Chapter Fifty
CHAPTER
50
The ship rolls to the side of another giant wave before righting itself again. ‘Is it always so rough?’
Steve, one of the senior officers, smiles tolerantly. ‘It’s the Southern Ocean.’
‘My father came out here.’
‘Samuel Henry.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘We’re a naval vessel, not a cruise ship. Ordinary people don’t get permission to hitch rides.’
‘So why did you agree to take me?’
‘According to the Polar Institute, you’re here on official business.’
When I finally tracked Astrid down, she told me off for refusing to talk to Kit after the meeting.
‘We did talk,’ I said.
‘Two minutes in a crowded hall.’
‘Do you always take his side?’
‘Never before. But you …’ She pointed an accusing finger. ‘You’re a complication.’
‘I want to see him in person.’
She said something in German that I suspected was a swear word. ‘He’ll be back in two weeks.’
‘Can you get me there?’
‘Where?’
‘Isabella Island.’
‘You must be joking.’
‘I want to surprise him.’
When the ship falls over the top of another wave, I grasp the railing with both hands. ‘Wow.’
Steve smiles. ‘Be thankful you’re not seasick.’
‘Not yet.’
‘In this weather, you are or you aren’t.’
‘I’m from Summerfield, out past Mudgee. I’ve been on yachts on Sydney Harbour, but never on a ship.’
‘My brother got married in Mudgee.’ The console has rows of lights like a plane. Steve flicks one switch, then another. ‘This is a long way to come for only one night.’
***
I possibly should have questioned Astrid more thoroughly.
When I follow Steve’s directions and find Sharon, the island’s administration officer, in a prefabricated structure the size of two classrooms, she tells me Kit and the other scientists had been on this side of Isabella Island until two days ago, when they’d hiked to the eastern slopes to monitor a fur seal population and their young.
‘The others got back an hour ago,’ Sharon says. ‘Kit wanted to finish something off.’
‘He doesn’t know I’m coming.’
Smiling, she places a finger on her mouth. ‘I was told it was hush-hush, but I did let our chef Woody know. He’s made a dinner in your honour.’
‘I didn’t expect anyone to—’
‘Woody loves an excuse to cook his favourites. Anyway, Kit hasn’t had his welcome dinner yet.’
‘He’s been here for ten days.’
‘And done twenty days of work.’ Sharon checks her watch, then points to a building the size of the admin block. ‘Whether he’s back or not, come to the mess rooms at six o’clock sharp.’
Two rows of cabins, like giant caravans on foundations, are located fifty metres from the main buildings. When Sharon opens the door at the end of a row, I follow her inside. She looks around and whistles.
‘Kit’s a tidy one, isn’t he?’
Do I know the answer to that? Officially, no, but it doesn’t surprise me that the kitchen sink is sparkling, a bowl, plate, glass and coffee plunger are lined up on the bench, towels hang neatly on rails in the bathroom and the bed has been made with hospital corners.
***
I hope Kit doesn’t mind that I’m not only making use of his spare room, but bathroom, soap and shampoo. I dress in layers of clothing, two pairs of socks and boots before going outside, but I’ve only walked ten metres before the icy cold wind sends me back. I don’t like searching Kit’s wardrobe for a warmer coat, but I’m certain he wouldn’t want me to freeze to death. He’s protective. He cares about me. I repeat the words as I smooth the collar of a thick padded coat and meticulously fasten a zip and multiple press-studs before venturing outside again. The coat has a clean fresh smell. It smells of him.
‘Where are you, Aragorn Kit Thorsen?’
White caps crown the waves in the ocean; the air is damp like a cloud. After pulling the collar of Kit’s coat so high that the points brush my cheeks, I shove my hands in the pockets again.
‘Mackenzie!’ Sharon is waving a red and white scarf. ‘Dinner!’
In Summerfield, everyone besides Grandpa called me Mac. Kit has always called me Mackenzie; Astrid and the others from the documentary team now follow suit. Mackenzie. Was I reluctant to use my full name because my mother had chosen it, in the same way I refused to use coloured pencils after she dragged me away from the primary school in Summerfield?
Does she still have that power?
Not any more.
Woody—who looks uncannily like the tall, lanky cowboy from the movie Toy Story —shakes my hand enthusiastically before introducing me to the women and men, mostly scientists, sitting at a long narrow table.
‘Welcome to the team.’ Woody, still wearing his apron, tells me I’ll be sitting between him and Kit. ‘He shouldn’t be too long.’
In addition to a mountain of bread rolls, there are three steaming dishes on the table. ‘This looks delicious.’
‘This lot …’ he winks at a man sitting opposite, ‘usually eat in their cabins or work through dinner. You’re an excuse to get us together.’
I help myself to brown rice and steamed vegetables.
‘What about the fish curry?’
I break my roll into pieces. ‘Maybe I’ll try it later.’
As I pick at my food, the scientists talk about ocean temperatures, kelp and tagging seals. If Keith Urban were here, I’d pretend he needed a pee, take him outside and search for Kit. Why isn’t anyone else concerned?
