by Hazel Prior
I feel a bit daunted at the prospect of this Bryony. More than a bit, to be honest. I get tongue-tied in the presence of attractive women. I revert to teenager-dom in a way that isn’t good.
Without warning, Daisy makes us all jump by shrieking. “Mum! Patrick is here and you’re keeping him waiting. You shouldn’t do that. Are you and Bryony coming anytime soon?”
There’s laughter from the direction of the kitchen. “Yes, dear! On our way.”
Gav’s wife steps into the room and gives me a peck on the cheek. She’s as waiflike as ever, and her face seems to be collecting lines too quickly for her age. “I’m so glad you could come, Patrick. I’m afraid dinner’s going to be a bit basic. I had to make something the children will eat.”
“No probs,” I say, pushing my gift of cheap wine into her hands.
She moves aside, and I see a dazzling smile attached to a little oval face. As introductions are made I register that, yes, Bryony is very pretty. Her eyes are luscious and lashy; her hair is cut in a sleek bob. It shines in lots of different tints of copper and gold whenever she moves her head. She’s made an effort with her appearance. She got herself sparkled up with a sparkling necklace and little sparkling earrings. She’s wearing a floaty (almost see-through) top and tight black skirt that doesn’t reach her knees. Nice legs.
Over toad-in-the-hole and peas, I learn that Bryony is a divorcée and she’s working at the local museum. Her hobbies are tennis, ancient history and felting. She promises to make a felt giraffe for Daisy. She’s a hell of a lot nicer than me, more intelligent than me and more interesting than me.
In spite of all this, I somehow can’t get myself to be that interested in her. I keep thinking about Granny’s diaries. Is Harry my grandfather? Did he love Granny V? What exactly happened between them? And why was she so upset on twenty-ninth of October 1940? I just want to get back home so I can read more.
After the meal, Daisy and Noah are anxious to show the visitors their three guinea pigs. Bryony and I are led out to the back garden. Daisy scoops the guinea pigs from the hutch, and they are passed round, one by one.
“Cute, aren’t they?” says Bryony, cradling one of the furry guys. “Do you like animals, Patrick?”
“Yup. Err, yes, I s’pose.”
Daisy beams at us. She seems to be expecting me to say something more, but my head is empty of ideas. A total vacuum. She waits a little longer then takes the guinea pig back from Bryony crossly and declares: “So you two’ll have to get a guinea pig when you get married.”
I’m now wishing the earth would swallow me up, but Bryony doesn’t seem the least bit rattled. “Daisy, you’re slightly jumping to conclusions!” she declares with a ringing laugh.
Bryony only lives down the road, and Gav has made me promise to walk her home.
I don’t mind much. She’s pleasant company. When we’ve said goodbye to our hosts, I trot down the road with her, wheeling my bike on the other side. We talk about Daisy. Bryony says what a shame it is she’s so ill and what a brave little girl and how amazing she is and for that matter the whole family is amazing. I agree. It doesn’t take long for that conversation to run its course. Next up we talk about the safety of different neighborhoods and how she’s normally quite happy to walk the streets on her own at night, but as Gav was so insistent . . . I say it’s a pleasure (A pleasure! I’m using my shop-speak now) and it’s not far out of my way in any case. There’s an awkward pause and our footsteps sound loud.
“I gather you recently split with your girlfriend?”
“Yes,” I admit. “Lynette, her name was. She left me a few months ago without warning.”
Bryony makes a sympathetic sort of noise. “So hard when that happens. It took me two years to get over my husband leaving. Almost as long as the marriage!”
“You don’t say!”
I wonder vaguely what her husband was like. An idiot, I bet. She deserves better.
She seems deep in thought as she walks by my side. I’m wondering if she’s going to invite me in for a coffee and what I’ll do if she does. Coffee isn’t tempting, but what comes after might be. Is it going to be a longer night than I’d expected? How far do I go? How far does she want me to go? How far do I want me to go? And am I wearing clean underpants? All sorts of performance-related anxieties are beginning to circle like wolves.
