Or what if – what if I tell Algie and he looks at me and says, I’m glad you saw it, Jack, because I’ve seen it too.
So I didn’t tell Algie. And I didn’t tell Gus when we got back to the cabin. And now, as I write this in my bunk before turning in, I regret that. I’m sick of bearing this on my own. I can’t do it any more.
First thing tomorrow. Breakfast. I’ll tell them at breakfast.
Too late. You lost your chance. They’re gone.
Gus didn’t get up for breakfast. He lay in his bunk, feverish and pale. I was annoyed. I wanted – no, I
needed
– him to be better. I didn’t believe he could be genuinely ill.
Not even when the fever got worse and he lay with one knee drawn up, clutching his belly. The Red Cross
first-aid manual was no help. Nor were Andrews Liver Salts. I wired Longyearbyen, and had a laborious question-and-answer session with the doctor in Morse. He said it sounded like appendicitis and he was on his way.
I don’t remember much of the last two days. Algie and I did what we could for Gus with hot-water bottles and morphine. We fed ourselves and the dogs, and kept up the readings and transmissions. None of us talked much. We were all thinking, what happens now? Is this the end?
The doctor arrived in the
Isbjørn
– it had been at the settlement when we’d wired for help – and after that, things happened fast.
Strange to see other people when it’s been just the three of us for nearly two months. But there was no time to take it in. The doctor said he didn’t need to operate here (thank God), but Gus had to come back to Longyearbyen and have the appendix out there. And one of us must go with him, ‘in case anything happened’.
For one wild moment, I was desperate for it to be me. Leave this place, get the hell out of here. Gus needs you.
Gus needs you. That’s what changed my mind. He cares about the expedition as deeply as I do. And if I went and Algie stayed, that would be the end. Algie
would never have the discipline to go it alone. And Gus would know that I could’ve done it, I could’ve saved the expedition, but I funked it.
All this flashed through my mind as I hauled Algie over to the wireless corner, leaving the doctor and Mr Eriksson in the bunkroom with Gus.
‘You go,’ I told him.
He glanced at me and then away. ‘What about you?’
‘I’ll have to stay, won’t I?’ I snapped.
‘But – surely not on your own.’
‘Well what the fuck do you suggest?’
He swallowed. ‘You could come too. The doctor says if all goes well, it’ll only be a few weeks, then we can come back and carry on.’
‘The dogs, Algie! What about the fucking dogs? No time to take them with us, is there? And we can’t just leave them! We
could
try paying a couple of Eriksson’s men to stay and look after them, but somehow I don’t think they’d say yes. So where does that leave us? Hm? Eriksson would tell us to shoot the brutes and have done with it, but I couldn’t do that. Could you?’
He gave me an odd look. ‘You’re so rational, Jack.’
‘
Rational?
’ I kneaded my forehead. ‘Listen. Even if I came, d’you think that’s what Gus wants? The whole expedition shot to hell because I can’t hold the fort for a couple of weeks?’
He didn’t argue. I think he’d only objected as a sop
to his conscience. And he never once offered to change places.
They got Gus on to the stretcher, and Algie crammed a few things in a rucksack, then we made our way down to the shore. A squally night, sleet falling fast in the lamplight. As they manoeuvred the stretcher into the boat, Eriksson seized me by the arm and pulled me aside. He said I couldn’t stay here alone, I had to go with them. We argued it out in the bitter snow. I won. But then he peered into my face and said, ‘This is a bad mistake. The one who walks. You have seen it. Ja?’
Now that shook me. Maybe, deep down, I’d been hoping all along that it was only in my mind; and here was Georg Eriksson, hard-bitten skipper of the Isbjørn, finally putting paid to that idea.
‘It doesn’t matter what I saw,’ I told him. ‘I can’t leave the dogs, and I can’t scupper the expedition because of an echo!’
He didn’t understand what I meant by that, but before I could explain, they were calling him: the boat was ready to leave. And I was running over to say goodbye to Gus.
That’s when it hit me. Gus is really ill. Gus could die.
I felt as if I’d been kicked in the stomach. Gus could die.
