Joanna Grochowicz - Amundsen’s Way: Race to the South Pole

Also by Joanna Grochowicz

Into the White

First published by Allen & Unwin in 2019

Copyright Text, Joanna Grochowicz 2019

Copyright Illustrations, Sarah Lippett 2019

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin

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Australia

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ISBN 978 1 76063 766 8

eISBN 978 1 76087 119 2

For teaching resources, explore

www.allenandunwin.com/resources/for-teachers

Cover and text design by Joanna Hunt

Cover and text illustrations by Sarah Lippett

Set by Midland Typesetters, Australia

www.joannagrochowicz.com

For Dad

CONTENTS

Many years from now, the people of Hobart will tell how he strode up Murray Street, an imposing figure flanked by two fearsome sledge dogs. But this is not the case. On this particular Thursday morning, Roald Amundsen is just a man heading up the hill to Hadleys Orient Hotel, completely alone and in possession of news that will soon echo around the world.

Sledge dogs are far from his thoughts. Neither is he concerned about what his crew are doing aboard the Fram, which has dropped anchor in the middle of the Derwent River. One clear thought spurs him on hot water.

He imagines soap and steam and how it will feel to slide his weary explorers body into an extravagantly deep bath. A proper wash in a proper bathroom; he can think of no greater luxury. Its been a year and a half.

Needless to say, Amundsen is not a fetching sight. In his filthy old cap and an ancient blue jersey riddled with holes, he appears more tramp than polar hero. Pedestrians alter their pace; some slow to let him pass, others pull their children aside. Amundsen sees the wrinkled-up noses, the odd looks at his attire. He cares little. Anonymity comes as a relief. Hes not ready for people. Not quite yet.

To a man so used to walking on snow, the sensation of paving stones underfoot is unnerving. So too the loud, clacking sounds of the port, the swish of soft skirts, the peaty scent of horse manure on cobbles warmed by the sun.

It was cooler on the water. The town seems airless by comparison. Sweaty, irritable, the explorer finds fault with the bustle of the place, the very squareness of the buildings. Even the air, flecked with dust, is disagreeable, filling his mouth with too much flavour. Coughing repeatedly, he longs to fill his lungs with a clean breeze off the sea, to feel the satisfying pang of air as cold as ice.

Hadleys Orient Hotel is a grand institution, judging by the white columns flanking its entry. Perhaps thats why the harbourmaster so eagerly recommended it. Amundsen grasps the brass handrail like a lifeline and hefts himself up the stairs and into the hotels richly decorated lobby. The feeling of carpet is like a revelation; the deep red pattern is so intense it makes his eyes swim. Perhaps this moment, this return to the civilised world of man, marks the end of his journey. The thought is not altogether pleasing. In fact the ill-humour Amundsen has been nursing since stepping ashore has coalesced into a hard knot at the back of his throat and refuses to budge. How he longs for hot water.

The young clerk regards with an insolent expression the tall, unkempt individual standing at the front desk.

Amundsen clears his throat. A room. With bathroom. Its been so long since he spoke English that the words come out gruff and mangled.

Im sorry, I cant understand you, the clerk says, failing to make any effort.

Amundsen tenses his jaw and resists the urge to bring his fist down on the counter. Instead he tries again with greater care. Several other guests have gathered behind him. A lady in a large hat brings a handkerchief to her nose.

Im sorry. Ill have to get the manager, says the clerk, unsure of how to proceed with dignity.

When the manager arrives hes taken off guard. Theyre not used to such people in their establishment.

Can I help you? His manner is brisk, designed to move this undesirable person along.

Yes. A room with bathroom, Amundsen repeats slowly.

Do you have a reservation?

Amundsen shakes his head and shifts his weight.

We are rather full, Im afraid.

The young clerk looks over the register, his eyes flicking up at the manager.

Ah yes, we can offer a room. The manager glances at the other people waiting and hurriedly points to the spot on the page where Amundsen is to leave his signature, although he doubts this man can even write.

Its not far to walk, just along the hall at the rear of the building, where he finds a door below a flight of stairs. The room is dark and theres a narrow, stained mattress on one wall and a bucket and mop propped against the other. The only window gives onto an alleyway strewn with broken crates and other rubbish. There is no bath. Just a chipped basin with grubby cake of soap stuck to its lip.

When Amundsen returns to the front desk a few minutes later, a cool manner disguises the fire burning in his chest. He is ready for battle.

Amundsen!

A well-dressed, barrel-chested man extends his arm in anticipation of a handshake. Allow me to introduce myself: James Macfarlane, Norwegian consul, at your service!

Amundsen takes Macfarlanes hand, a little confused.

The harbourmasters been in touch. He told me he sent you up to Hadleys to freshen up I came as quick as I could.

Its unclear who is more surprised, Amundsen, the hotel manager or the terrified looking clerk who knows hes about to get into trouble.

I trust youve been given the full treatment, Macfarlane says. Something befitting a world-famous explorer who has just returned from more than a year in Antarctica.

Amundsen arches one eyebrow, which sends the hotel manager into a frenzy of key rattling. Theres been a terrible mix-up with my clerk, he babbles. He gave you the wrong room. In fact, we have you staying in our suite. Top floor, sir. Shall I send the bellboy to help you with your luggage?

Amundsen turns from the manager and instead addresses Macfarlane. A pleasure to meet with you. Thank you for coming. I have many important arrangements to make, telegrams to send.

Macfarlane nods. You would like to send word of your safe return to King Haakon?

The clerks eyes are round. The King?