In At the Deep End Page 3

  I walk to the window and take a few deep breaths. A large motor cruiser and a catamaran plough through the choppy seas towards the heads, and two ferries approach Circular Quay. Once my breathing is steady I turn around and lean my shoulder blades against the window. I’m wearing my usual teaching outfit—slim-fitting jeans and canvas lace-ups with a T-shirt. It matches my eye colour. ‘They’re cornflower blue,’ Mum always said. ‘Like alpine lakes, wild lupins and robin’s eggs.’

  ‘You’re an impressive young woman, Miss Scott,’ the mediator says.

  I gesture to Per. ‘On the Torrens he said I was a fraud.’

  Per narrows his eyes. ‘What else do you remember?’

  ‘That you were an arrogant prick.’

  ‘Miss Scott,’ the mediator says, ‘that was discourteous.’

  Per turns to the mediator. ‘I think we’re wasting our time.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ the mediator says. ‘Because it’s my belief that you and Miss Scott have far more in common than either of you care to admit.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, sitting at the table again. ‘We both want a ship. But the foundation’s funds are earmarked for other projects.’

  The lawyer raises his brows. ‘In which case,’ he says, ‘the foundation will have to find additional funds for Commander Amundsen’s project.’

  I take a breath, and turn to Per. ‘There’s no doubt your project is worthwhile from an environmental point of view, but that doesn’t mean the Scott Foundation will back it. You know as well as I do that climate variation, and what drives it, is a complex issue. Even scientists disagree on how, and to what extent, certain projects should be funded, especially long-term and expensive ones like yours. The public, including members of the foundation, pick and choose what they want to support.’

  The lawyer starts arguing, but the mediator shuts him down. ‘We’re here to find solutions,’ he says. Then he turns to me.

  ‘My daughter is about your age, Miss Scott. She admires you tremendously. You were a tomboy when you were a girl, weren’t you? Strong-willed, opinionated. A little precocious, perhaps?’

  I grimace. ‘More than a little.’

  ‘Our family learnt a great deal from yours about conservation and so on. It continues to learn from the work that you and the foundation are involved in.’

  ‘I’m glad about that.’

  ‘And Commander Amundsen. You have a naval career, and quite a reputation as a scientist as well.’

  Per shrugs.

  ‘But, as Miss Scott has explained, your current research project might not appeal to the foundation. Do you have any thoughts on how we could get around this problem?’

  Per responds to the mediator’s question, but his gaze stays on me. ‘No, I don’t have any thoughts. Because as you pointed out, I’m a scientist. It’s Miss Scott who thinks she’s capable of anything.’

  It’s an effort to keep my voice even. ‘I’m a teacher.’

  His eyes are icy. ‘Which is why your conduct in the storm put your crew’s lives, your own life, at risk. I couldn’t get a pulse when I pulled you out of the ocean. I pumped your chest for three fucking minutes before you breathed on your own.’

  I link my hands together so he can’t see them shaking. ‘Kat told me.’

  He indicates a millimetre space between his thumb and index finger. ‘You were this close to death. And for what? To maintain the foundation’s profile? Your parents are dead. Drew McLeish has retired. It’s time you moved on.’

  The mediator clears his throat. ‘Commander,’ he says, ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘Let me finish. I want her to get the message that the Scott Foundation has two options. It gives me the use of a ship, or a damages payout so that I can fund my own. Because incompetence comes at a price.’

  I jump to my feet. ‘I’m not incompetent, or an idiot. I was educated about the environment by scores of people, including my parents, and Drew. Yes I’m a teacher, a geography teacher, which is relevant to what I do. I’m also a communicator, something you know little about. Because if you did you’d appreciate that most people don’t give a shit about ice cores. That’s why they need information on how ice cores are relevant to preserving natural environments in Antarctica and predicting sea level rises elsewhere. It’s why, even though I’m not a commander with a PhD like you, I need to be out in the world.’

  He stands too. ‘Thanks for the lecture.’

