At one of Iris’s dinners, when Mark is not invited, she meets Freddie Athlone. He is an Anglo-Irish landowner, and he wants to be an explorer. He has never been to Greenland, but he has been to Spitsbergen and climbed its ferocious mountains. He has theories about the North Pole. And he is interested in her. Not just her background and experience, but in her, personally, although he is far older – he is thirty-one. Flora finds that she likes him – he is enthusiastic and knowledgeable. They have things in common. The day after the dinner, Iris receives a note, asking them both to dine.
‘I thought you would get on,’ Iris says blandly. ‘Finally, someone who knows what you’re talking about.’
‘I don’t know what to do,’ says Flora. ‘I’d like to go, but . . .’
‘But what? It’s just dinner.’
‘I know – I just feel I should . . . Mark and I, you see . . . we’ve talked about getting married.’
‘You’ve what?’
‘Unofficially, of course, we’re . . . we’re engaged.’
Iris stares, eyebrows disappearing under her fringe. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Not long ago.’
‘I thought you weren’t going to do anything stupid.’
‘I haven’t! I love him.’
‘Getting engaged to someone like that . . .’
‘Someone like what?’
‘Someone who, however clever he is, has no money or influence. Does he really want you to be an explorer? Is he really prepared to promote you above himself? Can he help you go north?’
Flora stares at her, not knowing how to answer.
‘Are you having his baby?’
‘No!’
‘Are you sure?’
Flora thinks, If only you knew.
‘Flora, I want you to think about what it is you want. If you really want to be Mrs Levinson of Bethnal Green, with hordes of ringletted children, that is up to you. But do you think you can do that and go to the Arctic?’
‘That’s ridiculous! It wouldn’t be like that!’
The end of the sentence trails off into a mutter. A part of her thinks, Would it be like that? What is to say it wouldn’t?
Iris sighs. ‘Does your father know?’
‘He’s away. As I said, it’s unofficial.’
An uncomfortable silence develops.
‘Let us accept Mr Athlone’s invitation. It’s only dinner. Who’s to say he is interested in you at all? He’s fantastically eligible: he probably has dozens of women dancing around him.’
‘You look tired.’
Flora and Mark have met in Tavistock Square after classes. He looks exhausted and worried, but then, the end-of-year exams are only a few weeks away and there is a general atmosphere of strain around the university.
‘I’m fine. I’ve been up late, revising.’
‘As if you need to!’
‘Of course I do!’
Mark is irritable, but Flora is used to it.
‘Everyone says you’ll be first in the year.’
Mark shakes his head and stares into the trees. It makes what she is about to say easier.
‘I’ve been thinking; it might be better if we don’t meet this Saturday.’
‘Oh. All right. I have to work, in any case.’
Piqued that he is not more disappointed, Flora goes on: ‘It’s just that there’s going to be a dinner in the evening. It’s quite a big thing; there’ll be Arctic people there, so I want to be prepared.’
Mark looks at her now, a strange spark animating his face.
‘Who’s the dinner with?’
‘A friend of Iris’s. Frederick Athlone.’
Mark smiles quickly, unhappily.
‘Ah. The aristocrat you met recently.’
‘Yes. He’s been to Spitsbergen.’
‘This is why she doesn’t invite me, isn’t it?’
‘What are you talking about?’
The smile on his face is mocking. ‘Just an East End Jew; not part of that world.’
‘You’re being ridiculous.’
‘Well, I don’t want to stand in your way. I’m sure you’ll charm him.’
‘It’s one evening!’
‘The second evening.’
Flora sighs sharply. ‘Why are you being so . . . There is nothing for you to be jealous of!’
‘Isn’t there?’
‘It’s you I care about.’
His face softens, as it always does when she says this. As if he is defenceless.
‘Then show them you do. Marry me, Flora, now.’
Flora wonders if this is his idea of a joke.
‘Mark, we’ve got exams! One day, I will, but . . . there are things I want to do – and things you want to do. We have to do them . . . At least start.’
The mocking smile is back, and she feels tears threaten.
‘What you mean is, I don’t have the money to help you. You’ll run off to someone who has, as soon as you can. You don’t really love me.’
‘Stop it!’ The tears come, spilling down her cheeks. ‘You know I love you.’
She also hates him. Right now, she is thinking, No, I don’t want to be Mrs Levinson of Bethnal bloody Green.
‘Prove it. Marry me.’
‘I can’t now! You idiot. We can’t.’
Mark’s face is flushed; he looks strangely excited. A part of her is watching them, thinking, What on earth are these people doing?
‘No, of course not. What a ridiculous idea . . . You just liked me for a while – a little bit.’ He takes a step back, away from her. ‘But you wouldn’t give up a single thing for me, would you?’
‘Why should I?’ Her voice comes out broken, ungainly. Then she breaks down into noisy sobs, not caring that heads are turning their way. ‘Mark . . .’
‘I told you I wasn’t worthy of you.’
He draws himself up, a martyr to something she doesn’t understand, turns on his heel and walks away.
In the space of a few minutes, the man she loves (and hates, perhaps equally) has engineered a bitter quarrel, or did she engineer it? Whatever happened, it is a rupture, and one that seems to be, with astonishing suddenness, final.
