How the Penguins Saved Veronica

by Hazel Prior

  “I’ve had another e-mail from the Terry one.”

  “Righto.”

  “With a letter from Mrs. McCreedy copied in.”

  “Great. Any news?”

  “She’s doing well. The penguins are having children.”

  I smile. I sense there’s more. “Anything else?”

  “Mrs. McCreedy mentioned in her letter that she’d sent an e-mail to you, too, via Terry. Have you got it?”

  This is interesting. An actual written communication from Granny V? I’m thinking it must be an explanation about the box.

  “I haven’t checked my e-mails today,” I tell Eileen.

  She clicks her tongue impatiently. “I think it’s something important. I think it might be . . . you know. You’d better check right away. I’ll wait.”

  She’s not going to put the phone down until I’ve done it. What is it with me and pushy women? I wearily get out the laptop and bring up my e-mails. Yup, there’s one from penggroup4Ant. I skim-read.

  “Yes,” I tell Eileen. “It’s very short. The message from Granny is even shorter. Not really a message. Just numbers. I guess it must be the combination code for the box.”

  “Oh, I’ve been wondering and wondering what could be inside that box. You see, it was after she opened the box that she started to get so . . . so very peculiar, you know.”

  “Ah, was it?”

  “Yes. All this business with agencies and then going to visit you and then suddenly rushing off to Antarctica to save the penguins. Are you going to open it now?”

  Nosy or what!

  “Yup, will do,” I tell her and ring off.

  She’ll probably ring back later to talk about the weather and oh, by the way, what did you find inside the box? Still, her heart’s in the right place.

  I crouch on the floor and drag the box out from under the bed. Eagerly, I twist the numbers into place. The padlock clicks open.

  There’s nothing but a couple of scruffy old black books inside. No title or anything written on the front of them. I open up the book at the top. Every page is tightly covered in handwriting, very neat. An old-fashioned slanted script in blue ink, similar to Granny’s writing but softer, fuller. It seems to be the journal of a teenage girl from way back. The dates start in 1940. Looks like I’m in for a bit of time travel.

  I sit on the bed and start to read a few random entries.

  Saturday, 20 July 1940

  Shepherd’s Bush

  Am I unusual? I think I must be. I went out today for a wander and everyone seemed to be staring at me—again! I’ve noticed it more and more ever since I “put on another growth spurt” as Mum calls it. All the boys have eyes on stalks, and the girls goggle at my features as if they want to steal them.

  I sneaked a glance at my reflection in the greengrocer’s window as I passed. There I was, floating above a heap of apples, my chestnut curls streaming out from under my wide-brimmed hat. I looked slim in the mulberry taffeta dress that Mum said was unpractical. (She made it for me anyway after a lot of begging.) I do love the way the dress hugs my waist then washes around my legs in waves. Not like the neat, straight-down skirts that all the other girls are wearing now. The only thing spoiling the image today was the box on a string I have to carry everywhere. It’s dreadfully plain. I hope I never have to wear the hideous black gas mask inside. I transferred the box to the other side so I couldn’t see it in the reflection. It’s amazing how happy you can be if only you focus on the right things.

  Everything was looking idyllic, all honey colors in the sunshine. A wooden hoop rolled past me in the street, chased by a gang of children. Women stood in queues, gossiping about the meat rations, comparing what was in their baskets. You wouldn’t know that half of them spent the night cowering in shelters, the wailing of air-raid sirens in their ears.

  I walked home through Ravenscourt Park and found Tufty tied to the railings. He thumped his tail up and down the moment he saw me. I don’t know who owns him, but they leave him there for hours most mornings—a vile thing to do to a sweet little Scottie dog. I desperately want to take him home, but Mum and Dad say no. His cruel owner had left him in the hot sun today, so I untied him, took him for a little walk, let him cool off in the lake, then tied him back to the railings a little further on, in the shade of a nice, fat cedar tree. He was bouncing around with joy. What will his owner make of it when they find him a few feet on from where they left him, and soaking wet? Ha ha ha!

  There’s talk of stripping the railings out because the iron is needed for war weapons. I wonder where Tufty will get left if that happens.

