How the Penguins Saved Veronica

by Hazel Prior

  “But the main problem for me was your drug taking.” I’d like to know where I stand on this point. “You seemed to be smoking cannabis when I arrived at your bedsit. I presumed you had an addiction.” I haven’t noticed a trace of it since he arrived here, but it may be that he chooses to take his disgusting habit outside.

  He considers. “Well, I guess I was semi-addicted, if you know what I mean. I’m OK now, in case you’re wondering. I just went back to dope because . . . sometimes things get to me. And at the time you decided to walk into my life, my girlfriend had just run off with another guy and life was pretty darn tough, Granny.”

  “I see.” I take a sip of Darjeeling. I am impressed. He has made it exactly the correct color; neither too strong nor too weak.

  I glance at Terry, who is gently pulling at Pip’s tag to make sure it’s attached firmly. She is half listening to the conversation at the same time.

  “Since my arrival here I have reviewed my opinion of those who take cannabis,” I comment, “thanks to Terry.” Had I been offered such a drug at a certain point in my own life, I would doubtless have leaped at the chance. “Addiction is a serious business, but we are all vulnerable at times. I myself am addicted to good-quality tea.”

  Patrick grins. “Well, that’s probably a much better addiction to have.”

  Terry chips in. “Can any addiction be good, though?”

  “I’m beginning to suspect that some aren’t so bad,” I answer. “For example, your own addiction, Terry.”

  She raises her eyebrows in surprise. “What addiction?”

  “Your addiction to penguins.”

  “Well, I can’t deny it,” she acknowledges. “They do pretty much take up all my thoughts and energies.” She pulls Pip’s beak playfully. All three of us look at him with fondness. He sticks out the flipper with the new tag and waves it about a bit, testing if it still works. Then, quite satisfied, he folds his head over nonchalantly to the other side and starts preening.

  Terry stands up. “Well, there we are. I’d better take him out to the colony now and introduce him to the other chicks.”

  “Must you?” I cry. “So soon?”

  “I’ll bring him back, of course, but it’s time to see how he gets on with his own species. We mustn’t let him grow up thinking he’s a human. And he’s big enough to come outside for a proper walk now.”

  “Can I come, too?” asks Patrick, also standing.

  “Of course.”

  I start to struggle out of bed. “What are you doing, Granny?”

  “Coming with you.”

  “No, you’re not!” Patrick and Terry chant together.

  “You stay here and keep warm,” Terry adds.

  I start to protest but collapse back onto the bed. I’m physically incapable of a trip to the rookery at the moment, no matter how desperately I feel about it.

  Patrick tucks the blanket around me, his big, gentle hands bringing some reassurance.

  I reach out my own hand to Pip, who hops up straightaway and rubs himself against it.

  “You will look after him, won’t you?” I urge, looking from Patrick to Terry and back again. “Stay close to him. Don’t let him near any skuas or seals. Or any aggressive adult penguins. And you’ll bring him straight home if he looks hungry or lonely or unhappy in any way?”

  “Of course we will, Granny.”

  “And I want you to bring him here the minute you get back, even if you think I’m asleep.”

  I won’t be asleep. I shan’t sleep a wink for worrying.

  “It’ll be fine, Veronica,” Terry insists. “Trust us.”

  It looks as if I’m going to have to.

  * * *

  —

  Is that a sound at the door? Are they back? I seize my hearing aid and wedge it in, twisting the volume up to maximum.

  “. . . Like a mother seeing her child off to school for the first time.”

  “Yes, bound to be tricky.”

  “It’s probably my fault for letting her get so attached.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. I know what Granny’s like. She can be totally—”

  “Hullo!” I roar. “Is that you two? Is Pip with you?”

  “Oh, hi, Veronica!” Terry calls back. “Yes, we’re just getting our boots off. Be with you in a minute. He’s—”

  I hear a scurrying and Pip’s little face appears at my bedroom door.

  “Pip!” I cry.

