The Lightkeeper's Wife

by Karen Viggers

  Eventually, Mary persuaded Jack to shift to her uncle’s farm, back into her old bedroom. They stayed there only a short time, aware their presence was a financial imposition. It wrenched both of them, but the move to Hobart was inevitable. Rent was beyond them, so they lived with Mary’s parents. Her father was an accountant who’d managed to retain his property through the Depression, and his old house in North Hobart had space enough for all of them. It was a beautiful house, with squares of coloured glass bordering the window, and cast-iron lace around the verandahs. But the reality of living in it was harsh. Little light penetrated the large rooms with their high ceilings and cold walls, and the house was dark and sullen. Mary felt stifled by her parents’ laws and expectations. When she fell pregnant and developed morning sickness, her mother was grimly pleased. At last, Mary had become the meek and malleable daughter she had desired.

  In the city, Jack changed too. He became quieter and more introverted, working long hours in a cannery. The days seemed endless and he hated it, stuck inside with no natural light. Evenings, he sat by the fire with Mary’s father, reading the paper and smoking a pipe—a new habit picked up in the city. The atmosphere wasn’t conducive for talking, and Mary was so nauseous and depleted, she had little to say. Melancholy sat on her soul. She knew she should be pleased about the baby; pregnant women were supposed to be radiant. But Hobart was heavy and Jack was distant and withdrawn, mired in fatigue. At an appropriate hour, they’d retreat to the bedroom and undress awkwardly in the hissing glow of the gas lamp. Then they’d crawl into bed.

  Intimacy died quickly with Mary’s morning sickness, and Jack was exhausted, so he slept while she watched the shadows on the roof and wondered what had happened to the passion she’d felt for him on Bruny Island. Mired in loneliness, she dreamed of Cloudy Bay and the farm and the sweet smell of the ribbon gums on a wet morning. It didn’t occur to her that Jack might be homesick too.

  Five years later, when the job at the lighthouse came up, they both leaped at it. By then, they had two children and were living in a rented house in Battery Point. Their relationship had become strained and empty, both of them depressed by poverty and the suburban grind. It was easy to leave Hobart behind. The lighthouse was their opportunity to return to Bruny Island. It was also their chance to rediscover happiness.

  5

  There’s something reassuring about working on an engine. Perhaps it’s the structure of it, or the predictability of how things go together. Or it could be the ingeniousness of a functioning machine, the cleverness of design that makes a motor produce energy to turn a drive shaft and put a vehicle into motion.

  It’s not just the concept of an engine that I like, but also the feel of heavy parts in my hands. The familiar smell of oil and grease. I like working out problems systematically. I like the geometry of engines. There’s a logic to them. And there’s also the solitude you can find beneath a truck.

  Bill is my boss at the garage in Sandy Bay. He gives me the difficult jobs because he knows I’m good at them, and makes sure I have a clear couple of days to work them out. And if there’s nothing but routine jobs, he books me up, one service on top of another. He knows I’ll power through everything. I’m as efficient as a machine once I get going.

  Fortunately, Jess is the kind of dog you can take to work, which is just as well, because she hates being left at home. In the back corner of the garage, she curls up on an old sack, only moving to get a drink from time to time. The other mechanics throw her biscuits and crusts from their sandwiches. If I didn’t tell them to draw the line at chocolate they’d throw that to her too. Just as well she doesn’t know what I’m making her miss out on.

  Whenever I have a difficult problem or if I need access to a special tool or machine, I nip down to the headquarters of the Antarctic Division in Kingston—known as the antdiv—to have a yarn with an old diesel mechanic there called Bazza. Bill doesn’t mind me going because he knows I’ll be back soon with the problem solved.

  Today’s project is to rebuild the engine of an old truck. The owner is Bill’s friend so the work will be done at mates rates. It’d be cheaper to install a new engine, but things are quiet at this time of year, and Bill’s happy for me to spend time sorting things out for his friend. The antdiv has better equipment than the garage, and I have a few parts that need machining, so I decide a quick break with Bazza is the best plan.

