Perfect North

by Jenny Bond

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Inspired by true events, this compelling story of discovery, love, loss and a deception that spanned a lifetime now includes a bonus sample from Jenny Bond's new novel, THE PRESIDENT'S LUNCH. 'A gripping tale' Good Reading 1897: As explorers and scientists scramble to conquer the North Pole, Nils Strindberg, with fellow adventurers S. A. Andrée and Knut Frænkel, takes up the challenge. Setting flight in a hydrogen balloon, Nils leaves his fiancée Anna and his brother Erik behind in Stockholm anxiously hoping for his return. 1930: When the men's remains are discovered on the frozen island of Kvitøya, the news makes headlines around the world. Brash young journalist Knut Stubbendorff is sent to report from the site and uncovers, among the debris, journals filled with love letters from Nils to Anna. Wanting to know more about the man who left his love to embark on a journey that was doomed from the start, Stubbendorff is determined to find her ... but Anna doesn't want to be found. In a search that uncovers lost loves, deceit and long-buried secrets, Stubbendorff discovers a story that has stayed hidden for decades and the people who have been concealing it. The President's Lunch will be available on 29 July 2014. PRAISE for PERFECT NORTH: 'hugely enjoyable' Australian Women's Weekly 'This debut novel is based on a true story so tragically romantic you couldn't make it up.' Who Weekly

Release date: September 24, 2013

Publisher: Hachette Australia

Print pages: 313

Sample

A PERILOUS EXPEDITION

The proposed polar expedition by balloon is beginning to assume shape. The balloon will be made in Paris, Engineer Andree, of Stockholm, will be in command, and Dr Ekholm, of the University of Upsal, will be the meteorologist of the expedition. A photographer named Strindberg will take snap shots on the way.

The air ship will have a capacity of 4,500 metres. It will be made of silk of several thicknesses, made waterproof and varnished so that it will be absolutely impermeable.

The cost of the balloon, all told, will be about fifty thousand francs. The constructors have agreed to accompany the expedition to Spitsbergen to look after the inflation of the balloon and direct the preparations for the departure. The air ship is to be finished by May 11. The acids, the materials necessary for making hydrogen gas, and the shed to be put up to shelter the balloon during the process of inflation, will be carried to Spitsbergen from Sweden by a vessel of the Royal Navy. The ascension will take place at one of the islands of Norskoearna, a little archipelago northeast of Spitsbergen, about 650 miles from the pole.

The balloon will carry three guide ropes, weighing altogether 1,000 kilogrammes. One of their uses will be to diminish the speed of the air ship, so as to enable the travelers to govern it to some extent. By starting from a station so near the pole, the aeronauts will be able in a few hours to get beyond the latitudes that have been reached so far by any expedition. A number of photographs will be taken, giving an exact idea of the regions over which the party will be taken by the caprices of the wind. The guide ropes will hold the balloon at a height not exceeding 200 metres.

After passing over the pole the travelers expect to reach civilization on the other side, or at least a locality where they will have a chance to be sighted by a whaler.

According to the calculations of Dr Ekholm, it is probable that the expedition will remain at least fifteen days in the air, and that during this period the balloon will travel a distance of over 3,000 miles. A collection of 2,000 photographs is expected.

How the men plan to protect themselves for fifteen days from the intense cold that they will encounter in mid-air in the regions of eternal winter is not even suggested. It does not seem possible that any amount of furs would suffice. To sustain life upon the ice, where it is at least possible to secure some shelter, is extremely difficult, as experience has taught; in the frail car of a balloon, where the men will be constantly exposed to the intense cold of the open air, it must seem impossible. It looks as if this expedition will result in the sacrifice of several human lives and nothing more.

STOCKHOLM, SWEDENAUGUST 1895

An uncomfortable silence settled over the Strindberg drawing room. Nils looked to his older brother Erik for a reaction, but none came. His mother sat speechless in her armchair and his father stared stubbornly at a spot on the wall. Finally the quiet was broken by twelve-year-old Tore.

