The place she had found herself in, however, was closer to some creepy institution. People drifted around as they tried to convince themselves that what they were doing was important. The fact was, however, that nobody belonged in the Antarctic. Nobody was needed. It was like the artist had said, they were all No-men – but No-men with too great a sense of their own worth. Instead of having the sense to leave the place to the penguins, they wandered around with test-tubes and drills and stuff so that one day, when they returned home, they could talk to other people – people exactly like themselves – about all the valuable things they had achieved.

  And it was meaningless. It was completely meaningless, and realising that, at last, made her angry. She felt tricked, identifying herself with those men who had gone to war and then returned home unable to speak to their wives and families about what they had experienced. Like her, she thought, they couldn’t confide in the people back home because they had been stripped of the language of certainty. They didn’t know how or where to begin. They could be sure of only two things: that they were completely baffled by what had happened, and that only someone who had been caught in their world, who had experienced, at times, their confusion, could understand – and accept without judgement – the decisions they had made.

  From her seat on the aircraft toilet, Marilyn replayed fragments of her conversations with Tobin. Sitting with him in the library she had listened as he told her tales about the years he had spent as a student in Dunedin. She had absorbed every word and then mentioned something she had noticed about the town. Every time she’d visited Dunedin, she said, she’d seen someone – a student, she guessed – walking down the street carrying what appeared to be a brand-new red vacuum cleaner. The first time it had happened she hadn’t taken too much notice, but because, since then, she’d seen at least eight people wandering around with vacuum cleaners, she’d been forced to conclude that within the whole university area there was only one functioning vacuum cleaner and that there must be some kind of roster dictating that it be passed from flat to flat. Retelling the story had made her laugh. It was so absurd – yet it was true!

  Tobin had laughed, too, but said he’d never seen it. All he knew was that he had never used a brand-new red vacuum cleaner in the four years he’d spent flatting, but then he had lived out on the peninsula so he was hardly in a position to comment on what took place in the city. Marilyn had smiled, replying that she had never lived in Dunedin but had spent a bit of time there on account of her boyfriend’s parents living in Mosgiel. It hadn’t even occurred to her, she realised now, to avoid a reference to her boyfriend. He was a part of her life; it had been natural to talk about him.

  In case she had insulted Tobin, however, she had made it clear that she loved Dunedin. She loved the fact that when you walked beside the one-way systems you would always be passed by several stock trucks, and the smell of sheep was always stronger than the smell of car fumes. She liked that about the place. Tobin had responded that he liked the people. During his first week in town he had had to catch a bus in a suburb he didn’t know and so had asked the driver, ‘Does this bus go to the Octagon?’ The driver, he remembered, had looked at him as if he was mad, before replying, ‘All buses go to the Octagon, mate. That’s why they’re buses.’ For some reason, Tobin continued, the comment had struck him as hysterically funny and he had spent the entire day laughing whenever he recalled it. But the very next time he travelled on a bus – which was weeks later – he heard another bus driver say exactly the same thing to another passenger. It was as if all Dunedin’s bus drivers were living in a state of anticipation, waiting for the opportunity to repeat, time and time again, a remark that wasn’t, in reality, really all that funny.

  It had been relaxing, sitting in the library. She’d forgotten all about wanting to find a joke and had been content to chat with Tobin. After a while he had brought up the subject of his girlfriend, telling her that she was a medical student – very bright but somehow able to carry her intelligence lightly, if that made sense. He’d fallen silent for a while, then yawned and stood up abruptly, saying it was time for bed. Only then did things suddenly become awkward. Marilyn hadn’t known what to say. She must have hesitated or looked lost or something, because Tobin had asked what was up and she’d ended up telling him about Andrea and the fact that she felt she couldn’t go back to her room.

  She’d followed Tobin, then, to his room. His roommate, Brent, he’d explained, was climbing Mt Erebus with the search and rescue team from McMurdo, so she could have his bed. It was the top bunk, he said, adding that he couldn’t vouch for the condition of the sheets. They should be okay, though, he’d assured her. Brent was a very tidy guy – the type of man who would actually buy a vacuum cleaner.

  She’d been lying on the bed for an hour when she had heard Tobin’s voice below, asking, ‘Are you still awake?’ Her heart had started beating, thudding, as she wondered whether or not to respond. Seconds passed before she said yes. In retrospect, she should have remained silent, pretended to be asleep, but she had said yes and there had been a long silence, filled only by the sound of her heart in her chest. Then she had heard Tobin’s voice. ‘There’s room on my bed, next to me, if you don’t mind a squeeze.’ And she had felt sick, unable to decide what to say or do, yet feeling that she had somehow already made her intentions clear through the simple fact of being in his room. ‘Marilyn?’ She heard his voice once more and then, feeling anxious and excited, she climbed down from her bunk and sat on the edge of his bed, her back to him, passively waiting for his hand to reach out and turn her around.

  There was another knock on the toilet door. ‘Marilyn? Marilyn!’ She recognised Sally’s voice. ‘Marilyn, are you okay?’ She sat silently, her thoughts swinging from Tobin’s room to a place that she had not thought about for many years. A place where shouting had been accepted as both normal and necessary. It was the way people communicated.