  He shakes his flippers and waggles his head.

  “You’re all right! You’re all right!” My cheeks are wet with tears. I am unable to stop their flow. “Oh, silly me, showing such weakness!” I declare crossly as Patrick and Terry come in.

  “Weakness?” Terry echoes. “Nobody could call you weak, Veronica.” I drag my handkerchief out from under the pillow and dab my eyes furiously.

  “It’s totally OK to cry, Granny,” Patrick asserts, scooping Pip up and placing him on the bedspread. “Crying has nothing to do with being weak.”

  Terry nods. “I agree. It’s the opposite. Tears come when you’ve been too strong for much too long.”

  “Never mind me,” I say tartly. “Would you be so kind as to give me a full report on Pip’s trip to the rookery?”

  Pip was shy, at first, they tell me, and he stayed very close to their feet. But soon his curiosity needed satisfying and he edged toward a cluster of chicks who were a similar age to himself. They were playing tag together. He didn’t join in, but he watched the gang with fascination, edging closer and closer.

  Terry takes out the camera and shows me a picture.

  Terry chuckles. “He’s very wary of the adult penguins, but it’s a great start.”

  “He’s a total hero,” added Patrick.

  “Thank you for looking after him,” I say to them both, my voice slightly wobbly.

  My grandson strokes Pip on the head. “It was our pleasure, Granny.”

  * * *

  —

  Would you believe it, Patrick has mended the generator! According to Terry he went up the ladder to take a look at the wind turbine and came down muttering some gobbledygook about shafts, hubs and flywheels. Then, much to Mike’s chagrin, he helped himself to some scraps of broken fencing and old sledge runners and patched the thing up. We are back to our normal supply of electricity. This means that Dietrich can listen to as many CDs as he likes, Terry can use the computer as much as she likes and I can have as many cups of tea as I like once more. I feel better at the mere thought of it.

  “Strange, is it not, that my grandson, who has no qualifications whatsoever, can manage to mend the generator while you, with all your scientific training, could not,” I pointed out to Mike.

  “He’s surprised us,” Mike sulkily acknowledged. “But, in my defense, my skills are in biochemistry, Veronica, not mechanics.”

  Bravo, Patrick!

  I do wonder if there is something particular in the McCreedy genes: a spirit of enterprise, a need to push one’s personal boundaries. I have experienced such a need several times in my life; for example, in coming to Antarctica. From the little I know of my son’s life, I gather he experienced it, too. His adoptive cousin told me in her letter that Enzo (also known as Joe) was inclined to be stubborn and would never recognize his own limitations. He liked to stretch himself and loved wild places, which is why he became a mountaineer. Patrick has demonstrated a similar trait in coming out here and in climbing up ladders to fix things.

  I confess, I do feel rather proud.

  Now that I’m capable of conversing again, there is a matter I’d like to discuss with my grandson.

  “Patrick, you say you don’t remember anything about your father?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. Nothing at all. You?”

  “I remember changing his nappies.”

  And I remember t
he feel of him, the warm feel of him, clinging to me with his tiny arms, my own darling little bundle of hope.

  “I know you didn’t give him away. I know he was taken from you, without you having any say in the matter,” Patrick declares.

  Well, I should have thought that was obvious. If I’d had any say in the matter, everything would have been very different indeed.

  For a wild moment, I wonder whether to open my locket and show Patrick the wisp of hair from his father’s head, but I can’t do it. At least, not now. It would be too much. I content myself with the knowledge that Patrick has read my diaries. He knows I loved and treasured Enzo.

  He knows a huge amount about me, in fact, and I know very little about him.

  “Your mother . . . ?” I begin.

  “Killed herself when I was six,” he says.

  “Oh.”

  I am so sorry to learn this. It is a tragedy indeed that anybody should go so far, especially when many others have their lives ripped away without the benefit of choice. And to leave a small boy alone in the world seems so wrong. But I realize my Enzo deserted the child Patrick, too. His own son. Why did he do that? Why?

