The Lightkeeper's Wife (8 page)

Looking back, Mary saw that period as the highlight of their lives together. They were still enveloped in the tranquil world of the farm, they were growing in love and in understanding, pressures were few. Marriage gave them new freedom. They picnicked alone, making love in the forest, at Cloudy Corner, even up on East Cloudy Head on a calm summer’s day. Life was busy and close, hard but rich.

Then things changed. An outbreak of blight in the orchard caused finances to tighten. Jack recognised the burden of their presence and started talking about moving to Hobart for work. And then Rose arrived, Frank’s bride. Being the social member of the Mason family, Frank was always looking for fun. During time off from the mill, he met Rose at the annual dance in Alonnah. She lived on a farm between Alonnah and Lunawanna, taking care of her bedridden mother, a task from which she was obviously keen to escape. Her relationship with Frank progressed quickly, and soon she too moved into the Mason farmhouse.

At first, another woman was welcome in a house of men. But it wasn’t long before Mary started to dislike Rose. There was something not quite honest about her, she was lazy and manipulative, evading tasks so Mary took on more than her share. The men, even Jack, were entranced by her. She wore her fingernails long and polished, and she slicked her lips red. Mary tolerated her, struggling to be polite. But Rose didn’t function by other people’s rules. When she had one of her ‘bad patches’ there wasn’t enough room in the Mason house. Mary abhorred Rose’s selfishness, the way she twisted things to her own advantage. Rose was a snake in disguise, and Mary wanted to be far away from her.

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. ‘Someone’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.