‘She’s an interesting one,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Roughs it like the blokes when she’s south, I’ve heard. And you’ll have to hit it off with Fredricksen if you want to go south. It doesn’t matter how good you are at your job, if Fredricksen doesn’t like you, he won’t employ you.’
‘Got any tips?’ I ask.
But Bazza shakes his head. ‘The man’s a mystery to me. All I can suggest is to be non-threatening.’
I remind him that I’m the least threatening person I know, and he agrees. ‘Whatever you do, don’t ogle Emma while Fredricksen’s in the room,’ Bazza says. ‘She’s a tomboy, but I reckon half the antdiv fancies her. She’s got a body like a rocket. Built for a purpose. And there’s no place for prissy girls down there anyway. They only get into trouble.’
I say I hadn’t noticed Emma’s body, at the same time feeling my knees and stomach melt. I hope I can hold it together and not reveal anything to Fredricksen.
Bazza shakes my hand and wishes me luck. ‘When I told you to get yourself back down south, I didn’t reckon you’d be up to it this season,’ he says. ‘But you’re looking stronger. Shame you won’t be going down as a dieso. We need good staff like you.’
‘I’ll let you know how I go,’ I say. ‘Keep a job free for me just in case.’
Bazza lets me into the main building with his swipe card and I walk down the long corridor, tucking all the loose pieces of myself back inside. I need to be pleasant, a bit dull, non-threatening, as Bazza said, but capable. This is something I should do well.
The receptionists examine me surreptitiously while they call Emma to advise her I’ve arrived. Soon after, Emma appears from a corridor. Her face is happy and enthusiastic, but the ladies are still watching us closely, so I keep my expression blank.
‘Tom,’ Emma says. ‘Good to see you.’ Her eyes are bright in her brown face and the warmth of her smile almost buckles my knees. She shakes my hand professionally and winks. ‘Come this way. I’ll show you the lab.’
I nod at the curious faces of the front-desk ladies and follow her up a gangway to the next building.
The antdiv is like a rabbit warren. I used to know my way around here, but I’ve cancelled it out of my mental directory. In the past nine years I’ve only visited Bazza out in the workshop or followed him down to the cafeteria, apart from going to Emma’s seminar, of course.
Emma leads me up a set of stairs and then along a corridor past a string of offices. She turns to smile at me but says nothing and I wonder if I’m imagining the flash of daring in her eyes.
‘This is the lab,’ she says, opening a door. ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess. I’m still unpacking.’
She’s right. The lab is in disarray. Boxes, equipment and papers are scattered across tables and benches. I don’t know how she can work in here.
‘Actually, do you mind if I just quickly finish an email?’ She laughs airily. ‘I ought to be cleaning up, but I can’t stop emailing south. A friend of mine is wintering at Mawson and I keep wondering what she’s up to.’ She glances almost wistfully at the computer on the desk.
I perch on a stool and try not to watch the flurry of her fingers across the keyboard. There’s a desperate urgency to her typing and it reflects the strength of her desire to be somewhere else. I’ve forgotten how it is when you return—feeling cut off from Antarctic happenings and dreaming of station life as if events taking place down south are somehow more real than anything going on at home.
Emma speaks to me while she’s typing. ‘My friend has hooked up with one of the physicists down south . . . against my advice. I told her she should try to retain some emotional independence, but she says it all just happened after a few too many drinks at the Saturday night party. She says she needs someone . . . I don’t think her boyfriend back here is going to be very happy . . . not that anyone will tell him . . . poor bugger.’
Finally she swivels on her seat and looks at me. ‘Are you ready?’ she says. ‘Fredricksen will be waiting.’
My mouth goes dry at the mention of Fredricksen’s name and my palms begin to sweat. ‘I don’t know. It’s a long time since I’ve had an interview.’
Emma smiles. ‘You’ll be fine.’ She grabs my hand and places it against her cheek. It’s a gentle gesture, but I’m shaken by it. I’m so unaccustomed to this rush of emotions. Small things seem capable of breaking me apart.