‘It will be a marvellous adventure, I should think.’ Nils smiled at him in gratitude. ‘I mean, it’s the chance of a lifetime really, and Nils will return a hero.’

‘If he returns,’ Erik mumbled under his breath. He took a long, pointed drag on his cigarette.

Nils shot him a hostile glance. Erik returned fire.

‘Go to bed, Tore, it’s late,’ his mother said quietly.

‘But the first men to reach the North Pole! Nils will make history. Don’t you see?’

‘Tore!’

Nils ruffled Tore’s hair. ‘Off to bed with you. I’ll see you in the morning.’ With that Tore walked out and closed the door with theatrical force behind him.

Their father turned to Nils. ‘Do you have time to reconsider?’

‘I’ve given my word and I don’t want to reconsider. Andrée is an accomplished balloonist and engineer. He’s a member of the city council. If you’d heard him speak at the Academy you wouldn’t be worried.’

‘Andrée is insane, a mad ballooning zealot,’ Erik interrupted, his voice so loud that Rosalie flinched. ‘Travelling to the North Pole in a balloon? Is he serious? Are you serious? Even the American Greely thinks he’s round the bend. And John Wise, Andrée’s ballooning hero, disappeared over Lake Michigan fifteen years ago.’

The brothers glared at each other until the deadlock was broken by the sudden sound of frantic activity in the entrance hall. In a few seconds Sven, looking dishevelled and smelling of beer, entered the room.

‘Sorry I’m late. What did I miss?’ the twenty-one-year-old chirped, straightening his tie.

‘Stop grinning, you idiot,’ Erik blasted. ‘What did you miss? Well, Nils is going off to kill himself, that’s all.’

Sven’s brow furrowed and he looked quizzically at his mother. ‘What’s he shouting about?’

‘Never mind, darling,’ she said calmly. ‘Nils will tell you all about it in the morning. I think you should hop on up to bed now.’ Rosalie led her son to the door and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. Sven complied.

Thanks to his size and demeanour Erik had been nicknamed ‘Viking’ by his family and friends as a child. He took after his father, Oscar, in this regard. A mere sixteen months his brother’s senior, Erik saw himself as Nils’ protector, and Nils resented it bitterly. Neither could give way to the other on any subject, no matter how trivial. Their determination to outdo the other drove their teachers to distraction and their mother to tears – yet they were the truest of friends.

Nils sighed impatiently. ‘Greely has no experience with balloons and his expedition ten years ago ended with twenty of his party dead.’ His voice was rising. ‘What does he know about successful Arctic exploration?’

Erik sneered. ‘And how is Andrée going to fund this flight of fancy? Apart from you, dear brother, who’s foolish enough to invest money or time in this madness?’

‘The King. He’ll do anything to ensure Sweden’s is the first flag planted at the North Pole.’

‘How many of you are going, Nils?’ his father asked. ‘Will it be just the two of you?’

‘No, Papa. There’s a third man, Nils Ekholm. He’s a meteorologist. Quite a well-known one, actually. He and Andrée are old colleagues.’

Their mother now joined the debate. ‘But why you, darling?’

Nils sat down on the arm of his mother’s chair and took her hand. ‘His concerns are partly practical, Mama. Andrée needs someone young and fit and healthy, someone who’ll be able to endure the conditions. And my scientific training will also be very useful to him.’

Nils spoke with characteristic modesty. He was a highly trained and well-regarded physicist, assistant to Svante Arrhenius, one of the world leaders in his field of Greenhouse Law. Andrée would benefit immensely from Nils’ expertise.

‘I’ll be recording wind pressure and direction, the movement of ice floes and other meteorological data,’ Nils explained evenly. ‘I hope to return to Stockholm with information that will advance the university’s research.’

Rosalie nodded, alarm still evident in her brilliant blue eyes.

‘Andrée has also heard about my photography, Mama. He wants to document the entire expedition on film. Who better to do that than me?’ Nils’ final remark was punctuated with a wan chuckle.

