How the Penguins Saved Veronica

by Hazel Prior

  “Ah!” This is indeed a revelation. I take her hand warmly. “Congratulations! It is no more than you deserve.”

  “I’m looking forward to it, the challenge of it all,” she acknowledges with a wide smile. “But I think—well, I know—Mike’s a bit upset he won’t be getting the job.”

  “Undoubtedly,” I reply. “You have what he wants. It’s called envy. I have seldom suffered from it myself, but I do remember being around people who were quite severely afflicted. One of the symptoms is nasty behavior.”

  “It does seem to be.”

  There may well be an additional cause for Mike’s unpleasantness. Terry has no idea that, despite her unkempt appearance and lack of style, she is in possession of considerable charms. Indeed, somebody of an appropriate age might find her rather an attractive prospect. Bearing in mind he has a girlfriend back in England, it may well be that Mike is in denial about the way he feels toward Terry.

  “Now Mike’s picking holes in everything I do,” she says, crossly.

  I reach out and lay a hand on her arm. “It’s his problem, not yours. He’ll get over it.”

  “You’re right, Veronica. Of course he will.”

  * * *

  —

  I can hear a roaring in the hills. The air has acquired a ghostly gray tinge. Wildly tousled clouds chase one another across the sky at an alarming rate. The penguins seem uneasy, stumping about in close circles and huddling up together.

  A sudden gust of wind blows my hood down and plays havoc with my hair.

  “Right, that’s it. We’re going back to base,” exclaims Terry, setting a befuddled bird down on the ground. It straggles off and plumps itself back on its nest. Terry starts to pack up her penguin scales and camera.

  I consult my watch. I’m getting used to the fact that it never gets properly dark here and the sun travels backward through the sky. I still find Antarctic timescales disorientating, however.

  “It’s only twelve o’clock!” I protest.

  “I know. But that’s a storm on its way.”

  I glance toward the mountains. They’re veiled in a swirling mist. The roaring is becoming louder by the minute.

  Terry pulls out her radio and speaks briefly to Dietrich and Mike on it.

  “Yup, we’re all agreed. Quick as you can, Veronica.”

  We march up the slope. By the time we are at the top, specks of white are flying in our faces. We’re both panting. I am thankful it’s all downhill now toward the field center. I have to be reasonably careful, though, due to the risk of slipping. Mukluks are good, but the ground is unforgiving when you fall. I’ve only done it once here so far and still have the bruises. I have no wish to repeat the experience.

  We arrive at the research center unscathed. It isn’t long before Dietrich and Mike join us.

  Dietrich crouches down to light the heater. “Let’s get this thing going and hunker down.”

  “A day in the lab for me, then,” declares Mike, taking off in that direction and leaving the door unclosed behind him. I close it.

  “Probably a good idea, Mrs. McCreedy. That’ll stop any drafts,” comments Dietrich.

  Terry aims herself toward the kettle. “We may be stuck here for some time, Veronica. Best find yourself a book or something.”

  I bypass Sherlock Holmes once more and choose something more topical, the story of Scott’s Antarctic expedition: The Worst Journey in the World. Once I have located my glasses, I accept the mug of tea from Terry and settle into my chair . . .

  . . . Two days later I am still sitting here. We haven’t been able to venture outside at all. It is mind-numbingly tedious and suffocatingly claustrophobic. I miss the earth, the air, the sky. I miss the penguins. I can’t stand Mike anymore, can’t stand Dietrich. At times I even can’t stand Terry.

  The Worst Journey in the World does little to make me feel better about it.

  • 26 •

  Veronica

  LOCKET ISLAND

  When Dietrich finally declares it is safe to go out again, we tumble through the door, all four of us slightly hysterical with relief. The scenery has changed, the contours of the land softened by an extra feathery coating. A pristine lace skirt has gathered all around the field center. The ground has become a series of deep undulations in whipped cream whites.

