The Lightkeeper's Wife

16



Friday morning, I wake exhausted. I haven’t slept well since Emma’s talk. At night, every time I close my eyes, I see flashes of Antarctica, Adelie penguins, Sarah, the end of my marriage. The recollection comes with rushes of emotion. I thought I’d dealt with all that, but the seminar has released all the memories again.

I slip out for my early walk with Jess. Nature has always helped me through tough spots before and it’s no different this morning. We wander along the sand; Jess sniffs around while I allow myself to unwind with the hiss of the wavelets as they skim up the beach. It’s good to see that the world is normal, even if I am not.

After a shower and breakfast, I’ve just picked up my car keys when I hear footsteps on the verandah and a knock at the door. Jess scrabbles to take a look and her woof is a question, not an answer. I follow her to the door and open it.

A woman stands there, facing away from me, looking out towards the channel.

‘Hello,’ I say. ‘What can I do for you?’

She turns and I notice that everything about her is pale: her face, her light brown hair, her cheeks, her eyes, and also the smile that stretches her lips. She’s thin and small. Plain. Probably somewhere in her thirties.

‘I’m Laura,’ she says. ‘I wanted to introduce myself. My brother and I have just moved in across the road.’ She peers at the trees down the side of my house. ‘Quiet place, isn’t it? And the trees make it dark. A bit spooky, don’t you think?’

‘The trees are good,’ I say. ‘They bring the birds.’

She glances around uncertainly. ‘I suppose so. I know nothing about birds.’ She flashes a tight smile. ‘Lots of possums, aren’t there? They were all over my roof last night. Do they eat your roses?’

‘I don’t have any roses.’ My new neighbour obviously isn’t into trees or wildlife, which means we have less than nothing in common. This might be a good thing, because then there’s little excuse for contact.

‘You’ll probably see me round a bit,’ she continues. ‘And you might see my brother too, although he won’t be out much. He’s not well. His name’s Michael. I just call him Mouse.’

She’s clearly keen to talk, but I pull my keys out of my pocket and jingle them. ‘Sorry, I’m just heading off to work.’

‘Oh.’ She seems disappointed. ‘You’re leaving.’ She looks down and notices Jess at last. ‘What’s your dog’s name?’

‘Jess.’

‘Is she friendly?’

Jess’s tail is beating slowly against the deck. This woman clearly does not know animals.

‘Yes.’

Laura bends to pat Jess on the head. ‘I didn’t grow up with dogs,’ she says. ‘But I like them.’ She strokes Jess cautiously.

‘Mouse likes dogs too. Perhaps you could bring Jess down sometime to meet him.’

I shrug. ‘Maybe.’

She smiles. ‘I’d like that. It’d give Mouse a lift.’

I wait for her to leave, but she lingers on the deck, watching the light glinting on the water. I wonder what I can say to usher her down the path. ‘Sorry, but I do have to go. I need to be on time for work.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Her thin face is almost ghostly. ‘Do you mind if I ask your name?’

‘I’m Tom.’

‘Well, it was nice meeting you.’ She stretches out a hand and I’m forced to shake it. It’s thin, soft and cool. Then, she turns and starts down the steps to the path. Her shape fades quickly among the bushes until she appears again crossing the road, moving like mist skimming over the ground. She’s a strange one, shy and uncertain. Damaged in some way; needy. I hope she doesn’t expect me to be neighbourly.

I scoop an apple from the fruit bowl and lock the door, unable to shake Laura from my thoughts. There’s something uncomfortably familiar about her. As I climb into the car and watch Jess drop onto the floor, I realise Laura reminds me of myself.


At lunchtime I go down to Salamanca to see if the Aurora is in yet from her last voyage. I should keep away from things Antarctic, but Emma’s photos are still haunting me and I feel the stirrings of craving. It’s an addiction that’s hard to break when you return from down south—the sensation of excitement and freedom you experience down there. I want to feel it again, even though it’s no good for me.

Looking for a parking spot along the waterfront, I pass the wharf, and there she is, the Aurora, an orange giant, docked behind the smaller L’Astrolabe, another Antarctic research vessel. I park along the esplanade and wander into the shadows cast by the Aurora.