  When I hook my spanner on the wall of the garage and wipe my hands on an old cloth, Jess knows we’re heading out. She slinks from her corner for a quick pat and is in the car as soon as I open the door, smiling up at me from the floor and tapping her tail on the mat to let me know she’s pleased to have a break. It can be hard work for a dog sitting on a sack all day.

  In some circles, the antdiv is referred to as the Division of Broken Marriages and Shattered Lives. When I first heard it called that, I was irritated. At the time, it seemed like sour grapes from people who’d missed the privilege of going to Antarctica. But then I discovered its truth. They’ve got manuals for everything that happens down there, except how to get on with life after you return.

  The antdiv is a series of square grey buildings joined by covered walkways much like the tunnels that used to connect the old buildings at the Antarctic stations before the new big comfortable ‘sheds’ were built. Near the front entrance, a bronze leopard seal is stretched out on a concrete block beside a cluster of Adelie penguins with their crests raised. I like to think the sculptures are there to remind everyone what Antarctica’s really about, but I don’t reckon anyone who works here even notices them. I don’t often see the sculptures myself because the workshop’s round the back.

  Bazza’s in there working on a new Hägglunds—a twin-cab tracked vehicle that’ll be delivered south with resupply to replace one that a scientist dropped through the sea ice. When they bring the other one back, Bazza’s crew will give it a full analysis and decide if it’s worth refitting for another season south. They swap them over every three years anyway, but if the Hägg’s in reasonable condition it might be okay to send with the next trip. Häggs are costly machines, but they’re invaluable on the ice.

  Bazza has four other diesos working in the shed with him, so you’d expect them to be on top of things, but I know from experience that everything’s on a ridiculously short time frame. The antdiv just lines up the jobs, expecting Bazza’s crew will have everything ready to go south again with the October or December resupply. It’s flawed optimism. You’d think by now they’d be familiar with Antarctic logistics.

  After I machine my parts for the truck, Bazza and I have a cup of coffee. He looks at his watch—three o’clock—and says he’d prefer a beer, but I tell him I have to get back to work. He raises bushy eyebrows at me and asks his usual question: When am I going south again? He asks me this every time he sees me. They need good diesos like me on the stations, he says. I always fob him off with some pathetic excuse, like not being able to stand the cold. But we both know I’m kidding myself. Ever since I went down there I’ve been yearning for the space and the light, for those long horizons and the cold emptiness of the air—white that goes on forever, and the plateau like a low grey cloud.

  Bazza catches me staring into distance. ‘Go,’ he says. ‘Just go this season. You’ll be right, this time.’

  Everyone knows, you see. Everyone in the Antarctic Division knows what happens to you while you’re down there. They know who’s being unfaithful, whose marriage is collapsing. But nobody lets on. It’s the code. So nobody says anything to the suffering person back home who suspects their partner is having an affair down south. Affairs can happen at the other end too. The tyranny of distance.

  ‘Come on,’ Bazza says. ‘Take your pick. There are positions for diesos at every station. There’s nothing to hold you back.’

  But he’s wrong. There’s plenty holding me back. Doubt. Fear. Inertia. Mum. ‘What would I do with Jess?’ I say, digging for excuses.

  Bazza shakes his head. ‘Some
one’ll look after her. I dunno. What about that niece of yours?’

  He’s right; Jacinta would care for Jess if I asked her. But I just can’t go. There are weights in my shoes holding me in Hobart. Something bad would happen and I wouldn’t be here to deal with it. I learned that last time; when you go down south you’re vulnerable to losing things. Unfortunately, it’s a risk you don’t understand until after you go.

  ‘Not this season, Bazza. Can’t do it. I’ve got too many commitments.’

  ‘We’ve all got commitments, mate. I’ve got my name down for next year. Had it approved by the missus. The pay’s better than it used to be, too.’

