How the Penguins Saved Veronica

by Hazel Prior

  “Rookery?” That is a very contradictory name for a penguin nesting ground, if you ask me. Rooks are rooks and penguins are penguins.

  Dietrich is keen to tell me about the project. “Our center is a good size, as you will see. It was built to accommodate five scientists throughout the year, and the first year it did just that. See, we have bunks in here, here and here.”

  He opens the doors quickly so I can’t register which room is going to be my bedroom.

  “But now there are just the three of us,” he continues. “And we’re only here because we agreed to do it for exceptionally low wages. Mike is the other scientist, and he’s out with the penguins at the moment. He’s due back later.”

  “So you three are busy trying to work out the reasons for the penguin decline?”

  “Yes. We were determined to give it one more go. We have a little lab in here where we can conduct a few tests on samples. That’s Mike’s job, mostly. We have a computer room, too. We need it for inputting our data and sending it back to the number crunchers in Britain. We have intermittent Internet access. Better than nothing.”

  “But only one actual computer now,” Terry adds. “Our other one packed up a few weeks ago. The computer room is always in demand.”

  Dietrich beams. “We try not to fight over it.”

  I dislike anybody making jokes about fighting. Fighting is no laughing matter.

  I frown at him. “Would you kindly show me which room is to be my bedroom?”

  I observe the flicker of deceit that passes between the two of them. “We’d better show Veronica the facilities first,” says Terry, gently levering me toward the smallest room you’ve ever seen. “We have the luxury of a toilet, but no bath or shower I’m afraid. Not much in the way of hot water, either.”

  The sink is largish. The toilet is a collection of buckets and a hard foam seat positioned high enough to fit one of them underneath it.

  Again, Terry and Dietrich exchange a furtive little look. The toilet, it appears, is their trump card.

  “Splendid!” I declare, banging my cane on the ground. I will admit that age has inflicted a few disadvantages upon me, but they are certainly not insurmountable. It will take more than an incommodious washroom to put me off. “An excellent lavatory. And where is my bedroom, please?”

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs. McCreedy,” replies Dietrich, looking guilty. “We have been extremely busy, and it isn’t made up for you yet—”

  “Well, in that case I should like to see the penguins without further ado.”

  Apparently, Dietrich must supervise the unloading of food supplies from the same ship that brought me here (it passes Locket Island every three weeks en route to the more popular tourist destinations, enabling the scientists to replenish their larder). Terry therefore acts as my guide.

  “Are you wrapped up warm?” she asks. “I hope you have thick underwear on. Frostbite is a horrible thing.”

  I give her a long look. I do not like being taken for an idiot. I am encased in three thermal vests and long johns under my wooly jumpers and the fleece-lined trousers Eileen bought for me. My Dynotherm coat set me back three hundred and twenty-five pounds. I can scarcely move I am so trussed up.

  We step outside. The sun has rolled out from behind the clouds now, and we are met by a blaze of white light. I tread gingerly forward in my mukluks, prodding the snow with my cane.

  Terry mistakes my slowness for unfitness and tries to take my arm. I shake her off. She herself is carrying a vast amount of equipment as if it were light as a feather. She has no idea how lucky she is to possess such strength. But then I could have done it, too, when I was her age.

  The snow is so bright I can hardly look at it, even through my anti-glare sunglasses. We struggle up the slope. It is neither steep nor far, but I am taking my time. I stop regularly to examine the landscape. A range of porcelain blue mountains rises off to my right. They exhibit a slight dichotomy of character, being smooth as glass in some places and craggy in others. Glittering streams of meltwater ribbon through the rocks. The lower slopes are startlingly colorful. They are lit up with lichens in lime green, yellows, pink and fiery orange.

  As we reach the top, Terry points.

  “Look this way first,” she says. “You’ll see why it’s called Locket Island.”

  In the distance is a narrow loop of land that stretches all the way around a semicircular lake. Beyond it is the sea. With its oval form and this natural aperture, the mapped version of this island must resemble a locket in shape.