  A crowd was gathered round the bandstand. The band was honking out a familiar tune, and lots of the audience sang along, bobbing their heads. A few couples were even dancing on the grass. The music kept blasting round inside my skull all the way home. I can still hear it now.

  Later

  Gosh, when I wrote earlier I’d no idea how my life was about to change. As soon as I’d finished the diary entry I ran downstairs, singing at the top of my voice: “Doing the Lambeth Walk—Oi!”

  Mum called out: “V McC! Pipe down, won’t you? You gave me the shock of my life!”

  I jiggled and pranced into the kitchen, still singing, and came to a sharp standstill on the “Oi” right in front of Dad. He was on the spindle-back chair smoking his Woodbine, today’s paper on his lap. He grinned.

  “Dad, Mum, will you teach me the Lambeth Walk?”

  They go to dances nearly every week. They know all the steps.

  “Not now, Veronica,” Mum answered from her place by the stove. “My hands are all floury.”

  “Dad, will you show me?”

  But Dad’s smile had vanished. “Well, now, Very . . .” (He’s the only person in the world who calls me Very. I love to hear that word spoken in his warm Scottish accent. Unfortunately, I haven’t inherited the accent. My voice is posh English, like Mum’s.) “I’ll show you the Lambeth Walk if you’ll do something for us,” he said. “Don’t pout, now!”

  Maybe I was pouting, just a little. “It’s going to be something horrid, isn’t it, Dad? It always is these days.”

  Mum and Dad have changed recently. A heaviness often settles over them, and I hear them earnestly discussing things late into the night. But then on other days they’re full of frantic brightness, as if they’re helping themselves to as much fun as they possibly can, before it runs out.

  Dad put his cigarette in the ashtray and held both my hands in his. “You’re growing up too fast, Very,” he said. “Much too fast.”

  Dad has the kindest face you could ever imagine, but it was all crisscrossed with worry lines. Mum abandoned the stove, walked over and sat down next to him, wiping her hands on her apron.

  I stuck my chin out.

  “Well?”

  “Well, you know how you always wanted to go and live in the country?”

  “Are we moving house?” I asked.

  “No. We can’t do that. At least, not as a family.”

  “We both have work to do here,” said Mum. “It’s more important than ever.” Mum has recently trained to drive ambulances. She enjoys it much more than the dull domestic work she’s always been tied to before. We can all see that. Dad’s proud of his job, too. He fought in the last war but is too old to fight in this one. He’s become an Air Raid Precautions warden instead.

  I didn’t like Mum and Dad being so serious. I was in the mood for dancing.

  “There’s an opportunity for you to go up to Derbyshire,” Dad said.

  “What? Why?” Plenty of children are being evacuated from London. It’s happened to Dinah and Tim down the road. But it wasn’t going to happen to me. Or so I thought.

  “You know why, Very. It’s so much safer there. And we’ve had an offer from your great-aunt Margaret. You can stay with her.”<
br />
  “Oh no! Not Aunt Margaret! Anywhere but there!”

  Mum sighed. “I know it’s not ideal. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but otherwise you’d be staying with a complete stranger. And Aunt Margaret has been so, so kind to offer.”

  “I hate this silly war!” I cried.

  “We all do,” Dad said. “But it won’t be as bad as you think. You’ll only be with Aunt Margaret at weekends. The rest of the time you’ll be in your new school, St. Catherine’s. Before the war the school was in York, but all the pupils have been moved to Dunwick Hall now. It’s an enormous country house with towers, almost like a castle.”

  I’ve seen buildings like that at the pictures. Mansions with mobcapped maids shaking sheets out of the windows and sometimes a handsome young man on horseback galloping through the grounds. It may be all right. I’m not happy about leaving Mum and Dad, but they’re both ridiculously overprotective. They still treat me as if I’m a child. I’m fourteen now, for goodness’ sake!

  I looked from one face to another. They hadn’t made the decision lightly.

  “All right, then. I’ll go.”

  I could almost see how they started breathing again.

  “Now, Dad, you have to teach me the Lambeth Walk. You promised.”