He lay bundled up on the stretcher. In the lamplight, his face looked carved in stone, disturbingly like an effigy.
‘Jack,’ he panted. ‘Are you sure about this? You can still change your mind and come with us.’
‘No I can’t,’ I said as gently as I could. ‘I can’t let the expedition go to blazes. Besides. Couple of weeks and you’ll be back again, right as rain.’
‘Thanks, Jack. Thanks most frightfully.’ Slipping off his mitten, he moved his hand.
I gripped it hard. ‘I’ll miss you.’
He forced a grin. ‘Me too. Be careful, Jack. Be
careful
. Keep the dogs with you.’
‘Don’t you worry, I’ll look after them. Don’t worry. Just get better.’
He licked his lips. ‘Good show, Jack. I can’t tell you . . .’ He sucked in his breath. ‘Good show.’
And it
was
a good show I put on, a bloody good show, as I stood in the shallows watching the boat make its way between the icebergs; as I listened to the putter of the engine, and saw the lights of the
Isbjørn
heading west. Jack Miller, saviour of the expedition. Heroically holding the fort till the others return. The lights blinked out. Quite suddenly, I was alone, with the grey sea sucking at my boots, in this night that has no end.
But what the hell was I supposed to do? How could
I let the whole thing founder because of a few damned echoes from the past? I can just see myself explaining that to the Royal Geographical Society. ‘Frightfully sorry, chaps, couldn’t carry on. Saw a ghost.’
How could I do that to Gus?
Besides, I’m not alone here, not really. I’ve got the dogs. And the wireless. And there’s that trapper in Wijdefjord if I ever need help.
I’m protesting too much, I know that.
But the thing to remember, Jack, is that it’s only an echo. It’s like a footprint or a shadow. It can’t hurt you. All it can do is frighten.
Well I got through the first day.
Routine, that’s the ticket. Readings at seven, noon and five o’clock; transmissions half an hour after. I’ve had the dogs with me, and so far, no problems – except catching them again. A handful of sweets works wonders: brandy balls and Fruitines. I save the butterscotch for Isaak.
As I bustle about, cooking, wirelessing, chopping wood, feeding and watering the dogs, I feel oddly self-conscious. ‘Now then,’ I say out loud, ‘what’s for breakfast? Fried eggs? And what about dinner? All right then, curry it is!’
And I notice that I address myself as ‘we’. Not ‘I’ or ‘you’ or ‘Jack’. I don’t like to acknowledge my solitude out loud.
There’s a novelty to spreading my things around the
cabin and eating what I like. For supper last night I invented a hearty dish of onions and tinned steak pudding fried with potatoes and cheese. I keep the stove well stoked, the lamps trimmed and the water barrel full, using the rough-and-ready system we devised: top up barrel with snow, pour on boiling water from kettle; refill kettle with more snow, place on stove to melt. Whatever I do, I do without a pause. I don’t like the silence when I stop.
The worst thing about being alone is that when I go out to the Stevenson screen or for my walk with the dogs, I can’t leave the stove lit or a single lamp burning in the cabin, in case of fire. That’s an even more vital rule than the one about closing doors. It means I return to a cold, still, dark cabin. I try not to look at the blind black windows as I approach. When I’m in the porch, my steps sound too loud, my breath like that of someone else. I hate the moment when I close the door behind me and I’m shut in the long, dark hall. In the beam of my torch, everyday things leap from the shadows. The waterproofs on the hooks look like – well, not like empty clothes.
The main room is freezing. It smells of woodsmoke and paraffin. And it’s so still.
There’s a sliver of moon but soon there’ll be none. I’m going to hang a storm lantern from the antlers over the porch.
Last night I tried the gramophone, then the wireless, but the disembodied voices made me feel more isolated. So instead I sat and read, with the hiss of the lamps and the crackle of the stove, and the tick of Gus’ travelling alarm clock. It’s olive-green calfskin, smooth and cool to the touch, and its gold-rimmed face is beautifully plain. I keep it near me.