He neglected to tell his mother that it was not in fact Andrée who had approached him. Nils had met with the adventurer after his speech at the Swedish Academy of Sciences in February not only to congratulate Andrée but also to offer the man his full support.

Rosalie smiled at him thinly, then stood and left the room. Nils looked after her but said nothing. He checked his watch then cast an eye to the clock standing at the far corner of the room. He was stunned to see it was only eight o’clock.

Erik did not seem persuaded by his brother’s speech and gave a loud huff as he sat his broad frame heavily on the sofa.

Out of sheer frustration, Nils turned on him. ‘You’ve made your mark in your career, brother. Your expertise is needed in America and I’m sure you’ll be able to establish an extremely prosperous livelihood for yourself there. I’m an excellent scientist, but I have no head for business. This is my opportunity to establish myself and make my mark.’

Erik stood abruptly and strode to the window. He parted the curtains and looked out onto the street. When he eventually turned, there was a wry grin on his face.

‘Well, if this fool’s errand has any chance of success, Andrée will need you along. You’re the most capable man I know, brother.’ Erik grabbed Nils’ hand and shook it. Then, without warning or precedent, he pulled his brother to him and wrapped him tightly in a bear hug, overcome with pride in Nils’ courage and the fear of losing him. He couldn’t stop Nils from becoming his own man; Erik was just disturbed by the means he had chosen to achieve his goal.

Nils was shocked and surprised at this display of brotherly admiration. This had been a remarkable day, indeed.

‘You don’t need to do this,’ Erik said. ‘I’m leaving Stockholm …’ He trailed off, unable to express what he hoped. Erik was aware that he cast an extremely large shadow, but how could he convince his brother that there were other, more sensible means of stepping out of it?

Nils nodded, understanding the gist of his brother’s faltering argument. His silence was enough to show Erik that his plans were not going to be altered.

Their father began, ‘To be frank, Nils, I never thought I’d see you involved in such a foolhardy scheme. Erik’s always been pig-headed and the first to put himself in harm’s way. Sven’s determination to leap at any opportunity frightens me silly and Tore is reckless by nature. But you’ve always been the sensible one.’ Oscar took his son’s hand. ‘I can understand what you hope to achieve and I wish you the best of luck. But my word isn’t the last. I’m sure your fiancée will have an opinion.’

In the heat of the dispute someone had been entirely overlooked. Nils turned and smiled at the dark-haired young woman sitting in the corner. He looked at her expectantly. Her heart raced but she hesitated to speak until she could restrain her words.

‘I need air,’ she said, standing. She smiled politely at Nils, Erik and their father and strode from the room.

The discovery of these objects in this desert place, these lifeless things, which swiftly carried the thoughts to their former owners and the uses to which they had been put, gave birth to an irresistible impression of the opposition between life and death. Here, then, had men, warm-blooded and with a will to live, been compelled to cross the threshold of the kingdom of omnipotent cold! They had lived here – and perished.

– Knut Stubbendorff, 1930, Andrée’s Story

KVITØYA, NORWAYSEPTEMBER 1930

The journalist stepped tentatively off the sloop and onto the bleak, snowy tundra. An appropriate place to die, Stubbendorff thought as he stared at the desolate scene. He was more than tired and the shadow of a headache lay behind his right eye. He brushed his white hair from his brow as he took in his surroundings.

What had begun as an adventure for the twenty-five-year-old a week ago, a change in the daily tedium of local news and obituaries, had soon become a chore. Engaging a seaworthy boat equipped with a wireless, negotiating costs and times with drunken, simpleton sealers and surviving the rough night journey to the Norwegian no-man’s land had quickly managed to turn the exploit sour.