She always seems bigger than I remember: not in the league of bulk carriers, but loomingly large and loudly orange. In a chopper over ice you can spot her from miles away. Large ropes as thick as my arms hook her to bollards along the dock, and she shifts and rises against the tyres that buffer the wharf. Her hull is marked by gouges and scuffs where she has encountered ice, and even from here I can detect that familiar stench of diesel. I think of going south again and a worm of anticipation wriggles in my stomach. Up on the helideck, two crew members are sucking on cigarettes. They see me and wave. I nod and slip quietly away, feeling strange and dislocated. I should quit dreaming, buy some lunch at Salamanca and head back to work.

As I wait at an auto-teller to withdraw some cash, Emma walks past with another girl. She’s the last person I expected to see and something in me backflips. I see her pause to look in a shop window, chatting to her friend. A man behind me waiting to access the ATM coughs impatiently, and I snatch my money and receipt and dive away.

Emma hasn’t seen me and I shove my wallet in my pocket and follow them down the street. Then I stop. What am I doing following her? Have I lost my mind? I watch the girls wandering along the pavement. There’s something about the way Emma moves—so easy and relaxed. Her shoulders ride low and the smile that curls her lips when I catch her profile is self-assured. She seems to smile easily and often. She’s someone who’s comfortable in company. She’s everything that I’m not.

The girls stop and talk outside a café. They glance my way, but don’t seem to notice me standing stupidly on the footpath. Emma probably doesn’t even remember me. She’s only met me once and it’s unlikely I impressed her. They disappear into the café and I stand for a while, wondering what to do. Should I follow them inside? Is it wrong to want to see more of Emma? I slip my hands into my pockets and try to walk nonchalantly into the café.

Inside it’s dimly lit. Most of the tables are full, but down the back there’s a small round table with just one seat. Emma and her friend are at the counter looking at a menu. I grab a newspaper from the communal magazine rack and make my way to the empty table. My heart is pumping. What if they see me and Emma recognises me? What will I do then?

I hide behind the sheets of the Mercury, pretending to read. A waitress comes by and I order coffee. The girls have taken a table near the door and are deep in conversation. Sunlight casts a halo around Emma’s head, but with her cropped short hair and sturdy build she doesn’t look angelic. I feel a flush of pleasure and then succumb to confusion. Why do I care? I haven’t looked at a woman in years. And now here I am, oscillating wildly between excitement and fear.

I’m still gazing at Emma over the top of the newspaper when the waitress asks where she should put my cappuccino. I reach for the cup and look at her for the first time. She’s heavily made-up with bleached blonde hair but she’s smiling at me, and I realise I don’t mind the curve of her waist where her black apron is tied. The cup shakes in my hand as I take it from her, and froth spills into the saucer.

‘Sorry,’ she says.

‘It’s my fault.’

‘No. I’ll clean it up for you.’

‘Don’t worry.’

But she’s already gone and I slide my attention from her hips to Emma’s happy laugh, which mingles with the general hum from the other tables.

The waitress returns straightaway with a cloth and wipes out my saucer. Her eyes are rimmed with black kohl and her lashes are laden with mascara. It’s impossible to tell what she really looks like underneath all that make-up. She raises her eyebrows at me and walks away, cloth in hand. Then she glances back at me with a half-smile that makes me nervous. She thinks I like her. How did that happen? I’ve never known how to act around women. I suppress an urge to escape. If I rush out, my exit will be obvious and Emma may notice. I should go back to reading, and hopefully the waitress will lose interest.

I bend my head over the paper and pretend to be absorbed, but in truth my senses are all focused on Emma. I’m listening with my whole body for the sound of her voice or the pleasant dry tone of her laugh. Even with my eyes fixed on the paper I can see her in my peripheral vision.

‘What are you reading?’ It’s the waitress again, carrying a pile of dishes past my table. ‘Must be a good article,’ she says with a wink.

