How the Penguins Saved Veronica

by Hazel Prior

  “I don’t care. Three weeks is a hell of a long time.” Mike, again. “We’re under no obligations to keep her here. We were more than clear in all our communications that she shouldn’t come. Yet she’s foisted herself upon us without anyone’s permission. It is rude and it’s manipulative. A total lack of respect and a total lack of common sense.”

  There’s a small silence.

  “She said she’d pay for her accommodation. About ten times more than it’s worth,” Dietrich points out.

  “I’ll believe that when I see it!”

  “But if she really is going to donate a serious amount toward the project?” Terry mutters. “Like, millions. Can we afford not to?”

  “Even if it’s true, we’re not going to see most of that money until she’s dead, I gather.” Mike does indeed have more than his fair share of spikiness. His voice is full of hard edges. “Although, how long can it be?” he muses. He laughs. The other two don’t join in. “She seems pretty sturdy, I’ll grant you,” he continues. “She may last another decade. And I have to say I’m not prepared to wait and kowtow to her, all for money that may or may not materialize. By the time she’s kicked the bucket, the penguin project will be long gone.”

  At this point, I find that my eyes are stinging severely. The second time today. Normally, they cause me no problems whatsoever. I hope this is not the beginning of some visual ailment. I manage to find a handkerchief and give them a quick dab, then put my ear to the door again.

  “In any case, how could we get any work done with her around?” exclaims Mike. “She’d drive us insane. We’re friends and fellow scientists, but in this environment even we find it difficult not to kill one another!”

  There’s a ripple of knowing laughter here like the acceptance of a well-explored truth.

  “You’re right there,” Dietrich answers. “It’s a miracle we’re still talking to one another.”

  “But maybe a bit of fresh blood is just what we need,” Terry urges.

  “Yes, that’s all very nice, but the fact is she’s an old lady.” Mike again. “Old ladies don’t belong here. They should be in a centrally-heated care home with a TV and a cat. I vote we send her away straight off.” I realize at this point that, no matter who speaks with which accent, it isn’t Dietrich who is the enemy. It is Mike.

  Terry is clearing her throat. “Easier said than done, Mike.”

  They lower their voices, and I can’t catch the murmurs that follow, which is extraordinarily frustrating. But then Mike’s voice is raised again. “We’re quite within our rights to turn her away. I’m sorry, but we have to get rid of her somehow. While she’s here we have responsibility for her, and I for one am not happy about that.”

  “I’m worried, too,” confesses Dietrich. “If she gets ill, we can’t possibly give her the care she needs.”

  “Just give her a bit longer, will you?” pleads Terry. “We can’t send her away yet. She’s only just arrived and—”

  “And we already hate her,” says Mike.

  • 16 •

  Patrick

  BOLTON

  Bolton Job Center: not exactly a bundle of laughs. I’m on my way back from there now. My benefits will be cut off unless I show some kind of token effort at finding work. I guess there are heaps of things I could do, but without qualifications on paper, I haven’t a hope in hell. In an ideal world I’d find something that fits round Mondays at the bike shop. But is that ever going to happen? Let’s face it: Big, fat NO.

  The only possibility up on the boards today was a job monitoring trolleys in a supermarket car park. Apparently, you needed good communication skills and spatial awareness and the ability to think on your feet. What? To push trolleys into a trolley bay? There’s an online form to fill in with about thirty-five questions, and you have to send in a covering letter and CV on top of that. And when you’ve done all that, they’ll no doubt ask you to climb to the top of Everest whilst balancing a phoenix egg on the end of your nose. Jeez. No wonder people prefer to leech off the state.

  “Would you like to apply?” the starchy woman behind the desk asked me in a robotic, I-don’t-care-either-way voice.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  Well, I’ve thought about it, and I really don’t want to think about it anymore. I trudge back along car-honk avenue feeling useless and gloomy. A right Eeyore. It might just be time to assault the Weedledum and Weedledee jar. I’m not cheered by the idea, though, because I thought I was doing all right, and it shows I’m still just a fricking weakling.

