How the Penguins Saved Veronica

by Hazel Prior

  I looked around and saw the sloping roof of a barn silhouetted against the sky.

  Everyone seems to think I am a whore anyway, so . . . ?

  “Now,” I urged. “We have to seize this moment.”

  I took Giovanni by the hand and pulled him over the moonlit fields toward the barn.

  He asked if I was sure.

  Yes.

  Yes, I’ve never been so sure about anything in my life.

  • 28 •

  Patrick

  BOLTON

  DECEMBER 2012

  I clear my throat. “Tell me honestly,” I say to Gav. “Do you think I look a teeny tad Mediterranean?”

  I’ve persuaded him to come for a swift after-work pint at The Dragon’s Flagon. He looks at me curiously. “Maybe a little bit Italian, for example?” I add. “My nose, perhaps?”

  “Let’s see you in profile.”

  I turn my head.

  “No, I’d say not,” he says. “It’s not a Roman nose. Longish, but not Roman. Your skin’s quite brown, though. It’s got definite undertones of olive.”

  “OK. Right. Thanks.”

  “Do you want to look Italian?”

  “Do I?”

  “I’m asking you, mate!”

  God, I don’t fricking know!

  “I think those diaries are getting to me,” I tell him by way of a reply.

  “Mmmm?”

  “Because I grew up without any parents, this granny thing is kind of important.”

  Saying that out loud makes me realize the truth of it. And the diaries are quite a revelation. In a way, history has repeated itself. Like Granny V, I lost both parents pretty early on and had to learn to fend for myself. But then, most of my foster parents were OK. Young Veronica didn’t have anyone like that—she only had that awful religious nutter of an aunt. And she didn’t have drugs to fall back on. Man, it must have been grim. No wonder she went off the rails a bit; no wonder she tried to find love wherever she could.

  I never knew my dad at all, but it’s clear Veronica doted on hers. I lost my mother when I was six, which was horrendous, but I guess in some ways it’s even worse when you’re fourteen. You’ve got all that love built up over the years, all those hugs and conversations and things you do together and then all of it’s just snatched away. Harsh. It must have done stuff to that poor kid’s head.

  “So you think you might have some Italian blood?” Gav asks.

  “Looks like it’s a possibility. But then . . .”

  Veronica only went out with Harry the one time, but I’m not clear how it ended. She didn’t go into any detail in the diary about the cycle ride home. She wasn’t a happy bunny about it, though; that much is obvious. He didn’t . . . Surely, he didn’t . . . ? Shit. No, he can’t have. She’d have written it down . . . wouldn’t she? I’ve only been skim-reading, skipping some of the long, boring bits about school, but I’m sure I haven’t missed anything that big. Still, now that horrible doubt has entered my thick skull, I’m going to have to race through the rest of the diaries to find out what I can.

  I slurp down the rest of my pint in one go. “Sorry, mate, I’m going to have to dash.”

  My pulse has gone fricking crazy.

  I’m being ridiculous.

  It must be Giovanni who’s my granddad—mustn’t it?

  TERRY’S PENGUIN BLOG

  18 December 2012

  Adélie penguins are endlessly curious and endlessly busy. Today Veronica and I were followed around by one particularly inquisitive character as we were marking out nests. Not yet of an age to have his own family, his interest seems to have been piqued by our activities. Here is a photo of him and Veronica watching each other. As you can see, she’s holding her handbag well out of his reach.

  Elsewhere, nature is taking its course, couples are copulating, eggs are being laid and the first chicks are emerging. What a riotous community we have here on Locket Island!

  • 29 •

  Veronica

  LOCKET ISLAND

  I gaze out over the vast, rippling black-and-white sea of Adélies. Everywhere I look there are interactions between penguins. Each one seems so at home in his community. They fit in a way I have never fitted with my fellow humans. Once again, I feel all too conscious of my past.