  We stretch and drink in the fresh air. The three scientists frolic and whoop in the snow. I, too, feel greatly uplifted, but I refrain from whooping or frolicking.

  Mike has evidently accepted that Terry is to be his boss in the near future. At least, I presume that is why he is putting a handful of snow down the back of her neck. She retaliates by scooping up as much as she can manage and rubbing it in his face, hard. They all shriek with laughter.

  But it’s already time to return to business. It seems that one of the power thingies has suffered from storm damage. Dietrich drags a ladder from round the back and props it against the smaller of the two wind turbines.

  “Up you go then, Mrs. McCreedy!” he calls to me. I grant him a smile. Fit and able as I am, we both know there will be no ascending of ladders as far as I am concerned.

  “I’ll go,” Mike volunteers, and in no time he is at the top. His good mood rapidly evaporates.

  While he is raining swear words down on us, Terry and Dietrich each get a shovel and start digging a pathway up the slope. The snow is far deeper in some areas than others. “It’s treacherous when you can’t see which are which,” Terry comments.

  I am impressed by the way they are both applying themselves. She is not afraid of hard graft, that girl.

  A visit to the rookery is out of the question until the issues have been resolved, so I wander back inside and make myself a Darjeeling. I note that the scientists have left all the inside doors open again. I diligently shut them.

  Half an hour later, Mike appears in front of me, disheveled and sulky.

  “We have a problem on our hands, Veronica. The generator is bust and can’t be fixed. Which means we have to rely on just the one.”

  “How very tiresome,” I comment.

  Unfortunately, he hasn’t finished. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to cut down our energy usage,” he explains. He assumes an expression of authority. “That means boiling the kettle less, for starters. From now on, you are strictly limited to four mugs of tea a day.”

  I blanch. This is a travesty indeed. “Isn’t there anything else . . . ?”

  “Terry is cutting down on her computer blog time, Dietrich on his CD playing and I’m going to do less work with the light on in the lab in the middle of the night. We can’t compromise on heating or any electricity needed in penguin research, but we need to be economical with everything else. Clear?”

  What an unpleasant man! He doesn’t know the meaning of the word “apology.”

  “Surely, in this age of space travel, there is some means of repairing a simple generator?”

  “No, there isn’t,” he says bluntly. “I haven’t got the right tools.”

  I am severely tempted to quote a certain proverb regarding a bad workman and tools, but I resist. Instead I content myself with giving him a hard stare.

  I always feel my feathers are ruffled after any dialogue with Mike. The Darjeeling soothes my spirits. I must appreciate every last atom if it is to be rationed in the future.

  * * *

  —

  It is wonderful to see the penguins again but devastating to observe many small rounded corpses among them. The scene prompts a sharp twist in my chest, just underneath where the locket lies.

  The living penguins continue with their riotous activities, bravely ignoring the graveyard elements of their community. Despite the losses, new life is blossoming everywhere. Tiny wobbling heads are emerging from eggs throughout the colony. I manage to recover my equanimity by focusing on the antics of a particular A
délie chick. This one is quite charming. He is a fat, fuzzy child running around in tight circles as if chasing an imaginary butterfly. He is delighted with himself and the world.

  A huge, winged shadow glides across the snow. I look up and follow the path of the bird, recognizing it as a skua. It dips down into the community of penguins, snatches the very chick I was watching and soars upward again. I gasp in horror. The poor baby penguin is a struggling silhouette against the hard blue sky.

  “Let go, let go, you brute!” I shriek at the skua, but my cries are in vain. The chick’s feet kick out for a second, its neck twisted sideways, then it dangles like a rag from the skua’s talons. A second skua wheels in, and together they rip the baby bird apart limb from limb.

  My whole body is shuddering in shock. My eyes return to the colony, seeking out the parents, conscious of their pain. I have no idea which penguins they are; they are anonymous among the seething mass of black and white.

  * * *

  —

  Terry’s voice startles me out of my reverie. I am cradling a (now extra precious) mug of Darjeeling while she messes about with a stack of penguin tags across the other side of the room.

