Many years from now, the people of Hobart will tell how he strode up Murray Street, an imposing figure flanked by two fearsome sledge dogs. But this is not the case. On this particular Thursday morning, Roald Amundsen is just a man heading up the hill to Hadley’s Orient Hotel, completely alone and in possession of news that will soon echo around the world.
Sledge dogs are far from his thoughts. Neither is he concerned about what his crew are doing aboard the Fram, which has dropped anchor in the middle of the Derwent River. One clear thought spurs him on – hot water.
He imagines soap and steam and how it will feel to slide his weary explorer’s body into an extravagantly deep bath. A proper wash in a proper bathroom; he can think of no greater luxury. It’s been a year and a half.
Needless to say, Amundsen is not a fetching sight. In his filthy old cap and an ancient blue jersey riddled with holes, he appears more tramp than polar hero. Pedestrians alter their pace; some slow to let him pass, others pull their children aside. Amundsen sees the wrinkled-up noses, the odd looks at his attire. He cares little. Anonymity comes as a relief. He’s not ready for people. Not quite yet.
To a man so used to walking on snow, the sensation of paving stones underfoot is unnerving. So too the loud, clacking sounds of the port, the swish of soft skirts, the peaty scent of horse manure on cobbles warmed by the sun.
It was cooler on the water. The town seems airless by comparison. Sweaty, irritable, the explorer finds fault with the bustle of the place, the very squareness of the buildings. Even the air, flecked with dust, is disagreeable, filling his mouth with too much flavour. Coughing repeatedly, he longs to fill his lungs with a clean breeze off the sea, to feel the satisfying pang of air as cold as ice.
Hadley’s Orient Hotel is a grand institution, judging by the white columns flanking its entry. Perhaps that’s why the harbourmaster so eagerly recommended it. Amundsen grasps the brass handrail like a lifeline and hefts himself up the stairs and into the hotel’s richly decorated lobby. The feeling of carpet is like a revelation; the deep red pattern is so intense it makes his eyes swim. Perhaps this moment, this return to the civilised world of man, marks the end of his journey. The thought is not altogether pleasing. In fact the ill-humour Amundsen has been nursing since stepping ashore has coalesced into a hard knot at the back of his throat and refuses to budge. How he longs for hot water.
The young clerk regards with an insolent expression the tall, unkempt individual standing at the front desk.
Amundsen clears his throat. ‘A room. With bathroom.’ It’s been so long since he spoke English that the words come out gruff and mangled.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t understand you,’ the clerk says, failing to make any effort.
Amundsen tenses his jaw and resists the urge to bring his fist down on the counter. Instead he tries again with greater care. Several other guests have gathered behind him. A lady in a large hat brings a handkerchief to her nose.
‘I’m sorry. I’ll have to get the manager,’ says the clerk, unsure of how to proceed with dignity.
When the manager arrives he’s taken off guard. They’re not used to such people in their establishment.
‘Can I help you?’ His manner is brisk, designed to move this undesirable person along.
‘Yes. A room with bathroom,’ Amundsen repeats slowly.
‘Do you have a reservation?’
Amundsen shakes his head and shifts his weight.
‘We are rather full, I’m afraid.’
The young clerk looks over the register, his eyes flicking up at the manager.
‘Ah yes, we can offer … a room.’ The manager glances at the other people waiting and hurriedly points to the spot on the page where Amundsen is to leave his signature, although he doubts this man can even write.
It’s not far to walk, just along the hall at the rear of the building, where he finds a door below a flight of stairs. The room is dark and there’s a narrow, stained mattress on one wall and a bucket and mop propped against the other. The only window gives onto an alleyway strewn with broken crates and other rubbish. There is no bath. Just a chipped basin with grubby cake of soap stuck to its lip.
When Amundsen returns to the front desk a few minutes later, a cool manner disguises the fire burning in his chest. He is ready for battle.
‘Amundsen!’
A well-dressed, barrel-chested man extends his arm in anticipation of a handshake. ‘Allow me to introduce myself: James Macfarlane, Norwegian consul, at your service!’
Amundsen takes Macfarlane’s hand, a little confused.
‘The harbourmaster’s been in touch. He told me he sent you up to Hadley’s to freshen up – I came as quick as I could.’
It’s unclear who is more surprised, Amundsen, the hotel manager or the terrified looking clerk who knows he’s about to get into trouble.
‘I trust you’ve been given the full treatment,’ Macfarlane says. ‘Something befitting a world-famous explorer who has just returned from more than a year in Antarctica.’
Amundsen arches one eyebrow, which sends the hotel manager into a frenzy of key rattling. ‘There’s been a terrible mix-up with my clerk,’ he babbles. ‘He gave you the wrong room. In fact, we have you staying in our suite. Top floor, sir. Shall I send the bellboy to help you with your luggage?’
Amundsen turns from the manager and instead addresses Macfarlane. ‘A pleasure to meet with you. Thank you for coming. I have many important arrangements to make, telegrams to send.’
Macfarlane nods. ‘You would like to send word of your safe return to King Haakon?’
The clerk’s eyes are round. The King? he mouths to the manager, who is similarly agog. He’s already imagining the delight of informing his other guests, the reflected glory of having a celebrity in their midst.
The young clerk has other plans. It’s not long before he’s on the telephone, announcing to all the local news men that Roald Amundsen, the man renowned for challenging Captain Scott to a race to the South Pole, has just checked in to Hadley’s Orient Hotel. The fact that he has important telegrams to send just adds to the growing sense of intrigue that will draw every journalist for miles around to camp outside, hoping to break the news of Amundsen’s polar victory. Or possibly his defeat.
As for Amundsen, telegrams and celebrity can wait. Now installed in the royal suite on the top floor of the hotel, the explorer sinks shoulder-deep in a bathtub of hot water, his longed-for desire fulfilled. Only now does he allow his mind to trace back over his journey from Bunde Fjord in Norway to the very ends of the earth. The years of meticulous planning have certainly paid off. The many favours asked, the many risks taken, the many crises averted – he can say now that it has all been worth it.
But how will history view my latest polar conquest? he wonders to himself. Will I be remembered for my dedication, my discipline, my daring; or merely my deception?