Out of the Ice (37 page)

Incredibly, I didn’t think my own father did either. Or Snow.

My head started to ache and I closed my computer. Sunlight played through the gauze curtains, which billowed in the breeze. I looked out to a dusty patch of ground and saw Santo kick a soccer ball high into the blue sky, and Travis race to it and bounce it off his head. My mother, tall, brown-eyed, tufts of grey-brown hair sticking out like a penguin chick after her bout of chemotherapy, ran to the ball and kicked it. I was surprised by how far it went.

I stood up stiffly and walked outside, where the sweet scent of cherry blossom filled the air. It was my first time in Spain, and we had rented a house in Valle del Jerte in Extremadura, where Granny Maria and Papa Luis had spent their idyllic childhood, before Franco. The cherry trees were in full bloom, as white as driven snow, stretching far into the distance. Bees buzzed contentedly, gathering nectar for honey. Behind, mountains rose in a purple haze.

Santo ran and hugged me. ‘Kick the ball, kick the ball!’ He squeezed tightly.

Professor Natuzzi was helping us with the legalities required to allow Santo to continue to stay away from Guatemala. In time, after passing through a maze of bureaucracy, we hoped to adopt him.

In the meantime, Santo was going nowhere without me. He’d made his choice; and he was as stubborn as I was. I bent and quickly kissed the top of his head, and he tickled me, laughing merrily as I squealed.

My mother came towards us, the awkward run she’d always had, lopsided, hands splaying out to the sides. She was happy with life after her breast-cancer scare – a scare for which I’d given no support because I hadn’t answered her calls. I realised, now, how much I loved her, and how unfair I’d been to her over the years. She’d been looking out for me all this time, saving me from the darkness she knew was in my father. She’d seen his lack of ethics early on, had argued with him – and then asked him to leave when his sense of right and wrong was crushed beneath his overwhelming ambition. My mother had given me a moral compass. I’d misunderstood her – and now, like a lens flipped, I saw her for the brave, caring woman she was, and was sorry I hadn’t noticed before. With her reprieve from cancer, I was grateful I’d get a second chance to be as good to her as she’d been to me.

I smiled at Mum and she caught my eye; a moment passed between us, solid and strong, and then I kicked the ball and she cursed playfully as it went flying. Santo ran like the wind, glancing it off his boot and darting it to Travis.

•  •  •

Crickets chorused gently in the still air and an owl hooted somewhere far in the distance. The night was crisp. Santo and Mum were asleep in the adjacent rooms, and I stretched my body into the bend of Travis’s arms, luxuriating in his warmth. Next week, he planned to take us all for the promised lobster dinner in Kennebunkport, Maine. On our way, we would stop in Nantucket. Helen and Nancy were excited to meet Santo, and he was keen to try their famed chocolate-chip cookies and blueberry muffins.

I’d finally learned Travis’s age – twenty-seven. As he shifted and held me tight, his breathing light and steady, it didn’t escape me that he was the same age as Cameron had been when I was pregnant with Hamish.

Just as the Spanish Civil War had sent my grandparents to England for a new beginning, the Guatemalan drug wars had sent Santo in search of a new life in America. Now I was having a new beginning with Santo, a boy the age that Hamish would have been if he’d lived, and with Travis.

Migration. A shifting world. The sea of humanity seeking new homes.

We were lucky to be here.

•  •  •

‘Look!’ Santo pointed excitedly, binoculars glued to his eyes. ‘Here they come!’ The wind buffeted us as we stood with Travis and Mum on the cliffs at Aireys Inlet on a cloudy, late autumn afternoon, where we’d been scouring the water for hours.

A spout of mist shot up above the grey waves, and Santo yelped as a humpback leaped into the air, breaching. Near it, huge flukes rose, black and white, and slapped the sea. The whales were on their annual migration from Antarctica to the warm waters of far north Queensland.

