Хэммонд Иннес - Calling the Southern Cross!

“That is not so much after commanding a ship, eh?” He nodded sympathetically. “And what is the little thing that brings your frustration to a head, eh?”

“A fiver,” I said. “Mr. Bridewell, the man who ran the business, gave us each a fiver on New Year’s Eve. But the fool had to make a speech about it.”

“And you do not like this Mistair Bridewell?”

“No. It wasn’t that. He’s a decent little man. And it was a decent gesture. But I couldn’t stomach the lecture. I thought it was a hard way to earn a fiver. I went out and got drunk with it. And during the course of the evening I ran into Bartlett, the pilot of our plane. He told me he was flying to South Africa with a spare seat and I decided to chance it. A fellow I met during the war said he could always find me a job if I came out.”

“Ah, yes, a fellow you met during the war.” He shrugged his shoulders. At length he gave a little sigh and said, “Well, I wish you luck. I hope the job he have for you is a very good one.”

South Africa seemed suddenly less exciting. I should have got in touch with Kramer about that job first. Now, as South Africa became a reality, the problem of that job loomed more and more important.

The trip over the Med was bumpy; the sea very blue, but flecked with white. The Western Desert looked cold and drab. Cairo came up at us marked by the geometrical square of the Pyramid at Giza. An icy wind blew dust across the airport. Tim told us there’d be a six-hour stop there. We’d start again at ten. Bonomi went off with a journalist friend. Bland decided to rest. Weiner was suffering from air-sickness. I stood around, wondering what to do with the time on my hands. I’d just made up my mind to go and find someplace to get a drink when a voice behind me said, “Mr. Craig.”

I turned. It was the girl. She looked cold and pale. “Could you — would you mind taking me into Cairo... for a drink or something?” Her gray eyes were wide and her mouth trembled slightly. I think she was on the verge of tears. She was all wound up, like some thing that’s tied too tight and ready to burst.

“Come on,” I said, and took her arm. I could feel the tightness inside her. She wasn’t trembling, but it was there like the charge of electricity. We found a taxi and I ordered the driver to take us to Shepheards Hotel.

There was a long silence as the taxi rattled out through the airport gates. I didn’t hurry her. I knew it would come. She suddenly said, “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Inflicting myself on you like this. I... I don’t think I’ll be very good company.”

“Don’t worry.” I said. “Just relax.”

“I’ll try,” she said, and closed her eyes.

At Shepheards I took her to a table in a comer. We tried a little small talk. It didn’t work. When the drinks came, she drank in silence.

“Wouldn’t it help to tell me about it?” I suggested.

“Perhaps,” she said.

“It’ll help spread the load,” I added. “It always does. And it’s not likely we’ll meet again.”

For a girl who couldn’t be more than twenty-live, her face looked almost haggard. Suddenly she said, “I’m scared about my father. I don’t know why I’m scared, but I am. It came over me last night in the plane. It was as though—” She put her elbows on the table and rested her head in her hands. “Oh, God!” she said in a choking voice. “It all seems such a mess!”

I wanted to do something to comfort her. But there was nothing I could do.

At length she raised her head. “All last night,” she said, “I was thinking about my father and Erik, down there in the Antarctic.”

“Erik is your husband, is he?” I asked.

“Erik Bland. Yes.” She nodded.

“And your father’s there too?”

“Yes, he’s the manager of the factory. He’s also leader of the expedition.” Then, “If only Erik weren’t there,” she whispered. And with sudden violence, “If only he’d been killed during the war.” She looked at me sadly. “But it’s always the wrong ones that get killed, isn’t it?” And I wondered whether there was somebody she’d been fond of.

“I’m frightened,” she went on. “Erik’s been working for this for two years. Through his mother, who’s Norwegian, he’s got a lot of Sandefjord men of his own choosing into the crew. And now, this season, he’s persuaded Colonel Bland to let him go out as assistant manager. They weren’t a fortnight out of Cape Town before he was cabling that my father was turning the Tönsberg men against him. There were other cables and then finally the one which said: ‘Nordahl openly saying he will have control of the company soon.’ My father would never say a thing like that — not in front of the men. I know he wouldn’t. It’s all part of a plan to drive a wedge between him and Colonel Bland.”

“Is Nordahl your father?” I asked.

“Bernt Nordahl, yes. He’s a wonderful person.” Her eyes came alive for the first time since I’d met her. “Nineteen seasons he’s been out in the Antarctic. He’s as tough and—” She checked herself and her tone flattened as she said, “You see, Bland’s just had a stroke. It’s heart trouble. He knows he hasn’t got long to live. That’s why he finally agreed to Erik going out this season. Normally he wouldn’t. He knows he hasn’t sufficient experience. But he wants Erik to follow him in the company. It’s natural. Any father would. But he doesn’t know him. He doesn’t know what he’s like.”

“And your father does?” I suggested. She nodded. “Yes.” She hesitated and then said, “That cable Bland received at the airport last night, it was from my father. It said either Erik must be recalled or he would resign.”

I looked at her, trying to understand why she had married Erik Bland. She wasn’t beautiful. She was a little too stockily built for that, and that ridiculous little uptilted nose gave her face a snubbed appearance. But she had grace. She had strength, too, and a bubbling vitality that showed even through the blank misery of her present mood. To me, she was all Norway with that lovely golden hair, creamy skin and wide, generous mouth. She was the sort of girl that’s born to fight for the right to live alongside her man. And from what I’d heard on the plane, it was clear she’d made a wrong choice.

“Mind if I ask you a personal question?” I said.

Her gray eyes were suddenly on the defensive. “Go ahead,” she said.

“Why did you marry Erik Bland?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Why does any girl marry the man she does?” she answered. “It was in nineteen thirty-eight. Erik was very attractive. He’s tall, fair, very boyish. He’s a fine skier, dances beautifully and keeps a lovely little yacht at Dronningen. Everybody thought I was very lucky.”

“And he was a sham?”

“Yes.”

“When did you discover that?”

“During the war. We grew up during the war, didn’t we? Before, all I thought about was having a good time. I studied in England and Paris. But it was the parties and the skiing and the sailing that I lived for. Then the Germans came.” Her eyes, which had sparkled for a moment, clouded now. “All the boys I knew disappeared from Oslo. They won’t north to join the fighting.”

“But Erik didn’t go.”

“No.” There was sudden violence in her tone. “You see, he liked the Germans. He liked the Nazi way of life. It fascinated him. It satisfied a sort of — it’s difficult to put into words — a craving for self-expression. Do you understand?”

“But why wasn’t he interned?” asked. “He’s English, isn’t he?”

“Well, South African. He claimed Boer descent on his father’s side, and of course his mother’s Norwegian. The police checked on him periodically, that was all.”