  Sometimes memories gather dust in the back crevices of your mind. Sometimes they hover over you like shadows. Sometimes they come after you with a club.

  I wonder, now, about Giovanni. Is he still alive, out there somewhere? Even after all these years I can see him quite clearly in my mind’s eye. I remember his hands, large and a little roughened but with a touch so sensitive to my needs. I can almost feel again the faint stubble on his cheek, his lips on mine, youth against youth, a thousand nerve endings awakened, craving more.

  At the time, I couldn’t have imagined a stronger force. But biology dictates so many things. Is my whole personality just a peculiar cocktail of chemicals? Moreover, is love just a series of biorhythms, a collection of electrical impulses to the brain? An excess of hormones? Maybe, under certain conditions, this alchemy we call love is intensified—intensified, for example, by such things as a long summer full of bright sunshine, a youthful rebelliousness and the extreme tragedies of war. It may be so.

  What would have happened if we’d been allowed to stay together, Giovanni and I? Would it have continued to be such an all-encompassing magnetism? Or was it just the madness of the times, the very fact that a relationship between us was forbidden, that made me so hopelessly in love with him? I am old enough and cynical enough to know that this may be the truth of the matter.

  He might not have survived the war. Or he might have returned to his own country, as most of the POWs did. It is conceivable he is an old man now; crooked, wrinkled, perhaps smoking a pipe, perhaps wandering in a Mediterranean olive grove. Does he ever wonder about the English girl he loved so long ago? Even in his wildest imaginings it will not occur to him that she is now in Antarctica with three young scientists and five thousand penguins.

  I could, when I return to Britain, employ the agency to look him up, to find him as they found Patrick. Do I have a long-neglected duty there as well?

  No. If Giovanni survived the war and if he’d wanted me, he would have come back for me. He would have found a way. I have already opened up a great can of worms by revisiting those diaries, by seeking out my grandson.

  My thoughts turn to Patrick. What is the nature of the man behind the layers of grime and fug of drugs? Is it possible I have judged him too harshly? His behavior at the airport was in stark contrast to that of our first encounter. Had I not been so preoccupied with my imminent departure on this Antarctic odyssey, and had I not been so shocked by his sudden appearance, I would have focused more clearly on the boy.

  Now I have entrusted my past to him, in the form of those teenage diaries. I need never have shown them to another human being, and I am somewhat surprised at my decision to follow this course of action. Indeed, I squirm at the thought of him reading them. Yet somewhere beneath the layers of horror there’s an undeniable sense of relief that at last I have shared my story. My impulsive side must have recognized that need within me.

  Will he read, I wonder? Will he understand?

  “You seem deep in thought, Veronica.”

  “Is there a law against it?” I ask, tersely.

  The sky is seeping blue into mauve, mauve into inky gray. Terry and I have been out for hours. There are still humps of penguin carcasses at regular intervals, mummified by the ice. I try not to look at them.

  The living penguins waste no time in grief or self-pity. They are too busy. More and more chicks appear every day now, comical little creatures, a stubbier, fuzzier version of their parents. The adults take it in turns to go out to sea for food. Each comes back with expanded paunch and feeds the bab
y with regurgitated krill in a thrusting beak-to-beak movement. The first chicks are larger now and venture beyond their nests. They toddle through the puddles and mud, squeaking continually.

  I espy one very tiny figure who is limply skirting the edge of the community. The chick is sooty gray and bedraggled. It seems to have lost its way. It’s making slow progress, wandering a few paces then stopping to look around. It arches its head upward, then sideways, viewing the other penguins with an air of neediness. They continue with their day-to-day business: gossiping, arguing, wriggling about on their nests, presenting and accepting regurgitated fish. But this one seems isolated and afraid.

  “Where are its parents?” I ask Terry.

  “They’re probably dead. Taken by a seal or trapped in an ice chasm or something. It doesn’t look like they’re coming back, anyway. They both wouldn’t have left it; it’s too young. Poor little thing!”