After the dinner, Flora agrees to see Freddie Athlone again. She enjoys talking to him; he respects her knowledge and seems eager to learn from her. And she is not immune to admiration. She is sustained by her sense of injustice over the scene in Tavistock Square. She vows she will not give in, or write to Mark, and then does – a letter in which she pours out her confusion and hurt. She gets his short answer by return.
He states that it is over between them. He asks – no, orders – her not to write again; he will not reply. The letter causes her so much pain that she has to destroy it, but she cannot erase the words scorched into her brain: I am not worthy of you, that is all you need to know, and, Just know it is as well that things did not go any further between us.
.
In a state of numb misery, she sits her second-year exams. She tries not to look for a familiar figure in the examination hall, but, on two occasions, sees his back disappearing down a corridor, which causes her to feel sick. She cannot stop her heart from jumping when Isobel mentions Herbert or one of the other friends, just in case . . . But no one talks about Mark to her, because no one knew. She discovers how good she has become at keeping secrets.
.
Flora has never been to Mark’s home. For days, after term ends, she agonises over the prospect of going there. She chastises herself: she is the Snow Queen; where is her courage?
The address takes her to a house in Old Ford Road: a tiny, low cottage in a terrace of identical others, close to the road. Curtains are drawn across the downstairs window. This may not have any meaning – the pavement is so narrow that people walking past could reach in
and touch you.
She knocks and waits. As she is deciding that there is no one at home, she hears a noise inside and the door opens. The man in front of her is so clearly, painfully, Mark’s father that she stares at him: the same springy hair – greying; the same eyebrows, the same mouth, the same jaw. He stoops a little. He has Mark’s keen, intelligent face, but softened, with more humour, more resignation.
‘Yes? What is it you want, Miss?’
He has an unfamiliar, foreign accent.
‘I’m hoping to see Mr Mark Levinson.’
He looks down. ‘I’m not sure if he is here.’
Flora can’t prevent her eyes from flickering past him. The house is so small, this statement seems mildly absurd.
‘Sometimes he goes for a walk without telling me. My hearing is not what it was.’
‘Oh.’ Flora smiles, embarrassed to be read so easily. ‘My name is Flora Mackie. A friend from the university.’
As she says this, a movement on the stairs catches her eye. Mark is on the half-landing, in shadow. There is a pause in which no one speaks.
‘It’s all right, Dad.’ He walks down to join them in the tiny hall. She registers with a shock that he has spoken differently – his accent rougher than the one she knows.
‘Do you want that I make some tea?’
‘No. We’ll go to the park.’ He addresses Flora, but doesn’t look her in the face.
‘Thank you . . .’ She speaks to his father as Mark sweeps her outside. Mr Levinson nods and closes the door. Mark strides away. Flora has to hurry to keep up on a pavement too narrow for two to walk side by side.
Once they have turned the corner into the next street and the park gates are ahead of them, he slows slightly.
‘He looks like you.’ She is determined to make him look at her. ‘Mark . . .’
‘Why’ve you come? I told you not to.’
‘Because I don’t understand.’
He keeps walking.
‘And I miss you.’
She has sworn to herself two things – that she will tell the truth, and that she will not cry. The second of these is already proving a difficulty.
Mark sighs. ‘I’m leaving. I’m withdrawing from the university.’
Flora stops walking, and has to start again, as he hasn’t broken stride.
‘You can’t! Mark . . .You’re going to do so well.’
‘No. I flunked the exams.’ He speaks in an uncharacteristically dull voice.
They have passed through the gates and are walking under the trees.
‘You don’t know that – the results aren’t out. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.’
Mark slows and stops. He hasn’t shaved this morning, which gives him a shabby, piratical air. She is already feeling relief – if this is all it is – a worry about results . . .
‘How are you getting on with the rich explorer?’
Flora feels the sting in his voice, but is glad to be irritated. ‘We get on. Not romantically. We’re friends, just as I’m friends with David, or . . . or Isobel. Is that so hard to believe?’
‘This has nothing to do with you. I’m leaving because I must. I have to earn a living.’
‘But why? Is your father ill? You have to finish your degree – you have only one more year, Mark! Then you will earn a far better living than if you leave now. You know that.’
Mark looks around, down the path, anywhere except at her. His hands are jammed into his pockets, his shoulders hunched.
‘Sometimes things happen that are not what one would choose, but that is the course one must take.’
‘You must know that, if things are difficult, your friends would help you. Iris could find you the money, if you really—’
‘Don’t! Things have changed. I’m leaving. It’s what I want.’
‘I don’t believe you!’
‘Well’ – he smiles bitterly – ‘that is a statement about you.’
‘Mark, for heaven’s sake . . .’ She grits her teeth with irritation. ‘You know what I’m saying is true. You can’t give up your degree. This is mad.’
‘No, it isn’t. Now. I have . . . responsibilities.’
She stares at him and makes an impatient gesture.
‘What responsibilities?’
He looks her in the face for the first time, and she is heartened to see pain in his eyes. He is not decided, she thinks, not entirely.