Emma stands and kisses me, rattling me further, and then she takes me through the maze of corridors to Fredricksen’s office. He’s sitting behind his desk with a mountain of paper around him, just like Bazza said, and his fingers resting on a keyboard. When Emma brings me in, he pushes back from his desk and stands up to shake my hand. He’s bearded, like most of the older Antarctic fraternity and his eyes are assessing. He waves me to a seat and motions to Emma to leave us. I watch her go, suppressing a shaky desire to call her back. But I can’t ask her to sit here and hold my hand through this. I have to do it alone.
Fredricksen leans back in his seat and asks about my previous stint south. He asks who was on my expedition, who I worked with in the field, what sort of tasks I was doing on station. I answer as best I can. He asks what sort of a winter we had, whether anyone lost the plot, whether I’d consider wintering again. I tell him that overwintering was hard and that I’d only consider a summer job in future. He nods knowingly. Fortunately, he has sufficient tact not to ask me why I haven’t been back since my first trip.
He asks me what I know about Adelie penguins, whether I’m competent at sexing them and tagging them, how I feel about the ethics of water offloading, and what skills I have in electronics. These questions are easy for me to deal with and I’m honest with him. I tell him what I do and don’t know, and that I’m willing to learn. I tell him birds are one of my passions, and that I can work all day among them without feeling tired. I explain that I’m not keen on water offloading, but if it’s part of the job then I’ll find a way to cope. He asks me how I’d deal with the isolation this time, given that I found overwintering tough, and I tell him that I grew up at a lighthouse and that isolation is not a problem. Home relationships, I explain, were the problem last time. He nods, understanding. I’m sure he has also had his woes.
Finally, he asks about Emma, and whether I think I can get along with her. I admit I don’t know her well, but that I’m willing to work with all types of people. I tell him that I’ve helped many biologists in the field and that my tactic is to work around issues to make sure the job gets done.
Fredricksen regards me for some time before speaking again. ‘Emma needs someone who’s sensitive to her need for control,’ he says, pulling on his beard. ‘If you can work out a way around that, the two of you will achieve a lot. She’s a nice girl, but strong. A head-on approach will not work with her.’
I tell him there are ways to suggest things without seeming to take control.
He stands up and shakes my hand. ‘I’ll let you know in a few weeks,’ he says. ‘Protocol demands I interview more than one applicant. I think you’ll do, but I can’t give you the nod yet. Understand?’
I thank him and make sure he has my phone number. Then I wander along the corridors again, trying to find Emma’s lab. She said she wanted to know how my interview went, so the least I can do is report in before I go back to work.
Somehow I find the lab again. The door is open and I’m about to walk in when I notice Emma at the back of the lab with a short, burly-looking man. She’s sitting on a stool with her head bent down and he has his hand on her shoulder and is standing close. There’s something about their interaction that makes me pause. This might not be the right time for me to barge in.
Before they see me, I back out and walk away down the corridor, breathing hard. What was happening in there? Who was that man? Was I imagining the air of intimacy between them? I try to compose myself again. It may be nothing. I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. I should trust Emma. She has invited me to go away with her for the weekend, so she must want to be with
me. But I know what this place is like—liaisons around every corner, people falling into each other, almost by accident. And the returnees are the worst, immersed as they are in the chaos of their re-entry.
I hover in the corridor pretending to look at maps while I decide what to do. I could go back to the garage and get some work done, but I want to wait and say goodbye to Emma. Looking back towards her lab, I see the man now leaning against the doorframe. Whoever it is, he’s still talking to her. I dive into the men’s restroom and wait inside a cubicle. Surely he’ll leave soon. Doesn’t he have work to do?
Eventually I decide that hiding in the toilets is ridiculous. I can’t work with Emma if it’s going to be like this. I slip out into the corridor, somehow find my way back through the maze and then sweep quickly past the reception area and out the front door.