  The chick stumbles up to an adult who is sitting on a nest. The adult pecks it away.

  “It won’t survive long,” Terry says. “Starvation or the cold will finish it off pretty soon.”

  “Is there nothing we can do?” I ask, dismayed.

  “Sorry, Veronica, but no. It is our policy not to interfere. Nature is tough, sometimes.”

  “Your policy?” I inquire, imbuing the word with scorn. I detest policies. People are forever constructing policies to cover a general purpose, then they get trapped by those policies and become slaves to them; they feel they must obey them in every situation, blindly ignoring common sense or kindness. This policy is a prime example of such absurdity.

  “Yes, our policy,” answers Terry. “Human intervention has harmed wildlife beyond belief. It’s best to let nature sort things out. Otherwise we might cause more harm than good.”

  I try to suppress my exasperation. “And would we be able to save this baby if it wasn’t for your precious policy?”

  She shakes her head sorrowfully.

  This is not a proper answer, and I am not going to let her get away with it. I repeat my question.

  “Well, I suppose if we took the hatchling in and fed it there’d be a faint chance it might survive,” she concedes. “But that’s theoretical. It might grow dependent on us, anyway, which isn’t what we’d want. The whole idea is to support the penguins in the wild, in their own habitat, not make pets of them.”

  I try to digest this. It feels unnatural, like trying to digest a rusty nail.

  She drifts away and starts filming two parents feeding fish to a chubby toddler penguin. My eyes remain riveted on the orphan. He (I am already thinking of it as “he”) totters first in one direction and then the other. I am transfixed, as if I’m connected to the baby penguin. I feel his feelings: the cold, the confusion, the loneliness, the loss. He assumes help must come from somewhere soon . . . yet it doesn’t.

  I march up to Terry. My voice is a strident blare, belying the lump in my throat.

  “Terry, unless we do something to help that little one, I refuse to appear on your blog any longer.”

  Terry lowers the camera. She looks anxiously into my face. Her eyes are searching, as if she doesn’t quite understand me, as if I’ve done something out of character.

  “You really care, don’t you?” she says at last. “It’s no good being sentimental, Veronica. Seriously, it doesn’t do to worry about individuals. Nature chooses which ones live and which ones die. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is. Try to forget that chick and focus on all the happy penguins.”

  She has asked me to do the impossible. At this moment, all the happy penguins do not interest me. It is this one lost soul who commands all my attention. He is drooping, actually drooping now. His flippers hang by his sides. His beak points to the cold earth that will soon be his grave.

  I don’t believe Terry is unreasonable. She has just been brainwashed by a couple of stupid men. Perhaps even they will see sense if I can approach it from a different angle, if they think they can get more funding that way. I’m not above exploiting human greed.

  “If you managed to save this little fellow and put photos of him on your blog, surely everyone would like him. He’s so . . .” I clear my throat. “You’ll get far more positive publicity than if you just abandon him.”

  Terry is motionless. I can see thoughts flashing across her consciousness, possibilities beginning to shine in her eyes. “Well, as far as the publicity goes, you do have a point. There aren’t many things in life as cute as a baby penguin. I guess the public would be bound to warm to him.”

  “Absolutely!” I cry. “And they’re so much more likely to contribute money toward the project if you have a cuddly little mascot.” I wait while she continues to process the pros and cons.

  “I very much doubt we can persuade Mike and Dietrich. But I suppose it’s vaguely possible. I suppose we can try.”

  “If we can, then we must.”

  I will say this for myself: I am good at getting my own way.

  Terry puts her load on the ground. “I’ll see if I can get hold of the little fella.”

  We edge our way toward the chick. He turns his head toward us, registering no fear. Terry makes a swift dive, seizes him by the feet and beak and tucks him under her arm. The bird gives a miniature squawk and a feeble little flutter of alarm but submits almost immediately. Terry gives his neck a gentle stroke. It seems to calm him. I approach and stroke him, too. He is no bigger than a teacup. His down is silky soft.