I miss Gus more than I’ve ever missed anyone. Strange, that. I was ten when Father died, and although I loved him, I soon stopped missing him; perhaps because he’d been ill for years, and I’d done my grieving when he was alive. Same with Mother. She was worn out, she wanted to go. So I didn’t miss either of them for long. Nothing like this. This savage ache that came on as soon as he left.
Is this what it’s like to have a brother? Or a best friend? It’s confusing. I don’t quite know what I mean. And I hate Algie for being with him when I’m not.
It’s eight in the evening as I write this, sitting at the table with a whisky, and three lamps brightly ablaze. To anyone standing on the boardwalk looking in, I’d be clearly visible. Of course, there is no one looking in. But I don’t like the feeling. And I don’t like it when I glance up and see those black windowpanes. I wish I could cover them, to stop the night peering in.
Over the weeks, I’ve struck up an acquaintance with the operator at the meteorological station on Bear
Island. His name is Ohlsen. He’s got a wife and two little girls in Bodø, and he misses them. But since the others left, I haven’t wanted to chat. I don’t like being on the bicycle generator with the head-phones on and my back to the room. I don’t know what’s happening behind me. Although of course, nothing is.
I’m worried about Gus. They’ll still be en route to Longyearbyen. What if he gets worse and they have to operate on board? I forgot to tell Algie to wire me as soon as there’s news, but he’ll know to do that, won’t he? Surely he’ll know?
The weather remains clear and cold (minus twelve) and very still. Around ten in the morning, a pallid greenish glimmer appears in the south-east behind the cliffs: proof that somewhere, the sun still exists. To the north-west, it remains deep night. On a clear day like today, the twilight strengthens to pinkish gold, revealing every ridge of the mountains, making the icecap glow. You can’t help thinking that dawn is coming – but no, soon it’s getting dark again, the shadows already turning violet, the twilight fading to green. In time, it will fade to nothing.
And the worst of it is, when I’m inside, I can’t see the twilight, because the cabin faces north-west, towards endless night.
I went to bed with a lamp on a chair, but I kept starting awake and checking that I hadn’t knocked it over, so in the end I had to put it out. Then I had a horrible half-waking dream that there was someone in the bunk above mine. I saw the bulge of the mattress between the slats. I heard them creak. I woke with a jolt. Steeling myself, I got up and switched on my torch. Of course it revealed nothing but mounds of clothes.
I wish we’d thought to bring nightlights. I remember the exact entry in the Army & Navy Price List:
Clark’s Pyramid Nightlights, 12s. 9d per dozen boxes, each one burns for 9 hrs.
Surely the
Isbjørn
will have reached Longyearbyen by now. Maybe Gus has already had the operation. Maybe . . .
Stop it, Jack. Go and make breakfast. Porridge with a chunk of pemmican in it. Scones with gooseberry jam. That’ll set you right.
Another cold, windless day (minus fifteen), but over-cast, so no twilight.
Out to sea there’s a band of deepest charcoal which looks like bad weather, only I can’t tell if it’s advancing or receding. This stillness is getting on my nerves. Where are the blizzards we’re supposed to have in the autumn?
Without daylight, terms such as ‘morning’, ‘noon’ and ‘night’ have no meaning. And yet I cling to them. I impose them like a grid on the formless dark. I know that ‘evening’ is merely the stretch between the transmission at half past five and the reading at seven in the ‘morning’, but still I rub my hands and say briskly, ‘Now then, what shall we do this evening?’
All quiet today, nothing untoward to report. (I like the way that even in this journal, I can’t bring myself to name it. I circle round it with euphemisms. ‘Untoward’. What does that even mean?
Characterised by misfortune or annoyance. Not auspicious; unfavourable. Unseemly.
Unseemly. That’s a good one. It certainly is that.)
Funny what you come across when you’re not looking for it. Again I’ve gone through all our books on Spitsbergen, in case I missed something about what
happened here. One of them was published in 1913; it describes Spitsbergen as a miner’s paradise. Rich coal seams, easily dug. Deep anchorages. No taxes, no mining dues, no laws.
Each summer, a small army of prospectors and miners arrives from Russia, America, Germany, Norway, Britain. Disputes are frequent, and with no adjudicating authority, are summarily settled
. Settled how? Is that what this is about? A fight?