by Hazel Prior
“Absolutely. And, Eileen, please be sure to give the dressing tables a thorough dust and polish. It is a good many years since they’ve been used.”
“Right you are!” She stops by the door. “They may be noisy,” she warns.
“The dressing tables?”
“No, the children.”
“Humor me, Eileen, and give me the credit for having thought this through.”
Certainly, I am not keen on the equanimity of The Ballahays being disturbed by young children tearing about. But equally, I have a strong sense of purpose regarding this Daisy, and I need to meet her. As she is a mere eight years old, it would be unreasonable to expect her to come all this way without at least some members of her family. I have, therefore, somewhat alarmingly, committed myself to putting up all four of them. I issued the invitation by handwritten letter and was reassured to receive a very polite and enthusiastic acceptance also by Royal Mail. I believe Patrick has been sending explanatory e-mails to his friend at the bicycle shop. Apparently, Terry’s blogs have gained a small but select following in Bolton. I have gathered there is a bill to settle with Gavin, too. (I cannot bring myself to call him “Gav.” I fail to comprehend why everyone these days insists on uglifying their name.)
Eileen fetches armfuls of clean sheets from the laundry. “Don’t worry, Mrs. McCreedy. I’ll come back and close the door once my hands are free,” she calls on her way out of the room.
“On no account trouble yourself, Eileen. The door can remain open.”
So that Pip can get in and out . . . but no. I have to keep reminding myself. Pip isn’t with me. He is across the other side of the world. I can only hope with all my heart that he is alive and well. Do penguins remember? Will he ever think of me? I feel a little pang. I can picture him so clearly, his flippers outstretched in excitement, his new coat of black-and-white feathers agleam, determination burning in his eyes. Perhaps at this moment he is tobogganing across the snow together with his penguin friends. Perhaps he is deep under the blue-green waters, chasing fish. Or perhaps he is riding recklessly on the sunlit waves of a wild Antarctic sea.
* * *
—
I had forgotten how very small children are. The boy hides behind his father (who is on the bulky side) as introductions are made, but Daisy skips out in front. She is indeed a diminutive figure, dressed in yellow dungarees and a spotted scarf that clings to her skull. She has a purposeful and inquisitive air about her. There’s a pallor to her skin that, added to her lack of hair, indicates the sickliness of the child, but it seems to have done little to diminish her levels of energy. She speaks fast and moves fast. A gabble of words flies from her mouth as she dashes past me into the hall. Her parents are full of shy apologies.
I make tea.
I have given some consideration to the issue of which tea set to use and have settled for the Coalport china. It is distinguished without being too threatening toward those who may not be accustomed to the finer things in life. Eileen, in her great wisdom, has taken it upon herself to bring cupcakes. They are quite horrendous, topped with gaudy pink and purple icing and miniature silver balls that pose a serious hazard to the teeth. I have displayed them on doilies, however, and supplemented them with a selection of caramel wafers and shortbread (not ginger thins). We take everything through into the sitting room on the tea trolley. Eileen passes around the cakes and biscuits whilst informing the gathered company that the weather in Ayrshire is not usually this bad.
“Do not be deceived,” I warn them. “The weather is often considerably worse than this.”
“Although maybe not as cold as Antarctica?” Gavin suggests.
I acquiesce. “Indeed, the climate of Scotland appears to have transformed itself. To my mind it has become significantly milder since my travels.”
While we sip our tea we talk of Patrick. I am able to reassure Gavin and his wife that my grandson has proved himself to be a marvelous addition to the Locket Island team. He is busy and, as far as I can tell, happy. Gavin asks many questions about Terry, some of which I am prepared to answer. I do not divulge how very smug I am feeling about the potential I have created there. As we talk, the children rapidly succeed in getting their faces smeared all over with pink and purple icing.
“Can we go and explore, can we look round the big house, please?” they clamor.