To my surprise, Emma is waiting beside the Subaru. She’s patting Jess’s nose through the partly opened window. ‘Why didn’t you come back to the lab?’ she asks.
‘I had trouble finding it.’
‘How did it go?’
‘Okay, I think.’
‘Good.’ Emma’s smile is sunshine. ‘What are you going to do now?’ she asks.
‘I think I’ll go home.’
‘Can I come?’
‘I don’t know. Is that a good idea?’
‘I think it’s an excellent idea. Just wait while I grab my bag. You can drop me back here tomorrow on your way to work.’
When Emma steps into my house, I feel the air move. It stirs like a faint breath through the room, and I wonder if I have sighed aloud. It seems so normal to be bringing her home.
‘This is great,’ she says, taking in the comfortable spread of couches and cushions and the dappled light falling through the windows.
I must admit this is a wonderful house. Being located on an east-facing hill, it loses the light early, but makes up for this with its long view across the channel. Over the years I’ve made it very homely inside. Given that I haven’t had to share it with anyone except Jess, I’ve developed it to my taste. I suppose most men don’t get that opportunity.
I fill the kettle and light the stove. Emma wanders through the lounge room and dumps her bag in my bedroom. I wait in the kitchen while Jess trots along behind her, having faithlessly discarded me for the attentions of her new friend.
‘How long have you lived here?’ Emma asks. She rolls up her sleeves as she enters the kitchen.
‘About eight years.’
‘I like it. Have you done much to the house?’
‘A few renovations here and there. A new bathroom. Polished the floors. Put in the wood heater.’
‘I wish I was practical,’ she says.
‘You have other skills.’
‘Like catching penguins? And water offloading?’ She walks to the front windows and gazes out over the channel. ‘I’d love to have my own place,’ she says. ‘So I could fill it up with my own things.’ She shrugs. ‘But it isn’t worth it. I’m never anywhere for long enough. I don’t even have my own car anymore—I have to borrow from friends.’
‘I could help you find a cheap one,’ I suggest.
‘I don’t really need one,’ she says. ‘What would I do with it when I’m away?’
I pour two cups of tea and set them on the table in the lounge. Emma turns from the window and looks at me. I feel stupid, standing there looking at her so expectantly, my hands plunged in my pockets. I’m so desperate for things to go well with her, and now I can’t think of anything to say.
Some of the spark seems to have gone from her as she comes across the room to join me. She throws herself down on one of the couches, legs carelessly apart, head tipped back. It’s not an invitation, but seeing the taut skin of her throat makes me swallow. I have no idea how to shift the mood of the afternoon where I want it to go.
She sits up and looks at me directly, a hint of aggression in her eyes. ‘What do you think about women in Antarctica?’ she asks.
This is not quite the conversation I had in mind. Perhaps this is my interview with Emma, now that I’ve passed the test with Fredricksen. To delay answering, I pick up my tea and take a sip.
‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Which camp are you in? Do you think women balance the Antarctic community? Or do you think they cause trouble?’
I set my cup down carefully.
‘You’re against it, aren’t you?’ Emma says.
‘No, I’m not against it.’ I choose my words cautiously. Emma’s face tells me it’d be easy to offend. ‘But I do think people should be careful about how they behave down there.’
‘You’re referring to some of the flirting that goes on,’ Emma says.
‘Flirting, yes,’ I say. But I’m really thinking of women dancing provocatively at parties. Women drinking too much and leaning up against men without thinking how it affects them. Such a lack of awareness. Women playing more than one man at a time. Not all women, but enough to destabilise things. Enough to breed resentment. Feelings like that are magnified in a small community.
‘Women should be allowed to have a good time down there without being crucified for it,’ Emma is saying. ‘What’s wrong with a bit of flirting? Men flirt too. There’s nothing abnormal about it—just go to a bar or a club in Hobart sometime.’
‘Antarctica isn’t Hobart,’ I point out.
