The Lightkeeper's Wife

35



After the funeral, I return to work and try to pretend everything’s all right again. A week of compassionate leave, a few pats on the back, and you’re expected to take up where you left off. They say that keeping busy helps with the grief. Yet, again and again I find myself lying with a tool in one hand, staring unseeing into a truck’s undercarriage, or completely distracted by the call of a bird. Often Jess appears in the gloom and licks my face, cleaning away tears I didn’t even know were there.

Emma rings a couple of times. When I play the first message, her voice echoes across the lounge room, asking me how my mother is and if I am okay and could I please ring back. I marvel that her voice fails to move me. I don’t call her back.

The second time she rings, I answer the phone, thinking it might be Jan or Jacinta.

‘Tom,’ she says. ‘I’m so glad I’ve caught you.’

Caught me? She caught me long ago.

‘How’s your mum?’

‘She died.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘She was ill. Heart disease.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

For a wry moment I consider the many things she could have done, but most of them are too late now. She could have been straighter with me. She could have sent Nick away.

‘No,’ I say. ‘Everything’s done. We had the funeral last week.’

A silence wells between us. From her blanket by the wall, Jess watches me, her eyes shining in the shadows. Outside a cockatoo squawks its way across the sky.

‘I’m really sorry, you know,’ Emma says. ‘About what happened that night with Nick. We were so drunk. And it was all so untimely. I’m embarrassed about it. I didn’t know your mum was sick or it’d never have happened. I wish it hadn’t.’

‘It doesn’t matter now.’

‘Well, yes, it does. I’d like to see you, Tom. Can we catch up soon?’

The gap in conversation grows heavy.

‘Look, I don’t want to hassle you when you’re feeling down,’ she says. ‘But I do want to see you. Please will you call when you’re feeling better?’

‘Sure.’

But when I’m feeling better could be a long time away.

She calls again a week later. ‘Tom. I have great news. Fredricksen’s going to offer you the job. To come south with me. What do you think?’

I sit blankly. This was what I’d hoped for. But I find I can’t even contemplate going south.

‘Are you okay?’ Emma asks.

‘I need some time,’ I stammer. ‘It’s too soon after . . .’

She’s quiet for a long moment. ‘I’m sorry. I was so thrilled, I couldn’t wait to tell you. But it wasn’t very tactful of me to blurt it out like that. Are you all right?’

‘I’m okay,’ I lie.

‘Look, Tom. I have to go. Take care and we’ll speak soon.’



The next day Bazza is on the phone. ‘I heard Fredricksen offered you a job,’ he says.

‘I haven’t made any decisions.’

‘Good. Because I want to offer you a job too—on a better wage than Fredricksen can give you. We’re having troubles finding good diesos for the summer. You can winter, if you like. And you can have Mawson Station if that’s what you want. So you can see those emperor penguins you’re always talking about.’

‘I’m not sure I want to go to Mawson.’

‘But that’s where Fredricksen’s job is . . .’ There’s a pause, and I hope Bazza will give up, but of course he’s onto it like a dog at a bone. ‘It’s because she’s going there, isn’t it? Emma.’

‘Maybe.’

‘I thought you wanted to go with her . . . ? Ah, well then, if that’s the case, I suppose there’s something else I should tell you. Then maybe you’ll take up my offer at another station. Nick Thompson’s going to Mawson too.’

‘Great.’

‘He’s a prick,’ Bazza says. ‘Emma’s not his first antdiv conquest. Look, come and see me, we’ll discuss things. How about some remote field work? A traverse? Would you consider that?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Think about it. These opportunities don’t come up very often.’

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘I need a good dieso. And you’re my mate. You need picking up. Don’t worry about Nick Thompson. Emma will drop him before the ship leaves, mark my words. He’s playing the field, can’t help himself.’

‘You haven’t seen them together.’

‘Yes, I have. I work here, remember? His eyes are everywhere.’

‘I don’t want to talk about him.’

‘Neither do I. Come and see me tomorrow lunchtime. I’ll buy you a sandwich.’



I meet Bazza in the antdiv cafeteria. We take a table in the back corner and drink awful coffee with flabby sandwiches. Bazza says they have new cafeteria staff, but things haven’t improved. He asks me what I think about his proposition, but it’s too soon to make decisions. I’m still laden with the burden of Mum’s death. And home is no escape. Jan’s been calling and leaving messages for me to come and visit. She’s rotten with guilt and she wants me to reassure her, to absolve her of her sins. But I can’t do it. Neither can Jacinta. We have enough of our own grief to deal with. But Jan keeps finding ways to beg for support. She insists she needs help to go through Mum’s things, but I can’t face riffling through Mum’s wardrobe—all those clothes she’ll never wear again. It’ll only intensify the emptiness. In the past few days, whenever the phone has rung, Jess and I have left the house and gone for a walk. Every time we hear Jan’s voice we need fresh air and wind.

