Dramatis Personae
TEREBUS | | Crook Cooks ERROR |
Other Expedition Members
Scene: Kitchen, Winter Quarters.
Time: 5.30 P.M.
ERROR. Now, Terebus, just bring me a nice clean pot, will you?
TEREBUS [from his bunk]. Go on, do something yourself!
ERROR. Do something? I’ve done everything that has been done this afternoon.
TEREBUS. Well, you ought to feel pretty fresh.
ERROR. And all the melting-pots are empty and I’m not going to fill them. Besides, it’s not in the regulations.
Voices. Who’s going crook? Error!
[TEREBUS climbs from his bunk and exit for ice. ERROR attempts to extricate a pot from the nails in the shelves. Loud alarums.
Voices. Champ-ion-ship!
[Alarums without. Loud cries of “Door!” Enter TEREBUS with box of ice; fills all the pots on the stove.
ERROR. Good heavens, man, you’ve filled up the tea water with ice.
TEREBUS [with hoarse laugh]. Never mind, they won’t want so much glaxo to cool it.
ERROR [who has meanwhile been mixing bread]. What shall we bake the bread in? I believe it is considered that a square tin is more suitable for ordinary ovens, but, on the other hand, Nansen in his ‘Farthest North’ used flat dishes.
TEREBUS. Use a tin. There’ll be less surface exposed to the cold oven.
ERROR. What’s all this water on the floor? I thought my feet seemed cold. Some one must have upset a bucket.
TEREBUS. Oh, it’s one of the taps turned on. Never mind, there’s plenty more ice where that came from. Get your sea-boots.
[Enter METEOROLOGICAL STAFF and others with snow-covered burberrys, mitts, etc., crowd kitchen and hang impedimenta round the stove. Great tumult.
TEREBUS. Here, out of the kitchen. This isn’t the time to worry the cooks.
ERROR. Take those burberrys away, please, old man. They’re dripping into the soup.
TEREBUS. Give it some flavour at least.
[Great activity in the crater of ERROR while TEREBUS clears the kitchen. ERROR continues stirring Soup and tapioca custard on the stove. Strong smell of burning.
VOICES [in peculiarly joyful chorus]. Something burning!
ERROR [aside to TEREBUS]. It’s all right. It will taste all right. Say it’s cloth on the stove.
TEREBUS. Somebody’s burberrys burning against the stove!!
[General rush to the stove.
TEREBUS. It’s all right, I’ve taken them away.
[Interval, during which much sotto voce discussion is heard in the kitchen.
ERROR. We haven’t put the spinach on to thaw and it’s after six o’clock.
TEREBUS. Warm it up and put it on the table with the tin-openers.
ERROR. I’m afraid that’s against the regulations. Put it in the oven and shut the door.
[TEREBUS does so. Later, terrific explosion, followed by strong smell of spinach.
VOICES. What’s the matter? Terebus in eruption!
TEREBUS [wiping spinach off his face]. Nothing wrong. Only a tin of spinach opened automatically.
ERROR. It’s plastered all over the oven and on everything.
TEREBUS. Don’t worry, it will be served up with the baked penguin.
[Period of partial quiescence of TEREBUS and ERROR, which is regarded as an evil omen.
ERROR [in persuasive tone]. Have you made the tea, old boy? It’s nearly half-past six.
[TEREBUS takes off the lid of the tea-boiler, peers inside, making a scoop with his hand.
ERROR. Here, don’t do that. Mind your hands.
TEREBUS. It’s all right, it’s not hot.
ERROR. What shall we do, then? We’ll never keep them quiet if we are late with the tea.
TEREBUS. Put the tea in now. It will be warmed up by the second course.
[TEREBUS puts the infusers in the pot and stirs them round.
ERROR. Taste it.
[BOTH taste with a dirty spoon.
TEREBUS. Tastes like your soup—‘orrible!
ERROR. There’s nothing wrong with the soup. You attend to the tea.
TEREBUS. I think we’ll have coffee. Pass the coffee and I’ll put that in and bring it to the boil. The coffee will kill the taste of the tea.