Squinting his pale blue eyes against the intense sunlight, he looked out at the Arctic Sea and the cloudless sky. Stubbendorff was unsure what he would find here, probably just the grim pickings left behind by polar bears and the Bratvaag expedition two weeks before. The original assignment had been to intercept the Bratvaag on its return journey to Norway and interview the geologist Dr Gunnar Horn about the discovery. But delays due to bad weather meant that the rendezvous was missed. Horn’s booty was in Norway, soon to be in the hands of the Scientific Commission in Sweden, and Stubbendorff would have to make do with merely documenting his visit to what had overnight become the most renowned and remote graveyard in the world.

He walked steadily with his companions – a photographer, new on staff at the Aftonbladet, and the captain and six crew from the Isbjörn – in the direction of a rocky ridge that ran from east to west along the length of the small island. At the summit of the ridge a pole, held in place by three guywires, had been erected. Below it was a rocky mound built from loose stones, a makeshift memorial constructed by Horn and his team. Before Stubbendorff had travelled fifty paces from the beach, he was rewarded. At the foot of the ridge lay a sledge, various articles of clothing and a collection of everyday objects one would use at a camp site – utensils, a compass, a saucepan and a knife. Trapped under the ice for more than three decades, these items had been exposed by a hotter than usual late summer sun and a rare absence of snow. The journalist wondered why they had been left by Horn. Perhaps the discovery of the two bodies preserved in ice had proved a distraction.

Stubbendorff halted and surveyed the scene. He had not expected anything like this. One could simply place three living men into the picture and have it take on new life. Everything remained exactly as he imagined the trio left it. His assignment suddenly took on a different meaning. If they knew they were doomed, why and how did they keep going? They must have persevered with a daily routine right until the end, he thought. It would have been understandable to the reporter if the three of them had taken a short walk into the Arctic Sea. Surely, this would have been an easier solution to their predicament. The intensity of their will shocked him. When Bergman had informed him of his assignment, Stubbendorff had viewed it as nothing more than an escape. Time seemed to move so slowly in the offices of the Aftonbladet. The clock resting on the wall above Bergman’s door inched so agonisingly that at times Stubbendorff believed it had stopped. The undertaking was also an easy way to gain some credibility at the newspaper and, if he was lucky, a little of Bergman’s good favour. But for the three dead men, the ice had captured them and Kvitøya had become their prison. Yet, from what he saw around him, they had refused to surrender. A lump formed in his throat and threatened to choke him.

An adolescent boy from the crew bent over and drew a small axe from a muddy puddle. The lad raised the implement above his head, a gesture of mock violence in an attempt to amuse his older colleagues. ‘Don’t touch anything. Leave it where it lies until we’ve photographed and documented everything,’ Stubbendorff ordered.

The boy dropped the axe in surprise. Stubbendorff hastily produced a notebook and pencil from the pocket of his coat. He hoped this uncharacteristic order would make the Isbjörn’s dimwitted crew think twice before pocketing any souvenirs. The boy’s thoughtless joke provoked an inexplicable anger in the reporter, who was usually immune to sentiment. Besides, he wanted a record of everything.

He loosened his scarf as he felt beads of perspiration forming on his upper lip. The polar sun was hot but the gravity of the task was also beginning to weigh on him. If he was not present, he thought, the crew would take what they liked and sail back to Norway. He was not a geologist, archaeologist or historian. Certainly he was not an adventurer. Yet he felt he was the only man here who could comprehend the immensity of what had been found and the colossal responsibility that would have to be shouldered.

As he meticulously listed objects half-embedded in the ice, a cry came from the north side of the ridge. ‘Herr Stubbendorff, over here! We’ve found something.’ Once he had made his way over the ridge, he saw four crew members staring down at a bone in the mud, about fifteen inches long.

‘It looks like a leg bone, thigh perhaps,’ Stubbendorff said. ‘I wonder how Horn missed this?’

‘Whose do you think it is?’ someone asked.

‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps it’s the third man, Frænkel. Or perhaps it’s part of Andrée or Strindberg. I’d say the bears have had their way with the bodies. It will be the job of the Scientific Commission to work out who’s who.’

