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. Sh
e 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 an
d 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.
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