The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,93

you’ll be able to think about is the risk, and you’ll miss out on the buzz. But taking risks is part of climbing. The trick is to take only calculated risks. Then you can look up and out without worrying about falling. It’s all about enjoying the ride.’

She reaches out and squeezes my hand. And it seems to me she’s not just talking about climbing. She’s talking about life.

That night, sated, mellow, every muscle aching, we drink red wine with dinner. The shared experience, the dark around us, the campfire with its glowing embers and gently flickering flames, the wine—it all breeds an atmosphere of intimacy.

Emma admits she’s finding it difficult to apply herself to grinding through all the data she collected last season. All she can think of is the news that comes dribbling back from Mawson Station. It’s like an addiction, the way she has to dash into the lab each morning and check her emails to find out what happened overnight. After a few seasons she thought she’d be over it, but the yearning is as strong as ever.

‘It’s the freedom,’ I say. ‘The distance from normal routine and responsibility.’

Emma shakes her head. ‘I have routine down there. Every day is routine. Rugging up for the cold. Checking the weighbridge. Catching birds. Water offloading. Data entry . . .’

‘But you’re not hemmed in to ordinary life.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You don’t have to go shopping. Or buy petrol. Or clean the house.’

‘I suppose that’s part of it,’ she says. ‘Life isn’t very ordinary down there, is it? It does have its own routine, but each day is special and there’s something different to look at. Like a leopard seal hauling out on the sea ice and scaring the hell out of the penguins. Or a skua hanging around the hut trying to steal the soap. Or a visitor you didn’t expect making a trip out across the sea ice for dinner and a glass of wine.’

I watch Emma’s face glowing in reminiscence. Her cheeks have a red sheen from the fire. She stares into the flames and there’s a soft smile on her lips. I feel the warmth of the wine in my veins.

‘I’m leading you astray,’ she says. ‘You were normal and stable before you met me, weren’t you?’

‘What’s normal?’

‘Were you thinking of Antarctica every day? Every waking moment? Like you are now?’

It’s not Antarctica I’m thinking of every waking moment. ‘I’m thinking of you,’ I say.

Emma laughs. ‘You’ve got things mixed up in your head. Me and Antarctica. You can’t separate us. You can’t think of one without thinking of the other.’ She’s gazing into the fire again, her eyes glistening in the liquid light.

‘You don’t have to go,’ I say.

She looks at me blankly.

I say it again. ‘You don’t have to go south.’

‘Everyone wants to go south.’

‘If you want to settle back into life here, you could find something else to do . . . You could get a job at a university.

Research, or something.’

‘Who said I want to settle?’

‘You’ll have to eventually. You can’t keep going south forever.’

‘Why not?’

‘Eventually you’ll want a normal life.’

‘I don’t want a normal life. And neither do you. That’s why you’re here with me. Because you want to go south again.’

She doesn’t understand. Being with her is about much more than wanting to go south. I like being with her. I like the feeling of her body wrapped around me. Her smell. Doing things with her, even climbing. The possibility of Antarctica is an added bonus.

‘I like you even without Antarctica,’ I say.

She shakes her head. ‘No, you don’t. You’re wrong. It’s Antarctic magic that has drawn you to me. If it wasn’t for that, I’d just be another person in the street. And do you really think you could work with me down there?’

‘Yes.’

‘How do you know?’

I hesitate. ‘I’m not very imposing.’

She laughs and winks at me. ‘I don’t mind a bit of imposition.’

I pretend to ignore the hint. ‘I’m talking about the workplace. I’m not a bulldozer. There are ways to work things out.’

Emma stares off over the fire into the dark. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘There are always ways to work things out.’ She seems suddenly abstracted and I wonder what she’s thinking. ‘We had a successful season,’ she says eventually. ‘Lots of data.’ She pokes the fire with a stick and a log crumbles and flickers into energised flame. ‘My assistant was good most of the time—when she wasn’t trying to run back to station to