  “Do you remember when you were little if your mother ever talked about your father?” I ask.

  “She never did. I can tell you this, though, Granny: I hated his guts! I blamed her death totally on him. Thought she did it because he’d left her in the lurch. But . . . I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently, and I’ve realized it could’ve been something else. It may have been—you know—the way she was. Depressed as hell. Looking back, I can see that. Maybe he gave it his best shot, but he just couldn’t deal with her erratic behavior—and that’s why he left.”

  I look at this shabby boy before me. I am in a state of wonder. He is remarkably willing to give the benefit of the doubt. He is extraordinarily forgiving. He is undeniably kind.

  “Maybe one day, Granny—and this is just a suggestion, tell me to get lost if you like—we could go to Canada together and find out more about my dad, about his life.”

  “I should like that very much, Patrick. Yes, very much indeed.”

  TERRY’S PENGUIN BLOG

  9 January 2013

  It’s all about discovery at the moment. The penguin chicks are endlessly curious and venture farther and farther outside their nests—including our own Pip. He has now made a couple trips to the colony, and we’re proud (and relieved) that he’s beginning to make friends. He still appreciates his humans, though.

  Here’s a picture you’ve just got to love: Veronica reading a chapter of Great Expectations to Pip. He looks rather interested, doesn’t he? He’s been a great comfort to Veronica recently as she’s suffering from a chest infection. Absolutely nothing to worry about, though.

  You’ll notice how much Pip has grown, and we can detect real feathers growing beneath his baby down. These feathers are the works, his proper and much-needed wet suit.

  Normally, a young penguin’s first encounter with the sea is a shock to the system. The juveniles will gasp and flounder in the waves, hurled and swirled about with no idea of their own abilities . . . until suddenly they go under and realize they can achieve amazing aqua-balletic feats.

  Pip has already had several encounters with taps and basins. We’ll do our utmost to ensure he is also at home with his fellow penguins before he takes the big plunge—which will be soon, now.

  • 47 •

  Veronica

  LOCKET ISLAND

  Terry is all smiles.

  “My last blog was retweeted eight hundred and forty-six times!”

  Mike looks up from his notes and raises his eyebrows. “You don’t say?”

  “I do say! It was that picture of Pip and Veronica with Great Expectations that did it. There’s a load of lovely comments, too.”

  “Wow! Well done, Terry!” he exclaims with unusual verve and generosity of spirit.

  “And well done, Pip and Veronica,” she replies, pointedly.

  He nods in my direction by way of acknowledgment. I’ve finally made it to the lounge and am huddled up in a purple rug in my chair. It is evening and we’re all planning on watching a film together. One of the shelves bears a small collection of flat boxes that are apparently DVDs (I haven’t the faintest idea what that stands for). Terry has brought the computer screen in with her and deposited it on the table to be connected up to the DVD-playing thingamajig. Patrick is in the kitchen, preparing a “dinner-on-laps” for us all.

  Dietrich, meanwhile, is playing tug-of-war with Pip at the other end of the room. The rope between them is Dietrich’s orange scarf. I’m not sure how this game started, but Pip, who absolutely will not let go, has one end clamped firmly in his beak. Whenever Dietrich (who is on his hands and knees) pulls at the other end, Pip’s head ducks forward and he skates wobblingly across the floor, flippers outstretched for balance. Then Dietrich lessens his grip and Pip hurriedly shuffles backward to gain the ground he’s lost. With the next tug from Dietrich, Pip decides to plump onto his tummy. Legs paddling frantically, he slithers forward, dragged by the scarf. It is taut, growing longer by the minute.

  “All right, then, little lad. You win,” chuckles Dietrich, resigning the prize up to the victor. “Please don’t chew it to pieces, though.” Pip gives a little hoot of delight. He pulls the scarf into a corner, loop by loop, and busies himself with the task of dissecting it.

  “What’s that you were saying about your blog, Terry?” Dietrich asks as he clambers to his feet.

