Out of the Ice (25 page)

Icebergs studding the bay shone blue and white, with deep green shadows. Adélies huddled at the edges peered nervously into the sea – then the group jittered and pushed one lone penguin into the water. Checking to see it hadn’t been eaten by a leopard seal, the rest followed in a fluid movement.

The plane banked sharp left and headed for South America. I felt a deep pang in my heart as the view turned to endless ocean, shimmering ink blue with waves that seemed deceptively small, but would be high and treacherous.

I opened my laptop and checked my email. Nothing from Alice Hussey at the museum, but there was one new message that pleased me: Astrid Bredesen at Harvard was willing to do my translation. At least I’d achieved something.

As I gazed back at the ocean I could think only of the boy. I promised myself that the next time I flew out of Antarctica I would be bringing him with me.

15

I
n Ushuaia we transferred straight to another plane. Snow took out his computer as soon as we were on board and again worked the entire way, politely rebutting every attempt I made to talk. When we landed in Buenos Aires and headed for the commercial flight to New York, to my frustration Snow and I parted company: he was travelling business class, while I was in economy.

Fifteen hours later we touched down at John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York at 6am on a cold, grey autumn day. I cleared passport control and found Snow at the baggage carousel. He’d already collected his suitcase but was waiting for me. He helped heft my bag off.

I was trying to adjust to the noise and chaos of the terminal, feeling panicky after the space and serenity of Antarctica as we wheeled our luggage to check in for the next flight. The scent of so many people in close proximity was overpowering, and colours seemed too plentiful, too intense.

When Snow took me into the business lounge as his guest, there were fewer people, and I was grateful.

‘Can I see your lab at Harvard?’ I asked. ‘I have to go to the campus to meet someone.’

Snow paused, and looked at me with interest. ‘Who are you seeing?’

‘A colleague. A marine biologist,’ I lied.

‘Unfortunately I’m not going straight to work. I’ll be at home for a few days sorting things out,’ Snow replied.

‘When will I see you again?’ I sounded as vulnerable as I felt. I had to get close to Snow – or how would I find information about what was happening on South Safety Island?

Snow, clearly surprised, laughed awkwardly. ‘That wasn’t part of the deal, was it?’

A burning flush shot from my neck to the top of my scalp.

‘It’s okay,’ he said, softening. ‘Give me your cell number and I’ll keep in touch.’

I relaxed a little; a smile curled my lips.

‘I
would
like to get to know you better, Laura. Rain check on dinner, okay?’

‘Perfect,’ I said, happier as I pulled out my mobile phone. ‘Shall I send you my number?’

‘Just say it.’ He stabbed in the digits as I recited them, and I tried not to show how annoyed I was that he wouldn’t give me his number.

‘You could, of course, spend a weekend with me on Nantucket,’ I offered.

‘A little cold at this time of year,’ he said lightly. ‘But I would if I weren’t so busy. Make sure you see Brant Point lighthouse, it’s a beauty. Well, you won’t miss it if you go by boat. Or are you flying in?’

‘I haven’t actually booked that part yet. What would you suggest?’

‘Get a car with a driver to Hyannis and then take the ferry. It’s the best way to see the island, and flights can get cancelled from bad weather.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, smiling flirtatiously. ‘Any suggestions where to stay?’

‘Haven’t you organised anything?’ He grinned, the old Snow coming back, thawing after the trip.

‘I always travel like this.’

‘That’d drive me crazy.’

‘I could change.’

Snow laughed. ‘This time of year, there won’t be many tourists, so you should be okay. But be careful, quite a few places might be closed for the season.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ I said, suddenly realising I had been foolish not to have planned more. ‘And I’d love to take you out to dinner in Boston.’

‘But
I’ll
be taking
you
,’ he replied, pretending to be affronted.

‘Two dinners, one each then.’

‘We’ll see.’

We’ll see
. Not another one to use that dreadful phrase – was the world turning into my mother? My neck tensed as I wondered if Georgia was right: Snow didn’t seem all that interested in me any more. It was like pulling teeth to make any connection. I gazed into his blue eyes – eyes that still seemed honest and straightforward – as he looked back.

‘What’s wrong?’ he said.