  “Now look this way.”

  I do. On the flat spit of land below us I see a mosaic of darker shades against the paleness. It is a vast company of small waddling bodies. As we come nearer, something akin to excitement starts gathering in the pit of my stomach. Suddenly, I am walking faster.

  “What is all that pink stuff?” I ask Terry.

  “I’m afraid it’s penguin poo. Otherwise known as guano.”

  “Oh!” They seem to be living in a swamp composed of their own excrement. It is disgusting.

  “Well, you didn’t expect them to be all clean and cartoony, like on the Christmas cards, did you?”

  In a way, that is exactly what I’d expected. But now my disappointment is quickly dissolving into excitement again. These aren’t pretty illustrations in a book but real living creatures, spectacularly three-dimensional and unashamedly physical. Here they are, bold and bright, getting on with life in a big, bustling community. Messy, noisy, reckless, pulsing with life and energy. I feel immensely privileged to be here, seeing them in the wild, in their black-and-white, slightly comical brand of glory. Despite the prevalence of guano, it is indeed a marvelous sight. Their raucous calls fill my ears. But now I have a problem with my eyes. They seem to be stinging intensely and beginning to water. It must be the cold. I blink the moisture away.

  There are penguins everywhere. Some are preening, some lying on their bellies asleep, some seem to be gossiping together. Others are just standing there stoically staring into space. En masse and individually they have it all worked out. They don’t seem the slightest bit perturbed by our presence.

  My sense of smell has considerably diminished over the last few years, but the stench of fish is extremely pungent. A slimy, earthy sort of odor.

  Terry swings a camera off her shoulder. “I always take a few snaps,” she says. “You never know when you’re going to capture that perfect pose.” She crouches down near the edge of the cluster of penguins. A few turn their heads and look at her.

  “They have no fear of humans,” she explains. “Which is extremely handy for us.”

  “Excellent!” I say, stepping closer to a little huddle who bear some resemblance to a posse of diminutive youngsters having a cigarette break. I want to examine each of their expressions and try and work out their characters, their raison d’être. I am seized by a desire to be close to them. One of them seems to be equally fascinated in me and ducks his head a little in what I take to be an expression of greeting.

  We contemplate each other for a while, then the penguin resumes conversation with his companions. Terry clicks away with her camera while I roam along the outskirts of the crowd, delighted by each and every penguin. I don’t notice the cold at all. Then suddenly Terry turns the camera toward me.

  “Don’t!” I screech, lifting my arms to cover my face a split second too late.

  “Oh, sorry,” she says at once. “It was just a moment. Your face. Your expression. You looked totally mesmerized. Uplifted. Like a different person.”

  This, I note, is hardly complimentary about the way I normally look. But there’s something about Terry that makes it hard to take offense.

  “Don’t worry,” she assures me. “I won’t use it for my blog or anything.”

  “Oh yes, I recall Eileen saying something about a blog.”

  “It doesn�
�t have a huge following, but it’s growing, thanks to the Robert Saddlebow program. I put photos up there and tell the world what we’re doing.” She fiddles with the camera for a second then holds it out to show me the picture of myself.

  I look like an old woman in the snow.

  “Wonderful, isn’t it?”

  I don’t see it at all.

  “Wow, it would be amazing if I could put it up on the blog,” Terry comments, viewing it again. “It’s so unusual. Having you out here would grab loads of attention.”

  Then she snatches a look at her watch.

  “Oh my God! We have to move. The ship’s going to leave in forty minutes! The others’ll go crazy if I don’t get you back in time.”

  • 15 •

  Veronica

  LOCKET ISLAND

  The walk back is exceedingly slow. I seem to be having problems with my cane, which becomes wedged in crevices no less than three times and is difficult to pull out again, even with Terry’s help. Then I need to sit and rest on a rock for ten minutes. When I say “need to,” I may be exaggerating slightly. In fact I’m reveling in the pure, unpolluted quality of the air and feeling uncommonly energetic. The rock, due to my ample wadding, is not as uncomfortable as you’d expect. Terry gesticulates wildly and talks at me. My hearing aid isn’t functioning well, so I have to keep asking her to repeat herself.

