by Hazel Prior
The tickets are called e-tickets. I previously thought that the “e” stood for “ether” (which I’ve been led to believe is the substance through which these messages travel), but Eileen tells me this is not the case. Apparently, it stands for “electronic.” A great number of things these days begin with an “e,” or alternatively, an “i.” The “i” words are ubiquitous: iPhones, iPlayers, iPads, iTunes, I-don’t-know-where-it-will-end. Everyone is obsessing about “I”; nobody has time for anyone or anything else.
I ordered my tickets by phone from the travel office in Kilmarnock. They confirmed them by e-mail via Eileen and sent the tickets also by e-mail via Eileen, who has printed them out and given them to me. Why they have to make everything so complicated, I will never understand.
Eileen accompanies me in the taxi to Glasgow Airport. With her assistance, I have prepared for my expedition as well as it is humanly possible to prepare. We have calculated everything down to the last decimal point and wedged all my items into my suitcases down to the last corn plaster. Bearing in mind the emphasis those scientists put on the “basic” conditions, I have packed a sprinkling of life’s little pleasures; to wit: a tin of loose fresh Darjeeling, some peppermint creams, my three favorite handbags and a couple of bars of ylang-ylang and pomegranate soap. I have also invested in the best cold-weather outfits that money can buy: long-sleeved merino wool vests with matching long johns, an assortment of corduroy and waterproof trousers (I prefer skirts but have regretfully concluded they are not practical for Antarctic conditions), cashmere double-knit jumpers, thick woolen cardigans and a rather grotesque Dynotherm hooded down jacket in a shade of scarlet that matches my second-favorite handbag. Footwear is a special kind of boot that rejoices in the name of mukluk. These mukluk creations are unsightly but apparently ideal for extreme conditions. They are well adapted (so the Internet has informed Eileen and Eileen has informed me) for icy and rocky terrains. They will be accompanied by thermal socks, of course.
I have also brought my locket with me. This was a last-minute impulse. As I am headed for Locket Island, it seemed appropriate. I am currently wearing the locket against my skin, under my layers of clothing, just as I used to do. Whimsical as it may seem, I feel it enables me to draw on some of that young energy and drive I once had.
Eileen and I alight from the taxi. The airport is full of overpackaged and overpriced products and people in uniform who call me “dear,” which is most infuriating. I am many things, but I am certainly not a dear.
As we are in good time, Eileen insists that we stop to have a coffee together in one of the noisy café areas. I have just selected the only table that is free from other people’s detritus when, to my shock, I discover a tall, scruffy young man is standing right in front of me.
“Hello, Granny!”
This is unexpected. “What in the world are you doing here?”
He darts a shifty glance at Eileen. “A little bird told me that you were heading for the frozen south. So I thought I’d come and see you off.”
“Why?”
“Well, you took the trouble to come and see me a while back. I thought it would be nice to . . . er, do the same.”
Eileen is beetroot colored and trying her hardest not to look like a traitor.
“I thought you’d be pleased, Mrs. McCreedy,” she mutters.
I would hardly say “pleased” is an accurate description of what I am experiencing right now. Whatever possessed the boy? Is he trying to ingratiate himself into my favor in order to borrow money? Does he think an excessive gesture like this is likely to earn any points in his favor?
“I really admire your pluck, Granny, in traveling so far,” he babbles, as if reading my thoughts. “And I thought you deserved a—er—family send-off because it’s such an epic journey.”
I survey him. I perceive in his eyes an honest desire to please. Perhaps I have been a little hasty in my judgment.
Eileen buys coffees, and we force them down whilst embarking on a stilted conversation. I can at least report that Patrick has made more of an effort than the last time I saw him. None of his clothes are ripped, and they look relatively clean, although they are in very poor taste. A word is scrawled across his T-shirt that looks like “Spikey” but could be almost anything. Why do people have to walk about with advertising written all over themselves? And I will simply never understand the trend for jeans with waistlines that sink halfway down a person’s nether regions. At least he isn’t smoking drugs. They wouldn’t allow that here.
