by Hazel Prior
There’s a plastic pot under the bed for emergencies. Terry is great and deals with the hygiene stuff. I did offer (I felt I had to), but wow, was I glad when Terry insisted! She says Veronica would hate any man to do it, and I think she’s right. My guess is that Granny hates everything about the situation she’s in right now. Rough deal, being old and ill like that, especially when you’re a million miles from home.
* * *
—
“You can’t stay by Veronica’s bedside the whole time,” Terry told me yesterday. “It’ll drive you mad. Anyway, she’s stable for the moment. She can spare you an hour or two to see the Adélies.”
I have to admit, I was pretty keen to visit the colony. “Well, if you’re sure.” I flung on my fleece.
“Are you going to be warm enough in that?”
“Got two sweatshirts on underneath. But no, probably not. I’m not overly keen on cold like this.” Why do the wrong words always jump out of my mouth? That made me sound like a wimp.
“We keep a spare parka. That’ll help.” She fetched me a jacket ten times thicker than the one I was wearing.
“Thanks.”
She looked down at my trainers. “You’re not nearly as prepared as your grandmother for all this. I think you’d better borrow Mike’s spare mukluks.”
“Won’t he go ape if I do that?”
“No, he’ll understand.”
The mukluks fitted OK, and did help, to be honest.
The snow! I’d almost forgotten. The brightness hits you the minute you step outside. The landscape just swallows you up. The clarity. The sharpness of each breath as it hits your lungs. Man, it’s quite something!
Up and over a great gleaming bank and there we were: penguin land. They were awesome, those birds. Thousands more than I was expecting, so you could hardly see the ground between them. Making a right old racket, too. Wild, waddling and willful. Like humans but smaller and beakier and black-and-whiter and funnier. I swear, you couldn’t not like those guys.
I kept saying dumb things like “Wow” and “Cool” and “No way.” Some of the birds were curious about our presence and formed a little group around us. Us looking at them, them looking at us. Don’t know what possessed me, but I stooped down and gathered up a miniature snowball and threw it toward one of them, not hard or anything, just playful. It landed right at his feet. The penguin looked down in surprise then turned its gaze to me. Not hostile, just kind of puzzled. “Sorry, mate,” I called to it. “No offense. Just a scientific experiment. Just to see if it annoyed you or not. You did great, pal. Full marks for non-annoyedness.”
I turned to Terry and pointed to her notebook. “Better log that,” I told her.
She laughed. “You’re funny,” she said.
As we went on, I was half expecting the penguin to throw a snowball into my back, but he didn’t.
A little while later Terry said: “Patrick, I was just wondering . . .”
“Yes, Terry?”
“About your grandmother, about Veronica. I expect you’re very fond of her, are you?”
“Er . . . And that would be because of her warm and sunshiny personality?”
Terry chortled. She gets me. “Well, you did come out all this way.”
“Yup. That’s because . . . Well—it’s complicated.”
Terry had this look like she couldn’t quite decide on which words to say then just decided to say them anyhow.
“I suppose she told you all about her money?”
“That there’s a ton of it? Yeah. Yup, she did.”
A slight pause. Terry studied the horizon. “And did she tell you about her plans for her will? Her legacy?”
“Hell, no!”
Her voice went all quiet, and I had a problem hearing what she said next. “Veronica didn’t actually have a will, from what she told me. She was planning on making one when she got back home.”
I was a bit surprised Terry was banging on about such a subject. She doesn’t strike me as somebody who’d be majorly into money.
I shrugged. “I guess we’ll never know what her plan was.”
Terry marched on. “I suppose not,” she declared to the frozen air.
* * *
—
Terry is first to come back from the Adélie colony today. She calls out, “Hi, Patrick,” then heads straight for the office.
When she emerges twenty minutes later, I’m standing in the “lounge,” staring into space. You know how it is. Sometimes you just have to take a little break from the joys of Granny Veronica’s bedside.