  I confess to a little gloating by the time we finally arrive back at the field center. Terry and I witnessed the ship sailing away just as we reached the top of the slope. Terry was fretful about it, but there wasn’t much she could do.

  “So you will have to stay now, Mrs. McCreedy,” Dietrich comments as we take off our coats. “The next ship doesn’t come for the full three weeks.” He is looking far from thrilled.

  “Well, it’s not as if we don’t have the space.” Terry shrugs. “I’ll tell you what: Veronica can use my bedroom while she’s here. It’s the warmest. I’ll move into the cabin room.”

  My suspicions have been confirmed. They never intended for me to stay in the first place. However, as the girl is now prepared to sacrifice her own bedroom for my comfort, I will not make a fuss about it.

  “You sit down and have a cup of tea while I sort my stuff out,” she says. “I’ll just be twenty minutes. Then you can move in properly and unpack.”

  “I must confess I am surprised you’re not more prepared. I did give you ample notice about my visit,” I point out, somewhat icily.

  Dietrich stands up. “I’ll make tea,” he says and goes to put the kettle on. “You liked the Adélies, then, Mrs. McCreedy?” He is civil, oh so civil.

  “I did indeed.”

  After I have carefully closed all the doors that have been left open in the building, I lower myself into the only chair that has a cushion. It looks marginally more comfortable than the others. The cushion is battered and a putrid shade of orange. Still, it is better than nothing.

  At this moment, the front door opens and a young man walks in. He is wearing the ubiquitous parka jacket. He is of a slight, wiry build and has a long chin and intense, steely eyes. The eyes focus immediately on me, slide across to Dietrich in an accusatory manner then back to me.

  “Hello.” His voice is not welcoming.

  “Allow me to introduce Mike. Mike, this is Veronica McCreedy,” Dietrich tells him. “She is staying,” he adds in a measured tone.

  Mike peels off his outer layers and carefully hangs them on the peg. He slowly exchanges his mukluks (I am interested to note he has them, too) for a pair of plimsolls. Then he crosses the room to shake my hand.

  “Excuse me if I don’t get up,” I say. “I am recently returned from my first trip out to see the penguins.”

  “Mrs. McCreedy was not back in time to return to the ship,” Dietrich informs Mike. I really do not like that accent of his, and I do not like his attitude, either.

  “I wasn’t intending to return to the ship anyway,” I remind him sharply. He passes me a mug of tea. The mug is chipped and the tea tastes like tar.

  “I’ll have one, too, if you’re making, Deet,” says Mike.

  He takes a packet of biscuits from the shelf and offers me one without bothering to put them on a plate first. They are digestives, very plain indeed. I accept one graciously.

  We sit in silence over our tea and biscuits for a few minutes.

  “Anything unusual today?” Dietrich asks Mike.

  Mike shakes his head. “Not really. I saw Sooty again. Still sitting hopefully on his nest.”

  “Sooty is our local eccentric, Mrs. McCreedy,” Dietrich tells me. “A penguin who is almost completely black all over.”

  Before I can pursue the topic any further, Terry emerges from her bedroom, her arms full of bulging plastic bags and bedding. Immediately, the atmosphere lightens. She seems to have this effect on people.

  “Oh, hi, Mike! You’ve met Veronica, then.”

  He nods. “Yes.” The “yes” is short and laced with disapprobation.

  “The room’s all yours, Veronica, whenever you’re ready,” she chirps.

  “Excellent,” I reply.

  * * *

  —

  We’ve consumed a sloppy and tasteless meal comprising bits of unidentifiable meat floating around in ready-mix gravy with resuscitated potatoes and carrots on the side. Mike (or is it Mark? I forget) was this evening’s chef.

  Terry rolls up her sleeves. “My turn to do the washing-up!”

  I offer to help with the drying. It’s an opportunity to quiz her.

