chattering of the other passengers, and since boarding the ship he’s taken every meal he can in his cabin. Managing to stay calm for most of the trip, he’s found his hands trembling uncontrollably as they near South Georgia. Nicotine isn’t helping any more, nor is the whisky he’s been pouring in his cabin each night. His head is dull and his mouth tastes tight and sour. Drinking will have to stop now that he’s arrived. He’ll need all his wits about him.
On the plus side, the antibiotics are kicking in and he’s feeling much better.
Time to pack. He pulls his rucksack down from the top shelf and then, one by one, the other things he’ll need. The single shell, one-man tent won’t be much of a match for a South Georgian gale but it folds up small. So does the sleeping bag, the thermal blanket and the groundsheet. The largest, bulkiest item is one he spent months researching – an inflatable, one-man kayak with foot pump.
He checks that his torches, his Swiss Army knife, his compass and his matches are where they should be. He counts the protein bars that will keep him alive the next few days. Everything else he’ll need, including his life jacket, he will wear.
He checks that his recently purchased satellite phone and back-up battery are fully charged.
The orange anorak can stay in the cupboard. He pulls his own dark-khaki jacket off its hanger and checks that his gloves are in the pockets. Finally, he unfolds the best chart of South Georgia that he’s been able to get hold of.
The main island is a little over a hundred miles long and twenty wide. Much of its internal landmass is covered with glaciers or mountain ranges that will be challenging, if not impossible, to cross. There are no roads, other than a few dirt tracks around the main settlements. The tiny population lives at either King Edward Point or Grytviken. Other places where people stay temporarily are few in number and are mainly ad hoc bases of the British Antarctic Survey. There is a small station on Bird Island and a former manager’s villa at the abandoned whaling station of Husvik. Nothing else that he’s been able to find. There are no airstrips, no regular ferry crossings. The only way to arrive is by sea voyage and once here, no other way off.
Freddie turns on his swivel stool to the newspaper cutting tacked to the headboard of his narrow bunk. A photograph and accompanying story, the only online trace he’s found in months of searching.
* * *
Glaciologist Seeks Antarctic Challenge
World expert glaciologist Felicity Lloyd, 28, is about to set sail on the trip of a lifetime to the remote island of South Georgia in the Antarctic Circle where she will spend two years studying the formation and movement of some of the planet’s lesser-known glaciers. Dr Lloyd, who has worked for the British Antarctic Survey (BAS) for five years, described the opportunity as ‘unique’ and says she isn’t remotely concerned about the harsh conditions so far south, or about the lack of human contact.
Fewer than fifteen people live on South Georgia in the winter months when temperatures rarely rise above freezing and snow covers most of the land. ‘I’m hoping to improve my skiing,’ Dr Lloyd adds.
South Georgia is a British Overseas Territory that was once one of the world’s most commercially successful whaling stations. During the Falklands Conflict of 1982, it was temporarily occupied by Argentina and was later retaken by British forces in a daredevil helicopter mission. Today, its income derives largely from the sale of fisheries licences and tourism.
* * *
The accompanying photograph is amateurish, the subject sitting straight on to the camera, poor lighting creating shadows behind her head. Her long blonde hair has been tied back and her large, deep-set eyes wear no makeup. She isn’t smiling. She hadn’t wanted her photograph taken, had probably been bullied into it by her employers.
It doesn’t do her justice, gives no hint of her height, the slender grace of her limbs, the way her hair shines silver in some lights. Not that Freddie needs a photograph. In his head, he knows every inch of her. There hasn’t been a day that he can remember when he hasn’t longed to run his hands over the silken skin, feel her hair tickling the underside of his chin, press his face against her to find that unique smell.
And now, at last, he’s found her.
7
Felicity
‘Morning, love,’ Ralph says,