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building materials for our cabin, and had them dropped on the coast, to be picked up later. He’s bought a sledge and a team of dogs, and got us permission from the Norwegian Government to overwinter. He’s even engaged rooms for us at the Grand Hotel – which is actually quite grand.
    He’s also been urging us to have a word with our skipper, Mr Eriksson, who’s got some sort of problem with Gruhuken. Apparently he doesn’t think it’s‘right’ for a camp. I’m glad to say that none of us is inclined to discuss the matter with Mr Eriksson, thank you very much, and Gus has quietly made him aware of that. We chose Gruhuken after weeks of poring over the surveys from the previous expeditions. It’s not for some Norwegian sealer to mess up our plans. As long as he gets us there by August, so that we can set up the second camp on the icecap before the winter, he can consider his job done.

26th July
     
    The amounts of money we’re spending, it’s frightening!
    In London, Hugo was in charge of drumming up finance, and I must say he’s done a good job. He has an almost lawyerly ability to persuade people, and he’s cadged discounts from firms hoping for endorsements, and talked the War Office into donating my wireless equipment for free. Everything else is coming out of the Expedition Fund, which is made up of grants from the University Exploration Club, the Royal Geographical Society, and ‘individual subscribers’ (I suspect aunts); total: £3,000. Gus says we have to ‘be careful’, which is why we’re buying most things in Norway, as it’s so much cheaper there; but ‘being careful’ doesn’t mean the same to him as it does to me.
    In Newcastle we bought what we wouldn’t be able to get in Norway: egg powder, Fry’s eating chocolate, and – since Norway is ‘dry’ – spirits, tobacco and cigarettes. That’s when I learned that the rich have different priorities. Third-class passages to Norway; then a crate of Oxford marmalade, and two bottles of champagne for Christmas.
    In Tromsø, we’ve been like children let loose in a sweetshop. Mountains of jam, tea, coffee, flour, yeast, sugar and cocoa; tinned fruits, dried vegetables, butter (
not
margarine; I don’t think the others have ever tasted it), and crates of something called ‘pemmican’, which is a kind of preserved meat: one grade for us, another for the dogs.
    And our kit! Long silk underclothing (
silk!
), woollen stockings, mittens, mufflers and sweaters; kapok waistcoats, corduroys and waterproof Shackleton trousers; ‘
anoraks
’ (a kind of wind jacket with the hood attached), rubber boots, horsehide gauntlets and balaclava helmets. For the coldest weather, we’ve bought leather boots made by the Lapps, well tarred, and turned up at the toe. You buy them much too big, so you can stuff them with straw when the time comes.
    Hugo got the outfitter to take a photo of us in our winter gear. We look like real explorers. Algie’s as round as an Eskimo; Hugo and I are both thin and dark, as if we’ve spent months on hard rations; and Guscould be Scandinavian, maybe Amundsen’s younger brother.
    But it was buying the rest of our equipment that really brought home to me what we’ll be taking on. Tents, sleeping bags, ammunition,
reindeer hides
(as groundsheets, apparently). Above all, a formidable pile of paraffin lamps, headlamps and electric torches. It’s hard to believe now, in this endless daylight, but there’ll come a time when it’s always dark. Thinking of that gives me a queer flutter in my stomach. In a way, I can’t wait. I want to see if I can take it.
    Not that we’ll be roughing it at Gruhuken. We’ve got a crate of books and a gramophone player, and even a set of Royal Doulton china, donated by Algie’s mama. Sometimes I wish it wasn’t going to be quite so easy. It’s as if we’ll be playing at being in the Arctic. Not the real thing at all.
    Talking of the real thing, in the morning, we’re joining our ship,