Fear cascades in my chest and my resolve falters. I have to leave or the waitress will be asking me out. I imagine myself blushing and stammering, trying to politely turn down her invitation. I envisage the amusement of the other café patrons, watching my discomfort. Emma or no Emma, I have to go. I drain my coffee, shake four dollars out of my pocket and leave it on the table, slinking past Emma and her friend as I escape through the door.


At work, I struggle with vertigo. Emma is with me beneath the car, her smile stoking my courage. I can’t focus on the job. The strength of my imagination is frightening. It seems my Antarctic vault has reopened and I’m bogged in a thick sludge of memory.

On my journey south, one of the girls left her sunglasses in her cabin so she could fully experience Antarctica on her face—the wind and the searing light. She burned her retinas and lived in the shadow and pain of snow blindness for two days. When I think of Emma, a strange foolishness arrests me. I feel as reckless and as stupid as that girl on the ship, as though I could easily leave my protective layers behind and dive into something brighter than I can handle.

During the afternoon an idea starts brewing in my mind. Perhaps I should ring Emma and ask her out. But I haven’t taken anyone out since Debbie and it feels risky. What if Emma says no? Jess is onto me, of course. She’s been watching me from her rug against the garage wall, her yellow eyes steady and unblinking. She knows I’m feeling unsettled, and she’s afraid to take her eyes off me in case I disappear without her. I stop tinkering with the undercarriage of the car and go to make coffee and gather more tools. Then I’m back under the hoist again, tighening a few parts and wondering what I should do. Finally, I go into the garage office and ring the antdiv number. I ask for Emma and the operator puts me through to her office. The phone rings several times and I’m just about to hang up when she answers.

‘Hello. Emma here.’

‘Hello. This is Tom Mason.’

She pauses. Of course she doesn’t remember me.

‘I came to your talk the other night, and I gave you my number . . . in case there was a job.’

‘Oh yes,’ she says, discouragingly.

I plunge on anyway. ‘I wondered if you’d like to have a drink tonight. After work. We could just talk . . . about Antarctica.’

She pauses for a long time.

‘It’s not about getting a job,’ I say. ‘I just want to talk about going south. About what it’s like being at Mawson Station. I haven’t talked about Antarctica for so long.’

‘Okay,’ she says, a little hesitantly. ‘Where would we go?’

‘Somewhere down at Salamanca?’

‘All right. Name a pub and a time.’


She’s already at the bar when I arrive; I see her at the counter leaning on her elbows. Her face is blank and she looks slightly masculine. To survive down south she probably had to neutralise her femininity. I move up alongside, trying not to touch her. It’s busy and she hasn’t yet managed to attract the attention of a barman.

‘Hello,’ I say.

She looks at me. ‘Hi.’

‘I’ll buy the drinks,’ I offer. ‘What’ll you have?’

She steps back from the bar. ‘A Cascade. They have it on tap here. And could you get me some water too? I just need to duck into the ladies’.’

I watch her thread her way among the tables; when she moves there’s no denying she’s a woman, something about her hips. I smile to myself, happy she came to meet me. Then I lapse to nervousness; when it comes to conversation, I’m sure to stuff it up.

She’s gone quite a while. I fidget at the counter and finally the barman notices me and I order three beers and a glass of water. The first beer I drink quickly, leaving the empty glass on the counter. I don’t drink often, but tonight I need steadying, and Emma won’t know I’m on my second glass.

I find a table near the window and sit down. It’s almost dark outside. Autumn is fading into winter even though it’s only May. I think of Mum down at Cloudy Bay, the long grey light down there. I wonder if she’s managing and I feel a pang of guilt. I should be down there cooking for her, and here I am at a pub.

Emma finds me and sits down opposite, thanking me for the beer. Sitting close to her like this, my heart thuds with excitement. She has a frank and friendly face.

‘How did you like my talk?’ she says. A good opener. I wish I had thought of something suitable to say.

‘It was great. You’ve got some nice photos.’ My response sounds so bland I almost wince.

She takes a long sip of beer and glances around the room. ‘I’m still finding crowds difficult,’ she says. ‘Usually I’m just beginning to adjust and it’s time to pack up and go south again. You know how it is.’