ERROR. Hope you make it stronger than that.
[During quiescent stage while each is thinking of a retort, 6.30 P.M. arrives, and the soup is put on the table. Interval elapses during which the victims are expected to eat the soup.
VOICES [in loud chant from the table]. How did you do it, Error?
TEREBUS [after a suitable period]. Any one like any more soup?
A VOICE. Couldn’t risk it, Governor. TEREBUS. Bowls up! Lick spoons!
[Bowls are cleared away and baked penguin is put on the table.
ERROR. Cooks have got their penguin, gentlemen.
[Suspicious glances exchanged at table. Later, monotonous chant goes up, preceded by a soft “One, two, three.” “Didn’t scrape the blubber off, Error.”
[Plates cleared away and scraped into dogs’ bucket. ERROR takes tapioca custard from oven in two dishes.
ERROR [aside to TEREBUS]. Take some out of this one for us and don’t forget to put that dish in front of the Doctor, because I spilled soda in the other.
[TEREBUS takes two large helpings out and puts rest on table as directed.
TEREBUS. You need not remember the cooks, gentlemen.
A VOICE. Don’t want to, if I can manage it.
ERROR [aside to TEREBUS]. Put on the Algerian sweets, and then we can have ours.
TEREBUS [taking several handfuls]. We’ll put these aside for perks.
[The sweets on the table, TEREBUS and ERROR retire to kitchen to have their dinner.
ERROR. Is this my pudding? It’s only an ordinary share.
[TEREBUS is too busy to reply, and further eruption is prevented by the temporary plugging of ERROR.
Cooking, under the inspiration of Mrs. Beeton, became a fine art:
On bones we leave no meat on,
For we study Mrs. Beeton.
So said the song. On birthdays and other auspicious occasions dishes appeared which would tempt a gourmet. Puff-pastry, steam-puddings, jellies and blancmanges, original potages and consommes, seal curried and spiced, penguin delicately fried, vegetables reflavoured, trimmed and adorned were received without comment as the culinary standard rose.
Birthdays were always greeted with special enthusiasm. Speeches were made, toasts were drunk, the supple boards of the table creaked with good things, cook and messman vied with each other in lavish hospitality, the Hut was ornate with flags, every man was spruce in his snowiest cardigan and neck-cloth, the gramophone sang of music-hall days, the wind roared its appreciation through the stove-pipe, and rollicking merriment was supreme. On such occasions the photographer and the biologist made a genial combination.
The dark-room was the nursery of the topical song. There, by lantern or candle-stump, wit Rabelaisian, Aristophanic or Antarctic was cradled into rhyme. From there, behind the scenes, the comedian in full dress could step before the footlights into salvoes of savage applause. “A Pair of Unconventional Cooks are we, are we,” and the famous refrain, “There he is, that’s him,” were long unrivalled in our musical annals.
Celebrations were carried on into the night, but no one forgot the cook and the messman. The table was cleared by many willing hands, some brought in ice and coal or swept the floor, others scraped plates or rinsed out mugs and bowls. Soon, everything had passed through the cauldron of water, soap and soda to the drying-towels and on to the shelves. The main crowd then repaired with pipes and cigars to “Hyde Park Corner,” where the storeman, our raconteur par excellence, entertained the smokers’ club. A mixed concert brought the evening to the grand finale—“Auld Lang Syne.”
After events of this character, the higher shelves of the kitchen, in the interstices between thermographs, photographic plates ink bottles, and Russian stout, abounded with titbits of pie crust, blancmange, jelly, Vienna rusks, preserved figs, and other “perks.” Such “perks,” or perquisites, were the property of the presiding cook or night-watchman and rarely survived for more than a day.
The mania for celebration became so great that reference was frequently made to the almanac. During one featureless interval, the anniversary of the First Lighting of London by Gas was observed with extraordinary eclat.
The great medium of monetary exchange in the Hut was chocolate. A ration of thirty squares was distributed by the storeman every Saturday night, and for purposes of betting, games of chance, “Calcutta sweeps” on the monthly wind-velocity and general barter, chocolate held the premier place.