The men turned to Stubbendorff for direction. ‘Let’s get this photographed, shall we?’ he said. ‘If Horn missed this, then there’s more than likely other …’ – for the first time in his life the writer was lost for a suitable word – ‘debris.’

‘I doubt if anything was missed, Herr Stubbendorff,’ the Isbjörn’s captain, Anton Hallen, said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The ice. My guess is that what’s-his-name …’

‘Horn.’

‘Yes, Horn couldn’t get everything out of the ice without causing damage. It’s been two weeks. The ice has melted even more since he was here.’

Stubbendorff nodded, thinking it a reasonable explanation.

Over the course of the long day, as the party moved around the island, the bones of the lower half of a body were found. The bears had made a mess of the entire camp, scattering the skeleton all over the island. As each bone was found, it was laid solemnly in its correct place like a morbid puzzle piece.

Stubbendorff, with his shirtsleeves rolled to his upper arms, quietly moved around the skeleton, gently adjusting and repositioning the bones as new ones were prised from the ice, uncovered and presented for inspection. He was no student of biology, but the journalist believed the majority of a torso and lower body had been found. If this man was Frænkel, he would have been twenty-seven years old when he died, Stubbendorff thought. Just two years older than the reporter.

As he fastidiously arranged and rearranged the bones, stepping gingerly over the remains, he thought about the three men and what they had accomplished. Their fearlessness and spirit had made them national heroes. Strindberg had been just twenty-five, like himself. Stubbendorff couldn’t help comparing his own achievements with that of the explorer.

He thought back to the moment his life had become charted on this course. The instant he saw Bergman open his office door, a telegram clasped in his pudgy fingers, and walk towards his desk, Stubbendorff’s first instinct had been to hide or run. But he remained inert, staring at the keys of his typewriter, his stooped shoulders forming a protective cave.

‘The publishers want a return on their investment,’ Bergman had explained. ‘This paper funded a large chunk of that expedition thirty years ago in return for exclusive rights. At the time, they got nothing. The odd message from a carrier pigeon, but nothing truly newsworthy. Now the camp has been found, they’re looking to finally cash in.’

The assignment had seemed like an entertaining diversion. The reporter was familiar with the details of the Andrée expedition. It was one of his father’s favourite bedtime stories and the tale of the ill-fated men had captivated Stubbendorff as a child. But now he realised the project had taken on a greater personal significance that he was struggling to define.

As the day began to grow cold, Stubbendorff called a halt to the search. ‘We’re losing the sun. Let’s head back to the boat and crack on in the morning.’ He wrapped the bones in a tarpaulin, secured it firmly with rope, picked up the bundle, threw it across his shoulder and made his way back to the beach. Stumbling on a piece of half-buried driftwood, Stubbendorff fell to his knees.

As he was about to heave himself to his feet, he caught sight of a figure under the ice. Stubbendorff bent lower, his face only inches from the ground. It was the head and upper body of a man lying on his left side, his left arm bent upwards, with the hand beneath his head. The dead man was frozen fast to the ground. Stubbendorff stood, unable to take his eyes off the man. He has lain there undisturbed since death touched him, Stubbendorff thought.

He called to a few members of the crew to help him. After breaking through the frozen tomb, they removed several layers of clothing, revealing the skeleton. But it broke apart as Stubbendorff was trying to carefully excavate the body using a small spade. A knot formed in his chest. The journalist closed his eyes before speaking. ‘Wrap the bones in a tarpaulin and take them back to the boat.’

The man’s skull was last to be exhumed. It lay alone in the trench that had been created by the dig.

‘Leave it,’ Stubbendorff said quietly. ‘I’ll take it.’

He stared into the empty eye sockets as the sun set behind the horizon. Was this a courageous or a stupid man, Stubbendorff wondered. His immense undertaking had amounted to nothing, just bones in the earth. A life lived, prematurely snuffed out to become food for the bears. As he walked towards the boat with the skull secured under his arm like a football, he was reminded of Shakespeare’s Danish prince, weighed down by the burden of righting a wrong. Once on board he locked the skull and bones in a chest in the captain’s cabin, returned to his own small cabin and fell asleep.