  I’m about to go up to the flat when my eyes fall on this package waiting for me in the hall. Loads of stamps on it—it must have cost a bomb to post. What the . . . ?

  I think for a moment it must be for the downstairs neighbors, not me. I double-check. Nope, it’s not for the caterwauling couple. It’s my name on there, my address.

  Lynette? The thought knocks the breath out of me for a second. Fact: I’m a hundred percent over her now. But who else is there who’d send me anything? It must be her, mustn’t it? She took some of my crap with her, like the battery charger and headphones. Maybe she’s had an attack of conscience and decided to return them?

  The parcel isn’t from Lynette, though, I can see that. It’s not her writing. Could she have got the builder to write out the address for her? She’s the world’s expert in getting people to do stuff for her. Maybe builder boy is acting as, like, her secretary now. Not very likely, though. I doubt he can even write. Anyhow, this looks like a woman’s writing. It’s a very rounded, squat sort of writing in blue pen.

  I heave the package upstairs and rip it open. Inside all the brown paper and string is a battered box, pretty heavy. It’s got an ancient woody sort of smell. It has one of those padlocks you have to know the code to unlock. How weird is that?

  Then I see the folded-up bit of paper. I unfold it.

  Dear Patrick,

  I hope you are well.

  Mrs. McCreedy (your grandmother) asked me to send this to you before she went. I know it’s locked, but she said to send it anyway. She said please to keep it safe. You can’t open it—you’re not allowed to open it—unless you get the code. And she said you won’t be getting that at the moment.

  Nasty weather, isn’t it?

  Yours,

  Eileen

  I’m beginning to wonder if Granny needs to be under lock and key herself. It’s all getting more and more surreal.

  What the hell could be inside the box? Something that belonged to my father? Or some family heirloom from the sixteenth century? A Victorian set of napkin rings? An antique stuffed squirrel?

  I wish I’d found out a bit more about Granny the two times we met. I’m kicking myself now for being so bogged down in my own problems.

  I try twisting the dial of the padlock into a few number combos, but none of them work. I could always get out the tool kit and saw it open anyway. I shouldn’t, but you know how it is with curiosity . . .

  No. I’m going to do what Granny V wants. If she’s determined to be mysterious, that’s fine by me. Maybe all will be revealed when she gets back from Antarctica. I wonder how she’s getting on.

  I shove the box under the bed.

  • 17 •

  Veronica

  LOCKET ISLAND

  “Help yourself, Veronica.”

  It is my first breakfast here. Mountainous supplies of hot food are on the table: bacon, eggs, baked beans, hash browns and toast. The emphasis is on quantity rather than quality. Every item is of the colorless and defrosted variety. The scientists are tucking in as if it’s manna from heaven. Presumably, such elephantine helpings are necessary to set everyone up for the day. I pour myself out a mug of tea from the pot and take a sip. It is revolting. Somewhere in my luggage I have a supply of fragrant Darjeeling. I will have to dig it out.

  The air
is full of unexpressed resentment toward me. I transfer a slice of toast, some yellow mush masquerading as egg and a leathery-looking slice of bacon onto my plate. Then get straight to the point.

  “I haven’t paid for my accommodation yet. I’d like to settle it immediately after breakfast. I am proposing to pay you considerably more than I suggested in my e-mail.”

  I watch the incredulity spread across their faces.

  “Pay more than you suggested for your accommodation?” repeats Dietrich.

  “Yes.”

  They gawk at me. Mark—or is it Mike?—sniggers. “Why? It’s hardly five-star!”

  “I know. But I’d like to contribute something substantial straightaway, so as to assist you with the project. To help the penguins.”

  Dietrich frowns. “I’m not sure we can allow that, Mrs. McCreedy. The fact is—”

  I interrupt him. “No arguments.”

  Terry looks from me to Dietrich and back again. “That’s just unbelievably generous of you, Veronica.”