‘Just feeling funny being in the real world again. It’s loud.’

‘And colourful.’

‘Well, Fredelighavn was colourful too. It’s just that there are too many ugly colours here.’

He smiled. ‘You’ve got that look.’

‘What look?’

‘Like you’re staring right through me into the distance. Like you’re a little bit toasty. You were down in Antarctica a while?’

I laughed. ‘Over a year. And I don’t feel toasty.’

‘It happens to us all, you know that. Take care in the next few days while you adjust.’

They announced our flight and Snow headed off into the front of the plane. I was wedged between two huge passengers at the back.

•  •  •

By the time I arrived at the baggage carousel to collect my luggage, Snow had already left. I cursed; things weren’t going to plan at all. I grabbed my bag and went out to the taxi stand, where a friendly driver took me over the river to Cambridge.

I found my way across the Harvard campus to the Faculty of Scandinavian Studies and met Astrid Bredesen. She was bright and young and more than happy to contact me if she found any references to tunnels under the ice.

I left feeling that at least Ingerline’s diaries were in safe hands. There was an afternoon ferry to Nantucket, and I took Snow’s advice. After checking it wasn’t too expensive, I booked a chauffeured car to get me to Hyannis. On the trip, I looked up accommodation on the island, trying to keep my eyes off forests of trees whizzing past outside, and an array of picture-postcard townships we drove through. I found the landscape confronting, too complex. It churned me up. There was just too much in it.

Snow was right about Nantucket. A lot of places had shut for the season – or until the Christmas period. I chose the cheapest room in a small inn that promised to be friendly and cosy.

I checked my email. Still no reply from Alice Hussey. The museum was closed weekdays during November and today was Monday, so all I could hope was that my affable inn proprietor could put me in touch with Alice, or at least with the Nantucket archive. This trip, my priority was to find anything I could about Erling Halvorsen. I could always do the museum part later, even if it meant flying back at my own cost.

My driver dropped me at the ferry terminal, where I bought a ticket on the fast ferry due to leave in half an hour. It was a cold, windy day and I stayed in the small, warm ticket office, thankful there weren’t many people around because even these few felt loud. City noise was grinding my ears.

•  •  •

The water was rough as we crossed Nantucket Sound, the ferry bucking like a horse in a rodeo. Feeling seasick, I went up on deck, where the wind wrenched around my face and bit into my skin and I started to breathe more easily. After fifty minutes Nantucket came into sight – first just a line of buildings clustered on the horizon, and then as we grew closer we passed a beautiful lighthouse, white with a black top, squat but perfectly formed, sitting proud on the point. I was buoyed with anticipation. Here I might discover something more about Fredelighavn. Something that could help.

I alighted on a broad wharf dotted with small shops and was amazed to see a tall, fit-looking woman in her early seventies, with a neat bob of blonde hair blowing in the wind, holding a sign with the name of my lodging – Annie Coffin’s Inn. She was well dressed in navy woollen trousers, white blouse and a well-cut navy coat. I walked up and introduced myself.

‘I’m Nancy,’ she said in a gentle New England accent, covering my hand in a warm, strong grip, and I felt I’d chosen the right accommodation.

‘How did you know I’d be on this ferry?’ I asked.

‘There aren’t that many,’ she said amiably. ‘It was either this one or the next.’

Nancy led me up Main Street, my suitcase wheels echoing on the cobblestones as I hurried to keep up. Trees lined both sides, bare-limbed save for the odd fiery leaf clinging on. The buildings were old and immaculately preserved, predominantly red brick with glossy white woodwork. It was like stepping back centuries in time. Though it was only mid-afternoon, lights were starting to twinkle in the few shops that were open. There was a comforting, homely feel.

At the top of the street sat a sturdy, pillared bank. We veered left and wound further up the hill past houses with startlingly green lawns. They were well kept and led mysteriously down the sides of houses. There was simplicity in the detail, and after so long in the white of Antarctica, their lush colour was riveting and pleasing. Deep emerald, like my favourite Derwent pencil when I was a kid. My eyes soaked them up as I inhaled the moist, grassy odour, mixed with the rich pungency of soil. Fallen leaves were heaped neatly, with their own musty notes of decay. My head swirled giddily; I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed the familiar scents of gardens. For a fleeting moment I longed for my family home in Kew.