Patrick asks me if Antarctica will be cold at this time of year and continues to pose other such inane questions. He also makes a few attempts at penguin jokes, most of them extremely poor. Both he and Eileen are manifesting a strained, worried kind of jollity.
“Are you sure you’re going to be all right, Mrs. McCreedy?” whines Eileen, wrinkling her brow.
“Of course I am,” I tell her with considerable sternness. “Even if I’m not, what does it matter?”
“Oh, don’t say that, Mrs. McCreedy! Of course it matters!” Her eyes are brimming. She can be absurdly sentimental at times.
The three of us finish our unpalatable coffees and make our way to a waiting area near the security lines. The chairs are too close together, but they are screwed to the floor so nothing can be done about it. I settle down, walling myself in with my hand luggage. It is a poor deterrence. Within two minutes, a family of five, complete with whining children, infringes on my personal boundaries by sitting suffocatingly close.
“I’ve put all your pads and meds in the blue holdall with the smalls,” Eileen informs me. Her voice is far too loud.
“Yes, yes, I know.” I have no desire to talk about pads and meds at this precise moment. The children of the family of five have expressions of delight plastered all over their sticky little faces.
Patrick consults his watch. “Sorry, you two, but I’ve got to get the bus back straightaway or else I have to wait another one and a half hours.” He looks at me uncertainly. “I’ll say bye-bye, then, Granny.”
“Goodbye, Patrick.”
He looms in as if he is about to hug me then, I am glad to say, thinks better of it.
“Take care. Um . . . bye!” And he’s gone.
Eileen stays until it’s time to board. She can’t stop herself going over my schedule dozens of times and pointing things out to me as if I am an idiot. Various little men are booked to meet me on and off flights and help with luggage. Eileen insisted.
“If you can, will you let me know you’ve arrived safely, Mrs. McCreedy?”
I nod. I don’t wish to burden her with any extra worry. “I’ll send a postcard if such a thing is possible.”
“Or maybe tell that nice Dietrich man to e-mail me?”
“As you wish.”
“Oh, Mrs. McCreedy, if only I could come with you! I did ask Doug about it, but he just laughed. And he reminded me I don’t ever fly. It makes me go wobbly and sick.”
“I neither want nor need you to come with me, Eileen,” I reassure her kindly.
“Please look after yourself, Mrs. McCreedy, won’t you?” she whimpers.
She will make such a meal out of everything. I keep my eyes firmly focused ahead.
In view of my grandson’s unexpected appearance, I have come to a decision. Slowly and clearly I spell out to Eileen some very specific instructions regarding a certain wooden box. She puts on her nosy expression but refrains from bombarding me with questions.
“There is a little something for you in a manila envelope and a tin with tulips on the lid that I have left on the hall table,” I tell her. As she will be without employment for three weeks, I have left her the three weeks of pay. Plus a family-sized tin of her favorite chocolate marshmallow biscuits. “Now, Eileen, I’m sure you have things to do. Be off with you!”
“Have a great time, Mrs. McCreedy!” she murmurs, d
abbing her eyes with a limp piece of tissue.
“Goodbye, Eileen.” I watch her wide back disappear through the crowds. I turn, boarding card at the ready, and go through to the departure lounge.
* * *
—
I am glad of my scarlet Dynotherm jacket. It is bracing out on the deck, and the wind stabs my face like needles.
The flights were cramped but mercifully punctual. The assorted staff who’d been booked to look after my needs played their part with efficiency (I should think so, too; we paid plenty of extra money for them), although tending to obsequiousness, particularly the last. It was a relief to be off airplanes and board the ship yesterday. I far prefer the open sea.
Already I have seen a humpbacked whale spouting a jet of water, seals floundering on rocks and a few bedraggled penguins grouped on the shores of some of the islets.