  Over the dishes she informs me that it is Dietrich who runs the project, although he tries to ensure every decision is democratic. He is the “penguinologist” who has devoted his whole life to studying the birds. According to Terry, he has a lovely wife and three children back in Austria. He misses them more than he lets on. Dietrich is a “real gentleman” who would “do anything for anybody.”

  No matter what Terry says, I can’t help being wary of Dietrich. Unlike anyone else here, I’ve lived through the war. These things make you realize there’s a monster lurking in all of us. One may smile and smile and yet be a villain. I shall give this Dietrich a wide berth.

  Mike (Mark?) is, I’m told, “a great guy,” although he hides it well. His spiky manner is a habit that he has long cultivated, almost like a hobby. “We take it with a pinch of salt,” Terry comments, with a wry smile. Young men, I recall, are always desperate to prove themselves one way or another. Being acerbic is, no doubt, Mike’s perverse method of trying to demonstrate his toughness, masculinity, et cetera, et cetera. It is utterly pathetic, but there you are. Terry informs me that he is the expert on biochemistry and enjoys nothing more than testing bits of bone and guano for their mineral content. He has a girlfriend back in London who nobody knows much about. He’s rather cagey about her.

  “And you?” I ask Terry. “Are you attached to anyone?”

  There’s a sweetness behind her smile. Even a tough nut like me can see that.

  “I’m attached to a lot of people and a lot of penguins,” she answers, tucking a strand of pale hair behind her ear. “But I classify as single.”

  I peer at her. I register that, if only she would get a proper haircut and apply a bit of makeup, she could be very pretty indeed. Her skin is monochrome but unusually flawless. Her features are neat and pleasing. Behind those unflattering glasses, her eyes are a wide expanse, the colors of sea and shingle.

  “Why do you have a man’s name?” I ask.

  “Well, it’s really Teresa,” she answers, screwing up her face. “But I don’t like that.”

  “Whyever not?” I ask. I would have thought it infinitely preferable to “Terry.” She could hardly have picked a more unattractive word. “Teresa is a pleasant enough name.”

  She is adamant. “I’ve always been Terry.”

  * * *


  —

  The scientists have left open the door of the computer room and the door of the lab. I conscientiously close them both and then head for my bedroom. My body is tired and demanding to be horizontal for a while. I stretch out on the lumpy bed. Terry has made it up with abundant duvets and blankets, but it is still lumpy. I am not one to complain, however.

  Seeing the penguins was a joy but also somehow a shock. Their bright beady eyes, their pudgy bodies, their characterful flippers and feet. The admittedly disgusting yet simultaneously satisfying smell of them. Their cacophony of trumpeting, squawking and braying calls. The way they sometimes walk single file in a line along a penguin highway; the way they scoot and slide across the snow. The way they waggle their bottoms, shake their feathers and preen. Their whole outlandishly gregarious approach to life.

  It is hard to believe I am actually here. At last I am doing something interesting and important. I think about all those penguins, a hundred times realer and truer than they’d been in my imagination. At this precise moment, notwithstanding the inconvenience of the other human beings, I feel surer than ever that this is where I want to bequeath my money.

  It promises to be a most interesting three weeks. I feel an onrush of self-approbation. It is indeed laudable that I made the effort to come. Pleasant, penguiny images drift around inside my head.

  . . . I can hear a soft murmuring of voices. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep. It takes me a moment to realize where I am, then reality filters through and spreads a smile on my face. I am in Antarctica, my aim to embark on a final, great adventure and to thoroughly enjoy it; my mission to help the Adélie penguins. I feel the warm metal of my locket touching my skin. It all makes perfect sense.

  This hut has thin walls. I catch the word “Veronica,” said with some acidity. I believe it is Mike’s voice. I sit up, reach for my hearing aid, put it in and turn the volume up to maximum.

  Now Terry is speaking. “But she is,” I hear her say, as if disagreeing with something somebody has just said. “You should have seen her face when we went out earlier. She was transfixed by the sight of them. It’s more than just a whim.”