Nancy stopped at a grey-shingled house with white windows, a wooden sign announcing Annie Coffin’s Inn. There was a glossy black door with a brass whale doorknocker and shiny brass lanterns on either side. On the rooftop rose a tiny balcony – a widow’s walk where wives had stood and waited for their husbands, captains sailing their whaling boats around the world. Homecoming would have been ecstatic but the seas were unforgiving and some men never returned. I wondered where Erling had lived; he hadn’t mentioned an address in his book. It intrigued me that he’d moved here decades after Nantucket had sent out its last whaling ship in the late 1860s. But Erling had been explicit: this island welcomed whalers into its heart. He had come on business in the 1930s and felt so at home he bought a house, and in quick succession married and made it his northern-summer base.

As we entered the inn I drew in my breath: wide pine plank floors had mellowed to the colour of honey, and gold-framed paintings of ships sailing the high seas lined the hallway. To one side, a dining room flowed off with a grand table and chairs and a rich red carpet, and beyond was a lounge room with an elegant white timber fireplace in which a fire blazed, its wood crackling merrily. Above the doors were small windows that let the light shine through; large colonial paned windows lined the walls. Welcoming navy and white curtains hung luxuriously to the floor.

It was similar to the houses at Fredelighavn but like the flipside of a coin. It was so warm and lived in. I immediately relaxed.

Nancy carried my bag up the wide wooden staircase and deposited it in a room on the top floor that had a spectacular view down to the harbour. I could see boats bobbing in the swell and a long flat goods ferry, the
M/V Sankaty
, sliding in. The bed looked soft and inviting, covered in a red, white and blue quilt, thick and handmade. There was a tiny ensuite bathroom off to one side. I sighed – it was perfect.

‘Hot chocolate downstairs when you’re ready,’ said Nancy. ‘You’re my only guest tonight, so just make yourself right at home.’ I struggled to find words to thank her, I felt so overwhelmed. I tried to look directly and smile, remembering what Snow had said about my distant gaze. But Nancy didn’t seem the least bit worried as she turned and skipped down the stairs with an energy that was contagious.

I unpacked, wishing I could stay a while; sad knowing that I must be quick. I needed to find everything I could about Erling and the whaling station, and then get back to Snow – and the boy in the ice. I sat on the bed, which absorbed my weight in such comfort I longed to lie and sleep. But instead I checked my email just in case there was a message from Alice at the museum. Still no word.

I went downstairs, wafts of freshly baked cookies drifting towards me.

In the kitchen Nancy was lifting a tray filled with perfect golden orbs dotted with chocolate chips from the oven.

‘Pull up a chair,’ she said.

I sat down at the scrubbed pine table and Nancy served me hot chocolate and cookies. I almost purred with delight. This was the home I’d never had, my mother always too busy working to bake treats. And she didn’t believe in anything containing sugar.

I tried to talk with my mouth full, but had to make a choice: eat more cookies or ask the question. I gulped two more down, took a sip of hot chocolate, and then sat forward.

‘These are the most delicious cookies, ever.’

Nancy beamed and pushed the plate closer. ‘Have some more.’

I took another, and put it on my little china plate covered in blue hydrangeas.

‘I was wondering if you knew Alice Hussey?’ I said.

‘Why, of course.’

‘I need to contact her,’ I offered politely.

‘Alice is off-island at the moment. She won’t be back till Friday night.’ Nancy watched me curiously.

‘I was hoping to talk to someone at the whaling museum.’

‘Well, it’s open Saturdays and Sundays at this time of year. And I believe from your booking you’ll be here then?’

‘Yes,’ I smiled. ‘I’d also like to go to the archive. I want to look up a Captain Halvorsen who lived here in the fifties.’

‘You mean Erling?’ Nancy roared with laughter.

‘I do,’ I said, surprised.

‘Captain Halvorsen sounds so formal. Erling would’ve loved that. Would have made him smile.’

‘So you knew him?’ I asked, amazed.

‘Whole town knew Erling. Mind you, in those days we
all
knew each other. Even now, those of us who stay on-island year-round are a pretty close bunch.’