  ‘You’re an arrogant prick!’

  ‘You’ve already used that one. Got anything else?’

  I point to him and my finger wobbles. ‘You’re an elitist, conceited, patronising …’

  He puts his hands on the table so we’re at eye level. His words are spoken softly. ‘What, Harriet? Lion? Rhino?’

  His lawyer asks him to speak up.

  ‘She heard me,’ Per says.

  The mediator takes another gulp of water, and suggests that Per and I sit down again. We comply, but Per reaches for his jacket as he does so, shrugging into it and collecting his papers. He thanks the mediator for his time, and tells his lawyer that he’ll be in touch.

  They’re all sitting on the edges of their chairs and staring at me after that. But I’m sketching another image, and refuse to look up until I’ve finished. I’ve drawn a bull elephant. The picture is from the perspective of whatever, or whomever, he’s planning to annihilate. He’s surrounded by dust, beaten from the ground as he charges. His eyes are black and he has a narrow scar, extending from the top of one tusk to just beneath his eye. I refuse to meet Per’s eyes. I turn to the mediator instead.

  ‘Can you see what this is?’ The mediator peers across the table but he can’t make out the image. When I ask the lawyer the same question he puts his glasses on, and then he takes them off. He shakes his head.

  I look at Per and raise my brows.

  He leans back in his chair, pushing it away from the table and stretching his legs out.

  ‘It’s an elephant,’ he says. ‘African.’

  I check the diameter of the table again. Over two metres wide, I’m sure of it. And my notebook is small, not much bigger than my hand. Are Per’s senses of hearing, touch, taste and smell as acute as his sense of sight? And what about his other qualities? He’s strong, smart, and he swims like a fish. Is he a real life action hero with special powers?

  ‘Does the elephant have any distinguishing characteristics?’ I ask.

  He doesn’t say anything. He simply lifts his index finger and traces the scar on his cheek.

  Would the Scott Foundation buy another ship if they had an action hero to sail in her? For months I’ve been trying to convince Professor Tan—the chairman of the Scott Foundation—to finance a ship. Could this angle get him interested? I don’t have to like Per to see that he’d be extraordinarily marketable. He’s clever, exotic, athletic. He’d be photogenic. What I’m planning will result in further embarrassment for me because Per is already notorious for my rescue, but I owe it to Mum, Dad and Drew to do everything I can to secure a ship. There are so many images crowding my mind that I have to write them down. Per frowns; he probably thinks I’m sketching again. He stands and shakes hands with the lawyer and mediator.

  ‘Wait!’ I say. ‘I have an idea.’

  He looks from my eyes to my mouth, and scowls.

  ‘Stop doing that,’ I say.

  He jerks his head away and stares out of the window.

  I tap my pencil on the desk. ‘Are you related to the explorer Amundsen?’

  He’s still considering the view, and he doesn’t turn around. ‘Remotely. Why?’

  ‘Dad said we were related to Scott.’

  He turns from the window. ‘What are you talking about?’

  I ask the lawyer to search for the foundation’s website on his laptop, and bring up a post I did in February. Then I ask him to read the first couple of paragraphs out loud.

  The Scott Foundation: Environment Adventure Education

  As you all know, The Watch went down
in late December. We had trouble getting the lifeboats into the water and, unbeknownst to the rest of the crew, I was left behind. Two people from HMAS Torrens came to pick me up: Lieutenant Katrina Fisher from the Australian Navy, and Commander Per Amundsen from the Norwegian Navy.

  A few people have written to me, asking whether I’m aware of the Scott and Amundsen connection. Course I am! I’m a geography teacher. But it’s a fascinating story of perseverance and determination, and I’d like to share it with those of you who mightn’t be familiar with it.

  In December 1911 the Norwegian Roald Amundsen led the team that was the first to reach the South Pole, the southernmost part of the world. Robert Falcon Scott, the celebrated English explorer, and his team, were only thirty-four days behind Amundsen. And, as if coming second wasn’t bad enough, Scott’s men never made it back to base camp. He was one of the last to die, bitterly disappointed, frostbitten, and starving.

