How the Penguins Saved Veronica

by Hazel Prior

  Words come at me again, filtering through the cloud of regrets. “Veronica, I’m sorry about everything.” Her voice sounds lumpy and miserable now. “I’m really sorry you came all this way and we were . . . we were the way we were. You seemed so steadfast, so strong; I just didn’t realize . . . I had no idea it might come to this. You were a challenge to us, sure, but you were also a breath of fresh air, and I may have been alone in this but . . . personally, I liked you. I liked you very much and I wanted you to stay.”

  I wish she’d stop talking about me in the past tense. It really isn’t very polite. She must think I can’t hear her.

  “And then when you were so into the penguins I felt that, in spite of all our differences, I’d found a kindred spirit.”

  She’s getting sentimental, clogged up with tears. I now understand something I never spotted before. Terry is lonely.

  “Then when you told me your story, it almost broke my heart,” she continues. “I wanted to reach back into the past and be a friend to you when you so badly needed it all those years ago. All those people who were horrible to you even when you were grieving for your parents. It was cruel, cruel, cruel. And you were so young. And taking away your baby. It’s . . . it’s just . . . just wrong in every way.”

  I’m not sure I can stand this much longer.

  Suddenly, there’s a clatter at the far end of the room.

  “Oh, Patrick!” Terry cries. “I mean Pip! What on earth are you up to? Oh, Veronica, you should see him! He’s gone and climbed into the wastepaper basket, with just his head sticking out the top. He looks so funny!”

  • 38 •

  Patrick

  LOCKET ISLAND

  I’m here.

  Me, Patrick. Here, Antarctica. Unbelievable.

  It was quite a journey. I managed to get a last-minute flight, but it was squashed and boring and seemed to go on for-fricking-ever. The last bit, though, the bit by ship, was epic. All those floating icebergs, all different shapes and sizes. Some were like blobs of cream cheese, some were like wedges of white bread. Some were sharp as teeth, some grained and splintered like broken glass catching flashes of sunlight. The wildlife was crazy, too. Seals slouched on the rocks, massive birds wheeling overhead, penguins shooting in and out of the water or standing in troops along the edges. Giant humpback whales one time, too. Still pinching myself.

  And now I’m at this field base thing. Granny V is hanging in there, thank God. It’s miserable seeing her like this. She’s sort of acknowledged my presence through her eyes, but she can’t speak or anything. I don’t know if she recognizes me or not. Hard to say.

  I’ve found out some more about what happened from the scientists. She snuck out on her own, they said—something they’d never have let her do if they’d known about it, especially seeing as a blizzard was in the offing. Not your massive mow-everything-over-in-its-path type blizzard that you sometimes get out here, but pretty bad. Bad enough that they were majorly panicked and rushed out at once with their first aid kits. Bad enough that when they found her, slumped on the ground, they were worried they wouldn’t get her back to the base alive. Bad enough that the helicopter plus medic couldn’t come out for another four hours.

  They did get her back to base, though, and did a good job keeping her warm and stuff. The doc, when he finally got here, diagnosed her with hypothermia and a lung infection. She was given a massive shot of penicillin and prescribed antibiotics. There was talk of trying to fly her back to a hospital in Argentina, but she screamed when they tried to move her. The doc then decided it was better to leave her to rest. Implying the RIP type of rest? He asked them to try and contact Granny’s family anyway. So here I am.

  I bet those scientists are miffed. First, they get an eighty-six-year-old who’s spicy as a vindaloo and stubborn as a wild goat. Next, she goes and gets herself dangerously ill. Then, on the ship that should have taken her back, they have me arriving instead—looniest grandson on the planet.

  Mind you, they’re a bit of an odd bunch themselves, these three snow-musketeers. In order of how much I like them, they are Terry, Dietrich and Mike. Terry is a cutie in specs. Straggly blond hair tucked into her hood. Little dimples every time she smiles. Sparky eyes, too.

  “Oh, I thought, being a Terry, that you were a bloke,” I said first thing when she introduced herself.

