The Nature of Ice Read Online Free PDF

with weather and age. He knew neither man—accidental deaths a decade apart. Inscriptions on brass plaques unite them in death.
    His own epitaph, he thinks, might read:
    CHAD MCGONIGAL—DIEHARD LONER AND FEARFUL WASTER. WOODEN-BOAT BUILDER. ANTARCTIC CHIPPIE. A LIFE GIVEN TO BROKEN RESOLUTIONS AND SHIRKING IRKSOME CROWDS. BAD-MOUTHED IN ABSENTIA BY HIS HAPLESS MATES.
    The horizon blurs with the milky swirl of sky. He can see the bergs a kilometre away, but has trouble making out the surface a metre ahead. The lack of definition threatens to disarm his senses—he could plough through a wall of ice and still have trouble seeing it. Twice he’s been called out of the carpentry shop in bad weather to operate the bulldozer; twice the new plant operator has been laid up with one thing or another. Chad fits the headphones and turns up the station music, clipping to a drone the engine noise that vibrates through bone.
    Fifty metres away, Indie turns the Hägglund in an arc and trundles back towards the station where he will load drums of aviation fuel on the sledge. Indie has the new plant operator pegged as a malingerer, says it stood out like dogs’ balls during their training in Hobart. Nine winters here, and Chad is still floored by those who turn out to be trouble.
    As for him, he should be on his way back to Hobart, but is one of a handful from winter who have been asked to stay on and help. There are worse ways to earn a living than work a second summer at Davis Station. Even his place on the east coast of Tasmania loses some of its shine at this time of year—the onslaught of tourists and stink boats, infernal jet skis that carve up the bay from morning to night. Even on an afternoon as bleak as this he still jumps at the chance to be out on the ice.
    See? Some things stay the same. The ghostly voice still haunts him.
    Fingers of mist inch across the side window. Images flicker and fade like spliced frames of film played too many times. Chad can’t block out these illusory hands that paw at the window struggling to escape but he takes a cloth and wipes the glass clear, turns the demister to high, attempts to stave off the wretched woman who returns to him in snippets of black and white. Still the echo lingers, her hands as familiar as his own.
    Static from the VHF radio cuts the music; Chad unhooks the handpiece. ‘How’s tricks, Charlie boy?’
    â€˜Can’t complain, Chad. Warmer in here than out there. Got a couple of things for you. Our esteemed leader asks when you’ll be back on dry land. Malcolm wants a powwow with you.’
    â€˜Give me an hour, sooner if the weather claps out. He say what it’s about?’
    â€˜Nope.’
    It must be nearing the end of Charlie’s shift. He’s in no mood to chat.
    â€˜What else you got?’
    â€˜Message from Adam Singer. He and your other new chippies are hosting this week’s happy hour. Five o’clock, Adam says, if you can lend a hand. A couple of them are rummaging round the dress-up room now, picking out a frock to wear.’
    Chad shakes his head. ‘Doesn’t take long, does it? Will we see you up there?’
    â€˜After the day I’ve had, fella, the only happy hour I’ll be having is a nap.’
    Chad lines the D8 up for a second run parallel to the first. He watches the Hägglund wind up the hill towards the fuel farm. Chad’s waiting to see whether Ginger and Gadget , the new Casa planes, will perform as well as the old TwinO tters.
    Wind buffets the cab. Chad turns up the music. He can hazard a guess at the day’s slushy from the choice of music the job privileges them to play: a member of The Whalers who, complete with harmonicas, Hawaiian guitars and tropical shirts, have cut their first demo tape. Wailers is right, Chad thinks, the band’s signature song the product of hours of racket from the music practice shed.
    The Whalers croon while Chad provides the bass.