We shouldn’t be here. It’s out of bounds, even though it’s common knowledge that everyone on station makes the pilgrimage to the city of ice in the frozen sea. We move on, speeding over the ocean’s surface to a field hut that’s perched on the lone cusp of a bay. The building’s unlocked. There’s no need for keys. The hut’s made up of three differently sized wooden shipping containers gutted into a continuous tube. Inside there’s a grubby light. It’s yellow like weak tea. It comes from two small scratched never-cleaned windows. There are shelves of tinned food and jars of muesli and a pot of frozen water on the stove in readiness for the next guests. Antarctic protocol. There’s a crapper. It’s a round tin, a meek foot or so high. It’s in a separate room like a tall cupboard, which is tacked onto the side of the hut. The door swings wide to the view.

‘I reckon this is one time, Max, when we women have got it over you men.’

‘Hey, we’re not always facing backwards when we go to the toilet.’

We laugh. There’s talcum powder for cleaning skin, used instead of soap and water. There’s toilet paper stacked high.

‘Dammit, I thought you big boofy Antarctic blokes only used snow to wipe your bums.’

‘Well, my dear, snow is very invigorating.’

There are frivolous folding chairs. We set them up and sit with cups of tea on the rough verandah outside. There’s no wind. The frozen bay spreads wide before us and we stare at the trapped bergs like silent sentinels before the broad sky. Bliss.

‘Now I know why William hates coming into the station when he’s out in the field. He’s gone out to Hop Island, where all the snow petrels are,’ I tell Max. ‘He calls the station town. He says he feels instantly stressed when he rides back into it.’

‘I reckon this is as close to heaven as you could get,’ Max agrees.

Night, huddled on a narrow sagging bed, under three thermal sleeping bags unzipped and spread wide. The air’s as cold as a tomb on our foreheads. I ask Max softly again what Jim meant about his life in the real world. He says that he’s stirring the possum. All he can guess is that it’s about his de facto, Margaret, who he’s been with for four years.

‘We separated months ago, but we’d still been seeing each other, sort of. You have to feel loved, it’s so important to feel loved in this world.’

We talk tightly together, warm, belly to belly.

‘I emailed Margaret about you and she emailed back and we’ve made the final split. I cried for a day afterwards.’

He’s silent. He stares at me and smiles.

‘So now it’s just you and me, kiddo.’