‘Walk every day. Keep a routine. Don’t think too much!’ He added that if we ever get into ‘difficulty’, there’s a friend of his, an experienced trapper called Nils Bjørvik, overwintering on Wijdefjord, twenty miles to the west. He made quite a point about that.
Then he surprised us by producing three jars of pickled cloudberries, which he says are the best thing for warding off scurvy. (He scoffs at the notion of Vitamin C, and thinks our Redoxon tablets a waste of money.) I was touched. I think the others were, too.
After lunch, the crew still had a couple of hours’ work to do, assembling our German Klepper canoes. Gus went down to the beach with Eriksson to take photographs, and Algie cleaned up the lunch things, as per our rota. To clear my head of cigar fumes, I went for a walk.
I headed upstream past the mining ruins, and at first the ground was a springy carpet of dwarf willow and moss. I walked fast, and was soon sweating. That’s something I’m still getting used to, having to gauge how many layers to put on. Mr Eriksson told us a Norwegian saying: If you’re warm enough when you set out, you’re wearing too many clothes.
As I climbed higher, the going got tougher. I found myself stumbling over naked scree and brittle black lichen. The wind was sharp, and I was soon chilled. Clouds obscured the icecap, but I felt its freezing breath. When I took off my hat, my skull began to ache within seconds.
Behind the hiss of the wind and the chatter of the stream, the land lay silent. I passed the skeleton of a reindeer. I came to a standing stone by a small, cold lake. I stopped. I was aware of the noises around me – the wind, the water, my panting breath – but somehow they only deepened the stillness. I felt it as a physical presence. Immense. Overwhelming. I realised that this place is, and will always be, no-man’s-land.
I suppose it’s to be expected that Gruhuken should make me a little uneasy from time to time. After all, I’m town-bred, not used to the wild. But. But. To stand on that slope and know that there’s nothing to the west of you until Greenland; nothing to the east except the Arctic Ocean; nothing to the north until the North Pole – and that’s just more nothing.
With a jolt, I realised that I’d forgotten my gun. I thought of bears and started back, irked that I’d made such a basic mistake.
I’d come further than I’d intended, and below me, our camp looked like a child’s toy, dwarfed by the prehistoric curves of the whale bones on the shore. Out in the bay, the Isbjørn was tiny. The sky was a strange, sickly yellow. The sun was sinking into the sea. In a few minutes, for the first time, it would disappear.
In the bay, an oar flashed. A rowing boat was taking a party of men back to the ship. I would have to hurry, or I’d miss saying goodbye to Eriksson.
Twilight came on as I scrambled over the stones. The wind dropped to a whisper. I heard the creak of my anorak, my labouring breath.
I was still five hundred yards above camp when I saw a man standing in front of the cabin, by the bear post. His back was turned, but I could tell it wasn’t Algie or Gus. It must be one of the crew, taking a last look at the cabin he’d helped to build.
The sun was in my eyes, but I made out that he wasn’t dressed like a sealer. Instead of overalls, he wore a tattered sheepskin coat and a round cap, and ragged boots.
I called out to him. ‘Hulloa, there! You’d better get down to the boats, or you’ll be left behind!’
He turned to face me, a dark figure against the glare. Fleetingly, I saw that his hands were at his sides, and that one shoulder was higher than the other. There was something about the tilt of his head that I didn’t like.
He didn’t make an agreeable impression. All right, he made a disagreeable one. I wanted him away from my camp and safely heading for the ship. And irrationally, I wished I hadn’t drawn attention to myself by calling out to him.
Feeling foolish, I continued down the slope. I had to watch my footing. When I looked again, I was relieved to see that the man had gone.
Some time later, when I reached the shore, Mr Eriksson was at the water’s edge, waiting with the last of his crew to say goodbye. There was no sign of Algie or Gus, and the men seemed nervous, glancing over their shoulders at the vanishing sun.
I didn’t see anyone in a sheepskin coat, so I mentioned the straggler to Mr Eriksson.
He looked at me sharply; then back to his men. Taking my arm, he drew me aside. ‘You make a mistake,’ he said in a low voice. ‘There was no one at the cabin.’