  When James has finished reading, Per shrugs. ‘So?’ he says.

  I try to imagine that the three men facing me are a class of thirteen-year-olds on a Friday afternoon. I’ll have to be convincing to keep them engaged.

  ‘Amundsen and Scott’s race to the South Pole happened over a century ago, but historians still write about the men, the challenges they faced, and the political ramifications of what they did. The data they collected is still relevant today. Imagine what we could do if we had the Scott Foundation and an Amundsen working together, exploring together—not to discover new frontiers, but to save the ones we know about.’

  I hadn’t exaggerated when I’d told Per that the foundation would only get behind a cause that was likely to attract the support of its members. Contributing to the funding of a study into ice cores and glaciers, involving him and scores of other scientists, would never be of interest. Fundraising targeted to specific and pressing environmental concerns would be a different matter. The mediator raises his brows when I count points off on my fingers.

  ‘Rising sea levels have catastrophic implications for low-lying islands, such as the Maldives, Palau, and Australia’s Torres Strait. There are also regions like Bangladesh that are directly affected by ice-shelf disintegration in the Arctic and changes in Southern Ocean currents. The foundation could send a ship and documentary crew to investigate what’s happening—how livelihoods, cultures, whole species of flora and fauna are threatened. And we could tie this in with the commander’s research into glacial melts in the South Pole, the big picture stuff. Because it’s melting ice, whatever the cause, that’s resulting in the increased sea levels.’

  I’m speaking quickly to get my ideas out. Per’s expression is grim. It makes me talk even faster.

  ‘It’s the end of March already, so we’d have to start fundraising as soon as we have the foundation’s approval. We’re not going to get a ship straight away, but leasing one until the foundation has the funds to secure its own isn’t out of the question. Maybe we could source a small icebreaker like The Watch, which’d be capable of going anywhere? If we can get organised by October, the ship could head to the Pacific, and then return back here in time to prepare for the first of the Antarctic expeditions in December, and—’

  ‘Harriet!’ When Per barks my name, the mediator and I both jump. ‘Half an hour ago you said a ship was out of the question. Now there’s a ship, it’s sailing around the world, and taking me to Antarctica. Slow down. Explain yourself.’

  The mediator smiles encouragingly. ‘Harriet. I may call you Harriet?’

  ‘It’s usually Harry.’

  ‘Harry, then.’ He smiles again. ‘I have a confession to make—I’m having trouble keeping up. Can I confirm you have a project you think the foundation may be interested in? Which means it might, ultimately, finance a ship to replace The Watch?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And, contrary to what you said earlier, it may also be prepared to support Commander Amundsen’s expeditions to Antarctica?’

  ‘If he cooperates in the fundraising campaign, yes.’

  Per curses under his breath and stands. ‘I repeat. Explain yourself. Or I leave.’

  I flip to a fresh page, and then I pick up my pencil. Per is easy to draw, particularly in profile. Straight nose, well defined jawline, tall and slender with broad shoulders and perfect posture. I include his distinctive widow’s peak, but lengthen his hair so a black lock sweeps across his brow. His scar is perfect—a physical manifestation of bravery and resilience. His feet are slightly apart, and his hands are clasped behind his back. I tear out the page and reach across the table to show it to the mediator. He blinks and opens his mouth but nothing comes out. When I show it to the lawyer, he smiles nervously before rising from his chair and handing it to Per.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he says.

  Per’s chest, abdominal and thigh muscles are clearly delineated in my drawing. They bulge against the fabric of his wetsuit. A white sash crosses his torso from shoulder to hip. His hair is dripping with water, his eyes are black, and his expression is grim. Per stares at his image, scowls, and slowly shakes his head. Finally he returns to the table and sits. When he pushes the sketch across the surface towards me it moves so fast I have to slap my hand on it to stop it flying over the edge.

  ‘Polarman?’ he says.

