Chapter 19
CHAPTER
Robin, Kingsley, Angelina and Jerry are with me on the second amphibious boat motoring from the ship to Morrison Island.
Even though I know where they’re sitting, they’re almost unrecognisable due to their jackets, hoods, gloves and waterproof boots.
Water slaps against the bow and rises all around us like a mist. The bay is marked by a broad strip of dark grey sand.
Either side of it, rugged cliffs shoot out of the ocean.
The station buildings are splashes of colour against the greys of the sea, sky and cliffs, as are the greens of the mosses, groundcovers and native grasses.
I track a grey-headed albatross flying over a craggy peak and disappearing into the clouds.
‘I can’t believe it.’ My words disappear in the subzero wind. My hands (even in two pairs of gloves) are cold and the toggle on my hood is tightly pulled, but I’m flushed with excitement.
‘Come over here!’ Kingsley, sitting in a more sheltered position at the side of the boat, pats the space next to him.
‘I can see better from here!’
After manoeuvring around fur seals sprawled like giant boulders on the shoreline, members of the crew secure the boats and herd us to the concrete path that will take us up the hill to the buildings.
Sebastien, who was on the first boat to reach the shoreline, is walking towards me when a crew member calls him back.
The other man is wrapped up like I am, but Sebastien’s hood is pushed back.
Heads bowed against the wind, the men walk ahead of us towards the station.
It was dark when I woke this morning. Sebastien, dressed in a shirt, jumper and pants with lots of pockets, leant over the bed, pulled up the covers and tucked them in.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s morning.’ He sat on the edge of the bed and brushed hair off my face. ‘You slept deeply.’
‘Did you?’
A small smile. ‘No.’
Last night, I wanted him to stay not because I was afraid and he made me feel safe, but because I like it when he’s with me.
I like having him close. He didn’t have to look up the birds that live in Norway spruce trees, but he did.
I didn’t have to kiss him, but I did. A door had opened in the corridor and reality intruded.
Sebastien, already prepared for the outside world, adjusted his cuffs.
He drew a line down my nose with the tip of his finger.
‘Greetings, weary travellers!’ The man bounding down the path, likely in his late thirties though it’s hard to tell because of his hood, has a wide smile and light brown hair. ‘I’m Dougie Gabot, part-time IT troubleshooter and full-time people wrangler.’
‘I believe we’ve exchanged emails,’ Robin says. ‘By people wrangler, I assume you mean human resources.’
‘You must be Dr Farnsworth. Bad seasickness, right? Can I help with your bag?’
‘A knight in shining armour.’ Robin gratefully drops her bag on the ground.
‘I’ll take you to your accommodation. After you’ve freshened up, our station leader, Clarissa Stevens, and the rest of the team will welcome you in the mess.
’ Dougie points to a long building with a red corrugated roof.
‘Everything happens up there. Meals, card and board games, movie nights, special events. The use of wifi on Morrison will be restricted until they get the receiver and satellite issues sorted, so we like to think of the mess as our private social network.’
‘We have phones in our rooms, don’t we? I’ve told my niece she can call me there.’
‘Forget video calls, but the phone lines in the rooms and offices are reliable. When you leave the station buildings, you take a satellite phone.’ He holds up a mobile phone. ‘Till Morrison’s comms overhaul happens, you can only rely on these for contacts and photography.’
After Sebastien backtracks down the hill and joins our huddle, Dougie considers the six of us. ‘A physiotherapist, an ornithologist, a botanist, a communications hotshot and a chef.’ He clicks his heels and salutes Sebastien. ‘An air force captain with a UN agenda.’
Sebastien barely returns Dougie’s smile, but the HR man prattles on anyway, giving us a run-down on everything from daily routines, scheduled orientation sessions and the weather forecast for the next few days.
A fur seal with a thick grey coat and tightly shut eyes stays exactly where he is as Dougie leads us in a circuitous path around him.
Six skuas, resembling chubby brown seagulls, are dull flashes of colour against the sky.
If my frozen fingers would accommodate it, I’d take my camera from my pack and photograph the birds and southern elephant seals.
I kick a stone and kick it again. It’s good to be on land.