I snorted. ‘Well, but there was, you know. But that’s all right, he’s obviously gone in the other boat.’
Scowling, Eriksson shook his head. It occurred to me that he thought I might be accusing one of his men of loitering with intent to pilfer, so I said quickly, ‘It doesn’t matter, I only mentioned it so he doesn’t get left behind.’ I gave an awkward laugh. ‘After all, we’d rather not have an uninvited guest making a fourth with us in the cabin.’
Eriksson didn’t seem to like that. Brusquely, he asked if I’d spoken to the man. I told him no, except to urge him to hurry up and join his fellows – which, clearly, he had.
The Norwegian opened his mouth to reply, but just then Gus and Algie came running down, bearing our parting gift of claret and cigars, so he lost his chance. Algie and Gus made embarrassed little speeches of thanks, and Eriksson reddened and thanked them back. His manner was strained. I don’t think they noticed.
When it was my turn, he took my hand and crushed it in his bear’s grip. ‘Good winter, Professor,’ he said, his grey eyes holding mine. At the time, I couldn’t make out his expression. But now I wonder if it wasn’t pity.
Then he was in the boat, and his men were pushing off. As it rocked over the waves, he glanced back – not at us, but behind us to the cabin. I couldn’t help doing the same. All I saw were the dogs, yowling and straining at their stakes.
The three of us stood and watched the boat reach the Isbjørn. We watched the men climb on board. We watched them raise the boat. We heard the sputter of the engine as the ship gathered speed. By now, all that remained of the sun was a crimson slash on the horizon.
Suddenly, Algie clapped his hand to his forehead, then turned and raced up the beach. When he reached the bear post, he hoisted the ‘flag’ he’d almost forgotten: a dead fulmar which he’d shot that morning. He strung it up by one wing, and the wind caught it and made it flap, a parody of flight. Out in the bay, the Isbjørn dipped her ensign in reply.
As the sun’s dying glimmer turned the sea to bronze, we watched the ship disappear behind the headland.
‘And then there were three,’ said Algie.
Gus made no reply. I repressed a movement of irritation.
‘Stay there,’ Algie commanded. Running back to the cabin again, he swiftly returned with his camping canteen: two crystal bottles of whisky and water, with three nested nickel tumblers in a leather carrying case. He also bore a mysterious, sacking-wrapped parcel; this turned out to be a lump of ice which he’d hacked from the icecap the day before.
‘For the first time in weeks,’ he panted, ‘the sun is officially over the yardarm.’
He was right. The sun was gone. Banks of grey cloud were rolling in, obliterating its dying glow.
I turned back to the others, and we drank a welcome to the night.
7
28th August
I think I was a little on edge before, but I’m not any more. A couple of weeks’ hard routine work has set me right.
Up at six thirty, pulling on your clothes before the stove. The man on dog duty lets them out; the man on kitchen duty starts the coffee. Reading duty means trudging out to the Stevenson screen (which is like a beehive on legs, with a louvred screen to protect the self-registering instruments inside). At seven o’clock you read the charts, then check the anemometer, wind vane, snowfall and hoar frost (on a little brass sphere like an alchemist’s globe).
At seven thirty I’m on the bicycle generator, wiring the readings to the Government Station on Bear Island, from where they go to
the forecasting system in England. Breakfast’s at eight: bread baked by ‘Mrs Balfour’, with bacon and eggs or porridge. At noon there’s a second set of readings and transmissions, and another at five. The dogs are fed at six. In between it’s hunting and collecting driftwood; Algie’s off on his geological survey (to my relief), and I go in the boat with Gus and help him net plankton and little swimming snails.
Once a week I coax the Austin to life, and we contact England with messages for family and friends, and dispatches to The Times and our sponsors. Gus writes these: chatty pieces about the wildlife and the dogs. England feels more and more remote, and he’s finding it harder to think what to say.
The weather changes so fast it’s bewildering. Two weeks ago, frost turned the dwarf willows on the slopes scarlet, like splashes of blood. Ten days later, we left the bunkroom window open a crack, and woke to an invasion of fog. Last night we had our first snowfall. Like schoolboys we stood with our faces upturned to the fast-falling flakes. Now Gruhuken is clothed in white. Even the doghouse has become a structure of purity and grace. The snow has changed the feel of the camp. Snow hushes everything but footfalls. That takes some getting used to.