  He stood up and took a slow, exaggerated bow. “May I have the honor of this dance, young lady?”

  “Absolutely!” I crowed. Together we paced out the steps across the kitchen floor.

  Mum took off her apron and hung it on the hook behind the door. Then she slipped upstairs.

  Later this evening she came back down, as I was writing this at the kitchen table. Her eyes were all red and swollen.

  16 August 1940

  On the train to Derby

  I’m not looking forward to seeing Aunt M again, but at least I have the locket. Dad gave it to me and I love it. It used to belong to his mother. It has a V etched into the silver among a design of curling leaves, a V that stood for Violet. Now it stands for Veronica. I treasure it above everything in my luggage—above my mulberry dress, above my favorite book on animals and even above my precious, precious ration of chocolate.

  As yet there’s no handsome prince, so I insisted Mum and Dad each give me a strand of hair to put in the locket. I can tell my new school friends that they’re hairs from two young Romeos and I haven’t decided which one to favor with my love.

  I thought of getting a bit of fur off Tufty to put in the locket, too, but there wasn’t time with all the rush this morning. I hope he’ll manage all right without me.

  “Don’t worry, Very,” Dad said as he and Mum kissed me goodbye. “Everything will work out fine. Be strong!”

  I certainly will be strong. I’m always strong. But I do feel a little nervous.

  What will my new life be like? Will I meet boys?

  Aunt Margaret is a hazy figure in my memory. From what I recall, she isn’t the type of person to let anyone of the male gender come within a mile. This is unfortunate, but I expect I can find a way around it.

  16 August again, in the evening

  Aunt Margaret’s house in Aggleworth

  As I stepped off the train at Derby station I was greeted by a meager figure in a brown coat and head scarf. Aunt Margaret reminds me of a hawk, what with her beak-like nose and heavily hooded eyes. She leaned in to kiss me but didn’t quite make the full distance, instead kissing the air an inch from my cheek.

  “You’ve changed, child,” she commented in a thin voice.

  “Good,” I returned. Already there was hostility between us.

  The conversation on the bus to Aggleworth was dreadfully strained. Aunt M scrutinized my face while she asked after Mum and Dad. She tutted more than once at the answers. Her shopping basket sat on her lap throughout the journey. She clutched its handle with wrinkled, white-knuckled hands.

  The village of Aggleworth is reasonably pretty but too gray. Most of the houses are squat and stone built, roofed with slates. I’ve only met Aunt Margaret at a handful of family weddings and funerals, and I’d never been to her house before. It turns out to be spacious but very drab. The only decorations on the walls are embroidered hangings of biblical quotations: God is our refuge, etc. etc. There’s a wireless in the living room, but Aunt M says she only ever listens to religious programs and the news. I’m already feeling bereft of music.

  My bedroom is a small, low-ceilinged room under the eaves, with a Virgin Mary painting above the washstand. The Virgin was pouring superiority down on me, so I turned the picture round and now she’s facing the wall. Much, much better.

  The only redeeming feature of the bedroom is that the window looks out onto a patch of garden. I’ve just spent a whole hour at that window, watching birds fly about the three apple trees. I know their names from all the country walks with Dad. Greenfinches, blackbirds, flycatchers, thrushes, robins, blue tits, great tits, ravens. I wish I could ride on their wings and fly back home.

  Thursday, 29 August 1940

  St. Catherine’s School at Dunwick Hall

  Life is so different now. Early on Monday mornings, I travel to school on the horse-drawn milk float. I travel back to Aunt Margaret’s house on Saturdays by the same method. The float picks up several other girls on the slow, clopping route through the villages. It’s driven by a Mr. Bennet, who is mild, middle-aged and very civil. At each stop he doffs his cap to us after off-loading the milk bottles, making us all giggle.

  From a distance, Dunwick Hall looms huge and ghostly, its squareness relieved by two rounded towers and even a few battlements. The grounds are rather thrilling, too: a green enclave in the wilderness of the Derbyshire hills, with cedars, oaks and towering chestnut trees.