“God, I just can’t think of anything to say in the blog,” Terry confides. “Veronica’s become a real part of it, but I don’t want to let on she’s ill.”
There must be some great gem of wisdom I can offer here, but I can’t find it.
“Tricky,” I answer.
“It’s probably best if I don’t mention her at all. I don’t want to lie and . . . It’s all just too upsetting.” She gulps and looks a bit teary. I’m wondering what’s the best way to offer comfort. Just as I’ve decided a hug might be OK, Mike and Dietrich come in, shaking the snow off their boots. The moment has gone.
After we’ve all had the inevitable how-was-your-day and how’s-Veronica and how-are-the-penguins conversations, I broach something I’ve been wondering about for a while.
“Can I cook for you? I’d like to do something to, you know, say thanks for looking after Granny.” There’s no way I can contribute any money, after all. There’s no money to contribute.
Terry becomes smiley. “Oh, that’s very good of you!”
Mike becomes sneery. “Can you cook?”
“I’m not bad,” I reply, peed off at him. He clearly assumes I’m a complete waste of space. “Not bad at all.”
“Ah, this is very good news,” cries Dietrich. “Especially if you can come up with something we don’t normally do. We’re a bit stuck in the rut of frankfurter sausages, canned beans and pasta. Gott, we are sick of them all.”
“Can I see your store cupboard?”
“Yes. You’re welcome, my friend. Follow me.” He takes me to the back room. It seems like they only ever use the tinned stuff and the packets of dried pasta, rice and ready-mix sources. The only other thing that’s been opened is a huge crate of peanut butter.
“We have the frozen stock, too,” Dietrich says, leading me to a lean-to out the back. “Some meat, some veg—the ones that freeze OK. I’d steer clear of the cauliflower if I were you. It’s putrid.”
I can well believe that frozen cauliflower would stick in the gullet. I notice some hunks of beef, though.
“That’s not bad. From Argentina,” Dietrich tells me.
There’s a box of frozen red and yellow peppers, too. I start to plan in my head.
An hour later, the aroma of real food is wafting around; my beef and pepper goulash. It draws each of the scientists from their various corners of the building to the stove.
I dish up, piling the food high. I’d have liked to scatter it with fresh leaves of some sort, but fresh leaves aren’t on the cards here. I’ve cooked masses so there are seconds for everyone. They eat like vultures. I feel proud—I’ll admit it.
“There’ll be plenty for tomorrow, too, if you don’t mind having the same thing twice,” I tell them.
“Mind!” cries Terry with her mouth full.
“You can come again!” says Dietrich.
Mike doesn’t say a word about the food, but I notice how he gobbles it up.
“Like it?” I ask, pointedly.
“Yes. Very good. Very good indeed. Thank you,” he replies stiffly.
TERRY’S PENGUIN BLOG
3 January 2013
Here are the latest pictures of Pip the Penguin. Yes, we’ve decided to change his name because we currently have another
Patrick (a human one) staying with us on the island.
Pip has bulked out a lot, as you’ll see, and now he weighs 1,700 g. He is a keen explorer and likes to discover new places to sleep. His latest is a wastepaper basket . . .
Life is busy at the research center right now, and I am a little short of time, so I’m just going to leave you with some more lovely penguin photos.
• 41 •
Veronica
LOCKET ISLAND
Dad is here, and Mum, dancing together in the kitchen, the “Lambeth Walk.” Their footsteps clack loudly on the floor. The window is open, and a vast sapphire sky stretches beyond it, blurry and fluctuating slightly. A gust of wind blows in and lifts both of them off the floor as if they’re tiny twists of paper. I try to grab hold of them, chase them round. But they slip through my fingers like ribbons and sail out of the window again, dancing shadows sucked into the endless blue.
I hear a voice, calling. “Ver-on-ee-cah!” First it seems as though the sound is coming from ahead of me, then behind. I spin round and round. Then it thunders down on me from above: “Get thee to a nunnery, go!”