  One summer, before her final year at school, she had found work in a nursing home in Rangiora. She had loved the job. Listening to the old people’s stories about the past had fascinated her. With few exceptions, all of the residents had made do with so little and had achieved so much. There was one man, James, whom she had liked more than all the rest. He was more self-contained than the others; he wasn’t interested in the gossip or rumours that circulated around the home. He could spend all day in his room reading and writing, or looking through the window, and whenever he saw Marilyn he would smile and ask how her day had been. Unlike the others he didn’t grumble; he was content. He was also deaf, so it was almost impossible to talk to him. Every word had to be shouted and she had found that embarrassing.

  There was one nurse aide, Lorraine, who had appeared to enjoy shouting the most personal of questions at James. She would stand in the doorway to his room and yell, for everyone to hear, ‘Did Dr Black have a bowel movement this morning?’ Not only did she shout, Marilyn recalled with a cringe, but she made a point of addressing him in the third person, and always by his full name, Dr Black. It was demeaning.

  Standing next to Lorraine, Marilyn had felt ashamed, yet she had done nothing about it. She had never found the courage to confront the nurse aide. She simply looked at the ground, avoiding James’s glance, until she was sure Lorraine had stopped speaking. Then, once she had gone, she would smile and yell, ‘Tell me what you’re reading, James,’ and sit down with her friend and carry out a shouted conversation until she was called away to help with afternoon tea or dinner.

  Hearing Sally’s voice now, straining above the noise of the engines, reminded her of those shouted conversations. She hadn’t thought about James for years. When that summer had ended she had promised to visit him often. She had planned to return once a week – not because she felt she ought to, but because she had enjoyed hearing his stories; his memories of being a doctor on the West Coast during the 1930s and ’40s. They were memories that should have been handed down like precious keepsakes, or heirlooms, to members of his family, but, as far as she knew, James had only one surviving relative, a granddaughter, who had not visited him in all the time he had been in the nursing home.

  Sitting with James, Marilyn had sometimes found herself thinking about this granddaughter, wondering what kind of person she was to stay away from such an interesting, lovely old man. It was a question she should have liked to ask the woman herself, but of course the opportunity to do so had never arisen. Once the summer was over, Marilyn discovered that her own plans to visit were disrupted. Through her brother she’d met Chris and before long she had found herself tagging along on their weekend surfing trips. Weeks of Sundays had passed without her once having set foot inside the nursing home.

  It was Lorraine, she remembered, who, passing her in the corridor during one Sunday visit, announced bluntly, ‘If you’re looking for Dr Black, don’t bother, he’s dead.’ Marilyn recalled the way in which Lorraine appeared almost to take pleasure in breaking the news. ‘I wasn’t sure which would go first: my voice or him,’ she had continued. ‘Luckily for me,’ she’d added, ‘it wasn’t my voice.’ Marilyn recalled the expression of triumph in Lorraine’s eyes – a look that gave the impression she really believed she had won a battle with the old man. As Lorraine continued down the corridor, she called back, ‘He left you something but don’t get your hopes up – it feels like it’s just one of his rocks. It’s in the office, wrapped up in newspaper – I guess he was too tight to buy proper wrapping paper.’ Even then Marilyn hadn’t responded. She hadn’t spoken up for James but had simply allowed the final insult to burn into her – a mixture of anger and guilt she still felt, even now.

  ‘Marilyn!’ Sally’s voice was almost shrill. Shouting, thought Marilyn, must be unfamiliar territory for her. She can’t have had a lot of a practice. Unlocking the door, she saw three people standing there. Within seconds, Sally had her arm around her, smiling, yelling, ‘They’ve swapped our seats with the Distinguished Visitors’ so we could have more room. If you need to dash to the bathroom it will be much easier now. Are you all right? You look pretty pale.’ Marilyn nodded and, catching Sally’s eye, frowned. ‘I think I might have got some vomit on my seat.’ She glanced to where she had been sitting and caught sight of the black jacket of the richest man in New Zealand. She faced Sally who, in return, smiled, shouting: ‘Let’s hope so.’

  WILLIAM

  William stepped aside as the two women passed in front of him. He watched as they shuffled towards their seats, the arm of the woman called Sally draped around Marilyn’s shoulders. He felt sorry for the younger girl. She’d flown out to Cape Royds once and he’d spent a few minutes in her company, talking to her as several boxes of supplies were unloaded and his poorly colleague, Trevor, had climbed aboard the helicopter for the journey back to Scott Base. He remembered the way she had smiled when she caught sight of the open sea and how, over the noise of the helicopter, she had shouted, ‘Waves! Look, waves.’

  He had been touched by her voice: the tone of relief, it seemed to him, as she made her observation. She had also asked him a question, one that appeared to embarrass her, as if she was unsure of its validity. He would have replied immediately had it not been for the fact that she was suddenly recalled to the helicopter. He smiled at the memory. In truth, it was a question he had heard many times before, and yet one he had been asked only by people who had found themselves in the Antarctic. ‘When do the birds sleep?’