  I’d written the name in the sash. ‘I think the action hero idea will be more interesting to younger kids than the Scott and Amundsen historical perspective. We could have a two-pronged campaign.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘No I’m not. I’m just disappointed there’s already a Captain Planet cartoon character. That name would’ve been cute.’

  He closes his eyes for a moment. ‘Jesus.’

  I remind myself I have to stop annoying Per if I want to get him on side.

  ‘If you’re uncomfortable about having a superhero name, we could simply use your initials.’ I write a stylised version of the word ‘polar’, highlighting the P and A. He can see it from where he’s sitting, but I hold it up so the lawyer and mediator can see it too. ‘We could incorporate something like this in the sash instead.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’

  ‘And you’re a naval officer, eminently qualified—even by your own high standards—to crew on a ship. You’d only have to appear occasionally, and have your details on the website, to ensure your image gets associated with the foundation. Meanwhile, the foundation would fundraise, while simultaneously informing the public, through televised voyages to low-lying regions, about the environmental implications of polar melts.’

  The mediator clears his throat and sips from his glass. ‘Interesting ideas, Commander. Aren’t they?’

  Per looks at him as though he’s lost his mind. ‘They’re ridiculous ideas.’

  ‘You don’t have to wear a wetsuit if you don’t want to,’ I say. ‘A white uniform could work. Is that what you have in the Norwegian Navy?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘For special occasions. What do you wear?’

  He speaks between his teeth. ‘Our formal dress uniforms are black.’

  ‘Oh. But what about gold bits—epaulets, stripes on the arms, medals. Do you have those?’

  The mediator blinks when he sees Per’s expression. Then he turns to me. ‘Perhaps we could meet again next week? Once the commander has had a chance to consider your proposal.’

  ‘I have nothing to consider,’ Per says. ‘I’m a naval officer, not a cardboard cut-out. And after what happened in December I have no faith in Harriet, personally or professionally.’

  ‘Commander …’ the mediator says, ‘that was discourteous.’

  Per shrugs. ‘It’s the truth. You know she has a fear of the water? And she can’t swim. What sort of rational person goes to sea with a phobia like that?’

  I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘I can control it.’

  ‘Like hell you can.’

  The mediator sighs. ‘Commander, please. This is hardly the time or place for this.’

  I take a couple
of deep breaths before I address the mediator. ‘The commander would be dealing with the foundation, not me. All he’d have to do is be associated with it, and maybe take a ship out for a day or two—’

  ‘You’re either extraordinarily foolish, or criminally negligent,’ Per says. ‘I can’t decide which, and neither could the maritime inquiry into the sinking. Which means you’ve never been held properly accountable. And now you want me to volunteer for an imbecilic scheme you’ve just thought up? Forget it.’

  My mouth is dry and I’d like a drink of water, but my hands are shaking so I keep them clenched in my lap.

  The mediator stands. ‘This meeting wasn’t about the inquiry into the loss of The Watch, Commander, it was an attempt at mediation.’

  The lawyer frowns. ‘And in that respect, we’d lose nothing by giving Miss Scott the opportunity to put her ideas to the foundation. In fact, we probably have an obligation to do so as part of the mediation process. Perhaps, Commander, the foundation will adopt the proposal without your involvement?’

  Per shrugs, and tells his lawyer that he and the mediator can do what they have to do, but to keep him out of it. He shakes the men’s hands. Then he takes mine. His hand is warm. Mine is freezing cold.

  CHAPTER

  5

  The Scott Foundation: Environment Adventure Education

  Last month I posted about losing The Watch. Many people will remember the ship, and the important role she played in educating people about our environment, and how we can protect it. I was born on The Watch, so I have a whole lifetime of memories! I miss the ship, and I can’t help feeling I’ve let my parents down. To make things worse, some of the decisions I made before and during The Watch’s final voyage put the lives of others at risk. However …

  We all (even living breathing action heroes) make mistakes. I’m trying to learn from mine, and doing what I can to make up for the things I could have done better …