Stubbendorff woke and looked at the time. It was approaching seven. He had slept for ten hours. An intense hunger gripped him and he walked briskly to the galley. Everybody else had already breakfasted, so he satisfied his appetite with a chunk of bread doused in treacle. He downed a cup of black coffee laced with sugar then headed up to the deck.

The weather had changed. Yesterday’s sun and heat had given way to a damp mist and what looked like a snowstorm heading their way.

‘Good morning, Herr Stubbendorff. Awake finally? You’d never make a sealer. I’ve been up at dawn for the past thirty years.’ Hallen gave a throaty chuckle and lit his cigarette. ‘Even after the day we had yesterday, I was still wide awake by—’

Stubbendorff cut him off. ‘What do you think about this weather?’

‘There’s a storm on its way, that’s for sure. You know, until yesterday, to be honest, I thought this island was a myth made up by drunken sailors,’ the captain said. ‘No one has been able to sail to Kvitøya for the past fifty years, I’d wager – hidden for all that time by thick fogs and surrounded by ice.’

‘So this hot spell isn’t likely to last?’

‘That’s right. I’m surprised it’s lasted this long.’

Stubbendorff walked to the starboard side, leant over the rail and stared at the island. A thousand thoughts raced through his head. Bergman would be beside himself waiting for word of what had been found. He wanted an article worthy of the front page: some scandal, perhaps a little controversy. But such an article would not do Andrée and his men justice. It seemed to Stubbendorff that after more than thirty years their camp had been exposed for a reason. The ice had melted for a purpose.

Andrée, Strindberg and Frænkel must have had wives, mothers, sweethearts, perhaps even children. Living all these years not knowing how the men’s story ended would have been torturous for their loved ones. For Stubbendorff it was simple. These three remarkable men deserved a memorial. If he left now, all that he sailed away from on Kvitøya would remain buried under the ice for another three decades, or at least until the extreme polar weather allowed another brief respite. The crew had collected only a portion of what might be found.

He turned back to the captain. ‘We should keep searching the island and gather as many items as we can before the weather turns. Will you please instruct two of your crew to build a coffin for the remains of the man we found?’ The captain nodded. The rest of the men followed Stubbendorff off the sloop and into the rowboats that would transport them the mile to shore.



Stubbendorff heard squalls in the distance, visibility worsened and the journalist noticed a storm signal had been hoisted on the Isbjörn. He quickly made his way around the island and signalled to the scattered crew to head back to the beach and the awaiting rowboats. There had been a steady flow of found objects and bones to the Isbjörn all day. Stubbendorff had requested that everything be placed in his cabin. The crew seemed amiable enough, but he noticed they were sloppy and careless; already a number of items had been broken. They did not comprehend the importance of this grisly treasure hunt.

That evening following supper Stubbendorff began the immense task of classifying everything that had been hastily dumped in his cabin. He then numbered each item and described it in detail in his notebook before placing it with other related items. After several hours Stubbendorff checked the time. His watch read eight o’clock, but he knew it must be later, the sun had set hours ago. He tapped the face. It was broken. Damp was the culprit, he thought. The watch had been a sixteenth birthday gift from his mother.

He cautiously stepped over the objects covering almost the entire floor and sat cross-legged on a small, bare spot in the middle of the cabin. He drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes for an instant and suddenly became aware of an overwhelming tiredness, a stinging in his throat and a dull ache in his lower back. He scratched his chin through his sandy whiskers and realised he had not telegraphed the Aftonbladet. Bergman would be mad with anxiety. Stubbendorff decided he would relay the news at first light. He raised himself to his feet and resumed work.

I have seldom, if ever, experienced a more dramatic, a more touching succession of events than when I began the preparation of the wet leaves, thin as sil. . .