  “Everyone does,” she said with her dimply smile. “Well, I might as well be,” she added, more to herself than to me. Not self-pitying, just kind of matter-of-fact. No way could you mistake her for a bloke looking at her, though. Man, no!

  “I’m so, so sorry about your grandmother,” she said. All heartfelt. Blushing as if it was her fault.

  “No worries,” I said. That sounded like I didn’t care, so I added, “She’s a strong woman. Who knows, maybe she’ll be hunky-dory.” That sounded flippant, so I said, “You’ve done great. Thanks for looking after her!” That sounded inane, but I couldn’t think what else to say so I shut up.

  After we’d looked in on Granny, they all showed me round their place together, the field camp building. It’s quite big, actually; bigger on the inside than it looks from the outside at least. TARDIS-like. They’ve got a computer room (more of a cupboard, really) and a sort of loo-cum-washroom and a kitchen that adjoins a room they call the lounge, which suggests luxury but it isn’t. And—pretty amazing when you think of it—a bedroom each. There’s even a bedroom for me. Well, it used to be a store room, but they’ve cleared it out and found me a camp bed. Man, I’m glad I don’t have to share a room with Granny. Granny’s actually got a roommate, anyway.

  Weirdly, there’s this baby penguin, the oddest, cutest little creature you’ve ever seen, a little fluff ball with big feet and a massive personality. They call him Pip. Apparently, he’s been living at the field center for a week and a half, now. The scientists accept his presence as if it’s completely the norm. I have to say I’m finding it all a bit surreal. It’s hard to get my head around the way they live.

  “What made you come out here in the first place?” I asked Dietrich over a strong coffee after I’d settled in a bit. Dietrich is the boss man, but nice with it. Kind of reminds me of Gav, but hairier and more foreign. (Mike is the I-want-to-be-the-boss man. Not nice with it. Doesn’t remind me of anyone much. A younger Piers Morgan, maybe?)

  Dietrich stroked his beard as he considered the answer to my question. “Ah, you know. The thrill of scientific discovery. Fascination in the extremes of life, the way creatures can function on this level. Then there’s the possibility of helping wildlife and the environment in some small way . . .”

  “And you?” I asked Mike. Mike took a prolonged sip of coffee and eyed me, calculating his response.

  “I am uniquely qualified for this job,” he said. “It would be a waste not to make use of those skills.” Modest guy (not).

  Terry rolled her eyes and gave an impetuous little sigh.

  “How about you, Terry?” I asked. “Why did you come out to Locket Island?”

  “My dream job. I just love penguins,” she said simply, pushing her glasses up her nose.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon at Granny V’s bedside. I was thinking about the diaries and how I should say something soon, just in case she up and died all of a sudden without warning. I’ve had time to think about it during the journey, but the words just don’t come. Gav would know what to say, and he’d say it in exactly the right way, but I’m crap at that sort of thing. So I just sat there like an idiot. Maybe the fact I took the trouble to come out here is enough to make her feel vaguely better in some way. I’m hoping so.

  * * *

  —

  Over dinner, Mike asked me a barrage of questions:

  “So, Patrick, what do you do for a living?”

  I wriggled in my chair. I get that Mike doesn’t like me much. Terry’s told me he’s a bit resistant to anyone new upse
tting the balance of the field camp. He’s only just got used to Veronica, and now he’s having to deal with yours truly. Well, tough, mate!

  “I work at a bike shop on Mondays and I get unemployment,” I told him.

  “Unemployment? So the shop is your only job?”

  “You got it.”

  “Do you get your flat paid for by the state, then?”

  How to make Patrick feel uncomfortable in one easy step.

  “Mike!” Terry cried. “Don’t be so rude!”

  Mike turned his fork around, weaving spaghetti onto it with precision. “Sorry, I’m not meaning to be rude. I’m just curious about our newest visitor. We don’t exactly get many.”

  “It’s covered by the benefit, yes,” I inform him.

  “You don’t have a family or wife to support, I presume?”

  “Nope.”