We’ve almost reached her door. The renewed silence is becoming unbearable. I grasp around in my headspace for something to fill it.
“I’ve been reading my grandmother’s diaries,” I say at last.
“Oh, how intriguing,” she answers, politely.
“She was, like, beautiful when she was younger. Really beautiful.” I wonder whether to add “just like you” but decide against it. Too corny.
I stop and she stops, too. I face her in the street, under a lamppost. “Bryony, I’m going to ask you something, and I’d like you to be honest with me.”
“Of course I will, Patrick.” She looks like she’s in a state of preparation, her features deliberately calm but all ready to arrange themselves into an appropriate reaction.
We view each other for a moment in the lamplight. Then I just come out with it. “Bryony, do you think my ears stick out?”
She looks startled. This isn’t what she was expecting. “Why, no, not especially. They’re quite nice ears.”
There’s some hope, then.
We carry on walking.
“Well,” she sighs as we come to the steps of number sixteen. “We’re here. And . . . I still like your ears.”
“OK, great.”
She fumbles in her bag for the key. When she’s found it she plays with it, looking up at me. Am I supposed to kiss her? Is it a good idea? I can’t quite make it out. She does look alluring. Her eyes are all twinkly like her jewelry, and the edge of her hair gleams red gold in the dusk. Her lips are full and slightly open. I could just go for it. I’m thinking right now that she looks like she’d be up for it. But am I up for it? Man, I must be crazy! What’s wrong with me? It’s bloody shameful, not to grab a chance like this.
I can’t exactly say what excuse I’ve got. It could be that I’m not over Lynette yet. But I don’t think it is. Jeez, I’m not right in the head, mate. Here’s this gorgeous, sexy woman, available, just waiting for me to make a move. But no, nothing’s going to happen between me and Bryony. Because do you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to head straight back home and get on with reading my granny’s diaries.
TERRY’S PENGUIN BLOG
14 December 2012
Penguin couples have really got their act together. As Veronica pointed out to me today, they seem much more organized than many human couples. They don’t waste any time. Once the eggs are laid, the females will return to sea for a few weeks to feed while the males egg-sit. Then, during early December, the couples take it in turns to incubate. After the chicks have hatched, again the mother and father take turns in their roles of watching over their young and finding food.
It’s incredibly heartwarming to see the penguins cooperating together. Here are a few snaps of Veronica at the rookery, admiring the dynamics of Adélie family life.
• 24 •
Veronica
LOCKET ISLAND
Dear Mrs. McCreedy,
It’s very great to see the pictures of you on those blogs. You look well and very stylish and not too cold. I hope your corns are OK and the penguins are well.
I saw some penguin biscuits in Kilmarnock stores yesterday and thought of you. I didn’t buy any, though. I haven’t got through the lovely marshmallow chocolate biscuits you left yet. I’m trying not to eat too many at once. Doug (my husband) says it won’t do my figure any favors. I know he’s right, but I do like sweet things so much.
We have been learning a new song in the church choir, lots of Lord Lord Lords and an Amen that goes on fo
r two and a half pages. It’s very hard to keep track of.
The weather has been quite sunny here, recently, but frosty every morning with bits of snow. I call in on The Ballahays every day just to water the houseplants and check up on things like you told me to. On my way out yesterday, I saw Mr. Perkins with a wheelbarrow full of compost and said to him how it feels strange and empty without you, and he said yes, Eileen, it does, doesn’t it.
I hope you are eating well.
Yours,
Eileen
I cannot think why she bothers to send these e-mails when she has nothing of any interest to say. However, as Terry has gone to the trouble of printing it out for me, I read through the message briefly before tossing it into the wastepaper basket.
The evening is quiet and still. Mike is absent at the moment, analyzing blood, bones or feces in the lab, no doubt. Dietrich is seated at the table, shading in one of his drawings with a pencil: two penguins dancing a tango, he has informed me.