  “We’ll do everything we can for you,” I tell him earnestly. “I promise.”

  Terry looks at me sideways with a little smile. “We’d better take him back to the camp,” she says. “I’ll radio Dietrich and Mike and ask them to meet us there. I won’t say why. Hopefully, it’ll be easier to convince them if they actually set eyes on the poor creature.”

  • 30 •

  Veronica

  LOCKET ISLAND

  As Terry predicted, the recalcitrant Mike is completely closed to the idea.

  “You’ve brought us back here for this? Have you gone completely cuckoo?”

  Dietrich is equally firm. “No, Terry. We said we wouldn’t.”

  Terry pushes her glasses up her nose and unzips her parka slightly, revealing the small, fluffy little package that is snuggled inside. “I know, I know, but look at him, guys! There’s no harm in trying. And I know loads of people would agree, people across the world who read my blog. This little chick could actually become the face of what we’re trying to do.”

  “A tame penguin? A domesticated, hand-fed penguin? Hardly! We’re scientists, Terry, in case you’d forgotten. We’re environmentalists. We don’t believe in human interference—at any cost. Isn’t that right, Dietrich?”

  “That’s what we agreed,” says Dietrich as he nods.

  The baby penguin pokes its beak out then its whole head. Unaware of its predicament, it surveys us with big, round eyes. Its beak opens, but no sound comes out. It tries again and manages a plaintive sort of piping noise.

  In spite of himself, Mike bends his head to look at the chick. He puts a finger out and strokes it on the head.

  Is it conceivable that the uncharitable Mike is melting?

  “Terry, you’re unbelievable!” he says in a voice that isn’t a compliment but isn’t absolutely rigid, either. He looks up again. “I’m surprised at you. You know the answer has to be no.”

  I open my mouth to say something, then think better of it. I battle with strong feelings just as I used to do in the past when they threatened to overcome me. I know that self-control, if I can find it, will be my best ally in this situation. Success is more likely if I can achieve invisibility. I observe Mike and Dietrich. There was a time when I could easily have got my way. An opening of the eyes a little wider, a pouting of the lips, and they’d have been at my beck and call. Now whatever I do seems to have the opposite effect. My only rem
aining power is in my purse, and even that would be ineffectual in this particular instance.

  But Terry—she could win them over. If only she would take off her glasses and flutter her eyelashes a bit. She’ll never master the direct challenge as I did at her age, but I’m sure she could muster a coy persuasiveness of her own. Alas! She has no idea. She is wrinkling her brow in a most unappealing manner.

  “Come on, Deet, just think! It would give us a chance to study a juvenile in so much detail from close at hand.”

  “You’re not being logical, Terry,” answers Dietrich. “We don’t need that sort of information. We’re studying the survival of the whole species. We haven’t the time to watch over and cater to the needs of a single penguin.”

  “Yes, but . . .” she peters out.

  He shakes his head. “Sorry, Terry. We’ve got more important stuff to do.”

  The chick droops its head feebly as if it understands its own lack of importance. I swallow fiercely. Only I, Veronica McCreedy, unpopular, interfering old bat, am willing to help it. Once more I am filled with a strange, desperate sensation. It is so strong I want to scream in the faces of Dietrich and Mike. I want to knock their heads together, make them see that a species is its individuals. That individuals are what matter. It is men like these who cause wars, where thousands of peace-loving individuals are sacrificed for a so-called “noble” cause. History looks back and says this side won and that side lost, but the reality is that nobody wins. And what about the thousands of men and women and children who are butchered in the process? Does nobody care about them? Each one of them matters. Each and every one.

  And this individual penguin matters, too. He does to me, anyway.

  The chick lifts his head again. He is so young, so friendless. At this moment, nothing on earth is as vital to me as his safety.

  Terry sighs, plainly upset, too. Having carried it home and shared her body heat with it, she has begun to bond.