Sebastien falls into step beside me. Besides ‘you go first’ and ‘thank you’, we haven’t had a chance to talk.
He’s an accomplished pilot with a close-knit successful family and, when he’s not flying jets and leading UN Antarctic teams, he lives in a coastal town in Norway.
I work with wildlife and support my mother.
I hate flying and belong in the country.
I blab my fears and he keeps his close and we don’t fit together except when we’re in bed yet—
When I loosen the toggle of my hood, his eyes go to my mouth. ‘What do you think?’
‘It’s magnificent.’
‘Wear wool against your skin.’
‘And wool over the top? I’ll miss your jumper.’
His gaze softens. ‘I’ll miss you.’
He must say goodbye all the time, to family, friends, girlfriends. I don’t like to say goodbye. I don’t want to miss him.
‘Lisse?’ He burrows beneath my glove and finds the inside of my wrist. When he strokes, my heart thumps in time to the crunch of our steps on the gravel.
I search for a thought, a reasonable, sane thought.
‘What is your meeting about?’
He takes a while to answer. ‘My project, funding, personnel.’ When the path narrows, he stands back so I can go first.
‘How long will it take?’
‘An hour, maybe two.’
‘Then you return to the ship.’
‘I’ll be back on Morrison soon.’ He walks alongside me again. ‘About two weeks.’
I don’t reply, but his gaze returns to the side of my face as if I might. When Dougie gestures for Sebastien to join him at the front of the line, he leans in close.
‘I’ll find you before I leave.’
I recognise the station buildings at the end of the isthmus from the maps I’ve studied.
Single-storeyed accommodation blocks, a cottage where the head of station lives, the mess hall and expansive kitchen, the administration block and the squat building where the medical staff and Kingsley will be based.
There are power, communications, fuel and sewerage facilities, and storage areas.
On the far side of the station there’ll be weather reading equipment and buildings used for research, a mechanical workshop, a power plant and a boat shed.
Ships bring in supplies, mostly in summer, but the core inhabitants are on their own for the rest of the time.
As the rain turns from drizzle to sleet, I zip my waterproof to my chin and pull up my hood.
The mess resembles the dining area of the ship, with long communal tables, a counter and wide swing doors that lead to the kitchen.
An adjoining living area has smaller tables and upright chairs, sofas, armchairs, footstools and side tables positioned in front of windows.
The people already in the mess—scientists, tradesmen and support staff in charge of maintenance of the island’s facilities—introduce themselves and welcome the newcomers.
Five expeditioners starting midway through an established tenure is unusual, particularly out of December, January and February when the weather and sea voyages are more manageable, but this was the only time Robin could carry out the research essential to her project, and her university provided last-minute funding.
In her role with the Antarctic Division, Angelina needed to see Morrison Island firsthand so she could work on communications strategies to assist environmental, wildlife and other government organisations.
Jerry is replacing a chef who is going home because his mother is unwell.
Medical staff have been lobbying for a physiotherapist to not only treat injuries but prevent them, and they finally received approval to engage Kingsley.
Professor George Johnson, who secured my appointment through UN funding, walks into the mess as lunch is served.
‘Welcome to Morrison Island.’ In his late sixties, Professor Johnson is slender with short grey hair and an immaculate beard. He indicates the row of stainless-steel containers on the counter. ‘Please help yourself.’
Pad Thai. Vegetarian lasagne. As there are no introduced plant species on Morrison, and it lacks the hydroponic facilities found on other stations with more modern set-ups, the food served here is packaged, frozen and tinned.
But just as Jerry did while we were on the ship, kitchen staff clearly make the best of what’s available.
The professor sits next to me at the table, opposite Angelina. Her animation is in stark contrast to his slow nods and considered responses, but occasionally he smiles. By the time we start our meal, others have drifted away and the noise has died down.
‘Angelina tells me you were of great assistance on the ship,’ the professor says.
‘The kitchen staff were busy looking after seasick passengers.’ I take a forkful of noodles. ‘I was lucky not to be one of them.’
‘I’m confident you’ll be of great assistance to me also. My only complaint is that the time you’re here won’t be long enough.’