I am out early today. There is little of interest in my compact but well-equipped cabin, so I have decided to brave the cold. The sky is composed of slowly moving patterns in marbled gray. Vast icebergs sail on the surface of the water like elegant sea monsters. Gulls wheel overhead. The waves slap at the ship’s side. The water is fragmented, chinking with ice crystals. I gaze out as the whiteness becomes whiter.
I am so absorbed that I jump when I hear a voice at my shoulder. “Cool, isn’t it?”
It is a portly-looking man of about half my age wielding a large amount of photographic equipment. I nod my acquiescence, not sure if “cool” refers to the temperature or the marvels of the scenery.
The man sidles up and messes about with his lens. My instinct is to move away, but I was here first. He seems to want to converse with me and assumes I wish to converse with him also.
“Hey, look at that!” he cries as we drift closer to an iceberg sculpted like an archway. I do not need to be told what to look at. The man is failing to look at it properly himself; he is too busy focusing his camera on it. “Yay! It’s a beauty!” Click, click, click.
“You don’t take any photos!” he comments, incredulous.
“No,” I reply. “I would rather look at something with my eyes unhampered by a wall of cumbersome machinery.”
“Ouch,” he says. “That stung!” Then he adds, “But y’know, it’s a great feeling to be building up a collection of fabulous memories, for the future.”
“I’m not in the business of building up memories for the future,” I inform him. “The present will do.”
In spite of his tiresome chitchat I feel lighthearted at the sight of these wondrously barren icescapes.
Tomorrow I will arrive at my destination. A childlike excitement is rising inside me. It is a very long time since I’ve had an adventure.
• 14 •
Veronica
LOCKET ISLAND
SOUTH SHETLANDS, ANTARCTIC PENINSULA
Locket Island appears to be a mountainous affair. The shoreline is jagged in some areas, smooth in others. The ship gradually comes to a standstill. Alongside us is a narrow spit of blackened volcanic beach streaked with snow. Frozen pools and runnels reflect the pale light. I cannot see any penguins.
I am the only passenger scheduled to get off here, and there are no signs of the others. There was a so-called funanza last night, a dreadful affair with loud music, alcohol and people crashing about, so they are doubtless recovering from their excesses. By good fortune my cabin was far away from all the drunkenness and debauchery, so I was able to sleep soundly and am feeling quite fresh and energetic this morning.
The man who assists me on board is a dark-skinned, sharp-eyed creature with little English. I tell him to place all my luggage onto the small Zodiac boat that will transport us to land. He gesticulates and mutters under his breath but does as he is bidden. He helps me onto the boat with a steady hand, which is just as well.
As we approach on the lapping waves, I spot two figures on the beach. My man helps me out of the boat again and starts unloading the luggage. It is good to feel land under my feet, albeit rough and stony. With mukluks and the help of my new polar walking cane I can negotiate the terrain very well, avoiding the slippery coils of colored seaweed that festoon the rocks.
The two figures walk over to greet us.
Both of them are in thick parka jackets. The man steps forward. He’s just my side of forty, stocky with sprouting thick brown hair, a beard that resembles a scrubbing brush and a firm handshake.
“So . . . welcome! I am Dietrich. You made it, Mrs. McCreedy.” His voice is a combination of warmth and worry. His accent is pronounced.
“Of course I did. I said I would. You are German,” I add.
“Austrian,” he answers tetchily.
“I’m Terry,” says the girl brightly as she takes my hand. I knew there was a Terry on the team (the one who writes the blogs, Eileen told me), but I’d assumed Terry was a man. This Terry is in her mid-twenties, I’d say, with a pasty sort of face, blond shoulder-length hair and glasses. Her smile is a little timid. “We saw the message from your helper to say you were due here on the ship today. We’re . . . well, we’re glad you made it. We weren’t really sure if you’d come.”
“Whyever not?” Assuming Eileen sent those e-mails, I would have thought I had made it abundantly clear I was coming.