‘I didn’t want you to hate me, but it’s better that you do. God knows, I deserve it.’
He looks away and swallows, with difficulty.
‘I’m getting married.’
Flora thinks for a moment that something or someone has hit her. The world tilts dangerously.
‘I’m going to be a father.’
.
Flora always thought she was clever. And that cleverness made her safe: she could have what she wanted, and not pay a cost. She thought she had managed things well. But this is a cost she never imagined.
She says, at last, in a voice she doesn’t recognise, ‘It’s only been a few weeks.’
Mark speaks to the ground, his voice barely audible. ‘It was before we were . . . really together. That doesn’t make it better, I know. I’m sorry. You see, I’m not worthy of your concern.’
A few feet from them, a squirrel works busily at something in its front paws. Flora stares at the creature, intent on its trophy, glossy eyes bulging out of its head.
‘You mean, all the time when we . . . ‘
‘No. No! Not at all.’
‘Who is she?’
Flora fights down the knot in her throat. She is getting angry, at least. She nurtures the anger: an attempt to stop anything else from overwhelming her.
‘Someone from round here.’
‘Do you love her?’ Her voice comes out harshly. She didn’t mean to sound quite so vicious.
‘I’m doing the right thing. I did something wrong and I’m going to make it right. It’s the right thing to do.’
‘It is not the right thing! For God’s sake. If you don’t love her – if you’ve made a mistake . . . You shouldn’t have to pay for it with the rest of your life!’
‘What do you suggest? That I abandon her to her fate? She doesn’t deserve that. And it’s my child.’
‘There are . . . places. Charities . . .’
‘Run by your wealthy friends, no doubt.’
‘If you don’t love her, don’t marry her. When were you ever in such thrall to convention?’
‘You wouldn’t say that if it was you in that position.’
Flora is panting as though she has been running. She feels dizzy. ‘I wouldn’t be in that position! But if I loved you, I wouldn’t ask you to ruin your future. And I wouldn’t want someone to marry me out of pity, and resent me ever after. She doesn’t deserve that.’
For a terrible minute, she thinks he is going to cry. He looks so stricken, so young – she feels twice his age.
‘Marry, if you must, but don’t leave. Finish your degree. I will help you get money.’
‘It’s impossible . . . You couldn’t.’
‘Iris would help.’
Mark laughs savagely. ‘Do you think she would help such a cad? After what I’ve done?’
‘If I asked her to, yes.’
The bitterness goes out of him then – it leaks out, slowly – and the fight. And the fire.
‘Don’t, Flora . . . I can’t bear it. I’m so sorry. Go home and forget about me. I’m not worth it.’
Flora feels two tears run down her face. ‘Think about it. Mark . . . Don’t just . . . ’
‘I have to go, Flora. I’m meeting . . . my fiancée. We’ll be married soon. Two weeks.’
With another look at her – a dull look of defeat – he turns towards the gate. F
lora turns to walk with him. She cannot countenance being left behind.
‘You’re spineless,’ she hisses, her voice uneven. She wants him to be angry. A sarcastic, defensive Mark – that is familiar, and bearable.
He flinches. ‘I’m doing the right thing. You have to accept that.’
‘No,’ she says, in that alien, treacherous voice. ‘Not accepted!’
But she stops walking.
He feels her stop and pauses for a split second, then walks on with a broken stride – a jerk, as though snapping the thing that stretched taut between them.
.
Flora sinks onto the nearest bench. She thinks she is going to vomit. After a minute, it passes.
She walks back to the house in Old Ford Road. When Mr Levinson opens the door, she puts her hand on the jamb.
‘Miss Mackie . . . Mark isn’t with you?’
‘He’s gone to meet his fiancée. I told him he mustn’t leave. If it’s money that’s stopping him from finishing, his friends will help. I want you to know that. He mustn’t ruin his life.’
She speaks fast, not daring to stop.
‘Ah, Miss.’ Mr Levinson purses his lips with a weary smile. ‘Thank you, and please thank his friends for their kind offer. It’s not a matter of money. Mark has made up his mind. It’s pride with him. Always pride.’
‘Just tell him, please.’
He shrugs, but nods. His face is so much like Mark’s, but without the anger or pain, that she can’t bear to look any more.
‘Miss Mackie . . .’
She turns back to the doorway.
‘I think you and my son were good friends?’
Flora doesn’t trust herself to speak.
‘I am very sorry for your trouble.’
Chapter 9
New York, 40˚42’N, 74˚00’W
Spring 1891
The Clarion is pleased to announce that the United States North-West Greenland and Ellesmere Expedition is due to embark. The expedition leader, Mr Lester Armitage, is taking a party of scientists with the aim of increasing America’s knowledge of the North. Mr Armitage is thirty-four years old, and his admirers are confident that no man is his equal in the undertaking he proposes. Yesterday, he told the Clarion’s representative of his regret that America has slipped behind in the race for knowledge of this icy realm. Since the ‘regrettable incidents in the recent American record,’ there have been no more attempts from this side of the Atlantic to explore what is not only virgin territory not far from our shores, but territory that may in due course lead to considerable commercial exploitation.