  Bazza has his own reasons for going south: a break from his wife, not too much work to do, the money, jollies every weekend, drinking beer in a field hut with his mates, porn movies to combat other aspects of the isolation. Bazza’s got an arrangement with his wife: she has some bloke she sees when Bazza’s south and he seems to be okay with that. And his wife doesn’t mind if something happens down there with a girl over winter—although he’s getting a bit beyond the eligible age group. The girls who go south are mostly young and get snapped up by the enthusiastic young testosterone that moves quicker than old bulls like Bazza; the ship’s hardly out of Hobart and it’s happening. If the beer wasn’t free down there, Bazza says he’d get sick watching it all. No, he says, you wouldn’t want to let your wife or girlfriend go south without you. They’re all into it, like a bunch of animals.

  That’s what we are really, I tell him. Animals. Even though we spend a lot of time trying to hide it. It’s biology; people can’t help themselves. And what do you expect when you put a group of men and women together in a ship for close to five weeks? That’s how long it takes to reach Davis Station from Hobart: seven days to the ice and then another two or three weeks grinding west through the pack. The ship is laden with cargo for resupplying whichever station you’re heading to, and the crew just wants to make it through the big seas as fast as they can. In the pack, the ice damps down the swell. One trip, the ship was only three days out of Hobart in heavy seas when one of the choppers broke loose in the heli hangar. All the helicopters were smashed to pieces and they had to turn the ship and back rustle up some other choppers. Just like that. The antdiv has money at its fingertips. Who else could summon up a couple more helicopters in a few days? They couldn’t drop off staff or do resupply without them—especially on those voyages early in the season, when the sea ice is still thick and the ship can’t get into station.

  But things are starting to change down there now. They’ve built a runway at Casey Station so they can fly people in. The ship’s still needed to deliver supplies and gear, but the isolation is reducing. At least that’s what they say. But I wonder about it; they can’t fly people down unless the weather’s perfect. And how many perfect days do you get in Antarctica? Especially in spring when everybody wants to get there.

  Bazza glances at his watch. ‘Let’s go down to the cafeteria and get some chips. And a pie or something,’ he says.

  I follow him out of the shed, towards the main building. ‘Where’s Jess?’ he asks.

  ‘In the car.’

  ‘Got the windows down?

  ‘Of course, I always leave the windows down.’

  ‘I don’t like to see a dog suffer. And you’re such a dopey bugger sometimes.’

  ‘I always look after my dog.’

  Bazza nods. ‘Just checking, you dreamer.’

  ‘You set me off, Bazza. Pushing me to go south again.’

  ‘Yeah, I know it. Bloody southland.’

  We’re all just a breath away from memories.

  We enter the building and walk down a long grey corridor to the cafeteria. It’s afternoon tea time and there are plenty of people sitting down with a cuppa or a snack. I used to know most of them. Some of the old guard have been here forever. They’ve done their stints down south, and now they are office-bound, directing the field staff who go in their place. But many of the young ones are transient. They last a few trips to Antarctica and then they move on. If you don’t escape, you’re trapped by it. Ice in your veins.

  Bazza buys a couple of pies and we sit down at a table. There’s a dismembered newspaper on the table and some flyers for a seminar on Wednesday night: ‘The ecology of Adelie penguins’ by Emma Sutton.

  Bazza sees me looking at the flyer. ‘Why don’t you go?’ he says. ‘You’re into penguins.’

  I do love penguins, especially Adelies. They’re rugged little black and white nuggets, solid balls of muscle. You don’t want to mess with one unless you know what you’re doing. They can draw blood with their beaks or the leading edge of a well-placed flipper. It’s amazing how they can swim from somewhere out in the endless Southern Ocean to the ice edge and then waddle over miles of ice to return to their breeding colony—the same island they bred on the previous year. I always wonder how they find their way back each time.