At the “sweeps,” the meteorologist stood with a wooden hammer behind the table, and the gaming public swarmed on the other side. Numbers ranging from “low field” and forty-five to sixty-five and “high field” were sold by auction to the highest bidder. Excitement was intense while the cartographer in clerical glasses worked out the unknown number.
As a consequence of wild speculation, there were several cases of bankruptcy, which was redeemed in the ordinary way by a sale of the debtor’s effects.
Two financiers, indifferent to the charms of chocolate, established a corner or “Bank” in the commodity. “The Bank,” by barter and usurious methods, amassed a great heap of well-thumbed squares, and, when accused of rapacity, invented a scheme for the common good known as “Huntoylette.” This was a game of chance similar to roulette, and for a while it completely gulfed the trusting public. In the reaction which followed, there was a rush on “The Bank,” and the concern was wound up, but the promoters escaped with a large profit in candles and chocolate.
Throughout the winter months, work went on steadily even after dinner, and hours of leisure were easy to fill. Some wrote up their diaries, played games, or smoked and yarned; others read, developed photos, or imitated the weary cook and went to bed. The MacKellar Library, so called after the donor, was a boon to all, and the literature of polar exploration was keenly followed and discussed. Taste in literature varied, but among a throng of eighteen, the majority of whom were given to expressing their opinions in no uncertain terms—there were no rigid conventions in Adelie Land—every book had a value in accordance with a common standard.
There was not a dissenting voice to the charm of ‘Lady Betty across the Water’, and the reason for this was a special one. The sudden breath of a world of warmth and colour, richness and vivacity and astute, American freshness amid the somewhat grim attractions of an Antarctic winter was too much for every one. Lady Betty, in the realm of bright images, had a host of devoted admirers. Her influence spread beyond the Hut to the plateau itself. Three men went sledging, and to shelter themselves from the rude wind fashioned an ice-cavern, which, on account of its magical hues and rare lustre, could be none other than “Aladdin’s Cave.” Lady Betty found her hero in a fairy grotto of the same name.
‘Lorna Doone’, on the other hand, was liked by many. Still there were those who thought that John Ridd was a fool, a slow, obtuse rustic, and so on, while Lorna was too divine and angelic for this life.
‘The War of the Carolinas’ took the Hut by storm, but it was a “nine days’ wonder” and left no permanent impression on the thinking community. Mostly, the story was voted delightfully funny, but very foolish and farcical after all. A few exclusive critics predicted for it a future.
Then there was ‘The Trail of ’98’. For power and blunt realism there was nothing like it, but the character of the hero was torn in the shreds of debate. There was general agreement on two points: that the portrayal of the desolate Alaskan wild had a touch of “home,” and that the heroine was a “true sport.”
All those who had ever hauled on the main braces, sung the topsail-halliard chanty, learned the intricate Matty Walker, the bowline-and-a-bite and a crowd of kindred knots, had a warm spot for any yarn by Jacobs. Night after night, the storeman held the audience with the humorous escapades of ‘Ginger Dick’, ‘Sam’ and ‘Peter Russet’.
And lastly, there was a more serious, if divided interest in ‘Virginibus Puerisque’, ‘Marcus Aurelius’, ‘The Unveiling of Lhassa’—but the list is rather interminable.
The whole world is asleep except the night-watchman, and he, having made the bread, washed a tubful of clothes, kept the fire going, observed and made notes on the aurora every fifteen minutes and the weather every half-hour, and, finally, having had a bath, indulges in buttered toast and a cup of coffee.
The Hut is dark, and a shaded burner hangs by a canvas chair in the kitchen. The wind is booming in gusts, the dogs howl occasionally in the veranda, but the night-watchman and his pipe are at peace with all men. He has discarded a heavy folio for a light romance, while the hours scud by, broken only by the observations. The romance is closed, and he steals to his bunk with a hurricane lamp and finds a bundle of letters. He knows them well, but he reads them—again!
Pearly light rises in the north-east through the lessening drift, and another day has come.