Review: Ice

Louis Nowra may be best known as a playwright — think Cosi and Radiance — but his latest novel, Ice, shows his prowess as a storyteller regardless of literary form.

The tale begins when a larger-than-life, Jules-Verne-style adventurer, Malcolm McEacharn — based loosely on 19th-century businessman and politician of the same name — and his partner, Andrew McIlwraith, perform a 19th-century miracle by towing an Antarctic iceberg behind their ship up the east coast of NSW, and into the youthful settlement of Sydney Town. The two young men earn instant fame and adulation from the whole population of pre-refrigeration colonists languishing in the heat of a sultry, sub-tropical summer.

Almost immediately, the reader is alerted to an undercurrent of obsession, a theme which is developed on several levels as the story continues. We learn that McEacharn's determinaton to capture the iceberg is motivated by the loss of his beloved wife, Anne, who died only one year into their passionate and all-consuming marriage.

We realize that everything he undertakes — from the first successful shipment of refrigerated meat to England, to the establishment of a considerable fortune, and the consolidation of his civic leadership — is dedicated to her. The extent of his fixation is finally revealed through the bizarre collection he accumulates in the specially created underground rooms of his eccentric 'all-electric' Melbourne mansion.

McEacharn is a tormented and troubled soul possessed by the memory of his losses — Anne and his father, a ship's captain, who was drowned when he was a young boy. He will go to any lengths to hold on to, or recover, their traces. And those around him suffer, especially his second wife — whom he callously marries for her fortune — and his children, who are strangers to him.

Slowly, furtively, tantalisingly, another voice intrudes into the story of Malcolm McEacharn. It is a voice from another era — the present. Gradually we discover that a modern-day tragedy has occurred, and that Beatrice Taylor, McEacharn's biographer, is critically involved. Her husband, Rowan Doyle, desperate to retain her presence in his life, decides to finish the work.

The parallels between the two stories become apparent. They enhance each other, and raise questions. Is there any reality to the compulsive behaviours described in McEacharn's story? Or are they just a reflection of Doyle's own obsession and increasing instability? Where does the truth lie?

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