  The house itself is full of marble fireplaces, diamond-paned windows and creaking oak staircases. The valuable stuff is all put away, but it’s still a grand old place. I’ve written to Mum and Dad and told them about the mermaids carved into the banisters, the sparkling chandeliers and all the other beauties of Dunwick Hall. I didn’t mention that I’m desperately homesick.

  Nor did I mention the dearth of handsome princes. I would have been quite prepared to compromise, but there aren’t even any standard-style boys. Plenty of schools have started acquiring both genders due to wartime reshuffles, but St. Catherine’s prides itself on its untainted femaleness. Apparently our headmistress, Miss Harrison, is forever reassuring anxious parents (who despair of the current lax morality) that their daughters, at least, will remain untainted. Untainted!

  Schoolwork doesn’t present much of a problem. My favorite lessons are geography, mathematics and science. I seem to absorb new information without making much of an effort. Sometimes I answer the teachers’ questions too quickly. Then they glare at me as if I’m being insolent, while my schoolmates make faces. I don’t think they like me much.

  I share a dorm with five other girls, who know one another well. It’s sometimes hard to understand what they’re saying because of their broad accents. Most of the girls in this school go about in flocks. They stare at me.

  On my first day, I passed two schoolmates in the corridor and noticed them jab each other in the ribs. “Who does she think she is?” sniggered the one with the broad face and upturned nose. Her friend, a skinny, freckled girl with slanting eyes, shrugged her shoulders and whispered back something I couldn’t catch.

  Sometimes I wonder if being such a noticeable individual is a good thing, after all. No one else has long, loose, untamed tresses. Their hair is pinned back or tightly curled. They’re all trying to emulate the Gracie Fields look. They roll their eyes at my smock-like blouse and flowing skirt. I hold my head high. I refuse to be cowed by them.

  I do feel disappointed, though. Instead of the luxury lifestyle a castle like this should provide, only bleakness seems to be on offer. The school food is dreadful, too. The other girls trade boiled sw
eets among one another, but they never offer any to me.

  Sunday, 15 September 1940

  Aunt M’s

  Summer is merging into autumn. We’ve had some expeditions into the surrounding countryside, students and teachers rambling together, baskets over arms. We picked flowers to be sent to the wounded soldiers in the hospitals and scoured the hedgerows for blackberries and rose hips. Rose hip jelly is apparently good for topping up the vitamins.

  I was told off the other day for not finishing my food. It was some sort of potato pie, but it tasted vile. The teacher, a nasty Miss Philpotts, was going to make me eat it, so I accidentally on purpose tipped the plate onto the floor.

  “Oh, Veronica! What an awful waste!” she cried. I was given extra math work as a punishment.

  “Waste” is a word I hear again and again. Several times I’ve seen a girl in tears because her cat or dog has been put down at the vet’s; it’s apparently a “waste” to give food to pets. It’s horrible. Why should animals be killed because of humans’ stupid fighting? I hope beyond hope that my friend Tufty at Ravenscroft Park is all right. I ask Mum and Dad about him every time I call, but they say they haven’t seen him in ages. I can’t bear to think that my little waggy-tailed friend might be dead.

  Most of all, the word “waste” is used when there’s news of people—young people, old people, families—killed in the bombings. “What a terrible waste of life,” the teachers say.

  Weekends are awful. It’s hard to put up with Aunt M’s scrutiny and all her dreary religious homilies. Today, like every other Sunday, we went to church. I sat on the hard pew and wondered what God is playing at.

  Mum and Dad normally ring once a week to tell me about London life, the neighbors, the progress of the potatoes and cabbages they’ve planted in our tiny garden where roses and irises used to grow. Sometimes they mention planes, explosions and showers of shrapnel. They don’t have a telephone in their house, so they ring from the ARP office in Shepherd’s Bush. Aunt M’s phone is in her hallway, and she listens in to any conversations, which means I can’t say anything private. So last weekend I used the phone box on Aggleworth Green and rang Dad at the ARP office. When I heard his gentle voice everything came pouring out of me: how boring it is at school, how nobody will befriend me, how much I loathe Aunt Margaret and yearn for home. He was quiet. I could picture his face full of sympathy. Dad understands.