Terry has returned to the computer room. She spends longer in there than anyone, typing penguin information into databases and working on her blog. I wonder if Patrick will have read it and if he is interested in the slightest. I wonder if he has looked at the diaries.
Dietrich pushes his pens to one side and stands up with an air of purpose.
“Have you finished your drawing?” I inquire politely.
“No, not yet. But it’s my turn to cook tonight.”
He grabs a few tins from the shelf and looks at them with a doleful expression. He disappears out to the “larder” then comes back with a nondescript hunk of meat that might have been any body part from any animal.
“Should be defrosted by now,” he mutters.
“Can I be of any assistance?” I ask. Terry is the only one I have helped with domestic tasks so far.
“Well, that would be nice,” he replies, startled and pleased at my offer. We proceed to the kitchen. Standing next to him by the worktop I notice that, in addition to facial whiskers, he has many hairs sprouting all over his neck. It is rather like standing next to a bear.
“Perhaps if you could stir this for me?” He upends the greenish contents of a tin into a pan and hands me a wooden spoon.
I dutifully stir.
“Tell me, Mrs. McCreedy: Do you think Terry’s OK?” he asks out of the blue.
I am taken aback. It never occurred to me she could be otherwise. “Of course she is. I suppose you feel responsible for her happiness in some way, do you?”
“Being in my position I can’t seem to help it,” he replies.
“You’re fond of her, aren’t you?”
“Oh yes. Very much. Her and Mike, both.”
A smallish growl escapes from my throat. How could anyone possibly be fond of the ungallant Mike?
“They are a great team,” Dietrich continues, laying into the meat with a cleaver in a slightly desperate fashion. “It’s important that they’re coping all right. Eight months is a long time to be in a place like this with so little human interaction. When it all ends I am lucky that I have my wife and children to go back to. Mike has his girlfriend. But Terry? She doesn’t have that special person. And her family doesn’t really get her. She’s all about the penguins.”
“I believe you’re right. Terry would go to any lengths to ensure the future of the species. Seldom have I observed such passion and such commitment.”
Dietrich beams. “That is exactly what I think. She’s always doing extra work behind the scenes. And she’s so great with people, too—even Mike and me. There’s not many who could put up with us two for so long.” He adds: “It’s great that she’s got you for company for a while.”
“You flatter me.”
“No, I mean it.”
He pauses, cleaver in midair. “You and I are older than the others, Mrs. McCreedy, and we can see all this from a different perspective.”
A dry laugh rattles in my throat. “You’re hardly a decade older than them. Whereas I am five or six decades their senior.”
“You have the edge on me, yes,” he admits. “But I expect, like me, you find that aging brings at least one advantage, Mrs. McCreedy. Don’t you find that, as the years pass, you become less obsessed with yourself—and you care about other people more? As you get older it’s as if your capacity for love grows.”
I am silent. I have not found this to be the case at all. Quite the reverse.
• 25 •
Veronica
LOCKET ISLAND
There are raised voices issuing from the lab. All three of them. I am on my way back from the woefully inadequate facilities; I always retire to bed long before they do, and, as it is a quarter past nine, I have already completed my ablutions, donned my dressing gown and removed my hearing aid. Nonetheless, such is the volume of the argument that I cannot miss a few phrases. A “For Chrissake!” from Mike; a “No, my mind is made up,” from Dietrich; a “Please, let’s not argue,” from Terry, all in among a cacophonous jumble of other words. I pause to try and glean more, but it seems that the dispute has drawn to an end. Dietrich emerges from the room and passes me with nothing more than a polite “Good night, Mrs. McCreedy.” Immediately afterward I hear the distant voice of Ella Fitzgerald filtering through the closed door of his bedroom.
I return to the lounge to pick up my glasses. I linger at the bookshelves, pondering the merits of a Sherlock Holmes tome for my next read. It is, alas, a paperback, but it might provide me with a little mental stimulation.