  I catch Mark’s eye. He looks annoyed, as though he thinks I am engaged in some kind of bribery. Which I undoubtedly am. I can see that he’s mustering himself up again to give me a dismissal speech. He seems to have taken it upon himself to be the one who decides, even though it should be Dietrich.

  I pick at my food. I am having some difficulty eating this morning. I had very little sleep last night. My mind was too busy turning things over. I tidy my unpalatable bacon and egg to the edges of my plate, making the waste look as small as possible. It’s always a bad idea to look ungrateful.

  “Terry, I’ve been thinking about your doodah.”

  Her eyes widen. “My doodah?”

  “I am no fool, young lady. I know you and Dietrich and Mark want me to depart speedily and leave you in peace.”

  “Not Mark. Mike,” the discourteous man puts in pointedly. I ignore him.

  “But if I stay here for the full three weeks, it will be mutually beneficial. I can spend time with the penguins, which is my one last wish upon this earth. As for you, you’ll receive ample money for my lodgings and, in due course, my entire inheritance to ensure the continuation of your project. In addition, Terry, you may feature me in your bloggy thing if you so desire.”

  Terry’s face lights up. “Oh, that doodah,” she says.

  “I am no great advocate of social media gimmicks,” I continue, “but am prepared to have you put my photograph up there, do an interview or whatever else you might require of me. For publicity, as you seem to think it will make a difference. For the future of the penguins.” Seldom have I been so magnanimous about anything.

  “Oh, thank you so much, Veronica!” cries Terry. “That would be wonderful! You can provide that human-interest angle that’s lacking at the moment. It’ll really help!”

  She turns to Mike (not Mark) with an I-told-you-so look. His face is like thunder. He puts his knife and fork together with a loud clink, gets up quickly and leaves the room.

  Veronica McCreedy is not one to be overcome by the machinations of small-minded people. I experience a delightful stab of victory.

  * * *

  —

  Terry is to be my guide again today. She climbs into her weatherproof clothing in lightning-quick time and waits for me. I am rather slower due to the disadvantage of stiffer, eighty-six-year-old limbs. The others have long gone by the time we’re ready.

  “What exactly are they doing?” I ask.

  “We each have our own area to cover. We check the nests and mark where they are. We do counts and weigh some of the penguins. And we monitor which ones have returned from last year.”

  “How do you know which are last year’s penguins? Do you put rings on their legs like pigeons?”

  “No,” she informs me. “Penguin feet are too thick and fleshy for that. It’s been tried in the past, and they get infections where the rings rub the skin. No, there’s a metal armband thing that goes over the flipper. Each armband has a number so we can recognize penguins we’ve seen before.”

  As soon as I step outside, the air seizes my lungs. It is most invigorating. Sunlight glances off the snow in a joyous dance of silvery whites. I have my sunglasses on and the lilac scarf Eileen gave me. I also have my second-favorite scarlet handbag in case I should need a handkerchief or painkillers. And my cane, of course. I manage the slope with speed and alacrity.

  Terry seems impressed. She has a little more pink in her cheeks today and is wearing a hat with dangly tassels coming down over each ear. It is not a good look.

  “You are young,” I observe. “Don’t you find it a trifle isolated here on an Antarctic island with just two peculiar men for company?”

  “I actually prefer to have lots of space around me,” she replies. “It’s unusual but it’s just the way I am. I realized it first years ago when I went to Glastonbury Festival with a bunch of mates. I liked the mud and I liked the music; I didn’t mind at all the smelly Portaloos and the cold nights in the tent that everyone else moaned about. But what I couldn’t hack was the crowds. I felt overwhelmed and suffocated.”

  “Really?” Perhaps we have more in common than I thought.

  “Really. Don’t get me wrong. I do like people, I like them very much. I just can’t cope with them in huge quantities. I’m so aware of all those emotions, all those plans and dreams and longings. All those agendas. It’s like this massive overload to my system. I know other people like the buzz of it, but I find it too much.”

  My interest is piqued. “So large numbers of people are intolerable. Large numbers of penguins, presumably, are a different matter?”