  He glanced once more in her direction, registering her hunched shoulders and pale face. It was obvious, even back then, before all this other business, that she had been homesick. In all his years’ experience, no one else had ever visited Cape Royds without immediately mentioning Shackleton’s hut and the penguin colony. She was the only person who had been first drawn to the sea, who had looked at it as if being reunited with a friend. He frowned. She should never have come to the Antarctic. Not her.

  She was also, he thought, one of the worst newsreaders he had ever heard. He remembered her Christmas Day bulletin and cringed, embarrassed by the memory. Christmas was something he preferred to avoid. He felt cornered by the notion of having to celebrate the birth of Christ. In fact, anything to do with Christ or the church made him uncomfortable. In previous years he had gone to church on Christmas Day simply so that he might keep Alice company. She appreciated the music and drama of the church, and although he respected her opinion he nevertheless felt trapped by the church’s hypocrisy. Sitting beside his wife on a hard pew, listening to the drivel spouting from the minister’s mouth, made him both impatient and angry.

  He hated having to sit still for any length of time; it was a character flaw, he supposed, but one he had had for as long as he could remember. He only felt comfortable standing and, more than that, he craved movement. For him, the depths of misery resulted from having to sit in one place, listening to people he had not chosen to be with speak about things he had no interest in. In many ways, that accurately described the Christmas just past.

  He had been watching a skua chick, the first of the season, when he had heard a helicopter approaching from the south. The sound had carried on the wind; he had listened to the heavy drone of its engines for several minutes before finally catching sight of the machine off Cape Barne. ‘Museum conservators,’ he mumbled to himself. Although forewarned of their visit, he found their arrival too abrupt, too intrusive.

  He watched as four people approached the wanigan, their arms laden with bags, which they dumped outside the small building before returning to the heli-pad for another load. His assistant, Trevor, joined them, walking alongside as they carried bag after bag to the hut. An area that had looked almost spacious an hour earlier had suddenly appeared cramped as five tents were erected next to the wanigan. His own tent disappeared from sight, hidden behind the larger teepee shape of a polar tent. So much for his view. Instead of looking out over the roof of Shackleton’s hut, towards the glowing, guano-encrusted penguin colony on the far side of Pony Lake, he would now be within touching distance of his neighbour’s flapping yellow tent. It was as if a subdivision had suddenly sprung up in a wilderness.

  He listened and heard the muffled sound of voices, followed shortly after by the sound of a portable drill and hammer. He could clearly make out the figures of two bright-blue-suited men against the side of the wanigan where the toilet buckets had been set up. As he watched, they began to construct a low fence, fully enclosing the buckets, obscuring them from view. Within minutes the construction was complete. The men swung the new, chest-high gate on its hinges a few times and then, picking up their tools, walked back to the wanigan and disappeared inside. A few seconds later the entire group came out, walked around the building and stood looking at the now fenced-in toilet. He heard laughter as someone stepped forward, opened the gate and went inside, his head, shoulders and chest still clearly visible from where William stood, looking.

  William frowned. It seemed to him that this group had taken over the place. Not that he had any more right or claim to it than they did. It was just that there were too many of them. He felt uncomfortable, painfully aware of their intrusion.

  He turned his attention back to the chick. It was a day old, its grey-white feathers dry and fluffy, a dandelion gone to seed. Although he had been standing watching the nest for more than an hour, he had caught only rare glimpses of the chick. For most of the time its small body had been protected by the adult bird, sheltered from the chill wind that blew from the south. More chicks would soon be hatching. Only that morning he had heard cheeping from inside several eggs, and cracks had begun to appear on some of the shells. It was a good sign. Occasionally the shells were so thick and strong that the young couldn’t break free. But that didn’t seem to be the case now. Within the next twenty-four hours there should be several hatchings.

  William smiled. Despite the cold and the long hours of inactivity, he felt something close to excitement. The colony was on the brink of change: the chicks would soon appear and with their arrival his research would gather momentum. He remembered back to his first season at Cape Royds – how little he had known back then about South Polar skuas. He had read accounts by Edward Wilson which had described the disappearance of one skua chick from a nest, but, like Wilson, he had not been able to account for the loss. It was only after weeks of observation that he had understood that the older of two chicks often attacked the younger chick, driving it from the nest, so that it either starved or fell victim to an adult predator. It had pleased him to solve a problem first identified more than fifty years before. More than at any other time in his life he had experienced a sense of history, connection, as if he was continuing the work of Wilson himself.

  So many things had changed since that first season. The presence of the museum conservators’ team reminded him of that. Whereas he had once lived in Shackleton’s hut – had tidied the clutter, shifted furniture, even eaten tinned food taken from the explorer’s stores – the door was now locked and only those with a permit were allowed to set foot in the place. He knew that resting on a table inside the hut was a visitors’ book, its pages filled with the banal observations of those fortunate enough to enter. He could imagine the comments without having to see them: from people who ‘stepped back in history’ to a place ‘frozen in time’. No longer a shelter from the weather or a simple work shed, the hut had been redefined as a monument, taken over and catalogued by people whose job it was to preserve the past. The hut’s history, its clutter and equipment, would soon be processed into a museum display, a replica of something that was once real, alive.

 

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