  Bazza is watching me.

  ‘I don’t think I can go,’ I say. ‘I’ve got too much work on.’

  ‘You should go. It’ll only be for an hour or so. And they need support for these things. They’re always asking the bios to give talks about their work and then nobody goes.’

  ‘What about you? Are you going?’

  Bazza winks at me. ‘I go home early that day. It’s card night. But if it was a Thursday . . .’

  ‘You’re full of it, Bazza.’

  ‘Yeah, mate. But Emma’s a nice girl. She’ll give a good talk.’

  I put the flyer down and pick up my pie. ‘I’ll see how I’m going at work. Now, about this truck . . .’

  Bazza looks at me and shakes his head.

  On my return to the car Jess greets me joyously. Bazza made me take one of the flyers for the seminar and I toss it on the dashboard. I rub Jess about the ears. ‘How you going, girl?’

  She tries to scramble onto my lap and I indulge her in a crowded hug for a moment before pushing her back down to the floor. She’s all doggie smiles and wiggly body. I wish humans could show their pleasure as transparently as dogs. We’re all so self-contained.

  ‘We’ve got work to do,’ I remind her. ‘Then we can go for a walk after dinner.’

  Walk and dinner, two words that she knows. She pants happily up at me from the floor on the passenger side.

  On the drive back to the garage, the flyer slips from the dashboard onto Jess’s head and then to the floor. I scoop it up and put it on the seat. I wonder what this Emma Sutton is like. The young female scientists are generally the most temporary of all the staff. They have a few seasons in them before their lives are screwed up by a series of ice-based relationships that usually fail to survive back in the real world. Then they leave for other pursuits and to sort out their lives.

  But it’s not always as simple as that. I only had one season south and I’m still not sorted out. Bazza thinks I should be over it. But I’m not. It’ll haunt me all my life.

  6

  There’s something about Antarctica that locks you in for life. Maybe it’s the landscape; so wild and bare and sparse. Or maybe it’s seeing so much white. Or the relationships, all so intense. Whatever it is, somehow, in all that vast space and luminous light, you become transformed. You discover a new self. An ability to melt into distance. An uplifting sensation of freedom. At the same time, eternal yearning is born. You want to return. To reunite with the self you uncovered down there, a self unchecked by normal boundaries. When you go back to your old world, along with the other injuries Antarctica has inflicted, raw longing rules you. Your soul is in bondage. The healing takes years.

  As my wife pointed out later, Antarctica is not something you can share with people who haven’t been there. You can’t show them how light shimmers over ice or glints from the angled faces of icebergs. When you talk about Antarctica after you return, you see the reflection of your craziness in people’s faces. It’s like grieving a death; those whose lives haven’t been touched can’t understand. So
your isolation thickens. You wonder how you can feel more alone in a city of sixty thousand than in a field hut twenty kilometres from base.

  For just over a year, Antarctica was my reality. I went, and I came back. My old life tried to reimpose itself, but parts of the puzzle were missing. They were lost in light and space. Captured by wind. Trapped in a blizzard. That’s the cost.

  Antarctica keeps part of you forever. You can never bring your whole self back again.

  My wife Debbie found the ad on the Antarctic Division website for a diesel mechanic to overwinter at Davis Station; which would mean two summers and a winter away from home. We’d been married a year and bought a house. It was nothing fancy, and the mortgage wasn’t huge, but neither of us had impressive incomes, so the loan was a financial constraint. I wasn’t much of a spender, but Debbie was into clothes and shoes and manicures.

  The Antarctic salary was three times my wage. Debbie decided we needed this job to set us up. We’d pay a decent sum off the mortgage and that’d relieve the strain. It’d be easy. I could go south and work on engines and look at birds—my two great passions, she pointed out—while she’d stay home and organise a few renovations to the house. I’d be away fifteen months, and sure, that was a long time and she’d miss me, but she was confident it’d work out beautifully in the end.