The Nature of Ice Page 3

  I see you’ve spent every night this week reading diaries from Mawson’s expedition! I’ve been flagging some Hurley photos for the exhibition and can’t wait to hear which excerpts you think will work with them.

  The sun is still up, but my weary head is telling me it’s late. Time for a shower and sleep. More soon.

  Sending warm thoughts across the frozen ocean.

  Love, Freya x

  Before shutting down her laptop, Freya clicks through Hurley’s images from January 1912 of winter quarters under construction, the small wooden hut prefabricated in Australia and brought down in numbered pieces. Eighteen men, pioneers, starting from scratch.

  The earthy hues and muted tones of timber, canvas tents— even straw from packing boxes—belong to a photographic world of black and white. Alongside them, her first digitals of Davis Station scream with colour and glare, angles and moulding, the shine of triple glass. She thinks of Adam’s question. What would Hurley make of it all? Could any one of Mawson’s men have looked at winter quarters and imagined an Antarctic future with these elaborate trappings?

  Freya leaves her studio and grips the blizzard line to negotiate a slick of ice leading to her accommodation module. She tiptoes inside and gingerly closes the door whose printed notice, Please Close The Door Quietly, has been annotated by some sleep-deprived occupant: That means YOU , dickhead!

  Hot water tumbles over her bare shoulders, steam fills the tiny shower cubicle. Freya stands naked in a sea of warmth, combing her fingers through her hair as water rains around her, her body aglow with the simple, sensual pleasure of moisture on skin.

  She reflects on Adam and his apparent interest in her, on the seductive power of his charisma—perhaps the lure is in being made to feel attractive. Freya catches her reflection in the mirror. Its film of vapour fails to soften the burgundy smear stamped upon her throat and cheek, a mark of birth that still, after so many years and assaults on her senses, has the power to make her wince. Who else would want you? Marcus had once said in the height of an argument. Freya reaches for the switch and snuffs out the light.

  Winter quarters under construction

  Winter quarters

  26 January 1912

  THE OVERWHELMING IMPRESSION WAS THE voluminous body of light. Douglas stood beneath the hut’s apex, with diaphanous streamers pushing down through the skylights and flooding his clothing and hands, oiling boards of Oregon and Baltic pine. Every part of the room was plated in light.

  Eighteen bodies crowded into winter quarters, men snuffling and snoring in reindeer fur bags, mattresses slung across the floor between stacks of pre-cut timber ready for assembly into bunks.

  At midnight, the room was still bright enough to read by. Though he was not a church-going man, the comparison Douglas drew was to stand inside a stone chapel, motes caught in the light of a leaded window, air chill and undisturbed while beyond the walls the world might rage with wind as it did tonight. The reverence he felt was not a measure of the existence of God but a belief that this simple structure, built with willing hands in the place he had named Commonwealth Bay, would withstand all manner of tempest and storm. In Antarctica, it was nature that ruled.

  HE LAY ON HIS CABIN floor looking up through the skylight at a world turned white, mesmerised by horizontal showers of snow that scoured and pitted the new panes of glass. Inside, the hut felt snug.

  Already his men acknowledged the benefits of an Australian homestead design with its large interior room shielded from the elements by a perimeter of enclosed verandahs. He’d opted for two exceptions to the open plan: Frank Hurley’s closet-sized darkroom in the corner behind the cooking range, and his own eight-by-eight-foot cabin. A decent break in the wind and they would have the surplus hut from the abandoned base tacked to the front wall as a workshop and laboratory.

  Men were staking claims for a bunk site by decorating each six-foot stretch of wall. Johnny Hunter, the biologist, had hung a framed photograph of his sweetheart Nell, seated in the front row of Sydney University’s women’s hockey team. Xavier Mertz—the Swiss dog handler and ski expert they called X—frequently went into raptures about the hockey girls, in particular a Miss Meares in the front row whom he intended to woo and marry the moment they returned to Australia. X had on display postcards of the Swiss Alps and a series of miniature Swiss flags alongside a portrait of his mother. He’d begun a trend by nailing to his section of the wall a canvas holder for his tobacco and pipes.

