges,’ says Bjaaland, keen to make up for his earlier negativity. ‘Stubberud and I could easily take to them with the plane, trim down the other components without weakening the structure. And the packing cases too could be shaved down to save on weight.’ He turns to the carpenter. ‘What do you think?’
‘We got the tools,’ Stubberud agrees.
‘And a long winter ahead of us,’ adds Bjaaland.
Amundsen purses his lips. ‘Good. I think we could overhaul a lot of our equipment. But we’ll still need more food.’ He pauses in thought. ‘One more depot trip. Just to 80 degrees. Before winter arrives properly. If we stockpile as much seal meat as we can there, then the dogs’ll be in the best possible shape.’
A murmur of agreement swells from the table.
‘You’ll lead,’ Amundsen says, pointing his chin in Johansen’s direction. ‘I’ll wait this one out with Fatty.’
Amid the rowdy conversations that ensue, Johansen squeezes his nose between his thumb and forefinger to disguise his grin.