The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,45
the fish it was carrying to feed its offspring. She admits that her intervention means the chicks of that penguin won’t survive and she’s unhappy about that, but the data she collects will provide information on Adelies and the impact of fisheries in Antarctica.
Water offloading sounds horrible, and I see several people in the crowd shifting uncomfortably. I don’t much like the concept either, but I understand the reason for doing it. Emma makes it sound well rationalised, and I’d like to ask her if her research has had any positive outcomes—whether any fisheries have been curbed. But I don’t ask, because I know it’s an awkward question, and it wouldn’t be fair to ask her to justify her work in front of an audience. The bottom line is that it’s unlikely anyone is going to modify their catch for a bunch of penguins.
Emma shows us a breakdown of the fish species she collected by water offloading. Then she shows maps of the foraging journeys of the penguins. It’s amazing how far those birds will go to collect food for their young. And it’s astounding how deep they can dive.
In the photos, Béchervaise Island looks rocky, wild and windswept. The field accommodation is a round red hut on stilts. Emma shows pictures of herself standing outside the hut cocooned in multiple layers of clothing. She shows shots of her assistant handling penguins. Then she steps us through the Adelie breeding cycle and clicks through a series of photos of the chicks, developing from little balls of fluff to full-sized penguins with white-spectacled eyes and flashy black and white plumage.
Among her photos are several of south polar skuas feeding on abandoned eggs and dead chicks. The skuas are the scavengers of the penguin colonies, bold brown birds that make their living on misfortune. Emma says she likes them and she’d like to study them. After all, she points out, skuas have to make a living down there too. And she’s right. Most people are captivated by images of fuzzy penguin chicks and they can’t see past the blood on the skua’s beak.
But it’s the look in the skua’s eye that arrests me. I recognise that gaze. It’s the same look you see in the eyes of expeditioners after a stint down south. They call it the thousand-yard stare. Emma has it too. That’s how I can tell she has recently returned, and also by the way she glances at the audience when the lights are turned up again. Unaccustomed to walls, she’s feeling hemmed in. She’s used to skies and wind and a cold that can snap freeze your fingers. That look in her eye twigs something in me. It makes me want to go back.
I wait behind in the auditorium while the others file out. Emma is preoccupied with disconnecting wires and leads, and she doesn’t notice me for several moments. I stay in my seat with my heart pounding and a crazy idea shaping itself in my head.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, approaching her down the aisle. My throat is dry and my voice is tight.
She looks up. Her eyes are hazel and her cheekbones angular.
‘I enjoyed your talk,’ I say. ‘I’m a great fan of penguins.’
‘Isn’t everyone?’ She smiles. ‘They’re cute critters. Not the easiest to work on. But I like their attitude. You have to have a bit of feistiness to survive in Antarctica.’
I hesitate and then clutch my hands into fists and press on. ‘Are you looking for an assistant? I mean, do you need someone to go south with you next season?’
Her smile becomes faint and distant. ‘I doubt it,’ she says. ‘We have people offering their services all the time. We’re pretty right for helpers, thanks.’
She goes back to packing up. It’s obvious she considers me dealt with, and I’m not usually a person to persist, but I hover and wait. I don’t know what’s making me so brave.
‘I have skills that might be useful,’ I suggest. ‘I’m a diesel mechanic . . .’
She replies impatiently, ‘But no experience with penguins.’
‘I know a bit about penguins,’ I say quietly. ‘I’ve been south before.’
She stops again and looks up. ‘How many times?’
‘Just once.’
‘And you haven’t been back?’
‘Family stuff.’
‘Yes,’ she says, a little wearily. ‘There’s always that.’ She slips her computer into a case. ‘So, why now? My seminar triggered something, did it?’ She smiles to herself. ‘Photos of Antarctica can do that.’
I shrug. Some things aren’t easy to explain. How do I tell her it’s the