by Hazel Prior
“What? Like me staying here, you mean?” He shakes his head miserably. “As if they’d let me. They wouldn’t. They couldn’t.”
He is completely oblivious to his own merits. “They like your cooking,” I point out. “And you mended the generator for them. You have practical skills that are most useful. You have, you tell me, become skilled in the art of penguin wrangling. Moreover, you are now extremely well-informed in penguin science through your reading.” His eyebrows are slowly rising as I speak. I am becoming rather enthusiastic. “An extra person such as yourself might prove to be quite an asset here. The research center certainly has the space for at least one more. If you had a little funding . . . If, perhaps, you were to be sponsored privately by an individual . . .”
Patrick’s eyebrows have lifted as far as it is geographically possible for them to go now. “What are you saying, Granny?”
I clear my throat and choose my words with care. “Well, in view of the fact the scientists have put me up for far longer than they were expecting, and under extremely difficult circumstances, I feel that, on top of the funding to continue the project, I should like to contribute sponsorship for an extra researcher.”
He springs from his chair. “You’d do that?” He reminds me of a big, bouncy breed of dog who has been offered his favorite toy.
“Only on one condition: that the extra researcher is you. Would you like to stay here if I could do that?”
He launches himself at me and engulfs me in a hug. It is the second time this has happened. I have immediately transformed in his view from a crusty old woman into a shining angel.
“Patrick, I beg you, please, stop it!”
He obeys and backs off respectfully. I reach for my handkerchief and have a quick dab at my eyes. They do keep causing me problems.
Patrick has meanwhile started absorbing the implications of the plan. He sinks back into his chair. Now he looks dejected, like the dog who has just had his favorite toy taken away. “You’re great, Granny, for having that idea. You’re totally amazing. But it’s not going to work. They’ve got their own little club here. They’re proper, like, scientists. I’m just a bum. Even if you pay them, they’re never going to let me stay.”
I fold up my handkerchief carefully and replace it in my handbag. “I think you’ll find that they are.”
“They are? How do you mean? As in they are going to let me stay?”
I nod my confirmation.
“You’ve spoken to Dietrich?” he gasps.
“I have. And he thinks it’s a splendid idea.”
“He does?” The doggy enthusiasm is returning. The tail is wagging. Then, as another thought occurs to him, it plummets again. “But Mike won’t agree. He hates my guts.”
“On the contrary, Patrick. I’ve also had a consultation with him. He recognizes your value entirely. He was most insistent that we convince you to remain here and assist with the project.”
This is a slight massaging of the truth. He does not need to know that Mike required considerable persuasion from both myself and Dietrich.
I wait for him to ask. I don’t have to wait for long.
“And . . . Terry? She’s going to be the boss very soon. Did you broach it with her?”
The metaphorical tail is now suspended in midair. It is rather entertaining to watch the tension, anxiety and hope that are now chasing one another across his face.
“I have not yet mentioned the plan to Terry,” I tell him. “I thought it best to be sure of the others’ support first. I thought she might worry about her own vested interest so much she’d make herself say no. I also needed to check that you were as keen to stay as I thought you’d be.”
“I am, Granny. I totally, abso-fricking-lutely, bloody well am!”
This is all working out most satisfactorily.
“You’re amazing, Granny. I can’t believe it.”
“Your bicycle shop man will manage without you?”
“Oh, Gav will be cool. He knows a ton of other people who can take my place, no probs.”
“Excellent.”
“I owe Gav big-time, though,” he adds, on reflection. “And I’ll miss him a hell of a lot.”
It would be gratifying if he would deign to miss me, too, but I refuse to allow myself any expectations on that count. I am pleasantly surprised, consequently, when he bursts out with: “But how about you, Granny? I’d have liked to see a bit more of you, now that we’ve got together.”
Yes, very pleasantly surprised.
He stirs his mop of hair. “You’re not thinking of—you can’t be thinking of staying here permanently yourself?”
The thought had actually crossed my mind. However, there are limits to my eccentricity. Besides, some degree of physical comfort is necessary at my age, I have realized. It was hard enough surviving the Antarctic “summer.” I dread to think what winter is like on Locket Island.
“My role now will merely be as a provider of funds as far as the penguin project is concerned,” I inform Patrick. “I shall be returning to Scotland as planned.”
“Well, I’ll come and see you whenever I’m in the right hemisphere,” he promises. “And when I do, perhaps we can start on researching my dad?”
I nod, acknowledging our mutual need to know more.
We are both silent, turning over future possibilities in our minds. “I have given a great deal of thought and attention to my own situation,” I tell him, once he has had a little more time to process his new prospects. “I should like to make use of my rather splendid home more than I have done up to now. It can be a lonely place and could do with the laughter of children. Do you think that your friend Gav might bring his family to stay from time to time? I would particularly like to meet his daughter, Dora.”
“Erm, it’s Daisy, actually.”