‘Is it Lev? Is it Lev?’ Santo cried. Through my binoculars I studied the giant flukes as the humpback lobtailed again.

‘Different pattern. It’s one I don’t know.’ I ruffled Santo’s hair as his face dropped in disappointment. ‘It’s a new one, just for you. You must name it,’ I encouraged, and my boy’s face lit up. ‘I’ll call it . . . Travis 2.’

‘Travis 2 can be my
little brother
,’ joked Travis, and I pulled my binoculars down just in time to catch his twinkling blue eyes meet mine. ‘You dag,’ I said, inwardly pinching myself that this beautiful man was here with me.

‘Don’t worry Gran, I’ll call the next one Cristina,’ promised Santo. Mum grunted and put her arms around him. ‘I might call it Santo instead,’ she replied. ‘I already feel like too much of a whale.’

I was so relieved that Mum had gained weight steadily in our travels, a reassuring sign of her recovery.

‘Ooh! There she is! Cristina 2!’ called Santo happily as another whale shot its flukes out of the water like a black and white butterfly in the dwindling light. I held my binoculars closer. Was I imagining it, or could I just make out the markings I knew so well, with a diagonal scar running through?

‘
That one
already has a name,’ I went to say, but my voice caught in my throat. Was it possible?
Could it be Lev?
But before I could utter a word, he slapped his flukes one more time and disappeared down into the darkening sea.

As night gathered around us, and a lighthouse swept its yellow arc across the water, we made our way back to Melbourne, where we were living with Mum in the too-big house in the leafy street, and I had a family of my own.

25

S
ometimes I wake in the middle of the night to whale song. I imagine the humpbacks swimming in the harbour, Fredelighavn creaking in the wind. Penguins and seals overrun the buildings, as they slowly decay.

On a sparkling day, the Adélies dance on the ice, heads to the sun, tiny wings flapping, leaping from foot to foot.

And the white–blue ice cave sits, pure and still.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I owe an enormous debt of gratitude and thanks to Roberta Ivers, Managing Editor at Simon and Schuster Australia, and to Head of Publishing, Larissa Edwards. Roberta has an extraordinary ability to see exactly what I am trying to write, and make it so much better. Her keen eye for themes and storytelling, and her astonishing flair has helped this book in a myriad of ways. Larissa Edwards is astute and generous, and gave pivotal suggestions that enabled the story to take flight. I am very lucky indeed to be guided by such talented women.

Thanks also to Dan Ruffino, Managing Director, for the great care he takes of authors and our books, and to the entire team at Simon and Schuster, who are so committed and hard-working. A special thanks to Carol Warwick, Senior Marketing and Publicity Manager, who comes up with fantastic ideas and is a dream to work with; to Marketing and Publicity Director Anabel Pandiella for her clever thoughts; Anna O’Grady for her work with festivals; and Ellin Williams for her diligence.

Sales Director Elissa Baillie does an exceptional job, and I thank her. I owe a particularly large debt of gratitude to Nicki Lambert, Account Manager, for her excellent suggestions on the manuscript and her inspiring support, and for the magnificent work that she does handselling into the beautiful bookstores in Melbourne, Adelaide and Tasmania. I thank, too, Melinda Beaumont, Key Account Manager, for her wonderful feedback on an early draft and her great encouragement, and for her tireless work handselling my books into the equally beautiful bookstores in Sydney. Liz Bray, Vicki Mayer and Georgina Rhodes undertake incredible work, which makes such a difference to the life of my books. Jo Munroe does a spectacular job with the ebooks, and also deserves my deep gratitude.

Claire de Medici I thank for her copyedit and her insightful advice, which made such a difference to the manuscript.