  I adjust my hearing aid. “Did you say something?”

  “You seem sad. Is something wrong, Veronica?”

  I didn’t realize it was that obvious.

  “Wrong? No,” I answer. No more than usual, anyway.

  Her brows are drawn together, her eyes searching my face. “I know something’s troubling you. You can talk to me, you know, Veronica. About anything, in confidence. Things can get to you out here—I know that. Feelings become kind of raw, kind of exposed. But it does help to talk.”

  “Does it?” I very much doubt that.

  “I won’t tell anyone if . . . if it’s something personal. And, for what it’s worth, I’m not in the habit of judging people.”

  A human being not judging another human being? That’d be a first.

  “You don’t talk much about yourself,” she adds. “I’d like to know a bit more about you.”

  She settles in the chair next to mine with the air of a person who won’t give up. It is an attitude that reminds me of someone.

  Yet at the moment, the legendary McCreedy fortitude seems to be crumbling. My limbs weigh me down, and everything I attempt to do is a Herculean effort. My brain feels worn out, too. At times it seems to me that I’m trying to realign things that simply can’t be realigned. I would have thought that by now I’d have shaken off the past, but ever since I read those old journals, I have been acutely aware of it all. It’s still there inside me, stronger than ever, a growing presence like a canker. It is expanding all the time, putting pressure on all my vital organs and poisoning my bloodstream.

  I have allowed myself to believe that coming out here might provide some sort of cure or antidote. I have certainly enjoyed being among the penguins. But it isn’t enough. I am beginning to realize that nothing will ever be enough.

  “It’s all a big waste,” I mutter, more to myself than to Terry. “My life. All a huge, painful, inexplicable, pointless waste.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true, Veronica,” she cries, reaching a hand out to me that I pretend not to see. “I bet you’ve done loads of amazing things.”

  “Amazing? Hardly.”

  Events happened and I responded to them quickly and impulsively in my own way, right or wrong. Then time passed, grinding onward, year upon year, decade upon decade, silence upon silence. Like the layers of earth and rock and ice that have formed over the surface of the earth. Who would know or care that a fire is burning deep down, right at its core?

  “Is it something about Patrick?” Terry asks.

  “Patrick?”

  “Yes, that’s the name of your grandson, isn’t it?” She has a good memory.

  “I suppose, biologically speaking, he is my grandson,” I acknowledge.

  “And so . . . you must have children . . . had children? A child?” I register all the patterns and strands of blues and silver grays in her wide eyes.

  “No. Not really. Not properly,” I tell her.

  She looks slightly spooked. “I don’t know what you mean. You’re a dark horse, Veronica.”

  She’s been kind to me. Perhaps I owe her an explanation.

  “It was the war . . .”

  I stop. I can’t go over it, say it out loud, however much she wheedles. Life is a careful balance of what you let out and what you hold in. In my case it is largely about holding in. Holding in is the only way of holding together.

  Anyway, why should I tell her anything? What business is it of hers?

  “I’d like to rest now.” I heave myself up and head for my room. I close the door firmly behind me.

  • 27 •

  Patrick

  BOLTON

  I arm myself with a Guinness before reading on. I wonder whether a spliff might help, too, but decide against it. I’m trying to stop smoking altogether. I might even return Weedledum and Weedledee to Judith; then the temptation won’t be there anymore.

  It’s late, but who cares? I pour out the Guinness, stretch out on the bed and open the diary once again.

  20 November 1940

  Aggleworth

  I haven’t written in here for so long. I just couldn’t. Even now it all keeps crashing round and round in my head. Crazy little details. The “Headmistress” sign on the door. Miss Harrison’s grainy skin. Her small, darting eyes. The tight roll of hair on the nape of her neck that she kept poking and prodding. And Aunt Margaret, ghostly white, standing beside the desk. So stiff.

