to be interviewed by Dr Richard Shoesmith.
The walls of the Sullavanco foyer were hung with representations of Sullavan newspaper front pages cast in bronze and television screens showed Sullavan TV programmes from around the world. There were three receptionists with identical smiles behind a long curved reception desk made of polished wood.
‘The Polar Office? You’ll find it on the fifth floor, if you’ll take the lift behind you.’
The lift was one of the kind that slides up a glass tube mounted on the outside of the building and which always tended to give her vertigo. The carpet of the fifth-floor corridor seemed to rise up to meet her as she stepped out and she steadied herself with one hand against the inner wall.
The Polar Office receptionist sat behind another sleek expanse of curved wood. There was an arrangement of hot-orange flowers at one end of it that made Alice think of Margaret.
‘Dr Shoesmith shouldn’t keep you too long,’ the receptionist said.
A secretary brought Alice a cup of coffee while she waited. This was all so mutedly but distinctly high-rent that it made her smile. It couldn’t have been further from the dowdy clutter of the Department of Geology, or any other academic institution she had ever known. If the Polar Office was anything to go by, Kandahar Station would have an indoor swimming pool and a resident manicurist.
Dr Richard Shoesmith did keep her waiting – a full twenty minutes. When he finally emerged from his inner office Alice saw a compact man perhaps ten years older than herself. He was noticeably good-looking, but there were pale vertical furrows etched between his eyebrows that stood out against his weather-beaten skin. When they shook, his hand enveloped hers. He looked fit and slightly out of place in the plush Sullavan offices.
‘I’m sorry, Dr Peel. I was talking to the French. They maintain a full research programme of their own down south, as you know. There are Antarctic politics, as there are politics everywhere else in the world.’
‘Yes.’ Alice smiled.
They sat down, Shoesmith behind his desk, and Alice to one side and in a slightly lower chair.
‘You have no previous Antarctic experience,’ he began.
‘None,’ she said steadily.
He looked through a neat sheaf of documents. She could see that there were offprints of some her published research papers, a copy of the full academic CV she had submitted at the request of Beverley Winston, Lewis Sullavan’s assistant. There was also an excellent reference provided by Professor Devine.
‘Hmm. Doctoral studies, carbonate sedimentary rocks, western Turkey. Lecturer in sedimentology, University of Oxford…proposed area of study…mapping, stratigraphic survey and dating of sedimentary rock formations in the vicinity of…Yes.’ Richard looked up abruptly and his eyes held Alice’s. His gaze was unblinking. ‘Lewis is very eager to have you join the expedition.’
Cautiously, Alice nodded.
‘Perhaps you could give me your own reasons.’
She looked straight back at him. She would have to be honest. ‘The enthusiast was originally my mother. She was, is…’
‘Yes, I know who your mother is.’
Of course he did.
There was a small silence. Shoesmith was still waiting. Alice added softly, ‘I have thought about it a great deal since the suggestion was first made.’
The truth was that an entirely unexpected desire had taken hold of her.
It wasn’t to do with geological research, although her academic appetite for the new realm of Antarctic rock was beginning to grow. It wasn’t even for Margaret’s sake, although of course that was a part of it. It was much more that she wanted to push out from the secure corner of her own life, the place that her crumbled illusions about Peter had left dusty and unpopulated, and to turn disappointment into discovery.
All her knowledge of the south was second-hand, straitjacketed by book covers or seen through the tunnel of a camera lens. There was none of her own history in it, although its history surrounded her. She had been keeping her mind closed to it for years, until Margaret and Lewis Sullavan together had opened a door. And now the very remoteness and the blank page that it would offer had begun to draw her, as forcibly as they had once repelled.
She began to dream of Antarctica, vivid dreams painted in ice colours and scoured with blizzards. She woke up from these dreams relieved to find herself in her own bed and yet impatient with the confines of ordinary life.
Beyond the shaded windows of the Polar Office lay the olive-green river, threaded by tourist boats and police launches, and the dome of St Paul’s and the busy bridges, the complicated and familiar web of London. Alice thought of the roads leading away from the centre, skeins of motorways passing the airports, the route that would take her back to Oxford, to the quiet house in Jericho where Pete no longer lived, and all the other avenues and niches of a populated world. Was going to Antarctica just running away from the overfamiliar, from the present disappointment of reality?
No one who went to the ice ever came back unchanged: Alice had heard that often enough, even from Margaret, the arch-unsentimentalist. Probably everyone who found themselves drawn south was on the run from someone, or something, and that included Richard Shoesmith. But she was running towards it too, faster and faster every day. The sound of her own footsteps pounded a drumbeat rhythm in her head.
She was ready to be changed.
Richard Shoesmith was waiting for her answer.
Alice felt her legs shaking and the palms of her hands grew damp. She crossed her ankles in the opposite direction and let her hands lie composedly in her lap, but even so she was sure he read the unscientific glitter in her eyes. She didn’t think Shoesmith missed much. ‘I want to see it for myself,’ she said.
‘Go on, please.’
Knowing that this was not the time to mention dreams of ice, or of running anywhere, she talked about European scientific co-operation, Antarctic geopolitics and the unrivalled opportunity to undertake valuable research. The words were measured, but eagerness coloured them and her voice shivered just audibly with absolute longing.
Richard Shoesmith took all of this in. His expression didn’t change as he listened to her, but some of the rigidity seemed to melt out of him.
‘It is a chance that any geologist would jump at, Dr Peel. A complete field season, automatic full funding, the opportunity to make your mark as part of a team at a brand-new station.’
‘Yes. I do appreciate that.’
He picked up a smooth ovoid rock from his desktop and meditatively turned it in his fingers. Embedded in the dark siltstone Alice could see the pale, distinct bullet shape of a Jurassic belemnite. ‘Because of the nature of our present funding, in the selection of personnel for this expedition there is an inevitable element of, how shall I put it, who you are and whom you know?’
He was looking down at the fossil, not at her.
Alice smiled before she said delicately, ‘I think we both understand that.’
Because she knew about Richard Shoesmith, just as he