“Well, no offense, but I don’t think you quite realize how hard things are here. I’m sure you are very healthy and able, but even we—and we’re used to basic conditions—find it hard at times.”
“Basic” conditions, yet again! “Let me be the judge of that,” I say.
The two of them look at each other. They are mentally conferring; you could spot it a mile off.
Dietrich consults his watch. “The ship is due to depart again in three hours, Mrs. McCreedy. Why don’t you take that time to look around here? You’ll see what we mean, I am sure. Nobody will think any the less of you if you change your mind. After you’ve seen everything, I suggest you return to the ship, enjoy its relative luxury and travel to a more suitable destination for the remainder of your holiday.”
“I have come all this way,” I tell them, “to spend time with the penguins. And that is precisely what I am going to do.”
* * *
—
The Locket Island field base is situated close to the shore. It doesn’t take long to get my luggage there with the help of the foreign grumpy man and Terry and Dietrich, who have brought a sled.
Terry sweeps her arm forward, indicating a kind of shack made of breeze blocks that sits on a plain of stone and ice. It is not a thing of beauty. “Home!” she declares.
On top of the snowy bank behind the shack there are a few rudimentary metal windmills slowly turning against the mottled sky. It seems a sacrilege that anything has been built here, and I am not impressed by these ugly man-made welts on the pure white face of nature. But I suppose needs must.
“We have solar power, but those supplement it,” Dietrich explains. “Together they generate enough for our various electrical devices.”
“Where are the penguins?” I ask. I had expected there to be swarms of them all round the center.
“Not here, but not far away. See that big slope of snow? The other side of that is their nesting ground. We’ll go out and visit them as soon as you’ve had a rest.”
Terry pushes the door open and leads the way inside. We shed our coats, and my cases are deposited in the large central room. My man murmurs something to Dietrich, then backs away and disappears.
I decline Terry’s offer of coffee. I indulged in tea and croissants shortly before leaving the ship. Instead I devote my attentions to examining my lodgings.
There is a propane heater against one wall, a few chairs and a sizable table. The room also contains an extraordinary amount of clutter that isn’t quite normal household clutter. Many items hang from nails: pans, spoons, plastic tags, nets, goggle-y things and hoo
k-y things. I couldn’t say what they all are but presume they must be penguin relevant. A tangle of electrical wires sags from the ceiling in a rather alarming manner. The shelves are stacked with faded tins and packets along with an assortment of natural debris—lichens, bits of bone and eggshell, feathers and fish skeletons. I am glad to note there are a couple of books, too.
“We can never bring out as many as we’d like, but we’ve accumulated those over the years,” explains Dietrich.
“Not that there’s much time to read them,” Terry sighs. “Now, I’m sure you’d like to put your feet up for a while, Veronica.”
I do hate it when people equate old age with incapacity. I have been cooped up without any exercise on airplanes and then a ship for the best part of three days. Moreover, I have been out of bed for a mere two hours, yet they expect me to lie down again already.
I oblige them by sitting on a hard chair for fifteen minutes, then arise and stride about the room, eager to demonstrate the plenitude of my energy levels.
I notice a few pen-and-ink drawings stuck on the walls, none of them very good.
“Dietrich did those. Aren’t they wonderful!”
I cannot, however, partake in Terry’s enthusiasm. The drawings all depict anthropomorphized penguins. There’s a penguin choir singing, a lone penguin sitting on an iceberg wearing a flat cap and dangling a fishing rod, and a group of penguin children playing on swings. Without exception, they are utterly ridiculous.
Dietrich coughs by way of apology. “It’s my little hobby. I draw them for my children whenever there’s a spare moment. I e-mail copies just to keep them and my wife entertained. Terry insists that I keep the originals and put them up here.”
Terry smiles. “Well, it makes it homey,” she says.
“This place was purpose-built only seven years ago,” Dietrich tells me. “It’s in the prime position for penguin watching. They mostly come past here on their way from the sea to the nesting ground, or rookery, as we call it.”