How the Penguins Saved Veronica

by Hazel Prior

  I have—let me see—all of five and a half days’ worth of a relationship with Terry left before I have to go back to the other side of the world with Granny.

  “So this is it, then? This is all it is. A few kisses in the snow?”

  “Kiss me again,” she said.

  I obliged.

  We clambered up another slope together, stepping over gullies full of snow and polished pebbles. The sunlight warmed our backs. The ramparts of ice all around glinted white, with glossy tints of green, blue and turquoise. Terry knew exactly where she was going.

  “Look!” she said, pointing. The all-black penguin, Sooty, was there in front of us, on his nest. He had a kind of smug look about him, I thought.

  “Still no sign of any eggs,” Terry said. “He seems pretty determined, though. Who knows if he’s found a partner or not?” She cares so much about these things. I like that about her.

  As we scrambled back the way we’d come, I spotted a shiny seal sunning himself on a rock. He fixed us with a bland kind of gaze. He was all podge and flab and made me laugh out loud. But Terry said seals are the archenemy as far as Adélies are concerned. Not so much on land, but underwater they’re lethal. A seal will hide just under the surface of the sea and grab the unsuspecting penguin by the feet. Then they’ll shake him ferociously from side to side and beat his body against the ice until he’s dead, a pool of red seeping through the white waters.

  “Let’s get back to Pip,” we both said at the same time. Maybe we’d been enjoying ourselves just a tad too much.

  Luckily, Pip was doing just fine. He’d stopped off at one of the penguin crèches without our encouragement, a great sign for his future. He was happily running around with a gang of penguin chicks. It’s such a relief that his social life hasn’t been too hampered by his human upbringing. Just as well he’s now got that tag on his flipper, otherwise he could easily get mixed up with the others. Much as we love Pip, he does look pretty similar to the rest. His orange tag showed up well among the yellow ones of the other penguins.

  Adults were returning to the edges of the crèche and each calling to their young. The kiddos recognized the voices straight off and made a beeline for their own parent with stunning accuracy. No way were they going to miss any chance of a helping of regurgitated krill. Pip tried it on a couple of times with the bigger penguins, but nobody fell for it. They weren’t going to waste their precious regurgitations on an intruder, no matter how cute he was.

  “Sorry, mate!” I called out to him. “You’re going to have to come back with us until you’ve learned how to catch your own fish.”

  Pip turned his head and surveyed me. I swear he understood every word. Anyhow, he came scooting toward us. When he reached us, he leaned affectionately into Terry’s knees. Then looked back at his buddies as if to say, “Hey, guys, these are my parents.”

  We stooped down to his level and made a fuss over him. A handful of baby down came off and floated away on the breeze.

  After a while, Terry pulled me up and put her arms around me. I held her close for as long as I could, feelings bubbling up inside me.

  She let out a long sigh. “This is so difficult. I . . . Oh God, I really wish you could stay.”

  Nice.

  “You needn’t call me God, though,” I said.

  She aimed a playful kick at my shin. What I should have said was “I really wish I could stay, too,” but it seemed a bit late for that now. So I drew a heart in the snow instead and put a T and P inside it. It was a goodish save. Terry seemed to like it anyway.

  Pip was intrigued and bent his head down to look at my design.

  “I know you think the P is you, but it’s actually me, mate,” I told him. He wasn’t impressed. He promptly walked all over the heart, blurring its outline and the letters inside it. Vandal.

  “What are we going to do?” Terry said. I knew she meant our relationship. It was a good question.

  “Enjoy these five days together, at any rate,” I suggested. “Enjoy every moment we can snatch alone together. Snatch as many as we can.”

  It’s going to be one hell of a five days, with an ill grandmother and a penguin chick to care for and a cabin full of scientists with no room to maneuver at all, let alone indulge our newfound passion.

  I took my gloves off and stroked her hair back from her face. Her cheeks were cool and soft. Her eyes looked a bit moist.