Yes. I know how it is. ‘How long have you been back?’ I ask.

‘Just a few weeks. Haven’t even unpacked my bags.’ She laughs. ‘Maybe I won’t bother.’

I watch her fiddling with her glass.

‘You look forward to coming back,’ she says, ‘and then you hit Hobart and all the confusion starts and you just want to run away again.’

She flutters a tentative smile my way and I nod in understanding. ‘How long before you go back down south?’

‘Four months. And counting.’ She shifts restlessly in her seat, scanning the room. ‘I can’t wait to go.’

I understand her anxiety. After spending summer on base with just fifty people a bar like this must seem packed. ‘How was it at Mawson Station?’ I ask. ‘I’ve never been there.’

‘Well, you missed out. Where did you go?’

‘Davis.’

‘Summer?’

‘Over winter.’

‘Nowhere else?’

‘We stopped overnight at Casey Station on the way home.’

‘Kept you on the ship, did they? With the shrink?’ She laughs. ‘I bet a few of you needed it. The antdiv’s worried about the number of maladjusted people they keep bringing back to so-called civilisation.’ She glances at me, more serious now. ‘How did you go? Coming back, I mean.’

I shrug. ‘Messy, I suppose.’

She drains her beer. ‘Isn’t everyone?’

She goes to the bar to order more beers while I wait at the table. I try to assess how things are going, but I’m not sure whether we’re having a good time or not. She comes back and sits down heavily, pushing a beer across the table to me.

‘Well, south can be a pain when you’re a woman,’ she says. ‘I should try to remember that when I’m desperate to go back. If I wasn’t in the field most of the time, I don’t think I could handle it.’ She stares into her beer. ‘You know how it is. You can’t even fart without everybody knowing about it. And if you’re a woman you only have to look sideways at someone and everyone thinks you’re having an affair.’

‘Some people turn into animals down there,’ I say.

She shakes her head. ‘No, it’s worse than that. They choose animals to go down there. It’s the army psych test. Designed to select lunatics.’

‘I passed,’ I say.

Emma grins. ‘Me too. Remember the first question? Which would you prefer: to live in a social suburb or to be alone in a deep dark wood? For God’s sake.’

I like the way her face opens up when she laughs. She loses her Antarctic guardedness.

She becomes serious again. ‘So what was it really like? Overwintering?’

‘Same as for everyone.’ I try to dodge the question—there’s too much weight behind it—but she’s watching me intently, so I’ll have to find a better answer. ‘Winter’s a strange time. Humans aren’t meant to live without light.’ I don’t tell her how the dark penetrates everything. Or how it can sink you if you’re carrying anything into it.

‘At least you’ve overwintered,’ she says. ‘So that makes you a real expeditioner. Not like us summerers. It must be good when the light comes back.’ She’s letting me off lightly. Perhaps there’s sadness in my face.

‘Yes, it’s magic,’ I say. ‘All those fragile pinks and mauves.’

She gazes pensively at her glass. ‘I’m not sure I’d want to do it. Everyone I know who’s overwintered is more than a little bit mad.’ This could be a subtle insult or simply an observation.

She glances up quickly and laughs. ‘I wasn’t meaning you,’ she says. ‘I don’t even know you.’

With that comment she’s underlined our lack of acquaintance, and I hesitate, unsure how to restart the conversation. Emma helps me.

‘Let me tell you about Mawson base,’ she says. ‘That’s what you wanted to hear about, isn’t it?’

I nod.

‘Well, it’s every bit as amazing as they say. Even better than the photos. It blows you away.’

Her face lights up and she looks through and beyond me to another place. ‘Station’s ordinary,’ she continues. ‘Just a bunch of sheds up from Horseshoe Bay. But then there’s the plateau and the mountains. And that’s where the real Antarctica starts. I love it up there.’ She smiles to herself. ‘It’s cold in the mountains, and tough for the fingers, but when you sit up on one of those peaks and look out, the plateau goes on forever. It’s like something out of The Lord of the Rings. And then you turn and look out to sea, and there are islands and icebergs scattered through the sea ice as far as you can see.’ She glances at me. ‘I’ve been up Mount Henderson a few times. And once I went out to Fang Peak with Nick Thompson, the field training officer. Do you know him?’

