How the Penguins Saved Veronica

by Hazel Prior

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” Terry gasps. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m . . . I’m fine. Just fine,” I lie. “And it’s not you but the penguin who should be saying sorry.”

  “I know it can be pretty painful when a penguin goes for you, even through lots of layers of thick clothing.”

  She stoops and starts rubbing my leg gently.

  “Don’t!” I bark at her.

  “I thought it might ease it. We can put some ointment on back at the base, but obviously, I can’t examine the bruise or expose it out here. How bad is it? Do you want to go back now?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She wrinkles her brow. “You don’t look fine.”

  “I just need a painkiller. Can you help me get this thing open?” I ask, shoving my ruined handbag at her.

  “Oh, what a shame. Your, um . . . your beautiful bag!”

  She slips off her gloves for a second to unclip the fastening and extract my tablets. She offers me a sip from her water bottle to wash one down.

  I am furious with the penguin, who has now hotfooted it back to the colony and merged with his fellows.

  “Why did he do that?” I demand. “Why?”

  “It’s just . . . well, feistiness. Call it natural high spirits. It’s the two- and three-year-olds you need to watch out for. They’re too young to breed and haven’t got much to do apart from flirting, fighting and trying to prove themselves. He’s just an arrogant teenager.”

  “I see.”

  I still feel injured, both literally and metaphorically.

  Terry attempts to reassure me. “I don’t know why he picked on you. It could just as easily have been me.”

  “Well, it’s quite normal,” I tell her. “Everyone takes an immediate dislike to me.”

  She jolts her head round to look at me. “Oh, don’t say that, Veronica!”

  “Why not? It’s true.”

  She is too honest a girl to deny it.

  • 18 •

  Veronica

  LOCKET ISLAND

  Terry insists on escorting me back to the field center, apologizing nonstop all the way. I maintain a dignified silence.

  She helps me off with my mukluks and leads me to the chair with the cushion. It has become my chair.

  “I’ll get you a cuppa for the shock, then we’ll have a proper look at that leg.”

  “As you wish.”

  I am presented with a steaming mug of the unpleasant tar-flavored liquid they call tea.

  “You’ve left the kitchen door open,” I tell her.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I’d be grateful if you would close it.”

  She shrugs her shoulders, goes and closes the door then comes back. I allow her to peel off my waterproof trousers and long johns enough to expose the wound. It is purplish and unsightly but not unduly serious. She dabs it with antiseptic from her first aid kit and puts on a bandage. Already the pain has abated.

  “Well, I think you’ll live.”

  “No doubt I will.”

  “Perhaps you need to rest now?”

  “Perhaps I do.”

  She tries to help me to my room. I shake her off. I do not require help. She lingers, full of concern.

  “Please go out and do your important penguin work, Terry. I shall be fine here. I need to be by myself.”

  “Are you sure you’ll be OK?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She looks undecided. “To be honest, I do need to do some work. I’ve fallen behind a bit . . .”

  “Just go.”

  “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Please relax. Make yourself at home. And help yourself to anything you want.”

  I do hate it when people fuss.

  It is a relief when she leaves. I stretch out on the knobbly bed. I am still seething inside. This whole Antarctic escapade is a disaster. It has become abundantly clear that the scientists don’t want me here and, to my bitter disappointment, neither do the penguins. Ungrateful birds! I had thought, nay, I had been sure there was a kind of destiny for me in this ends-of-the-earth place . . . but it is of no matter.

  My anger slowly dissolves, leaving a sense of deflation. My bubble of penguin-induced beneficence has burst. I am in need of fortitude.

  I pull myself up again and take another painkiller. It is an apt reminder of all the other bitter pills that I’ve had to swallow. My past threatens for a second to overrun my thoughts. I wrestle it out and focus on the present problem.

  I have gone off penguins.

  It is a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.

  Doubtless there are plenty of other noble causes worthy of my legacy.

  * * *

  —

  “Hi, Veronica. So sorry, did I wake you up?”

  I am disoriented for a moment then realize it’s Terry popping her head round the door.

  “No. I merely settled into a recumbent position since there’s a dearth of comfortable chairs around here.” I bring myself slowly into a more vertical posture.

  The anxious demeanor is still disfiguring her mouth and forehead. “How are you doing? How’s your leg?”

  “It is completely recovered, thank you.”

  “Thank goodness. What a thing to happen! I’m really sorry about that rude penguin.”

  “For goodness’ sake, stop apologizing!”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “No.”

  “Well, in that case I’m just going to spend a little time in the computer room. I need to input today’s data onto the system.”

  She vanishes.

  “Terry!” I call.

  “Yes?”

  “Door.”

  “Door. OK. Sorry.” She closes it and I am left in peace.

  She knocks on it only a few minutes later.

  “Veronica, an e-mail has arrived for you. I’ve printed it out. I thought you’d like it straightaway. Here.”

  She puts a sheet of paper into my hands before retreating once more.