Now I can see Janet, Norah and Harry. They are not quite real but seem like huge doll versions of themselves, leering at me, pointing mocking fingers at my swollen belly. They circle like wolves. Norah lunges at me. I am bleeding, bleeding. But it isn’t blood that is flowing out from my veins; it is strawberry jam.
Suddenly, there are nuns, a river of nuns in black and white, flowing past. Each one is holding a baby out for me to inspect, but each one snatches it away again before I can see if it is my Enzo. I can’t handle this anymore. I hurl myself into the river, screaming. The black-and-white flow closes over me. I wait to be trampled under the nuns’ feet but . . . they are not human feet. They are webbed feet, soft and light. And I realize the nuns have sleek, tightly packed feathers and little stubby tails. They are not nuns at all. They are Adélie penguins.
* * *
—
Is it Giovanni, here with me? I can’t see well, but I think he is bending over the bed. He is about to kiss me. I try to speak his name, but my mouth is too dry. He pulls back. There is no kiss, no touch. And no, I see now it isn’t Giovanni. It is some uncouth young man with unshaven skin and messy hair who mutters and smells of fish. I don’t know him at all. Or do I?
“Patrick!” somebody calls. It is a woman’s voice, clear but coated in gentleness. “I’m just heading out to the rookery. You’ll be all right, won’t you?”
“Yeah, no probs,” answers the man whose face is above me. I feel a hand placed on my forehead for a moment. Then a “Blimey, you’re hot!”
Is it Giovanni? The hair is a similar color, and there’s something about the eyes . . . But no. I’m sure it’s not him, not as I remember him anyway. And my memory is as good as . . . as good as Hamlet’s.
I move my lips again and try to speak but it’s useless.
Patrick. That name is echoing in my head. I think there was a boy called Patrick. Yes, a boy who I’d hoped would be an oasis, but he ended up being just another mirage in the thirsty desert of my soul. I grapple with fear once more. I have this unpleasant notion that somebody I once pinned my hopes on turned out to be an awful, dirty lout who smoked dope. The image in my head seems to match this man who is here now.
I can’t focus very well. I’m trying to force my thoughts into order, but they are a knotted mass. Wait . . . something is coming. The words Patrick and grandson are linked. But that is ridiculous! Patrick is a bird, a small, fluffy penguin. I am sure of it. My grandson cannot possibly be a penguin.
• 42 •
Patrick
LOCKET ISLAND
Oh jeez! Oh no! Is this it? She looks grim. Her face is scrunched up like an old piece of tissue paper. Her mouth is oddly twisted. A rasping breath comes out, then there’s a horribly long interval before the next one. I lean over and stroke her brow. Her forehead is burning, but her hands are cold as ice. Her rheumy eyes look up at me, blurred and confused. Pleading. But what can I do?
Man, I’m wretched. I don’t want to be alone to witness this suffering.
I rush to the door of the hut and fling it open, hoping Terry has been delayed, but there’s only brightness and silence. Terry has disappeared from view. She’s with the penguins and won’t be back for hours. The others left for the colony first thing this morning. Pip is dozing in his wastepaper basket. It looks like it’ll be just me and the penguin with Granny at the end.
I hare back to her room. She’s floundering like a fish out of water. I grab a cold, damp flannel and press it against her face. Her body shudders. Then falls back, limp.
“Granny, Granny, don’t!” I gulp. I’m so choked up it feels like some reptilian creature is wedged inside my throat.
I don’t want Granny to die. I’m feeling feelings I haven’t had in years. A sudden, violent need for family connection. A longing to know more about her. Shame at my behavior the first time we met. Sorrow that I never got her to see how much I wanted to make up for it. Then there’s the fact that she came to Antarctica. She came to Antarctica, to this weird, wild place at the end of the earth—I find that bizarrely moving. On top of that, my mind is spinning with images from her diaries: young Veronica, all alive and fiery, ready to take on everything and everybody. So unlike now.