How trying that the girl should have such an unmemorable name. I shake away the annoyance. “Dora, Daisy or whoever she is, do you think she would like to come and stay in my house sometime? Inevitably, she’d have to put up with my company, but otherwise it might be possible for her and her brother to conjure up for themselves something akin to fun.”
“Granny, I know they’d love it! You and Daisy will get on like a house on fire.”
That will be some consolation. I am dreading all these imminent partings. Saying goodbye to Pip will be the hardest, because I know I will never see him again. I will not be able to make another voyage such as this. And let me assure you, the fondness one can feel for a young penguin knows very few bounds.
I am confident that Terry and the others will keep an eye on Pip while they can. But they won’t be able to protect him from the multiple dangers at sea. With luck, he may outlive me. Penguins can, I’m told, live to be twenty years old or more. The Locket Island team may see him return year by year, and if they do, I know they’ll send news of him. I must be prepared for horrors, though. He’s getting too big for the skuas now, but leopard seals will take over as the most hazardous peril.
I must be strong. Maybe this Daisy girl will provide me with a new focus. I might even, conceivably, tell her something about my own life. I am beginning to think it is a good idea to tell people how you feel occasionally. At least, it is if you choose the people with care.
Patrick is still looking utterly electrified. There is another matter I was going to refer to. What was it, now? It has altogether flown from my brain, which is extremely frustrating. I know it was important.
• 54 •
Patrick
LOCKET ISLAND
“You and Daisy will get on like a house on fire,” I tell her. It’s so true. I can just see them together. A new mission will be great for Granny. She needs to care about somebody like she’s cared for Pip all this time. It brings out the best in her.
There is a pause that goes on for some time while Granny ruminates.
&nb
sp; “Your Terry,” she says finally.
Terry. That lovely word. That word that fills me with hope.
“She’s one in a million. One in a million, do you hear?”
“No need to shout, Granny. I hear you.”
Granny frowns. “You treat her right otherwise I shall come straight back to Antarctica—even if it’s from the grave—and haunt you.”
TERRY’S PENGUIN BLOG
6 February 2013
In penguin news there is much going on. Pip is well and happy and spending more and more time with his fellows. His feathers are scruffily emerging, and he now has a Mohican-style hairdo.
And you may remember the penguin we called Sooty? Well, I’m delighted to report that he has found a mate—a beautiful, bright-eyed penguin lady. He looked very proud and just a bit surprised. And she looked totally devoted. Call me soppy, but I do find penguin love rather wonderful. Maybe it’s too late this year for them to start laying eggs, but I feel sure they’ll be happy together for many years to come.
• 55 •
Veronica
LOCKET ISLAND
The charms of life are manifold, even for an eighty-six-year-old like me. If you will excuse my lecturing, I will expand a little: Yes, life brings pain and problems in droves (“battalions,” as Hamlet would say), but also, sometimes when you are on the very point of giving up, it delivers absolute delight. There may be surprises in the form of a grandson you suddenly discover you love, a group of scientists who care so much more than you thought, a girl who takes the trouble to understand. There may be revelations brought to you by a mass of stumpy, squalling birds. There may be new hope suddenly sprouting up in a heart that was convinced all humanity was bad, a heart that had grown sick of the world.
Life can be generous. It can heal the heart and whisper that it’s always possible to start again, never too late to make a difference. It asserts that there are many, many things worth living for. And one of those things—one of the most unexpectedly joyful things of all—is penguins.
* * *
—
We look out to sea. A great gray ship stands in the bay among the icebergs. My suitcases are gathered around me.
A phrase from Hamlet ripples through my head. I have probably not mentioned it before, but such is the strength of my memory that I can recall reams of passages from my childhood Shakespeare.
I murmur the words to myself. “‘This above all: to thine own self be true.’” Close on the heels of this phrase my father’s words come to me, the words that always made me take my litter-picking tongs when going out for a walk. There are three types of people in this world, Very. There are those who make the world worse, those who make no difference and those who make the world better. Be one who makes the world better, Very, if you can.
I remember his face as he said it, his warm smile and the smoke of his Woodbine making gentle wreaths around the kitchen. How I wish he and my mother had lived into old age, to guide me through the multifarious turmoils of life. How I long for them both, even now.
I turn away from the others with a lump in my throat and view the rugged features of Locket Island. Crags jut against acres of silky blue-gray sky. Gulls soar above the banks of snow and multicolored lichens. Meltwater streams glimmer and shimmer over the dark, volcanic rocks. I want to gather it all up into my mind, to take it with me, at least in my memory. I stand here and breathe for a moment.
I haven’t told Patrick that I’ve changed my mind about my legacy. I shall be making a will as soon as I arrive on the green shores of Scotland, but I shan’t be leaving my millions to the penguin project after all. I shall be leaving every penny to my grandson. The choice of how to use it lies with him. I shall always worry about our planet and the dreadful things humans do to it, but there is a limit to what money can do. Sometimes you have to let the heart dictate what happens.
I trust Patrick. And if he goes off the rails, he has Terry, who I trust even more. I may be wrong, but I have my suspicions that the Adélie penguins are going to benefit quite substantially anyway.