  I embark on a hunt for my reading glasses. After going through both my ruined scarlet bag and my rather less good but at least unvandalized fuchsia and gold handbag without success, I delve into my suitcase. I discover the tin of fragrant Darjeeling in its depths but no reading glasses. The tea is some consolation, however. I wander into the kitchen and boil the kettle. By good fortune, a Brown Betty teapot is lurking at the back of one of the cupboards along with a tea strainer. I brew myself a pot. In spite of the tragic lack of teacups and consequent necessity of using a chipped mug, the taste of real tea is a welcome boost. On my first sip, I feel the McCreedy determination flowing back into my veins.

  As I put the mug down again I spot my reading glasses on a shelf where I must have left them earlier whilst examining the books. I settle myself in my chair to read the printout of Eileen’s e-mail.

  Dear Mrs. McCreedy,

  I had two e-mails, one from Mr. Dietrich and one from the blog bloke Terry saying you’d arrived all right, so I’ve stopped worrying. I hope you are well and not too cold. I hope your corns are not giving you too much trouble. It must be nice to see the penguins. I don’t know much about them, but they are my nephew Kevin’s favorite bird. He has a cuddly penguin, navy and white, that he is very fond of.

  Here the weather is quite dull. I am finding it harder to fill in the time with you not being here, but Doug (my husband, in case you don’t remember) says I should get out more. I think he might only be saying that because he doesn’t want me around the house. He says I hum too much.

  Anyway, it would be good to have some news every so often and to know that you are happy. Perhaps the nice scientists can get another e-mail to me if you tell them what to write.

  The biscuits are very good.

  All the best, />
  Eileen

  Well, I shall be giving Eileen plenty to do again shortly.

  I am draining my second mug of Darjeeling when Mike and Dietrich enter together.

  “Ah, Mrs. McCreedy. How was today’s outing?” Dietrich asks, politely.

  “Not the greatest success,” I inform him, looking over my glasses. “I was attacked.”

  “Attacked?”

  “Yes, indeed. A penguin decided to vent his fury on both my shin and my second-best handbag in a very uncalled-for and aggressive manner.”

  “Oh. That’s not good.”

  “No.”

  “Did Terry—?”

  “Terry has sorted me out. Ointment and a bandage.”

  Dietrich has so many whiskers it is hard to decipher the facial expression underneath them. But his “Good” sounds genuine. Mike, on the other hand, has pasted a falsely sympathetic expression to his face. It does little to conceal the underlying sneer.

  “Penguins are wild creatures, Veronica,” he says. “We have to remember that.”

  “We certainly do,” I reply with feeling.

  “You don’t look very happy,” he observes, lowering himself into one of the plastic chairs. “It’s not too late if you want to go back home, you know.”

  “In fact, I was going to ask you about that.”

  He looks at Dietrich then back at me, the sneer becoming more apparent and blending with pleasure at the prospect of my departure. “There’s no ship for another three weeks. But what we can do is to radio the Crisis Management Team and see if they’ll help. They’re normally reluctant to send a helicopter out unless it’s an emergency, but maybe, if you’re prepared to stump up for the costs involved . . . ?”

  “Money is not an issue,” I assure him.

  “In that case it should be possible, Mrs. McCreedy,” says Dietrich, his tone modulated to sound neutral. “I can look into it straightaway.” He digs in his pockets and pulls out a small black contraption that I presume is a radio of some kind.

  They are in such a hurry to be rid of me. Mike smiles wolfishly. “Locket Island isn’t such a cushy number after all, is it, Veronica?”

  I take exception to the way his voice curls as he says my name. I do not deign to reply.

  He can’t resist pushing his point further. “We did all try to warn you. But—with respect—you would insist on having it all your own way, wouldn’t you?”

  Respect, my elbow! He knows no more about respect than an aardvark knows about St. Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. This insufferable man is trying to belittle me, to pooh-pooh my decisions. How dare he!

  “I think you’ll have to admit it, Veronica: this is no tourist destination.”

  I spit the words out at him. “And I am no tourist!”

  “Maybe not. Not entirely. But you’re not a scientist, either. You haven’t had any training, and only thoroughly trained scientists are equipped for any long-term stay on Locket Island.”

  I am conscious of my locket as he says these words, its smooth silver hanging against my chest under my thermal vest. I’m aware of its contents, quietly whispering messages into my heart.

  “Well, I wish you a pleasant journey back home,” Mike concludes with blatant insincerity.

  Dietrich, who has been silent during this display of rudeness, starts pressing buttons on his radio. I stop him with a sharp gesture. “Who said I was going back home?”

  Mike throws his hands in the air. “You said that was what you wanted!”

  I view him coolly. “No, not at all. That is not what I want. You have completely misunderstood. I was merely reviewing my options. I can assure you my mind is made up.” If it wasn’t before, it certainly is now. “I am staying here for the next three weeks, whether you like it or not.”

  And I shall persist in helping those wretched penguins, whether they appreciate it or not.

  * * *

  —

  It is the cantankerous Mike’s turn to cook supper. His efforts are lamentable. Sausages the texture of wire wool, sprouts that have failed abysmally in any attempt to be green, mashed potato from a packet and gravy that resembles mud in both color and taste.