‘No.’

‘He’s been south a few times. Just thought you might have heard of him.’

The conversation briefly stalls again, but Emma picks up the threads and carries me along. Fortunately, she seems happy to chatter without much input from me. ‘I’ve been to Scullin too,’ she says.

Scullin Monolith is a massive wedge of dark rock that rises steeply out of the sea about one hundred and sixty kilometres east of Mawson station. It’s a major breeding colony for Antarctic petrels—a protected wildlife sanctuary. Hardly anyone goes there.

‘What’s it like?’ I ask.

‘Incredible,’ she says. ‘Unbelievable. The air’s thick with birds.’

‘Don’t you need a special permit?’ I ask.

‘Yes, and when someone scores one, every biologist finds a reason to help. You know how it is.’

Yes, I do know. When the ultimate jolly is on, everyone tries to use their contacts and wield whatever influence they have. Somehow, I was lucky enough to tag along on most of the good rides when I was south. It can pay to be quietly helpful and unaligned. In a melting pot of personalities, there’s always a use for somebody neutral.

‘What about Auster?’ I ask. ‘Have you been there?’ Auster is the emperor penguin rookery on the sea ice out from Mawson Station. It sits among an amphitheatre of sculpted icebergs.

‘Of course I’ve been,’ Emma says. ‘Several times. What penguin biologist wouldn’t have? And it’s every bit as fantastic as they say.’ She nods at me and smiles. ‘Close your eyes.’

‘Why?’

‘Just do it.’

I oblige reluctantly.

‘All right,’ she says. ‘Imagine this: you’re way out on the sea ice and there’s a circle of icebergs—some are blocky, some are sloping, and there are melt caves beneath a few.’ She pauses. ‘Got that?’

‘Yes,’ I mumble. ‘I’m there.’

There’s a long pause and I wonder what she’s doing, whether she’s watching me, whether I should open my eyes. My heart starts to race and my hands begin to sweat. I keep my lids tightly shut. When she starts talking again, her voice is softer. It runs like a thrill up and down my spine.

‘Okay. Now imagine the sky. It’s sharp blue. Or it could be white-grey—one of those days when it’s overcast, but everything’s still reflecting white.’

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘What is it for you?’

‘Blue,’ I say. ‘The sky’s blue.’

‘Good.’ Emma sounds pleased. ‘I’m there on a blue day too. It’s crystal clear and bitingly cold. My fingers are freezing even with three pairs of gloves on.’

I remember that kind of cold.

‘Next, the penguins. They’re scattered everywhere, with bergs all round. It’s mid-season and the chicks are being creched, so they’re all hanging out in clusters. Most of the adults are standing like soldiers—you know the way they stand, heads up, beaks pointed to the sky. Just passing time.’ She laughs. ‘Probably just enjoying the view. It’s the best piece of real estate I’ve ever seen.’

‘Noisy?’

‘Of course. Lots of trumpeting. Smelly too. Just lean back and draw in a good whiff of all that penguin crap.’ She sniffs loudly. ‘Ah, the glorious smell of a penguin colony. There’s nothing like it.’

Silence thickens for a moment. I wonder if Emma is still here with me or if her mind is wandering over the mountains near Mawson.

‘You can open your eyes,’ she says finally.

I lift my lids timidly to meet her eyes. She’s watching me carefully, softly.

‘Did you enjoy the trip?’ she asks.

I nod, words catching in my throat.

‘Another beer, perhaps,’ she says, glancing towards the bar. ‘I think I’ll get a jug this time.’


It’s late when Emma takes me home to her place. We walk. We’re drunk and it’s cold and there’s nobody in the streets except us. Her house is several blocks away uphill in North Hobart. We wander along Elizabeth Street, past restaurants and pubs with groups of rowdy people clustering outside. We should have caught a taxi, but walking is good for sobriety . . . or maybe it’s bad, because with sobriety I feel myself becoming tense again.