  Mike curled his lip. I suppose it was a sort of smile. “So what do you do all day in this bedsit of yours?”

  “Oh, this and that. Telly. Mags. Plant care. Nothing to write home about.”

  After the meal, Terry came with me back to Veronica’s room.

  “Sorry about the inquest,” she whispered in my ear.

  I grinned. “That Mike—bit uptight, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, he can come across that way, but he’s all right once you get to know him.”

  “Are you two together?”

  “God, no! He’s got a girlfriend back in London. She’s quite high-powered, does stuff to do with organizing conferences for the corporate world, I think.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’m surprised. I thought he was rather attached to you.”

  She looked amused. “Mike? Attached to me? Don’t be silly!”

  “Well, he can’t seem to stop looking at you.”

  She made a face of total disbelief and disappeared quickly into Veronica’s room. I followed. Pip the Penguin was in his suitcase bed on the floor. He looked up at us. He seemed to register who we were and give his permission for us to tend to the patient, then laid his head back down.

  Granny looked just the same as earlier, lying on her back, completely stationary. Her skin was covered in blotches and sagging all over the place. Her hair was sticking out in wisps over the pillow. She had gray circles round her eyes. Man, she looked sick as a dog.

  Terry put her hand on Granny’s forehead. “She’s hot now. Let’s see if we can get some water down her. Could you . . . ?”

  I tucked my arm behind Granny’s head and carefully levered her up. I realized it was the first time I’d ever touched her. God, it felt sad, her being so fragile and everything. Her eyes flickered a little. My hand caught in something, a chain around her neck.

  “What’s this?”

  “Oh, it’s a locket she wears,” Terry answered. “I thought it might be uncomfortable for her and tried to take it off, but she hit out. She made it quite clear she wasn’t having any of it. I guess it must have some sentimental value.”

  “I guess it must.” I didn’t let on that I’d read about it in her diaries.

  Terry held the glass of water to Granny’s lips, and we watched her take a sip or two, a lump moving slowly down her throat. She made a slight movement as if to say that was enough. I laid her head slowly down on the pillow again and gave her hand a little squeeze. It may be my imagination (it was kind of hard to tell), but I think she squeezed back.

  “There you are, Granny V,” I said. “Better now?” She didn’t answer, of course.

  I wondered how much of this she was registering.

  It’s not looking good. Not good at all.

  • 39 •

  Veronica

  LOCKET ISLAND

  The charms of death are manifold. No more pain. No more stress. No more memories. No more having to make decisions. “’Tis a consummation,” as Hamlet said (you will observe I remember with some accuracy my Shakespeare from my schooldays), “devoutly to be wished. To die. To sleep.” It is rather appealing. Relaxing. And there’s the added bonus of no more pain—have I said that already?

  Because at this moment there is pain, intense and merciless. It seeps in and out of my body’s pores, claws at my lungs and sears into every pocket of my heart like burning acid. I sincerely hope death will arrive soon.

  My Antarctic companions will have a job getting my body back to Ayrshire for a decent burial. Or perhaps they won’t bother. It may be that I’ll get buried here under the snow. It may be that troops of penguins will wander over my grave. In their inimitable penguin way, they’ll ignore my decaying presence and get on with the business of fornication, reproduction and defecation. They will themselves die around me in huge numbers. My soul can rise up and mingle with theirs. This is, of course, assuming I have a soul (which is debatable) and they have souls (which is also improbable).

  I take a quick backward glance at my life. At this stage there are supposed to be profound revelations, are there not? They don’t seem to be materializing at all. My history imparts no great wisdom, no last words fine enough to go down for posterity. I can only think: Well, what was that all about?

  Patrick is here, Patrick my grandson, a large, ungainly presence at my bedside. He’s said “Hello, Granny” to me but very little else. I couldn’t reply, but I managed to flicker my eyelids to let him know I was aware of him. He seems incredibly gauche. He’s sitting on a chair by the bed, holding something. I think it’s a newspaper or magazine; it rattles in that sort of way. He sighs a lot, too.