‘It’s almost four months, professor. I can get a lot done in that time.’ Now the voyage is over, I’m buzzing with excitement.
‘As I’m behind with my work, I’m extremely happy to hear that.’
Angelina puts her hand on Professor Johnson’s arm. ‘You’ll love Flick—we all do.’
The professor explains to Angelina that he’s concerned about the bird flu outbreak in sub-Antarctic islands off the coast of Peru and, in order to establish virus identification and management protocols, he wants me to observe and record information on a gentoo penguin rookery on the south of the island.
‘In addition to that, Flick will be analysing journal entries and putting them into a form that others, including our UN sponsors, can make sense of.’
‘The entries, decades of firsthand observations, are unique,’ I add.
Angelina turns to two tall and angular climate scientists who, when we were introduced, told me they had the weight of the world on their shoulders. The men not only look similar but talk with the same intensity.
‘Flick.’ The professor leans towards me and lowers his voice. ‘I presume you’ve met Dougie. He was the fellow who was paid a loading to work on the journals earlier in the year.’
‘You weren’t happy with what he did.’
‘“Not happy” is one way of putting it, “bitterly disappointed” is another.’ The professor lays both hands flat on the table. ‘Though to give the fellow his due, he’s pleasant enough to deal with and competent in his IT and HR roles.’
‘Sebastien said you needed an ornithologist.’
‘Some of the field worker entries are more useful than others. The template Dougie created for entering the data is useful, certainly, but he blindly entered what he found, or imagined he found, and not particularly accurately.’
‘I’m looking forward to starting the work.’
As the professor finishes his meal and excuses himself from the table, Kingsley, a bowl of ice cream in his hand, sits next to me.
‘My room’s not too shabby,’ he says. ‘How are things in the old block? It’s due for demolition next year.’
‘I have a single bed, a side table with a phone, a desk, chair and a bathroom. There’s also a shared kitchenette. Robin is next door and Angelina is only a few doors down. It’s great.’
Kingsley smiles. ‘You’re not one for complaining about peeling paint, dodgy plumbing and intermittent air conditioning, are you?’
‘I like my block. Anyway, I’ll mostly be sleeping there.’
‘Meals and recreation spaces are all up here. There are meeting rooms in the admin block and there’s a gym.’
Robin, a mug, a pot of tea and a bag of red frogs on her tray, pulls up a chair on my other side. ‘What a blessing to be off that ship. Rain and wind I can tolerate, seasickness I can’t abide.’
‘Yet you keep coming back.’
She laughs. ‘I believe many women blank out the realities of childbirth until the first contraction of a subsequent birth, which is when they question why they’re doing it again.’
‘Lichen is the beneficiary of your perseverance.’ Kingsley yawns and stretches his arms above his head. ‘As I don’t officially start work until tomorrow, I’m off for a kip.’
When Robin offers her bag of frogs, I take one. ‘The sun comes out sometimes, doesn’t it?’
‘Very occasionally, particularly at this time of year.’
‘I’ll still have a month of summer when I get home.’
‘As I thought.’ She lowers her mug. ‘You’re staying on.’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘I’ve just returned from a meeting with two colleagues and the station leader, Clarissa. When I mentioned you’d offered to provide samples of your avian friends’ droppings, she suggested you might be returning to the mainland early. I asked why she’d come to that conclusion, and she backtracked.’
‘Professor Johnson said I wouldn’t be here for long enough.’
Robin rests a kindly hand on my arm. ‘He’s delighted to have you here, but he won’t be calling the shots.’
‘Clarissa and Sebastien decide, don’t they? Is this because of what happened on the ship?’
A sympathetic smile. ‘No one would bring you all the way out here and then send you home again without a very good reason.’
‘I told Captain Simpson—’ A flutter of fear. ‘Sebastien said he had a meeting, but he didn’t mention this.’
‘I might have spent days with my head in a bucket, but it was evident even to me that you relied on him.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘He didn’t tell you this could happen?’
‘No.’ I’ll find you before I leave. ‘Nothing.’
‘You were an absolute asset on that ship. Sebastien will tell the truth.’
I stand so quickly my chair teeters. ‘The truth as he understands it.’