Terry enters, an unusual crimson bloom in her cheeks.
“Oh, hello, Veronica. Nice dressing gown.”
“Thank you, Terry.”
She doesn’t sit down.
I continue my examination of Conan Doyle’s work, but she is an unquiet presence. She blows on her glasses and rubs them ferociously. Then she lets some air through her teeth with a loud hiss. After which she shakes her head quickly as if trying to rid herself of a troublesome midge.
“Whatever is the matter?” I ask, pushing Sherlock back between Christie and Dickens.
She mumbles something indistinct. I am not going to let this go.
“Fetch me my hearing aid, will you, and then tell me all about it.”
She pulls a face but trots off, returning a moment later with the aid. Once it is in and we’ve settled in the lounge with a mug of tea each, she confirms what I had suspected all along: the problem is Mike.
“Why am I not surprised?” I exclaim.
She frowns. “I know he’s a bit funny toward you, Veronica. There are reasons for that. But he’s never been horrible to me before. Normally, we get on so well.”
The implications here are not lost on me. “Excuse me a moment, Terry, but, if there are ‘reasons’ for him being ‘a bit funny toward’ me, as you so generously put it, would you be so good as to explain what they are?”
“Well,” she replies slowly, “I will tell you, as it’ll help you understand. You might remember we had another scientist with us last year, and for the past few years?”
I do have a vague recollection about it. They never talk about this fourth scientist, though.
“His name was Ryan,” Terry informs me. “He was funny and clever and full of ideas, and he was practical, too. He was the one who fixed our plumbing when it went kaput, who installed the generators and the reverse osmosis plant. Even more importantly, he was the great communicator, the great liaison who waved his magic wand and procured funding for the project. A certain amount was arranged from the Anglo-Antarctic Research Council, enough for a six-year project—but we all knew we needed more time. There were so many significant ups and downs in the Adélie numbers on Locket Island in those six years, more than anywhere else. Ryan promised us that he was on the case. When the project first started looking wobbly, he said it wouldn’t be a problem, his personal contacts would s
tep up their contributions. In fact, the opposite happened. They withdrew their contributions altogether. And what did Ryan do about it? He left us. He deserted the project and went off to a cushy job tracking seabirds in Iceland.”
I would never have considered tracking seabirds in Iceland to be a cushy job, but then my knowledge of such things is limited.
“It was a grim time for all of us, but it hit Mike worst. Mike was close to Ryan. He’d put all his faith in him only to be totally let down. So you see, when you came along promising all this extra money, Mike wouldn’t let himself believe it would happen. He couldn’t bear for us all to have our hopes raised again, only to be crushed. That’s why he’s been odd with you. It’s only because he cares about the Adélie project so much.”
Terry persists in believing the best of people. I, however, am underwhelmed by her explanations. I clear my throat pointedly. “I believe several thousand pounds of my money have already been transferred by Eileen from my account to the Locket Island Trust to pay for my three weeks’ accommodation. Isn’t that enough to show him I am in earnest?”
She shrugs. “Well, I think he’s beginning to realize. But he doesn’t like being proved wrong.”
She isn’t stupid.
“So what is Mike’s issue with you?” I inquire. “What was all that squabbling about tonight?”
A variety of emotions cross her face, then she seems to make up her mind. Further revelations are imminent. I feel rather pleased that she considers me a suitable recipient of these.
“Well, the fact is that Dietrich is handing over a task . . . to me,” she confides, with some pride. “He wants me to take over all communications with the Anglo-Antarctic Research Council. It’s a huge responsibility, especially now that the future of our project is in the balance. And if—it’s a big if—we can somehow carry on our research, Deet has said he’s planning on dividing his time up differently, spending more of it in Austria with his family. As he won’t be here so much, he’s asked if I’ll take the helm in two months’ time. He’s asked me to be head of the Locket Island team. I said yes, of course.”