  I had to ask. Man, I just had to. “Sure you don’t want to come back to England with me?”

  The crowd of penguins faded into the background, their noise hushed for a moment. They all seemed to be waiting with me for her answer.

  I felt it then: that sinking feeling. You know the one. Like when Tesco is doing a three-for-one offer on beer and you buy eight crates, only to discover, when it goes through checkout, that you’ve misread the sign. It wasn’t beer that was three-for-one, it was the mini packets of peanuts.

  I knew I shouldn’t have asked. I should have guessed she’d never put me above the penguins.

  “No, Patrick. Sorry. It’s . . . no, I just can’t. Not now we know the project has a future. I just have to be a part of that. It’s everything to me.”

  All this was doing my head in. I somehow had to disentangle myself from Terry. I glanced at my watch.

  “Hell, I’ve been out for hours. It’s high time I checked on Granny.”

  I zoomed back, super speedy through the snow.

  • 50 •

  Patrick

  LOCKET ISLAND

  What the hell’s going on? I thought Granny was getting better, thought she was out of danger. Thought we’d be reminiscing about penguins on the flight back next week and everything would be cool. Seems like I was wrong. She was back in bed and out for the count when I got back from the colony. She didn’t wake up when the others came in later, either. Nor when we were feeding Pip, even though he was quite clamorous and noisy about it. We left her to sleep. I brought her in a light supper on a tray, but the food was still untouched this morning.

  Today she hasn’t eaten a thing. Hasn’t even been able to raise herself off the pillow. She’s gone paler again and sort of glassy, sort of distant. Terry, Mike and Dietrich have been out on an all-dayer, so it’s been deathly quiet. I took the big book and tried reading Granny some penguin facts. I’ve had no reaction from her at all.

  It’s nearly five when I hear the door and the voices of all three scientists arriving together.

  “Guys, Granny’s bad again,” I tell them, rushing to meet them. “She’s had nothing to eat all day, and she hasn’t moved a muscle.”

  Terry rushes straight to her room, and I hear her saying Veronica’s name over and over. She comes back, her face drained of color.

  “Patrick’s right. I can’t get her to speak to me. She seems really ill again.”

  Dietrich frowns. “Gott, no, I don’t believe it.”

  Mike becomes action man all of a sudden. “We should try and get a doctor out again. I’ll radio them straightaway.” Mike is a good man to have around in a crisis. He hurries into the kitchen to pick up his radio, and we hear his voice urging and a muffled voice asking questions at the other end. He comes back in looking exasperated.

  “They won’t come unless the situation’s urgent. They have an emergency on. So long as Veronica is comfortable and kept warm, they say there’s nothing else they can do.”

  “There’s got to be something!” I cry. God, I hate this.

  He shakes his head. “They pointed out again that she’s an old lady. They implied it would be best to just let her go in peace. I’m really sorry, Patrick.”

  He sounds like he means it, too. Terry walks straight up and puts her arms around me. I’ll admit, that feels good. But I can’t enjoy it now. I can’t bear to think that Granny’s on the way out again, just when I thought we were over the worst. I’d let myself hope w
e’d be able to start from the beginning again. I’d make her my best lemon polenta cake, and this time I’d listen to everything she had to say instead of getting tied in knots about Lynette. Hell, Lynette! I don’t care a bug’s arse for her now.

  I can’t believe Granny’s on the wane again, just when we were getting to know each other. I’ve got this weird feeling, like a realization slapping me in the face, hard. My life is never going to be the same again.

  • 51 •

  Patrick

  LOCKET ISLAND

  Maybe it’s just as well those medical people never came. They’d have been pretty peed off if they had. Granny was fading fast that day, but the next day she seemed much perkier. At least, she managed to slurp down some soup and exchanged a few words with me.

  But then.

  The next day it all went down the pan again. She just stayed motionless in bed, not eating, not responding. At death’s door all over again.