  I am baffled that he came. He must know I’m too ill to make any inheritance arrangements now.

  After a long period of silence I hear somebody else coming into the room.

  “Are you two all right?”

  Terry’s voice is light and warm, designed to be comforting. My grandson’s answer comes quickly. “Yes. Fine, just, y’know . . . quiet.”

  “Pip’s been with me for the last hour, watching me do some tidying, but I’ve brought him back in for a bit. I just felt Veronica might like him here. She finds his presence soothing, I think. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Um. No. No. He’s very cute.”

  “I’ll just shake out his bedding. Can you hold him for a sec?”

  “Er—”

  There’s a slight scuffling sound then an “Ow!” from Patrick.

  “Maybe not,” says Terry. “He doesn’t know you yet. Hang on a mo. If I hold him and you just stroke him gently, like this.”

  “Are you sure he won’t go for me again? That beak is sharp!”

  “You just scared him because you were grabby. See? He’s happy now. He goes all gooey when his neck is stroked. Don’t you, Pip?”

  A brief pause and then she chuckles. “There, he really likes you now.”

  I hear Pip’s little cheep and sense he’s asking to be put down.

  “We’ll let him wander around a little, shall we?”

  “Won’t he make a mess on the floor?”

  “Nah. If he does I’ll clear it up in no time. Not a problem.”

  “Not, well . . . unhygienic or anything?”

  “Well, I’d say if he makes Veronica happy, he should visit as often as he likes, don’t you think?”

  “Yup. You’re right. Um, Terry, yes. Quite right.”

  Patrick’s voice sounds abashed. You’d think he’d never met a young woman holding a baby penguin before.

  Terry speaks again. “Could you keep an eye on him for a few minutes? I’m going to get myself a cuppa. Would you like one?”

  “Oh, er, yes. Cool. Thanks.”

  I sense him sitting down again and hear a few pages of the magazine turn. Then Terry’s footsteps at the door.

  “Here we go. Tea for us. And I’ve brought this for Pip. It’s his suppertime.”

  A strong smell of fish permeates the room along with various clacking,
cheeping and sucking noises.

  Penguin feeding in the presence of a dying eighty-six-year-old. If the dying one wasn’t me, I’d laugh out loud.

  • 40 •

  Patrick

  LOCKET ISLAND

  JANUARY 2013

  The old year has gone and the new one has begun. Not that it makes any difference. Nobody was in the mood for celebrating. I’ve been here four days now, and in that time, Granny V hasn’t eaten at all. She just lies there looking cross. I’m presuming that’s not a good sign.

  I feel like a spare part here. There’s nothing I can do for her, really, except sit by her bed, hoping she knows I’m there. Making moronic comments she’d probably pour scorn on if she could hear them, which I doubt. The scientists give me plenty of space. They’re a busy lot anyway. Seems of vital importance that they go out every day and count penguins and tag penguins and weigh penguins and do other penguiny stuff. They’re kind to me, though. Well, Terry and Dietrich are anyway. Mike tolerates me. That guy has issues. Looks down his nose at anyone who doesn’t have a PhD in penguin studies.

  I’m glad to have the company of Pip the Penguin. He’s totally at home here. He sleeps a lot, eats a lot, runs round in circles a lot and gets under our feet a lot. And OK, I’ll admit it: I sometimes talk to him. Call me crazy, but I actually find it quite a relief talking to a penguin. It’s easier than talking to a comatose eighty-six-year-old, anyway.

  According to Terry, Pip was called Patrick before I arrived. “Veronica named him after you,” she said.

  You could’ve knocked me down with a feather. Granny is a strange fish, no doubt about it. A seriously strange fish.

  We’ve had the helicopter doctor in, apparently the same one who came before. He prescribed more antibiotics and said she’s comfortable and there’s nothing else we can do, really, except just being here. He says she’ll know, even if she doesn’t show it. She should make a turn either for the better or the worse very soon. He implied he didn’t want to be called out again either way. We should just keep her warm and hydrated.