‘Is Kit usually this late?’ I ask Sharon. ‘I don’t have reception but you can contact him, can’t you?’
‘He wouldn’t approve,’ Sharon says.
‘This past week has been crazy,’ Woody says. ‘In fact, you’re lucky to have—’
Boots stamp on the concrete, the door scrapes on the mat, a blast of wind gusts into the room.
‘Speak of the devil,’ Woody says good-naturedly. ‘Pull up a chair, mate.’
Kit, hood pulled low, looks down as he unfastens press-studs. He tugs at the studs at his cuffs, pushes back his hood and shrugs out of his jacket before hanging it on a hook on the back of the door. He looks up.
And freezes.
When I saw him on the screen at the meeting, I thought he’d lost weight. Now he’s lost more weight. I doubt he’s shaved since he left Norway. His hair is wild. His mouth opens. Closes again. He blinks.
‘Mackenzie.’ His frown is fierce. After taking a step towards me, he takes two steps back. ‘Wait here.’
Where would I go?
When Kit disappears through the bathroom door, the others look at me with even more interest than they were before. No one talks, then everybody talks at once. And they’re still talking when Kit, who’s pushed a wet hand through his hair to smooth it down, gets back to the table. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. Even before he reaches my chair, I smell soap.
‘We have mains and dessert tonight,’ Sharon says.
Kit glances at my barely touched plate before sitting next to me. When our knees touch, my heart rate soars.
‘Gordon. How is he?’
‘His specialist is coming to see him on Tuesday. I’m leaving on the ship early tomorrow morning.’
He searches my face. ‘Were you seasick?’
‘Everyone seemed to be impressed that I wasn’t.’
His gaze softens. ‘They would be.’
Woody, joining us at the table, points to my plate. ‘Mackenzie didn’t eat much, mate.’
Kit is Norwegian. He must eat fish. But he only puts a mountain of rice and vegetables on his plate.
‘Did the wind give you trouble today?’ A scientist with her elbows on the table addresses Kit. ‘Anything to report?’
When Kit isn’t answering his colleagues’ questions, he’s looking at me. I’d like to look back, to ask why he’s thinner and even more Viking-like than usual, but I’m jittery and uncertain and afraid I might cry.
‘Mackenzie?’ He nudges my leg. ‘Jeg elsker deg.’
Beneath the table, our calves line up. Above our knees, our thighs touch. I want to grab his hand and jump from the table and pull him through the door to the cabin. I’ll kiss him. I’ll tell him why I came. I’ll tell him how I feel and ask how he feels and—
‘Woody’s stewed apple is to die for,’ Sharon says dramatically.
I twist my serviette, tear a corner. ‘I’m sure it is, but …’
‘I hope you eat apples.’ Woody links his hands, holds them in front of him as if he’s praying. ‘You do, don’t you?’
Kit finds my hand on my lap and squeezes firmly, clearly signalling ‘Tell them you don’t eat apples’.
‘Cinnamon and spices, with custard on the side.’ Woody holds up a serving spoon. ‘I made it specially. Anyway …’ He indicates the window where rivulets of rain are running down the glass. ‘It’s raining again.’
‘Just a little, please.’
‘How about you, Kit? You won’t be getting grub like this tomorrow.’
Kit pushes away his barely touched plate and, with one hard look at me, grabs his coat. ‘Wait here.’
Just like before, everyone starts talking at once. They don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to think. The stewed apple is delicious like Woody promised it would be, but I only eat half a bowl. What if Kit doesn’t come back? Do I stay here till the morning and then return on the ship? Spend another day travelling home to Grandpa and Summerfield?
After we’ve cleaned up there’s a scurry of activity as everyone scrambles to find hats and scarves and coats. I’m fastening the zip and press-studs of the coat I borrowed from Kit when the door opens again.
He’s showered. His hair is wet and pushed back. He’s cleanly shaven. Jeans, boots and a thick cotton shirt with unbuttoned cuffs that hang at his wrists.
‘Desperate to freshen up, mate?’ Woody laughs as he passes. ‘Why was that, then?’
Ignoring Woody, Kit walks directly to me. We stare at each other. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. His breath smells of toothpaste.
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘I wasn’t prepared.’
‘I can sleep somewhere else if you—’
He swears under his breath. ‘No.’
I’m barely aware of stepping outside, but I’m excruciatingly aware of him walking beside me as rain splashes on the ground and bounces onto our boots. When I stop, so does he.
‘What did you mean when you said you weren’t prepared?’
He opens his mouth, shuts it again.
‘Kit?’ The wind takes his name. ‘Tell me.’
He lifts a hand, touches my cheek with a fingertip. ‘I was coming to you.’
‘Astrid said two more weeks.’
‘Tomorrow.’
My knees wobble. ‘Really?’
‘I couldn’t wait.’
‘I don’t want you to leave me again.’
He kisses me desperately, hungrily, long and hard and sweet. When he grasps the tops of my thighs and lifts, I cling to his shoulders and wrap my legs around his waist.
‘Never again.’