  She’s like this human yo-yo. It’s driving us all insane. She eats like a horse one day and is all springy and energetic, then suddenly she droops and seems incapable of anything. Then just as we’ve resigned ourselves to an Antarctic deathbed scene, she sits up and says she’s hungry and she’s A-OK again. I just don’t get it. What the hell is going on?

  “She keeps us on our toes, doesn’t she?” Dietrich said to me after the third down and up in a row.

  “Completely, mate,” I said.

  I e-mailed Gav and told him about it. He e-mailed back, saying hang in there, mate, just do the right thing. And a message from young Daisy saying thanks for the penguin picture and a photo of her with it. I printed the photo out and showed it to Deet, who was chuffed. I showed it to Granny V, too, and she totally seemed to perk up at the sight of it. Only to wilt again later.

  Grief’s a weird animal at the best of times. It’s even weirder when you think it’s a dead certainty (pardon the pun), but then it disappears only to come hurtling right back at you. It’s like this bungee jump of emotions. You get jolted all over the place. It gives you this sick feeling in your stomach, makes you jittery and wobbly, plays havoc with your sleep patterns. I’m beginning to wish I had a spliff at hand.

  Then there’s Terry. I never reckoned I could hurtle headlong into such a ton of feelings so fricking fast. And she says the same about me. Even though we know it can’t last, we both don’t seem to be able to control it. We try being all sensible, try pointing out that we’re reaching out to each other just for comfort . . . but I know and she knows (and she knows I know) it’s a hell of a lot more than that.

  There’s a whole heap of pain ahead, just sitting there waiting to pounce on me. I’m heading straight for it. Even if Granny does survive, I’m going to be a wreck because of having to say goodbye to Terry.

  Will Granny make it through? The ship that’s due to take us home comes to Locket Island tomorrow, but to be honest, I haven’t the foggiest if we’ll be on it or not.

  • 52 •

  Veronica

  LOCKET ISLAND

  I have always held a nothing ventured, nothing gained philosophy. I confided in my dear Pip last night while the humans were at supper. Pip does like to be talked to, and he listens to every word. He scratched his head with his foot in a most thoughtful way, and I am sure my devious plan has gained his approval.

  Over the past few days my grandson and the scientists have fretted endlessly, sought medical advice via the radio and taken it in turns to watch over me. Dietrich has resumed reading Great Expectations, and Mike has resumed telling me of the degrees centigrade outside.

  Meanwhile, I count the days carefully. I monitor what I eat and what (with the help of my cosmetics bag) my appearance gives away. I watch. I listen. I’ve begun to realize that, when I make the effort, I am quite a shrewd judge of character.

  Terry and Patrick do many of their shifts together. Innumerable meaningful looks pass between them, and often, when they think I am asleep, they exchange whispered terms of endearment. Sometimes there are long silences. I am careful not to open my eyes, but I am sure I can hear kisses.

  Yesterday I built my strength up a little, and now it is time to make another small sacrifice to further my cause. I shall not be partaking in any meals today. I take a cosmetic wipe from the packet on my bedside table and remove every trace of makeup. I consult the mirror. Yes, already I am looking so much less healthy.

  We are due to leave this afternoon, and should there remain any molecule of doubt on the matter, it is time for my pièce de résistance. The others are at breakfast and have left me alone for a blessed ten minutes.

  I climb silently out of bed and exchange my woolen tartan dressing gown for my silky violet negligee, which, I believe, will provide extra dramatic effect. I then arrange myself with utmost care on the floor. My hair sticking out. My head twisted to one side. My negligee ballooning around me. I stretch my leg out slowly, and with my foot I just manage to reach up and nudge the glass of water on my bedside toward the edge of the table . . . farther and farther . . . until it topples over the edge and dives to the floor with a thunderous crash.

  There is a running of footsteps, a calling of “Veronica? Veronica! What’s happened?”