Eventually, we leave the shops behind and walk up another street past darkened houses. Beneath a street lamp, Emma stumbles and giggles. Conversation has dropped away, and our progress is punctuated only by the intermittent chorus of barking dogs and the occasional flare of headlights as cars pass by. In a dark stretch, she trips again over a crack in the footpath and lurches against me. A possum startles from the shadows of a tree and gallops across the path. Emma uses this as an excuse to grip my hand, and she holds it firmly as we walk up the hill, running her thumb back and forth across my fingers. My knees weaken. I’m too entranced to pull away.

Halfway along another quiet street, Emma pauses and fiddles with the catch on a low iron gate. It swings open with a musical creak and she leads me around the house to a bungalow in the backyard. She unlocks the front door and walks in, turning on the lights. Tossing her coat across a chair she swivels to look at me, hands on hips. My mouth dries and I lick my lips uncertainly. She smiles then—a slow confident smile that travels up into her eyes. My heart batters, and I stand there useless, hands hanging by my sides.

Time stretches and the moment subsides. I curse myself for my inaction. Emma couldn’t have spelled out her interest more clearly. She shows me to a tiny bathroom and when she leaves, I stand in front of the mirror and examine myself. In the glare of the fluorescent light, I look gaunt and pale and there are dark hollows under my eyes. My cheekbones are too high and there’s a shadow of regrowth on my cheeks. I shiver away from the emptiness in my eyes. It’s like there’s something missing. When I peer at myself again, I look afraid.

I splash water on my face and dry it on a towel, then wander through the lounge to the bedroom where Emma has lit a candle and is undressing. It’s as if she knows I’m unable to do it for her. I glance around and watch the candlelight flickering warmly on the walls. There’s not much furniture in this room. Emma is still living out of a suitcase; her shoes are in a pile in the corner and there are framed prints leaning up against one wall. She notices me looking around.

‘I haven’t had time to hang my pictures yet,’ she comments, pulling off a sock. ‘There was someone else using the room while I was away.’

I try not to look at her muscular thighs.

‘Would you like to see them?’ she says, and then laughs when she sees my face. ‘I’m talking about the pictures.’

‘There are hooks on the wall,’ I say, dodging her gaze. ‘We could hang them now.’

I pick up the first photo. It’s a picture of Emma in Antarctica. She’s standing outside a round red building a bit like a spaceship on stilts. Around her are rocks and ice and a line of Adelie penguins mid-waddle.

‘Béchervaise Island,’ she says, taking the print from me.

Now she’s down to one sock, knickers and a singlet. My heart tumbles as I watch her reach up to hang the photo on a hook. She selects a picture of a grey-headed albatross perched over a moody view of Macquarie Island. The light is dim and the sea is a restless white, foaming over the rocks below.

‘A friend of mine took this shot. It’s good, isn’t it?’ She hangs it above the bed. ‘I’d love to go there, wouldn’t you?’

I’m staring at her toned body. ‘Go where?’ I ask vaguely.

‘Macquarie Island.’

‘Yes, yes,’ I say.

I bend quickly to lift the next frame, but she grasps my arm gently. The candlelight is soft on her face as she looks up at me. A moment of breathlessness hovers between us, a fragment of time when we both wait. I know it’s up to me to act, but I wallow in the luscious darkness of her eyes, quivering internally. The smallest smile flickers on her lips, and suddenly it isn’t difficult to kiss her. Passion, long unfamiliar, floods through me. Her lips are full and eager. Her body curves into mine.

I didn’t think I could do this. But now that I feel her, warm and strong and close, something releases, something that has held me in check for years. It eases out of me like a sigh. And slowly, slowly I allow myself to go with sensation. The untapping of myself; an uncorking. Like a slow-motion replay.

Emma is soft, but firm in my arms. She draws me onto the bed and allows me to explore her with my hands: the tautness of her forearms, the tight curve of her back, the softer roll of her hips. This is like music, like summer, like the quiver of birds’ wings. It’s hot and searing like white light over ice. It’s like finding myself again after a decade, and not knowing who I am.