It is time to say goodbye. There are various little men arranged at different points in the journey to help me and my suitcases on and off ships and planes. My luggage is somewhat lighter than on the trip out. It now lacks the turquoise cardigan with gold buttons—that was donated toward a particularly good cause. It also lacks one scarlet handbag that was ruined beyond repair, and it is lighter in both soap and Darjeeling tea.
Pip is here with us. I can hardly bear to look at him.
“Are you quite sure you don’t want to stay out here in Antarctica with us, Granny?” Patrick asks.
I sense that the three scientists are making frantic signs at him behind my back, shaking their heads no doubt and drawing hands like knives across their throats. I am severely tempted to say, Yes, I’ve decided to stay here on Locket Island until my dying day. But I’m not sure Mike would survive the horror. So instead I utter the truth: “No. It’s time I was heading home. Locket Island is for you young people. Sort out your futures and the future of the penguins and the future of the planet. This is no place for me, not anymore. I require a lifestyle that includes limitless hot water and fresh vegetables, an electric fire with fake flames and the choice of several good-quality tea sets. I am also beginning to miss the evergreens at The Ballahays. Besides, Eileen needs me.”
Terry steps forward. “You’ll e-mail us, won’t you?”
“E-mail!” I think not.
“Granny doesn’t do e-mail,” Patrick explains.
“Maybe you should think about buying yourself a computer, Mrs. McCreedy,” suggests Dietrich.
What an unpleasant idea. I frown. “There is absolutely no way that is going to happen,” I answer. “I will write proper letters to you using pen and ink. I am sure Eileen will be kind enough to transcribe them into her computer. And I will ask her to print out any replies you might send. And, of course, I shall ask her for a copy of your doodah, Terry.”
“You mean my blog?”
“Yes.” The word had escaped me for a moment.
“It won’t be the same without you, Veronica.”
“Nothing will,” adds Mike, with a wink.
“We’ll miss you,” Dietrich assures me, wrapping my hand in his.
Mike takes my hand next. “Take care!” he says. “You may not believe it, but I’m really glad you came.”
I look at him in astonishment.
Patrick and Terry each give me a hug, then they pick up Pip and hold him out to me. I let my fingers run through his feathers. There isn’t much baby down left now, only a comical topknot that waves slightly in the wind as he bobs his head.
I know I will never see this penguin again, this small, stubby friend who has made a world of difference. He presses his head against my hand in a gesture of affection, as if he knows it, too.
I touch my locket as it hangs there under my many layers of clothes, the metal smooth against my skin. It is tightly packed now. In addition to the four strands that were there before, there are two new specimens of human hair, plus a tiny tuft of fluff from a penguin.
My eyes are watering yet again, which is rather an annoyance. It seems to be becoming a habit.
I turn toward the ship.
TERRY’S PENGUIN BLOG
9 February 2013
It’s been all change at the field center on Locket Island. The youngsters are now fully fledged and will soon take their first trip to the sea. They’ll be nervous of the huge waves, but they’ll go for it. They have a real feel-the-fear-but-do-it-anyway attitude. We’ll be so sorry to see them go. Our own Pip will be among them. We’ve been gradually introducing him to the colony, and he spends longer and longer with his fellows, which is a good thing and a relief.
Tempting though it is, we try not to see the penguins as little black-and-white humans. They
are very different from us and very special in their own right. Pip is no exception, and it is vital that he interacts with his own species and gets on with all those mysteriously “penguin” aspects of life that we humans will never really understand but can only admire. The months at sea will be full of new adventures for him.
We are all very proud of him, particularly Veronica.
Sadly, Veronica has now finished her stay here. But we are delighted to welcome to the penguin team a new helper, Patrick, who is none other than Veronica’s grandson.
Veronica has promised she’ll carry on championing penguins from her home on the west coast of Scotland. It has been a real privilege to have her here with us. I can truthfully say we will never forget her visit.
• 56 •
Veronica
THE BALLAHAYS
MARCH 2013
“Are you sure, Mrs. McCreedy?”
“Quite sure, Eileen.”
She is wearing her nonplussed expression. Her hands fidget as she sifts through any plausible explanations she can think of for my erratic behavior.
“Is it because of the penguins?”
“In a way, yes. You could say that the penguins changed everything.”
“In a good way?” she asks, uncertain.
“Indeed, yes. Most assuredly. You could even say that the penguins saved me.”
Her facial muscles relax. “Oh, Mrs. McCreedy. How lovely is that!”
I don’t deign to answer. Instead I examine myself in the gilt-edged mirror over the mantelpiece. The Veronica McCreedy who looks back at me is as unsightly as ever, despite the generously applied lipstick and eyebrow pencil. Nonetheless, I am aware that a significant transformation has been wrought inside.
“So, just to check I’ve got this right,” Eileen continues, as if expecting me to deny the instructions I have just given her, “you want me to make up the beds in the two rooms overlooking the rose garden?”
