When Nights Were Cold by Susanna Jones Page A

and spent an hour before chapel preparing my speech. I skipped tea in the afternoon to give myself another hour. By the evening I was in knots, unable to breathe without my ribs hurting, and had to spend some time at the mirror talking to myself. Perhaps, if it went well, I would write a letter to my father and tell him what I had done. He might yet forgive me for leaving home and be proud that I was continuing the journey we had begun together by the fireplace.
    But when I put my nose through the classroom door and saw Cicely Parr sitting at the front, rolling a pencil back and forth on her desk, my courage seeped away. It had not occurred to me that Parr might be interested either in the Antarctic or in anything I had organized. She wore a grey skirt and a cream blouse that made her skin appear yellowish. Her chin jutted out as though she were already bored, even slightly disgusted, by the whole meeting, though it had not even begun.
    There was one other attendee, Winifred Hooper, a quiet, bespectacled botany student, who sat at the desk behind Parr’s and gave me a shy smile as I entered. On fine days Hooper would perch on an upturned basket on one of the long balconies, making garlands of primroses to thread through the balustrade. She had a peaceful air and seemed absorbed as she worked away in the sunshine. I knew little more about her, except that she had a fiancé – a medical student at Cambridge – and was only at college to pass the time until he qualified as a doctor. If he succeeded before she took her finals, she would not bother to complete her degree. I had heard her say this quite happily to a friend one teatime and I was surprised and inclined not to like her for it, but now, in my gratitude, I forgot all that.
    I took a seat beside Parr and suggested that we might wait for more people before I declared the meeting open and announced the agenda. We sat in uncomfortable silence for five or ten minutes. Parr stared out of the window, though there was nothing to see but sky. Hooper glanced at me a few times, still with a polite smile which I forgot to return, and drew breath once, as if to speak but not knowing what to say. My nerves were making her uneasy but I couldn’t help myself. I was wringing my hands the way Mother did before guests came to tea.
    The doorknob rattled.
    â€˜Here you are.’ Locke put her head into the room. ‘Drama Soc’s cancelled. Miss Wheeler’s gone to nurse her sick aunt and might not come back. You don’t mind if I join you?’
    She noticed Parr and opened her eyes wide at me. I smiled. I could do nothing else.
    Locke pulled out the chair next to Parr’s and behind Hooper’s. She gave me an encouraging smile then turned to Parr.
    â€˜Hello. I didn’t know this was an interest of yours. Scientific, is it?’
    â€˜Yes, more or less. I don’t think anyone else will come now, so shouldn’t we make a start? Farringdon, I trust you have a plan.’ Meaning that she thought I did not.
    â€˜At the Tennyson Appreciation Club they read out his poems,’ offered Hooper. ‘I’m not a member but I hear it always goes very well.’
    â€˜That’s an idea,’ said Locke. ‘We could—’
    â€˜No, no,’ I said, anxious that they should not take over my meeting. ‘I don’t think Tennyson wrote anything about the South Pole. Let me make my opening speech. I’ve given it considerable thought.’
    I took to the lecturer’s podium with my notes, planted my feet evenly, rubbed my fingers together, for they were a little damp, and addressed the Society.
    â€˜Welcome, ladies, to the inaugural meeting of the Candlin College Antarctic Exploration Society. Let me explain to you what our purpose shall be. In our regular weekly meetings I propose that we acquaint ourselves with the particulars of recent and current expeditions to the Antarctic. We’ll read the accounts of the