  The second dogman, Ninnis—nicknamed Cherub on account of his propensity to blush—had unpacked a carnation given him in London by Anna Pavlova which he’d framed, and a signed portrait of ‘Anna on her tippy toes’ in a performance of Swan Lake. Ninnis must have looked even taller and ganglier next to the petite Pavlova, in whose honour he’d named the prettiest dog.

  Douglas propped a pillow behind his back and the journal on his knees. He felt too weary to pencil an excess of words.

  General turn-in in Hut. Wind outside, roof on just in time.

  He turned to the art print tacked to his own wall. The naked nymph sat in a meadow threading yellow daisy buds; reclining on a branch above, a faun serenaded her with panpipes. Douglas suspected that Paquita knew nothing of desire beyond a lover’s kiss: a caress left her teary and bewildered. He found her innocence both charming and unsettling. She had lived her twenty years coddled by family, more cloistered, surely, than most Australian-born girls. Could he expect such a woman, beyond her sense of duty, to understand the drive of men or fathom him, whose public persona he could educe as easily as the opening of a blind? Love and science, domesticity and exploration: separate carriages on a single train. He had teetered along such a track, away to London at the start of last year to launch the expedition just weeks after announcing their engagement. The final months in Australia had passed as a blur, every bone-wearying source of funding exhausted. He had plunged his own savings into the expedition, sold off his shares, spent beyond his means on Paquita’s diamond ring. Still, Douglas Mawson’s girl belonged to a family unaccustomed to thrift.

  Stoicism had become a necessity, had guided him through otherwise heartrending decisions leading up to the expedition: he felt no regret in dissuading Paquita from attending the official departure in Adelaide, or from coming to Hobart to farewell the ship as she’d so much wanted to do. His fiancée was a darling, a sweet and loving angel, but he had sacrificed everything to reach this point and he would not risk a public outburst of emotion, tearful embraces before the keen eyes of the press. She was a good girl, a dutiful girl; of course she bowed to his ruling. And don’t waste your time writing letters, he’d instructed. I won’t get them until the ship returns in a year and I’ll have no time for reading then.

  Yet here in the privacy of his cabin, he felt as brazen as a voyeur, free to touch the print on the wall, to trace the long raven hair of the painted maiden; he saw where sunlight caught her skin. He fancied, in her likeness to Paquita, the promise of the future, the allure of the explorer’s return.

  STEEL

  CROSSES

  EACH AUTUMN THE OCEAN SURROUNDING Antarctica begins to freeze. By winter the sea ice will have grown to a metre and a half thick, sturdy enough to carry the weight of Davis Station’s heaviest plant vehicle. But Chad McGonigal has been south enough times to know that by early November, the sea ice has begun to melt from the underside up. At some indeterminate time it will take on the structure of honeycomb, turning rotten, its bearing capacity halved, strength and structure reduced to a veneer.

  Squalls whistle by. Chad pushes on the auger and winds the hand drill, the steel bit slowly grinding down through the sea ice while Indie stands back, hands on hips. A chute of sea water burbles up through the hole, freezing as it washes over the ice. Indie thinks him a lost cause for insisting on testing the thickness of the sea ice firsthand. For not trusting a mate’s word.

  Indie drops the weighted tape measure into the hole. ‘I told you, you fuckwit.’ He brandishes the measure. ‘One
point six metres. I’ve been driving the Hägglund across it all frigging week.’

  Chad refrains from telling him about the Hagg that broke through the sea ice at Mawson Station. Never mind its state-of-the-art Swedish design, Mercedes-powered turbo diesel engines, automatic bilge pumps: try as she might, the old girl did precious little amphibious travel that day. For those in the cab it was a scrambled exit through the roof hatches, the Hägglund hanging on for five desperate hours before giving up and gurgling out of sight.

  Chad clambers into the cab of the D8 bulldozer. The path left by Aurora Australis now runs as a frozen scar across the ice. He lowers the blade and begins the job of clearing sastrugi from the runway; the two Casa planes are due any day.

  Adélie penguins march across the sea ice, their return signalling the start of the breeding season. For a time the penguins form an orderly line until, for no apparent reason, one renegade diverges and a second stops dead in its tracks, bringing a confused halt to the rest of the troops.