Emma runs a hand through her hair, considering. ‘It’s tricky, isn’t it? Women want to go to Antarctica. They want to share the so-called last frontier, and it is more normal to have them down there. But there’s all this resistance in the male ranks. If you flirt or get involved with someone, then you’re causing trouble, and if you try to fit in by acting like one of the boys, that’s wrong too and some of the guys look down on you. It’s this us and them thing. And there’s the tradies versus the boffins too. I’m not sure how to resolve it.’ She looks at me thoughtfully. ‘I suppose it’s partly to do with this melding of two separate worlds. I mean, how many women do you have to deal with in your workplace?’
‘None. They drop cars off for me to service and then pick them up again. The front desk deals with it.’
‘That’s just it. Tradies aren’t used to working with women, whereas most of the women that go south are scientists who come from a mixed workplace. At university they’re used to being respected for what they know. But down in Antarctica it’s all reversed. The tradies rule because they run the station. No wonder it’s difficult.’
In my mind, I hear Bazza carping on about how high and mighty some of the young female scientists are, and how they expect you to drop everything to cater to their work demands. But Bazza’s not as old-fashioned as you might think. He says it’s not about whether women should be there or not, but how they behave while they’re down there. And how the men behave too. He says it’s about people working out how to get on together, and about leaving some of their entrenched attitudes at home, or at least being able to keep a lid on it when things rile them.
‘I try to avoid it all by staying out in the field,’ Emma says.
I think of the man in her lab today and I wonder if she’s as innocent and detached as she makes out. I want to believe her, but I know how it is down there.
Emma picks up her tea. ‘I think all the problems boil down to a few bitter old men who don’t want to share Antarctica with women,’ she says. ‘They want to keep it as a boys’ club like it was in the past. They don’t want to accept change. I’m sure they’re the ones who insist on hanging porn all over the place.’
‘All over the place?’ I only remember a few pinups in the workshop, and they were pretty tame. It’s the same in the garage where I work in Sandy Bay. Some of the men like having a few posters up. It’s almost cultural for them. After a while you don’t even notice.
‘Normal women don’t look like that,’ Emma says with disdain.
‘Nobody looks at those posters,’ I say.
‘I do,’ she says. ‘And I don’t want to.’
I’
d like to ask her how often she goes into the workshop when she’s south. When I was down there we rarely had visitors. Especially not women. ‘I think it helps some of the guys cope,’ I say.
‘With what?’
‘Abstinence.’
‘You shouldn’t defend them. Can’t they just work it off in the gym?’
‘They do.’ I remember the guys laughing about how strong they were from all the hours in the weights room. ‘But it can still be difficult for some of them.’
Emma’s laugh is hard. ‘Because they’re missing out? How pathetic. Women don’t have that problem.’
How can I explain to her how it is to be in the body of a man? We’re biologically different. Women don’t seem to understand that.
‘How about you,’ Emma asks. ‘How did you cope?’
I flush and mumble something inane. I don’t want to tell Emma about Sarah helping me to survive the end of my marriage. ‘It’s a long time for people to be away from their partners,’ I say.
‘Then people with partners shouldn’t go south.’ Emma grins suddenly. ‘That’d limit the application field, wouldn’t it? . . . You know, the Brits only send down people who aren’t married.’ She laughs again. ‘I wonder how many of them come back and get married to someone they’ve met down there? But sending married couples doesn’t work either. They’ve tried that. Too much friction if they blow apart and the girl takes up with someone else. I’ve seen it happen.’
‘It isn’t safe for relationships,’ I say, thinking of Debbie.
‘No. And nobody should expect it to be safe. The problem is that people don’t understand the risks.’
She’s right, of course. You don’t understand until it’s too late. And then that which is broken can’t be mended.
I stare out the window, wondering how things would be now if I’d been wiser, if I had stood up to Debbie and refused to go south. We’d have paid off most of the mortgage in a few years anyway, if we’d worked hard. We might even have two or three kids by now. A swing set in the backyard.
‘I’m sorry.’ Emma’s voice draws me back into the room. ‘That wasn’t very sensitive of me.’
The Lightkeeper's Wife Page 21