Bazza watches me across the table. ‘You’re doing it tough,’ he observes. ‘Shit of a thing, losing a mother. Mine died a decade ago.’

‘How long did it take?’

‘To get over it?’

I nod.

‘I’m still not over it. But you cope, with time.’

‘That’s about what I thought.’

We sit and chew our sandwiches. I drink the coffee, trying not to grimace at its bitterness. Bazza nods towards the counter and I see Nick there buying his lunch. He’s leaning over the counter in intense conversation with one of the staff. I hope he isn’t here to meet Emma.

‘Look at him, chatting up the cafeteria girls,’ Bazza says. ‘He’s a waste of space. I don’t know what Emma sees in him.’

We watch Nick collect his order from the girl behind the counter. He’s smiling at her in an intimate way and shortly afterwards she comes to sit with him.

‘See what I mean?’ Bazza says. ‘He’ll be out to dinner with that one tonight. You should forget about him and come south. Have you given any more thought to it?’

‘No. I haven’t had time to think.’

‘You don’t want to think,’ Bazza says.

He’s right. I’ve been avoiding it. Doing anything to distract myself from his offer. And Fredricksen’s. I’ve been walking with Jess. Talking on the phone with Jacinta. I even rang Gary last night.

‘Look,’ Bazza says. ‘Let me tell you about this gig. You won’t be able to say no, once I give you the details.’

He outlines the winter program. A tractor traverse out of Mawson to the Prince Charles Mountains. It’s an exceptional trip. I’d be mad to say no. While Bazza talks, Nick stands and leaves the room and I watch him go, only half listening to Bazza.

‘I’ll think about it,’ I say, when Bazza has finished. ‘When do you need to know?’

‘Four weeks.’ Bazza reaches out to shake my hand. ‘Do the right thing by yourself, will you? Don’t turn it down.’


Emma calls on Friday afternoon and leaves a message for me to meet her at Salamanca in one of the pubs. A group of them is going out for a drink. I don’t much feel like heading back into town when I’ve just arrived home. And I’m not sure I’m up to a night of Antarctic reminiscence. But an outing might be good for me. I’ve been spending too many hours alone. I shower, feed Jess and then drive into town.

Parking is difficult down by the wharves, but eventually I find a space behind Princes Wharf. The orange shadow of the Aurora looms behind the sheds, a string of lights along her flank, a spotlight flaring from the trawl deck. I pause to look at her, trying to project into my future. Can I see myself boarding that ship again? Can I imagine myself travelling south? I wait for some clanging bell of intuition, but there isn’t one.

I pocket my hands and make my way through traffic across the road to Knopwoods. The doors are open wide and there are people spilling out into the street. Cigarette smoke wafts among laughter and clinking glasses. I edge between groups and slip through the door.

The bar is frantically busy. People are packed shoulder to shoulder, pushing back and forth. Bodies clad in fleece mingle with loosened ties and suits. I smell aftershave, perfume, the stench of spilled beer. I squeeze through to the counter. After waiting several minutes, I buy a drink and move off into the crowd.

Then I see them, a tightknit circle of eight around a table at the back. A knot of laughter and waving hands, sloshing glasses, trivial banter. Just another group among the general drone. I see Emma there, sitting beside Nick. His arm is around her shoulders. Did Emma tell him I was coming? What am I doing here anyway?

I wind my way through the crowd and find a spot along the wall where I can see Emma’s profile through the shifting mass of faces and bodies. She won’t see me. Neither will Nick. She didn’t really expect me to come. It was just a gesture, to cheer me up. Who would want to come to a noisy bar when they have just experienced death? There’s no room for loss here.

Watching her, I drink my beer, feeling it warm my stomach. Her face is bright and smiling. She’s having fun. She’ll go south again and dodge normal life for yet another year. She’ll be immersed in the usual summer season—with all its excitement, isolation, gossip and scandal. If I choose not to go, she’ll forget me . . . if she hasn’t already. She’ll be preoccupied with Nick. He’ll play with her. Keep her attention.

I watch Nick between all the faces. I see him shift to gulp his drink, his arm still around Emma’s shoulders. If he looked straight up, he could look into my eyes. But I know he won’t see me. Because I’m the wrong sex. He has his arm around Emma, but he’s still taking the opportunity to survey other female talent in the room. I can see him doing it. His eyes are roving up and down, taking in legs, faces, breasts. Poor Emma. I feel sorry for her. She’s been so taken in. She might be convenient for now, but a man so busy windowshopping will always be tempted to try other wares. He’ll betray her. Secretly, at first. But she’ll find out. There are no secrets down south. And he won’t last a season. I wish she could see this about him.

A knot of regret twists within me. I have to let go. Emma’s a great girl, but she’s not for me.

I finish my beer and leave.