  Spindrift flurries past the windscreen. Still visible are two steel crosses that mark the high point of Anchorage Island. The first time Chad saw them from a distance he pictured them crafted from Oregon pine, stately things, the grain scoured into ridges, the wood bleached blond with weather and age. He knew neither man—accidental deaths a decade apart. Inscriptions on brass plaques unite them in death.

  His own epitaph, he thinks, might read:

  CHAD MCGONIGAL—DIEHARD LONER AND FEARFUL WASTER. WOODEN-BOAT BUILDER. ANTARCTIC CHIPPIE. A LIFE GIVEN TO BROKEN RESOLUTIONS AND SHIRKING IRKSOME CROWDS. BAD-MOUTHED IN ABSENTIA BY HIS HAPLESS MATES.

  The horizon blurs with the milky swirl of sky. He can see the bergs a kilometre away, but has trouble making out the surface a metre ahead. The lack of definition threatens to disarm his senses—he could plough through a wall of ice and still have trouble seeing it. Twice he’s been called out of the carpentry shop in bad weather to operate the bulldozer; twice the new plant operator has been laid up with one thing or another. Chad fits the headphones and turns up the station music, clipping to a drone the engine noise that vibrates through bone.

  Fifty metres away, Indie turns the Hägglund in an arc and trundles back towards the station where he will load drums of aviation fuel on the sledge. Indie has the new plant operator pegged as a malingerer, says it stood out like dogs’ balls during their training in Hobart. Nine winters here, and Chad is still floored by those who turn out to be trouble.

  As for him, he should be on his way back to Hobart, but is one of a handful from winter who have been asked to stay on and help. There are worse ways to earn a living than work a second summer at Davis Station. Even his place on the east coast of Tasmania loses some of its shine at this time of year—the onslaught of tourists and stink boats, infernal jet skis that carve up the bay from morning to night. Even on an afternoon as bleak as this he still jumps at the chance to be out on the ice.

  See? Some things stay the same. The ghostly voice still haunts him.

  Fingers of mist inch across the side window. Images flicker and fade like spliced frames of film played too many times. Chad can’t block out these illusory hands that paw at the window struggling to escape but he takes a cloth and wipes the glass clear, turns the demister to high, attempts to stave off the wretched woman who returns to him in snippets of black and white. Still the echo lingers, her hands as familiar as his own.

  Static from the VHF radio cuts the music; Chad unhooks the handpiece. ‘How’s tricks, Charlie boy?’

  ‘Can’t complain, Chad. Warmer in here than out there. Got a couple of things for you. Our esteemed leader asks when you’ll be back on dry land. Malcolm wants a powwow with you.’

  ‘Give me an hour, sooner if the weather claps out. He say what it’s about?’

  ‘Nope.’

  It must be nearing the end of Charlie’s shift. He’s in no mood to chat.

  ‘What else you got?’

  ‘Message from Adam Singer. He and your other new chippies are hosting this week’s happy hour. Five o’clock, Adam says, if you can lend a hand. A couple of them are rummaging round the dress-up room now, picking out a frock to wear.’

  Chad shakes his head. ‘Doesn’t take long, does it? Will we see you up there?’

  ‘After the day I’ve had, fella, the only happy hour I’ll be having is a nap.’

  Chad lines the D8 up for a second run parallel to the first. He watches the Hägglund wind up the hill towards the fuel farm. Chad’s waiting to see whether Ginger and Gadget, the new Casa planes, will perform as well as the old TwinO tters.

  Wind buffets the cab. Chad turns up the music. He can hazard a guess at the day’s slushy from the choice of music the job privileges them to play: a member of The Whalers who, complete with harmonicas, Hawaiian guitars and tropical shirts, have cut their first demo tape. Wailers is right, Chad thinks, the band’s signature song the product of hours of racket from the music practice shed.

  The Whalers croon while Chad provides the bass. The frozen sea. The frozen sea. When we said goodbye—he catches a sudden movement over the top of the blade and jams on the floor brake. He yanks the steering control to avoid the figure crouching directly in his path. The right track locks and the D8 slides like a chord on The Whalers’ guitar. Steel grousers warble over a slick of ice. The woman before him grabs at her equipment, tumbling over herself in an attempt to leap clear. The Whalers strums. Chad yells. The woman skates on one knee, legs tangled with those of her tripod. How the twenty-tonner doesn’t collect her he’ll never know, but the D8 completes one lithe and graceful loop before easing to a stop.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ he shouts, jumping down from the cab.