  When I was summoned, I just thought they’d found out about my stealing Miss Melton’s chalk. I even felt a flicker of hope that maybe I’d be sent back to London as a punishment. But no. Instead came that news—terrible, hideous, unthinkable . . .

  Oh, Mum, oh, Dad. You said everything would be all right. You promised.

  I wanted to scream at Miss Harrison and Aunt Margaret that they were lying, that it couldn’t possibly be true. Dad and Mum wouldn’t . . . they couldn’t . . .

  They love me so much. They’d never do this to me. They’d never let themselves get killed, no matter how many bombs fall out of the sky, no matter how much all the rest of the world breaks and bleeds and burns.

  Miss Harrison, prodding at her stupid bun again: “They are at peace now, child. You have to accept that.”

  I hate Aunt Margaret more than ever, but I shall never forget what she said as I sank to the floor. “It’s selfish to cry, Veronica, because they are now with Our Lord. Tears show weakness. They would not want you to cry.”

  I heard an echo of Dad’s voice, his kind, firm voice. His words the very last time he set eyes on me:

  “Be strong.”

  I bit the inside of my mouth, teeth clenching into flesh so hard I could taste the blood.

  I WILL be strong, Dad. For you. I will NOT CRY.

  Not then. Not now. Not ever.

  1 Jan 1941

  Eastcott Farm

  So much time has flown away. I am still here: Veronica McCreedy, just one of hundreds of wartime orphans wrestling with cruel fate, trying to make sense of it all. Now I must turn the page for another year.

  1941 finds me here at Eastcott. I’ve been staying over Christmas because Janet offered (and who’d want to spend Christmas with Aunt Margaret?). The Dramwells have been kind. They even gave me a present, a bar of soap. Janet said it was in case I got mucky with the pigs again. I do go out to visit them often, and the cows. The animals are my friends. But Christmas isn’t Christmas without Mum and Dad.

  My New Year’s resolution is to be stronger than ever.

  I woke up at midnight last night. Janet and Norah were both asleep. I slipped out of the bed the three of us share when we’re here, and tiptoed barefoot to the wind
ow. I opened the locket and carefully took out the two strands of hair, the only threads linking me to my loved ones. They lay in the palm of my hand, in the white band of moonlight, looking so peaceful. I lifted them and brushed them against my cheek, trying to catch a whisper of Mum, a whisper of Dad. The reality of loss is hard to grasp. Mostly it’s like a story I’m reading that can’t possibly be true. Then realization comes in a blast of splinters, sharp and cruel, and my heart breaks all over again.

  28 Jan

  Dunwick Hall

  It is horribly cold. We have to factor in extra time to break the layer of ice on the water before we can wash every morning. I hate the long, shivering wait in my nightdress with the other girls. The mornings are so dark, too. Darkness is hard to bear.

  To try and counteract all this, I make myself very, very loud and lively. “Manic,” Janet and Norah call it. I don’t rattle on and on about my grief, and they’ve got no idea how I hurt inside. Just as well, because I don’t want to talk about it. I grasp the company of my two friends because it helps blot out everything else. I laugh a lot. I’m rude to the teachers and break any school rules I can.

  We’ve started to study Hamlet in English. Hamlet and I have a lot in common. We are both bereft and a little crazy. Like him, I “put an antic disposition on.” I understand Hamlet and Hamlet understands me.

  A lot of weekends I’m at Eastcott, but some of them I have to go back to Aunt Margaret’s. Thank goodness Aunt M still lets me go to dance class on Saturdays. Music is a lifeline. I lose myself in the stately waltzes and merry fox-trots. The rhythms cheer me, and dark thoughts melt away among the rippling harmonies.

  My other time in Aggleworth is bleak, though. As well as church on Sundays, Aunt M gives me endless horrible lectures. She drones on and on, saying Mum and Dad are in Heaven now, watching me. I must do my best to get there, too. The way Aunt M says it implies that this will be tricky and poor old God will have to be extra merciful to let me in.