Back at Framheim, the final preparations are being made for another journey into unknown territory. The exploration of King Edward VII Land lacks the glamour of the polar journey, but it might prove a consolation prize should the main party fail to reach the pole.
Prestrud, Stubberud and Johansen’s rudimentary investigations will take them deep into the eastern stretches of the Great Ice Barrier. They’re also charged with surveying and mapping the Bay of Whales and its immediate surroundings. Finally, Amundsen has asked that they get on top of hut maintenance. They may need to spend a second winter holed up in Framheim’s homely confines. The last request turns out to be the most taxing, and the days are full of chores. Keeping their network of tents and tunnels free of snow is a full-time job, but entirely necessary. The roof of the coal store has already collapsed under the weight of accumulated snow.
In the midst of the hustle and bustle, Johansen has time to reflect on what he considers a most unreasonable punishment. Once they return to Norway, Prestrud and Stubberud will have the excuse of damaged heels to explain their exclusion from the polar journey; Johansen will still be nursing his damaged pride. The disastrous September start is still a sore subject. Nobody seems inclined to discuss it. Johansen does the only thing he can think of to get the weight of his calamitous downfall off his chest – he writes to his wife:
When one is so far away and left to one’s self in the great loneliness, one broods about one thing or other … For my part, I can still be glad that I have not suffered any injury, but still possess my indomitable strength … I did not get to the pole, I naturally would have liked to … we did good work. But you know the great public asks who has been to the pole. Well, I don’t care. I dare to say that nevertheless I have also helped the Southern Party to reach the pole, even if I couldn’t be on the final assault, and I know that I was appreciated by those with whom I worked … Ah well, as things are, it has all turned out for the best.
Having written it, he doubts he will ever send the letter. They no longer live together and they certainly never speak. His wife hates him in fact – and with good reason. It is with great shame that he recalls the last time he ever saw her. Blonde hair hanging loose about her face after he tossed a bucket of cold water over her head. He had pushed her outside then and locked the door. It was midwinter. It’s a small miracle the poor woman did not freeze to death.
‘How many times must I ask you? Clear your things from the table, Hjalmar,’ scolds Lindstrøm.
Johansen folds the letter and slips it into his pocket. The others are about to eat supper. Despite Lindstrøm’s protestations, he excuses himself and takes a solitary walk to the edge of the sea ice to try and banish the blackest thought that has ever entered his mind. But he knows, one way or another, it will catch up with him.