  The woman scrambles to her feet, her clothing caked in snow. ‘I’m okay. Are you alright?’

  He picks up her camera from the snow. The housing of the lens comes apart in his hands. ‘That ain’t good.’

  ‘An understatement,’ she says wryly, though the words catch in her throat and when she collects the pieces from him Chad sees her hands are trembling.

  He’s about to offer to take the lens back to the station, to see what can be done, but is seized by a sudden urge to shake her. ‘What the hell were you doing there? I nearly wiped you out.’ When she takes a step back, he realises he’s shouting.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ she says. ‘I was trying to get a close-up of the blade. I misjudged the distance,’ she adds, sheepishly.

  ‘Misjudged the distance! Do you make a practice of springing out in front of moving vehicles?’

  The wind carries her answer away, leaving only the residue of an accent. The squall blows back her hair to uncover a birthmark stamped upon her cheek and throat. The other side of her face is as white as her tangle of blonde hair. He finds himself mesmerised. She retrieves her bags and shakes snow from her fallen hat.

  ‘How long have you been out here?’ he asks.

  ‘Not long.’

  ‘Apart from it being a no-no,’ Chad speaks evenly, ‘it’s not a smart idea to be out on the sea ice alone, particularly in weather like this.’

  She slides on her hat and rearranges her hair around her face. ‘Please. You won’t say anything, will you?’

  He may be many things, but a dobber he’s not. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘I’ll drive you back to the station.’

  They trudge across the ice, her body leaning into the squall at the same angle as his own. Chad climbs onto the track of the bulldozer and holds the door open against a gust that given half a chance would tear it from its hinges. She clambers up beside him but halts at the sight of the single-person cab.

  ‘I get a bit claustrophobic. Do you mind if I walk?’

  ‘I can’t leave you out here on your own. Please get in, before we both freeze.’ He slides her survival pack onto the floor beside the single seat. ‘Sit up on the ledge and nurse your gear. There’s enough room.’

  Chad is grateful for the engine noise that drowns out any need for talk. What other joker hits
his forties still burdened with the shyness of his teenage years? She sits at his right, squeezed between his bulk and the door, her legs straddling the steering clutch. Each time she attempts to sit upright her head grazes the roof. She hunches, one arm hugging her tripod, the other clasped around the camera bag as if it, too, were under siege. Her body doesn’t stop shivering—from cold or shock or discomfort at the confinement, he can’t tell. She seems clueless about what the place can dish out. He gives the woman a sideways glare, but if she registers his disdain she does a fine job of ignoring it. She scowls through the window at the pail of sky. Her birthmark radiates across her white cheek as fierce as a burn. Stay on in Antarctica to escape the summer airheads at home? Call him a luckless bastard; he never was one for timing.

  ‘MCGONIGAL. PERFECT TIMING.’ THE STATION leader lowers his head to look over the rim of his glasses. ‘How would you like to play tour guide over summer?’

  Chad casts Malcolm Ball a look of despair. ‘Passenger ships already?’

  Malcolm gives a manic shake of his head. ‘Not on your Nellie.’ He concentrates on placing a stack of loose pages into the bite of Jaws, his beloved electric stapler. He rubs a thumb over the copper staple that transforms the corner of the page into an equilateral triangle. You could run a set of parallel rules over Malcolm’s desk and find not a blade of paper out of place.

  ‘Freya Jorgensen.’

  Chad shrugs.

  ‘Photographer. Tall girl.’ Malcolm goes to pat his cheek but apparently thinks better of it and sweeps a hand through his number two crew cut. ‘Mop of fair hair. Run into her?’

  ‘Almost.’

  ‘The thing is, Chad, she’s emailed me with all the places she wants to photograph.’ He fans the stapled pages. ‘A list as long as your bloody arm. She’ll be lucky to get out to half of them. I’ve already told her she can’t go gallivanting off on her own. It’s Freya’s first time south. We’ll see how she goes on field training later in the week with Simon, but I’d like a qualified trip leader, someone with your know-how, to go out with her, keep an eye on things.’