  “Big thumbs-up,” she answers. “Eight hundred and forty-six retweets.”

  Terry has told me about Twitter and tweets and retweets, all of which seem singularly pointless to me.

  “Mein Gott, that’s even better than when we had the Plight of Penguins coverage from Robert Saddlebow!”

  “I know.” She emanates pride. “Lots of new followers, too! It could even be worth dropping hints about how the penguin project is struggling for funds.” The mood in the room immediately plummets several levels from jovial to somber. This happens whenever there’s a reference to the demise of their project. Terry has confided in me that, in her new role, she has applied to the Anglo-Antarctic Research Council for money but has come up against a brick wall. “What do you think, guys?”

  Dietrich scratches his chin. “Well, we don’t want to come across as grasping.”

  “Perhaps,” suggests Mike, “it would be best to put the emphasis on not just the Locket Island research but the fragile state of penguins—or even the planet—in general.” He turns toward me. I see passion smoldering in his eyes; see that, in spite of his cactus-like conduct, he really does care. “Did you know that we’re in the worst extinction period since the dinosaurs disappeared? Within a hundred years half of all living species could be gone.”

  Approaching the hundred-year mark as I am, I find this an alarmingly short time span. I shan’t be around to witness the devastation, but still . . .

  Half of all living species, gone. I’d thought that I, Veronica McCreedy, could make a difference, but I’ve begun to realize it will take more than one old woman and her legacy of a few million pounds to save the Adélies and their environment.

  “In the next fifteen to forty years, masses of animals will already be extinct,” Mike continues. “Polar bears, chimpanzees, elephants, snow leopards, tigers . . . the list goes on.”

  “Good God!” I exclaim. Such is my horror that I am feeling quite unwell again.

  “Such a sad legacy we’re leaving for the next generation,” comments Dietrich. I know he’s thinking of his own children. His eyes look misty.

  “So what’s the use of all this Twitter business?” I ask Terry. “What on earth can those tweety people do?” I very much doubt that they would donate millions to conservation charities, even if, in some parallel universe that bears no resemblance to ours,
they wanted to.

  She’s looking pensive. “Perhaps I could blog more about that. I could throw in tips about how people might change their lifestyles: what they buy, what they eat, the industries they support, the way they travel. Every little bit helps.”

  I wonder if the situation is not irremediable? In the wartime, everyone made sacrifices for the common good. It could be done again if only enough people cared sufficiently.

  I pick up litter with my tongs on the Ayrshire coast, but I certainly do not give enough thought to these things. I must strive to get into better habits. When I arrive home, I shall tell Eileen my money is not to be spent on ginger thins from Kilmarnock stores anymore, although I am fond of them. Ginger thins, I recall, come in a cardboard box coated in plastic. Within that they are in a molded plastic tray that is wrapped in a further layer of plastic. No doubt they have also unnecessarily been transported halfway across the globe. I am quite willing to sacrifice ginger thins for the benefit of the planet.

  “The most terrifying threat to nature—and to all of us—is climate change,” Mike asserts. “We have to put pressure on the politicians, because the only thing they worry about is the results of the next election. We must tell them over and over that our world is important to us.”

  It certainly is.

  “What could possibly be more important?” asks Terry with fervor.

  “More important than what?” It’s Patrick, staggering into the room with a tray laden with wine bottles, cheese sticks, multicolored dips and mini pizzas.

  “Luxury!” exclaims Terry, suddenly all bright and breezy again. I’m not sure if she’s answering the question or admiring the fare.

  Mike shoots a look across at her that I can’t quite interpret. He seems to be struggling with something. Then he stares at Patrick, perusing every inch of his face.

  “What? What have I done?” asks my grandson. He plonks the tray on the table and looks questioningly round at us all. His eyes settle on Terry.

  She pushes her glasses up her nose and becomes a little pinker. She focuses on the food. “You’ve only gone and spoiled us again, Patrick!”