The nights are growing longer with alarming speed: twenty minutes more each day.
What do I mean, alarming? I like it. By now I’m used to living cheek by jowl with the others, and I enjoy the long evenings in the cabin. Gus working at his microscope, calling me over to peer at some fresh marvel, then chaffing me when I pretend not to understand. Algie cleaning guns and labelling fossils. (He remains an annoyance, but Gus has vetoed the baths, on the grounds that they make too much mess; and as it turns colder, not even Algie is assiduous about sponge baths.) We smoke and listen to the wireless. And I catch up on the latest wild theories in physics. Before I left London, my old professor sent me a stack of periodicals. As I read them, I feel a flicker of excitement. I remember how I used to feel. How I used to dream.
I think about that when I work at my wireless bench. Sometimes I catch sight of my reflection in the window. I hardly know myself. My hair is longer, and my beard makes me look younger, more hopeful. I feel hopeful. Maybe Gus has a point. Maybe I haven’t missed my chance.
It’s odd, but the wireless corner is so cold that I have to put on an extra pullover. And at times there’s a faint, disagreeable smell of seaweed. I’ve washed everything with Lysol, but it’s still there. I don’t think the others have noticed.
But I do still love Gruhuken. It’s a million miles away from the shabby gentility of Tooting; from worrying about whether your collar can go another day. My poor mother lived for all that. I remember her ‘doing the steps’ at our house in Bexhill. She had a girl to do the rough, but the steps were her domain. She did the ones at the door with white hearthstone, those by the gate with grey. Thinking of that now, it’s heartbreaking. To spend your life painting stones.
Gus loves it here too, because there aren’t any servants; he says this is the first time he’s ever been allowed to make his own bed. I’m not sure about Algie. He insists on having the wireless or the gramophone on all the time, and now he’s taken to whistling through his teeth. Sometimes I think he can’t bear a moment’s silence. What’s he trying to escape?
Over the last few days, great flocks of birds have begun to gather in the bay. Gus says they’re getting ready to leave.
30th August
Gus was right, the dogs did get me in the end. Well, one of them did.
Until this afternoon, I’d only progressed as far as learning their names. The leaders of the pack are Upik the russet bitch, and her mate Svarten. Eli, Kiawak, Pakomi and Jens are their progeny; and Isaak and Anadark are the youngsters, only a year old, although they look like full-grown wolves. Isaak’s the one who fell in the harbour at Tromsø.
Yesterday, Gus and Algie were off hunting and I was reading in the cabin when all hell broke loose outside. Thinking instantly of bears, I pulled on my gear, grabbed my rifle and burst out the door.
Thank God, no bears. The dogs were baying and straining at their stakes to get at the youngster, Isaak. Somehow he’d found a tin of pemmican, gnawed his way through, and got his muzzle stuck inside. He was stumbling blindly about, clunking his helmeted head against rocks.
When he heard me coming, he stopped. I didn’t give myself time to think, I just ran over and clamped my knees about his middle, the way Gus and Algie do when they’re putting on harnesses. Isaak squirmed, but couldn’t get free, and I yanked the tin off his head.
God, he was fast. Leapt up and gave me a headbutt that knocked me flat and sent the tin flying. He pounced on it – and got his head stuck again.
‘Bad dog! Bad dog!’ I shouted inanely as I struggled to my feet. Then we went through it all again – only this time when I got the tin off his head, I jumped out of the way. I was so pleased with myself that I emptied the pemmican in the snow for him, and he downed it in one gulp, then stood lashing his tail, his ice-blue eyes alight with anarchy. Let’s do it again!
Damn, damn, damn. He’d torn one ear on the tin. After what he’d just put me through, I wasn’t going to let him get lockjaw, so I unclipped him from his stake and dragged him towards the cabin for treatment. Halfway there, I realised I should’ve fetched the disinfectant first, leaving him tied up outside. He seemed to think so too, as he gave me a doubtful look.