  “Oh yes!” she enthuses. “You can’t ever have too many penguins. They’ve got a different sort of energy to humans. It’s more fundamental and earthy. They don’t agonize over things. They don’t have issues.”

  “I don’t like humans en masse, either,” I confide. “But, unlike you, I also don’t like them individually.”

  “Oh?”

  “Have I shocked you?” I ask.

  “No,” she replies. “I’m sad that’s how you feel, though. Maybe you’ve just met the wrong people. Or maybe somebody did something to make you feel that way?”

  I scowl at her. I have no wish to talk about the manifold tragedies of my life. I’m well aware that, to a person like Terry, I am living proof that money doesn’t make you happy. Comfortable, certainly. Healthy and long-lived, yes, if you are lucky. Happy? Hardly.

  We pause at the summit and I take in the view. The mountains are grouped in the distance, white capped and majestic. Their south-facing slopes are draped in ragged shawls of snow. The half-moon lake glints the palest turquoise. The fine line of land beyond is just visible, dividing it from the sea. In the foreground, the rocks flaunt their gaudy emblazonment of multicolored lichens. Every tuft and fiber stands out in the morning sunlight. The snow is patchy here; packed into every nook and cranny, gathered in frills against the stones, winding through the gullies.

  “Is it these sunglasses or are there tinges of pink and amber in that snow?” I ask.

  “No, it’s not your sunglasses. It’s a colored glow made by microscopic algae. Pretty, isn’t it?”

  We approach the penguins, and the sounds of chirps and caws slowly filter through the air. The thousands of miniature figures are outlined with fine threads of gold in the sun’s rays.

  “Makes you glad to be alive, doesn’t it!” Terry exclaims, swinging her camera off her shoulder as we arrive at the bird colony.

  The penguins exude joie de vivre. I understand what Terry means. In spite of their noise, their smell and their excessive swampy guano, I already like penguins much more than I like humans. Today the birds seem to be involved in some kind of tribal dance, moving their heads up and down, marching to and fro and gabbling to themselves and one another. They pick up the pace and some of them go down on th
eir tummies and slide along the ice. Their flippers are outstretched, their beaks pierce the rush of oncoming wind. They look insanely happy.

  Terry rushes toward them, insanely happy, too. “It’s such a beautiful morning, I’ll just start with a few photos.” She clicks away. Every so often she turns the camera on me.

  “Smile, Veronica!” she calls. But she needn’t tell me. I’m smiling anyway.

  Terry spots a banded penguin in the distance and passes me the binoculars. I gaze through them intently. The penguin doesn’t seem remotely perturbed by the encumbrance on its flipper, but it does look rather a tight fit.

  “Doesn’t it hamper their swimming?”

  “Not at all. And it doesn’t hurt them, either, before you ask.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it. I’d have my doubts about supporting you if I found out you were in any way causing them hurt.”

  She nods. “Quite right, too!”

  We wander through the aisles of penguins. Terry records facts about the returning couples in her notebook while I appreciate the view. In between her scribbling, she points out a few other local residents. They all look like gulls to me, but apparently one is an albatross, several are skuas and one is a storm petrel. Terry hands me the binoculars again, and I examine the storm petrel as it wheels through the sky, trying to make out its markings.

  Suddenly, there’s a loud squawk and a sharp jabbing sensation in my leg. I drop the binoculars in shock and let out a sharp cry. A penguin is at my side, flippers lifted in indignation, beak poised for further action. Before I can do anything else, it gives my shin several more hard pecks then fastens itself, hanging on just below my knee like a pair of pliers. My flesh feels the pain acutely through the waterproof trousers and long johns.

  “Off, off, off, you little bugger!” Terry yells, grabbing it with both gloved hands. At once it lets go of my leg, only to attach itself to my second-favorite scarlet handbag. I screech and use all my might to shake the bag. The fierce little creature won’t let go and is dragged around in circles, feet flying. Only after the leather has been ripped beyond all hope of repair does it relinquish its grip and stumble off drunkenly.