  And then an “Oh NO!” a “Mein Gott!” and a “Fricking Hell!” all at once as they set eyes on me.

  • 53 •

  Veronica

  LOCKET ISLAND

  TWO AND A HALF WEEKS LATER

  I have the constitution of an ox, but there is a limit to what one can put one’s body through. I finally stopped messing around and gave myself a chance to recover properly. My (though I say so myself) skillfully managed vacillating health achieved exactly what I wanted it to achieve.

  We missed the ship back. Patrick has been kept here for far longer than he intended. Long enough not only for him to demonstrate his spectacular ability with technical issues, but also long enough for him and Terry to fall for each other, head over heels, in the awkward, all-consuming, good old-fashioned way.

  My second but perhaps not quite so miraculous recovery is now complete. I have ventured out to the rookery with the scientists, Patrick and Pip several times over the past two weeks. I am both joyous and emotional to observe how well my little chick gets on with his penguin mates. It may be my imagination, but I could swear he examines his human family in a new way, as if debating with himself whether we are massive, gangly penguins with strange markings.

  All the chicks are substantially larger now and have become ever more gregarious. The bustling community life of Locket Island continues. It nudges me into an awareness that I myself have learned much about community life since arriving here. And, like the penguins, however harsh conditions may be, I, Veronica McCreedy, am a survivor.

  I must, however, get used to letting things run their own course here without my interference. So this morning I have stayed at the research center to sort through my things. My thoughts turn toward home once again, to The Ballahays, to the opposite side of the world. Here, now, it feels as if home is the illusion, the faraway dream, while this Antarctic wilderness is the only reality. Soon it will be the reverse.

  My day-to-day humdrum existence will resume. I will occupy myself with arranging roses for the dining room table, ordering shrubs from catalogs and poring over the Telegraph crossword. I will walk along the coast path with my cane, handbag and litter tongs. I will have no need of thermals or mukluks. I will remonstrate with Eileen about dust and spiders.

  Yet some things will never be the same. I have indulged in the company of thousands of birds whose joie de vivre has to be seen to be believed. I have lived with three scientists at the extremities of the earth and witnessed their ways of operating. Perhaps even more surprisingly, I have embarked on the rather satisfying process of sharing thoughts and experiences with my long-lost grandson.

  On top of all this I have had an argument with a baby p
enguin and consequently defied death—at least for the time being. These things change a woman. Even a very old and cantankerous one like me.

  I am expecting Patrick soon. He promised he would be back before the others in order to prepare lunch (a hearty stew, apparently).

  I hear him at the door now and ready myself. He has scarcely shed his coat and boots before I launch into the conversation I have been mulling over for the last six hours. I need to make sure I’ve said all that I want to say before it disappears from my head.

  “Now, Patrick. I believe you and I have outstayed our welcome on Locket Island by a considerable time. We shall soon be returning to our homeland. No doubt by now you must be utterly desperate to get back to Bolton?”

  He sinks into a chair. “I—er. Well . . . Um, yes and no. It’s difficult.”

  I am not going to pussyfoot around. I need to know.

  “Difficult, is it? I see. And is this, by any chance, because of Terry?”

  He performs what I believe is commonly called a double take. He sucks his breath in then lets it out slowly. “Because of Terry,” he admits.

  “I thought as much.” You can’t fool Veronica McCreedy. I may be an ancient prune, but I do remember what it is to love. I remember, too, the agony of parting. “You’ll never pull that girl away from her penguins,” I tell him. I am quite clear on this point, and Patrick needs to understand. “It’s her love, her life, her vocation. Even if you did manage to get her away, she’d hate you for it in the end.”

  His shoulders droop.

  “I s’pose.”

  I scrutinize him. I’m beginning to understand how his mind works. I will need to approach this with some care, so that it does not appear I am robbing him of choices. “Think, Patrick,” I urge him. “Think. It doesn’t have to be this way. There is an alternative.” If he comes out with it himself, I’ll know he is in earnest.