The trick to handling a husky is to grab it by its harness and half lift it, so that its front paws don’t touch the ground; this way, it can’t run off with you. At least that’s the theory; I’d never tried it till now. Half lifting Isaak in what I hoped was the approved manner, I hauled him through the front door, grabbed a bottle of disinfectant from the shelf in the hall, and hauled him out again. By the time I’d got him safely tied to his stake, I was sweating. Huskies aren’t huge, but by God, they’re strong.
Muttering, ‘Good boy, there’s a good husky,’ I sloshed on the disinfectant. He didn’t even growl. I think he was too surprised. When it was over, I was so relieved that I gave him another tin of pemmican as a reward.
Gus and Algie came back and I told them what had happened. Algie huffed and said I oughtn’t to favour one dog in front of the others. Gus just grinned. I said there’s nothing to grin about, that’s the stupidest dog I’ve ever seen, imagine getting your head stuck in a tin twice.
Gus burst out laughing. ‘Stupid? Jack, he got two tins of pemmican out of you!’
Since then, Isaak’s been on the lookout for me. If I happen to glance his way, he lashes his tail and makes croaky ror-ror-ror noises. And this afternoon when I was smoking a cigarette, he came and leaned against my leg.
15th September
The birds are leaving and the nights are getting longer.
It’s dark when we wake up and dark when we eat supper. When I’m out on the boardwalk looking in, the windows glow a welcoming orange, and the main room is lit up like a theatre. But when I’m at the Stevenson screen, the mountains loom, and I get the sense of the dark waiting to reclaim the land. Then I’m keen to get back inside and draw the curtains and shut out the night. Only I can’t, as we haven’t got any.
In one of my periodicals, there’s a paper by someone who’s worked out that what we know of the universe is only a tiny percentage of what actually exists. He says what’s left can’t be seen or detected, but it’s there; he calls it ‘dark matter’. Of course, no one believes him; but I find the idea unsettling. Or rather, not the idea itself, that’s merely an odd notion about outer space. What I don’t like is the feeling I sometimes get that other things might exist around us, of which we know nothing.
In a month, on the 16th of October, we’ll see the sun for the last time. According to the books, there’ll still be some light for a few weeks after that, because at noon, the sun won’t be all that far below the horizon. They call it the ‘midday dawn’. After that, nothing.
But my God, the colours we’re seeing now! If it’s clear, dawn turns the sky an amazing pinkish gold. The snow
glitters like diamonds. The whale ribs on the shore are dazzling. The roof of the cabin is blanketed in white, its walls crusted with frost. After a few hours, the light turns, and the bay becomes a sheet of bronze. The day dies in a blaze of astonishing colour: crimson, magenta, violet.
So much light.
And now this.
It was after supper, and I was reading and smoking at the table. Algie was playing patience and drumming a tattoo with his fingers, and Gus was outside checking on the dogs. Suddenly he burst in. ‘Chaps! Outside, quick!’
As it was minus ten, ‘quick’ meant a feverish dragging on of boots, jumpers, waterproofs, mufflers, mittens and hats.
It was worth it.
‘The dogs’ fur was crackling with static,’ murmured Gus. ‘That’s how I knew.’
We stood craning our necks at the Northern Lights.
Photographs don’t do them justice. It’s the movement which impresses you most. The way those luminous pale-green waves roll and break and ripple across the sky – and vanish, and appear again somewhere else – and all in eerie silence. A sea of light. I know that for some people they’re a religious experience, but I found them intimidating. Those great, shimmering waves . . . so vast, so distant. Utterly indifferent to what lies beneath. And in a strange way, that extraordinary light seems only to emphasise the darkness beyond.
Algie broke the spell by whistling, and for once I didn’t mind. Soon afterwards, he went inside.
The two of us stayed, watching the sky.
Gus said quietly, ‘Hard not to be moved, isn’t it?’
I grunted.
With his heel, he hacked at the snow. ‘I read somewhere that the Eskimos believe they’re the torches of the dead, lighting the way for the living.’ He hesitated. ‘They say that if you whistle, the souls of the dead will draw nearer.’