The Novels of Beryl Bainbridge Volume One by Beryl Bainbridge

Author:Beryl Bainbridge
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504052405
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2017-07-27T00:00:00+00:00

Lt. Henry Robertson (Birdie) Bowers

July 1911

Mid-winter night fell on June 22nd. We had an orgy, and no wonder, for on that date the sun began to turn back. I made a Christmas tree out of penguin feathers, split bamboo and ski sticks. Bill lay down on the ice and sang to the penguins, while I ran up and plucked at their backs. They were particularly immobilised by his rendering of ‘For all the Saints that on this Earth do Dwell’. Though I say it myself, the resulting tree was a work of art.

Likewise the feast. We stuffed ourselves till we groaned – seal soup, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, Brussels sprouts, anchovy pie, plum pudding flaming with brandy, crystallised fruits, champagne instead of our customary lime juice. Captain Scott was extremely gay during the meal and talked about his experiences as a torpedo lieutenant. Really, when he’s in a relaxed mood there is absolutely no one more charming or likeable in the whole world, and that includes Uncle Bill. He positively lights up one’s heart.

Outside the hut, as if in celebratory accord, the heavens put on their celestial crown, and all night long the aurora flashed its golden beams above the smoking crater of Mount Erebus. When I went out to take the meteorological readings, the snow rang to the thud of my footsteps. Beyond the Point the ice cracked as the temperature fell and the water rose.

We all got presents, bought in mid-summer a year ago by mothers, sisters, wives, and long kept hidden in a special box marked ‘festivities’. None of the gifts came labelled; we just dipped in, and there was nothing showy or expensive amongst them. Titus Oates received a whistle, a pop-gun and a sponge, all of which pleased him no end.

I expect the gun came from Mrs Scott, whom I won’t forget waltzing with in New Zealand. It’s all right a chap looking at one fair and square, but it’s damned disconcerting coming from a woman. She knew she’d got me pinned down, because she kept smiling. ‘Lt. Bowers,’ she said, ‘I assure you I won’t eat you.’ I didn’t altogether believe her, yet I admired her tremendously, and later was relieved to notice she looked at inaminate objects – lampshades, vases of flowers – with much the same intensity of gaze. My parcel included a ball of wool and some knitting needles, but I imagine these came from one of my sisters.

Ponting gave a lecture, with slides, of the photographs he’s taken since we arrived; the shore party landing stores, preparing for the depot journey, Osman with his head on Meares’s lap, all of us round the table at the old Discovery hut, faces black with blubber smoke; lastly, an absolutely ripping study of the Terra Nova anchored in McMurdo Sound, the ice waves bunched like burst pillows in the foreground.

His commentary was somewhat flowery. ‘Here we see the assiduous Dr Wilson in the process of making an artistic sketch of the distant

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