Her eyebrows draw together as if she’s trying to work something out. Her mouth forms into a shape. I put my ear close, desperate to catch her words.
Her breath comes again in a series of shallow gasps. At last there is a single word, a hoarse, grating whisper. It is my own name: “Patrick.”
At the sound, Pip, who has, Terry tells me, been undergoing an identity crisis since his name was changed, rouses himself. He clambers out of his wastepaper basket and plops onto the floor. Then, with stunning power and energy, he catapults himself into the air and lands right on top of the bed. He clearly thinks Granny is calling him for a feeding session. Eager little guy. He topples forward onto the bedclothes then wriggles on his belly toward her face. Startled, her eyes open and focus on him. The two of them are almost nose to beak, beak to nose. It’s as if they’re locked in a soundless dialogue and I’m a mere bystander, looking on.
And I swear I can see Granny changing, undergoing a kind of transformation right there in front of me.
• 43 •
Veronica
LOCKET ISLAND
I am tired of it all and ready to go. “For who would bear the whips and scorns of time . . . The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to?”
Not me. Not anymore. Nobody could call my life a success. Why make the effort to hang on to it any longer?
And yet.
When a cannonball of a young penguin propels himself onto your prostrate body and stares into your face with glittering eyes, you stop whatever you are doing for a moment, even if what you are doing is dying.
His body is warm and small and rounded, horizontally positioned over the blankets, just heavy enough to weigh gently on my chest. Right over my heart.
The world has been wobbling wildly for some time. In this moment it steadies and comes to a standstill. The room looks sharper and brighter and incredibly defined, as if somebody has drawn round everything with a pen. My head is clear. Moreover, all my pain has disappeared. I feel positively light and carefree.
Pip. The baby bird is Pip; I know that without a shadow of doubt. Pip, my own beloved penguin. And the disheveled man who is looming just behind and above is Patrick, my own beloved grandson.
Beloved grandson? Have I gone completely crazy?
I must be hallucinating, because now I see great, fat tears coursing down the man’s face. I look at Pip again, seeking verification.
Is all that grief for me?
“Yes, that’s right,” Pip answers.
I’m sure he spoke. Or maybe he
didn’t speak? No, there weren’t any actual words out loud. Perhaps he spoke with his eyes. Yes, I think that’s it. How very curious . . . I am beginning to realize a penguin’s eyes can tell you many things if only you are willing to listen.
Thoughts bubble up from my subconscious, but again, it seems as though they are transmitted to me through Pip. He is smiling with his whole body. “So you’re going to stay with us! You’re not going to die now, are you?”
“Aren’t I?” It seems rather a hasty assumption.
“No,” he replies without hesitation. “I hope not, anyway.”
I am flattered; tickled pink, in fact. “You hope not?” It is a rare gift to be able to communicate with a penguin like this; inaudibly, without moving my lips.
“Look at it this way,” he suggests. I am intrigued to hear what he has to say. “A while back you saved me,” he goes on, “from certain death. You decided my life was worthwhile even though I’m only a penguin. Now it’s only fair if you let me decide whether your life is worthwhile. And do you know what I think? It’s definitely worthwhile.”
It is rather nice to have a penguin tell you that.
“You’ve got a choice,” he continues, not moving his gaze but shuffling one flipper slightly so that it brushes against my cheek. “And I’m asking you nicely if you’ll do your best to recover. Because personally, I’d very much like you to stay alive.”
“You would?” I ask, bemused.
“Yes! And so would this here man, your beloved grandson, aka Patrick.”
“Still harping on about Patrick?”
“Isn’t that the point?”
I focus on Patrick. His eyes are still brimming with tears. I am very confused now about what is real and what is not real.
I transfer my gaze to Pip again. “See?” he says. “It’s perfectly possible for somebody to love you, even though you insist on making it difficult for them. You don’t have to be so alone.”