  I push the sprouts about my plate. The atmosphere is somewhat strained.

  Terry, who was not a party to the conversation of earlier, seems to think I am being sniffy about the food.

  “Sorry we can’t provide any fresh vegetables, Veronica.”

  “Don’t keep on apologizing for what isn’t your fault.”

  Mike seems to think I am implying the poor-quality fare is his fault.

  “Considering the chronic state of our food stock, a cranky cooker and a shortage of time, I don’t think I did so badly.”

  I frown at him. If there’s one thing I cannot abide it is people who are always moaning.

  Everyone looks as though they are trying to think of something to say to fill the silence that follows.

  “You consider this to be hardship,” I comment. “Your generation is used to easy access to any food, food from all over the world. But I remember a time when bread was hard to come by, most people had to dig up their back gardens to plant potatoes, and anything resembling a sausage was a luxury. This meal would have been considered a banquet.”

  Dietrich winks at Mike. “There you are, Mike. A compliment!”

  “Yeah, right,” he replies.

  The silence resumes. My hearing aid magnifies the sounds of discontented chomping.

  “I believe I shall go out on my own to look at the penguins tomorrow,” I announce. “I have no wish to get in the way of your scientific studies, and I can remember the way to the colony now.”

  Mike splutters. “Not a good idea.”

  “Why not? You don’t need to wrap me up in cotton wool. I am quite capable of looking after myself,” I reply tartly.

  “If you stay here, you play by our rules,” he insists, glaring at me. I glare back. I can out-glare any young upstart.

  Terry turns toward me with a conciliatory air. “We’d feel better if you went with one of us, Veronica. The weather seems mild at the moment, but it can turn quickly and things can get nasty. And the three of us have experience of what to do in an emergency. I’m very happy to accompany you. If that’s OK?”

  I am galled by her suggestion. My chief desire is solitude. However, it appears that compromise is called for yet again. “Very well,” I say.

  “I’ll tell you some more about the penguins as we go. And perhaps we can get some footage for the blog.”

  “The blog. Always the bloody blog,” mutters Mike.

  Terry pretends to throw her sausage at him. That makes him smile at least.

  TERRY’S PENGUIN BLOG

  12 December 2012

  Take a look at this lady. I think you’ll be impressed. She’s our new arrival, she loves penguins so much she came all the way from Scotland to Antarctica and she’s—wait for it—eighty-six years of age! Now that’s commitment for you.

  Veronica’s her name. She’ll be staying with us at the Locket Island study center for the next three weeks, and we can’t wait to see how she settles in.

  As you see from the photo, she’s already out there, enjoying the view of 5,000 Adélie penguins. She’ll be getting to know all their little ways . . . and ours.

  She has already digested plenty of knowledge about the Adélies. She knows, for example, that their favorite dish is the tiny shrimplike crustacean known as krill, and that it’s the Antarctic springtime at the moment, which means massive changes lie ahead for the birds. Many of them are sitting on their nests now, ready for new life to begin.

  Veronica commented that the stony nests didn’t look very comfortable or very warm. She has a point, but we must remember the penguins themselves are lined with layer upon layer of fat. They also wear coats made
of superspecialized insulating feathers. Cold just isn’t an issue for them the way it is for us.

  Speaking of which, in case anyone is worried, Veronica is fighting fit and well equipped for her stay here. Her quantities of weather-appropriate clothing are only matched by her quantities of determination. She is going to need both.

  • 19 •

  Patrick

  BOLTON

  I got an e-mail from those Antarctica penguin people today. Some guy called Terry saying he thought I’d like to know Veronica is all right and sending me a link to a blog. After breakfast I logged on to have a look. Straight up there was a photo of Granny V, and I have to say I was fricking flabbergasted. In the photo she was smiling, actually smiling! She looked ecstatic, like she’d seen a throng of angels or something. But it wasn’t angels. It was penguins. A great mass of them all around her, a kind of ocean of stumpy black-and-white figures. And her, all togged up with a fluffy-hooded scarlet jacket, with her big, shiny handbag as well, all blazing reds against the snow. Blazing red lipstick to match. So you couldn’t miss that smile.

  Clearly, Granny V likes penguins. Shedloads.

  I grabbed a coffee and read the blog. “Take a look at this lady,” it said. That Terry guy sounded impressed. He almost made Granny V out to be a miracle worker. I guess she must be on her best behavior.

  It’s funny. I keep pushing Granny V to the back of my mind, but she just keeps resurfacing again. That day she came to the flat, I was nowhere near ready for all this sudden long-lost relation stuff. I blame Lynette. The shock of her being wound around builder boy was the only thing in my head that day. There wasn’t space for anything else (timing, man; it’s fricking vital). But when I saw Granny at the airport, I wasn’t thinking of me-me-me quite so much, and I got this weird feeling, as if the first time we’d met I’d been missing something. Like her harshness was a kind of coat she wrapped tightly round herself so nobody could see what was underneath. Even Eileen.