I am indebted to my patient readers: Jenny Sweeney, Katie Edwards, Julie Wells, Carmel Reilly and Rivka Hartman, who gave brilliant suggestions. I thank Mary Damousi, and Kathy and Myles Vinecombe for their helpful feedback and Evangelina Vinecombe for her energetic encouragement. Sue Maslin gave razor-sharp advice, David Cramond shared my enthusiasm for Antarctica and provided insightful comments, and Ruby Kerrison read a late draft and gave me a valuable perspective – I thank them.

I am very grateful to Kerry Landman for her support through the writing of this book. Kerry was so generous in allowing me to co-opt the use of
Superstar
for the purposes of my story, and for helping me gain insight into the workings of a scientific mind. Her suggestions were always inspiring. Annette Blonski has taken a very long journey with me: the idea of writing about Antarctica took hold over twenty-five years ago, and Annette has shared my passion for this landscape through all these years. With this manuscript, she has patiently read drafts and given invaluable comments, and I thank her very much.

For their professional help along the way I would like to thank Mike Middleton for sharing his pilot’s knowledge of planes, and the ins and outs of skis and floats on Twin Otters (all mistakes are my own); Warwick Anderson for his medical guidance (any mistakes are definitely mine); and Leigh Dale for her expert advice regarding a key moment in the book. Thanks to Mary Tomsic for her help that allowed me to travel overseas for research, and my sister Judy Turner for introducing me to the beauty of Nantucket and Cape Cod.

I would also like to thank the booksellers, reviewers and readers who were so supportive of my debut novel
The Lost Swimmer
. I am indebted to you, and delighted by you.

And finally, my love and thanks go to Joy Damousi, for her encouragement, patience, support, wisdom, endless enthusiasm, and inspiration, for which I am truly grateful.

Ann Turner

2016

BOOK CLUB NOTES

1. Antarctica is a unique setting for the novel. How does the location add to the suspense, and how crucial is this setting to the story? What place does Antarctica hold in our collective imagination?

2. Laura Alvarado has a troubled past. Do you think that this has played a part in her strong feelings towards Antarctica and its wildlife? How has it affected her view of the world? Is Laura an unreliable narrator?

3. How would you interpret the title
Out of the Ice
? Does it have more than one meaning?

4. Migration, of both wildlife and humans, is a theme in
Out of the Ice
. How is the long history of migration depicted?

5. The destruction, but also the survival of family is a continuing theme in the story. Does the book explore more than one type of family? Ultimately, does it raise questions regarding the notion of family and what it – and home – can mean?

6. The story looks at how the whalers’ actions in the past are judged in the present. It links this with global warming and how the potential destruction of the environment is perhaps not understood by some in the same way that the whalers didn’t comprehend the level of emotion that whales feel, and their evolved communication skills. Do you agree, or disagree, with these ideas? How do you view the past through the prism of the present?

7. Scientists conducting experiments are depicted in
Out of the Ice
. Can science ever be justified as being above ethics and morality if it is for the greater good of humanity?

8. Discuss how the book looks at human progress – from the whalers, to the scientists, to the migrants and refugees in search of a better life. How vulnerable are children in this?

9. Friendship between women is a fundamental aspect of this story. How is the friendship depicted between Laura, Kate and Georgia? And between Helen and Nancy? How does friendship help these women? And how do women fare in isolated, male-oriented environments?

10. Fredelighavn Whaling Station is a haunted place, and Laura feels a presence there, although she believes in ghosts of memory, not the supernatural. But in sites of bloody violence, can ghosts visit?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photograph by Kristian Gehradte

Ann Turner is an award-winning screenwriter and director, avid reader and history lover. She is drawn to salt-sprayed coasts, luminous landscapes, and the people who inhabit them all over the world. Her films include the historical feature
Celia
, starring Rebecca Smart – which
Time Out
listed as one of the fifty greatest directorial debuts of all time;
Hammers Over The Anvil
, starring Russell Crowe and Charlotte Rampling; and the psychological thriller
Irresistible
starring Susan Sarandon, Sam Neill and Emily Blunt. Ann has lectured in film at the Victorian College of the Arts.