Sun at Midnight. Rosie Thomas

Margaret’s eyes faded, replaced for a moment by a clear sapphire glimmer of triumph. It was Trevor who smudged away tears with the back of his hand.

      ‘You’ll find details. E-mail, in my e-mail in-box,’ Margaret said.

      ‘Don’t worry about that now.’

      Gently Trevor lifted the plastic mask and fitted it over his wife’s mouth. She nodded her acquiescence and her eyes closed again.

      At 10 p.m., when Trevor began to doze with his head on the covers next to Margaret’s hand, a different doctor came to explain regretfully that there would be no place available on the ward before the morning. Margaret herself was now asleep, so Alice drove her father home to Boar’s Hill. She heated up some soup and once they had eaten and she was sure that he had gone to bed, she made up a bed for herself in her old room. She lay on her side with her knees drawn up, as she had done as a child, and looked across at the old books on the white-painted shelves. There was Shackleton’s South, and Fuchs and Hillary’s The Crossing of Antarctica, both of them presents, on different birthdays, from Margaret. She had written Alice’s name and the date on the flyleaf of each. It was as if Alice could see straight through the stiff board covers now, into an Antarctic landscape where the reality of Margaret’s films and the explorers’ stories overlapped with a fantastical realm of ice turrets and rippled snow deserts and blue-lipped crevasses. Tattered veils of snow were chased by the wind and the howling of it rose inside her head, reaching a crescendo in an unearthly shriek that drowned out her mother’s voice and the chirring of the penguins.

      And now Antarctica lay in wait for her, with its frozen jaws gaping wide open.

      

      Alice sat upright. Sleep was out of the question. She pulled on her clothes again, shivering in the unheated bedroom, and went downstairs. Margaret’s chair at the gate-legged table in the bay window overlooked a dark void where the garden lay. Alice made herself a mug of tea and sat down at her mother’s computer screen.

      Do it, she exhorted herself. You made a promise. Do this much at least, before tomorrow throws any complications in the way.

      Alice clicked new message and began to type.

      If it was appropriate, and if her understanding of the present situation was correct, following her mother’s serious illness she would be honoured to be considered in her place for membership of the forthcoming European joint expedition to Antarctica.

      She attached a list of her scientific qualifications. At the end, against Previous Antarctic Experience, she typed none.

      The tea had gone cold but she took a gulp of it anyway. She reread her short message and changed a couple of words, then checked that the address in the box was correct. She typed her own correspondence address and quickly pressed send. The out-box was briefly highlighted before the communication went to an unknown recipient named Beverley Winston, assistant to Lewis Sullavan.

      There was nothing else to be done tonight. Alice poured her unfinished tea down the kitchen sink and went back to bed. She lay still under the familiar weight of the covers. She thought of her own bed in the house in Jericho and wondered where Pete was tonight. Only a little time ago they had woken up in the same bed with nothing more than a kiss glimpsed at a party to separate them.

      Now there was the prospect of half a world.

      The acceleration of change seemed to open a pit beneath her. Opening her eyes again to counter another bout of nausea, Alice examined the contours of her room. She had lived a remarkably sheltered life. As she saw it now, she had made an almost stately progression from childhood to today. In Margaret’s shadow and under her father’s benign protection she had done what was expected of her and what she expected of herself. No more, nothing more than just what was expected.

      And now, without Pete and with her mother’s shadow shortened, there was this.

      Suddenly, beneath her ribcage, Alice Peel felt a sharp stab of anticipation that shocked her with its ecstatic greed.

       CHAPTER FIVE

      With the steady approach of summer the pack ice in the scoop of bay was slowly, grudgingly, breaking up. This morning the ice was a dirty ivory colour, glinting here and there like polished bone. The expanding streaks of water were black and pewter grey under a matching sky, and a thin veil of ice fog hung over the cliffs that formed the opposite wall of the bay. Idle flakes of snow spun in the still air, floating upwards as well as down.

      Rooker replaced the engine casing of the skidoo and twisted the ignition key. The machine obligingly coughed and roared, and Valentin Petkov, the glaciologist, glanced back from where he was placing bamboo wands and marker flags out on the ice and gave a thumbs-up. The field assistant, Philip Idwal Jones, was nearby, coiling a rope. He finished it with a loop, slung it over his shoulder and trudged back through the snow.

      ‘Hey. Rook.’ The shout carried clearly in the silence. ‘Time for a brew?’

      Rooker pulled back the cuff of his glove to check his watch. It was midday and they had been out since 8 a.m. Petkov was keen to set up his markers and take the first set of readings. This part of his study, as Rooker understood it, was to do with comparing the speed of travel of the margins of the ice with the centre. If you could call it speed, he reflected, at the rate of millimetres per year.

      Philip reached the skidoo, dropped his rope and took off his fleece cap to scratch at his spikes of black hair. He had a patchy black beard to match. Phil was only twenty-six but he had been travelling and climbing since he was seventeen. This was his third Antarctic season. As a mountain guide it was his job to assist the scientists in their fieldwork and at the same time to make sure they didn’t fall down a crevasse or off a cliff.

      ‘Piece of cake, I don’t think,’ he had confided to Rooker. ‘That French bird thinks she knows it all, du’n’t she?’

      Rooker liked him.

      ‘Ta,’ Phil said now when Rooker passed him a thermos of coffee. ‘Phew. Warm, innit?’

      It was, compared with a week ago, when they had first arrived. Daytime temperatures then had hovered around –23°C, with a heavy wind chill. Today it was a mild and summery –5°C.

      ‘D’you think Valerie’s going to take a break?’ Phil wondered, looking over at Petkov who was still zigzagging across the glacier. Phil maintained that Valentin wasn’t a name at all, just a card you sent to your girlfriend if you remembered and could be bothered, and insisted instead on Val, which he then back-formed to Valerie. No one could be less effeminate than Valentin. He had a rich bass voice and a barrel chest, and a fondness for whisky and jokes whose punchlines didn’t always survive the shift from Bulgarian into English. There were six different first languages at Kandahar Station, but English was the common tongue.

      ‘Dead common,’ Phil had inevitably quipped in his thick Welsh accent.

      He beckoned to Valentin by waving a mug in a wide arc. It was hard to judge distances across the bland, grey-white face of the glacier. Only over to their left, where it suddenly tipped downhill and spilled towards the ice and the sea, splitting into a chaotic mass of seracs and twisted crevasses on the way, did its scale become more legible.

      Phil sighed when the scientist cheerily waved back, either not understanding or not wanting to stop work.

      ‘Daft Bulgar. I’ll have to take it over there. Give us one of those butties, mate.’ He took the thermos and a wrapped sandwich, and headed off across the snow again.

      The skidoo had been tending to stall on the way out from the base. Rooker had found and cleared a blockage in the fuel line. He sat on the machine now, leaning back against the handlebars with his feet up on the seat. When he had looked into the radio room this morning, Niki had told him that the warm and windless weather heralded a storm. Nikolai Pocius was the radio operator, a gaunt Lithuanian communications genius who had spent ten