No sooner have I given permission than they are on the rampage, shooting about everywhere. I hear them shrieking at various discoveries, thumping on the stairs, whooping into the alcoves to try out the echoes. I try to rein in my horror.
Gavin and his wife tell me their offspring will calm down shortly and they have toys in the car that will keep them out of trouble for a while. The two of them then disappear out into the drizzle to fetch the aforementioned toys along with the rest of their luggage, Eileen trailing in their wake. The little boy, hearing their exit, nips out after them roaring something incomprehensible about a “robo-saurus.” I dread to think what that might be.
I observe that Daisy has meanwhile returned to the sitting room and is now tugging open all the drawers of the dresser. I’m terrified she will knock over the candelabra.
I lower myself onto the sofa and pat the place next to me. “Come and sit over here, Daisy. There is something I want to talk to you about.”
“What is it, Veronica?”
Really, calling me by my Christian name when she is so tiny, I am so many years her senior, and she has only known me for twenty minutes! However, I let it go.
“I have a very important thing to tell you,” I repeat.
“How important?” She’s going to take some convincing.
“It is important to the whole world,” I answer. “It is important for the planet and for everyone on it. It is important to me personally. And—because you are the future, Daisy—it is important to you.”
I have her attention now. She abandons the dresser, dashes over and perches next to me.
“But I will only tell you if you are very still and very, very quiet.”
“I can do that,” she assures me, with some verve and volume. “I can be still. Look.” She freezes in a comical pose. “And I can be very quiet, too,” she whispers. “Like a mouse. See.”
I let her wait for a moment. The silence is quite delicious. Her eyes are wide, hungry.
I shall enjoy this.
“Listen, Daisy. I am going to tell you all about penguins.”
• EPILOGUE •
Giovanni lies in the Naples hospital bed. He is hardly aware of the people gathered around him. He doesn’t register that they are four generations of his family who have come to be with him as he draws his final breaths. His mind is filled with bright, mismatched fragments from the past.
Now the images circling inside his head are from the years he spent as a prisoner of war in the north of England. He homes in on that one particular year, the year he met the beautiful English girl. What was her name? Veronica, that was it.
Giovanni doesn’t recall how the affair ended; he remembers nothing about arriving home after the war, confiding in his mother and announcing his plans to go back and find Veronica. His mother wouldn’t hear of such a thing: Veronica, she insisted, had forgotten him without a doubt. He’d be so much better off marrying a lovely Italian girl, she said—and there was a suitable Italian girl who was eager to see him again. Giovanni had followed his mother’s advice. He had sometimes questioned whether he’d done the right thing, wondered if he could have made Veronica happy in the long term. Could it have worked? They’d both been so madly in love . . . but then they’d both been so young and so very needy . . .
Gradually, his new life had taken over. He had produced a happy, riotous family of his own. Over the years they had given him countless headaches and unending joy, leaving little room in his thoughts for anything else.
But now, for a moment, Veronica steps b
ack inside his head. A smile hovers on his lips. Her image is fresh and clear. Beautiful Veronica! Her eyes burn with determination as she strides through the Derbyshire countryside, her poppy-colored dress blowing in the breeze. Veronica: true, headstrong and gloriously vivid. How she shines! No matter what life throws at her, she will defy the odds. Whatever she does, she will be extraordinary.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A massive thank-you to everyone who reads this book. You make it all worthwhile, and it is my fervent wish that you enjoy every minute of it.
Many people have contributed toward How the Penguins Saved Veronica. As ever, my heartfelt thanks go to my magnificent agent, Darley Anderson, and his team. Without them, this book would never have been written let alone read!
A deafening cheer for Sarah Adams and Danielle Perez, my super-skilled editors, for all their wisdom and guidance. They’ve made everything so much clearer and better. I’ve also benefitted enormously from the extra editorial input of Francesca Best and Molly Crawford when the novel was in its early stages, and from Imogen Nelson at its later stages. It is an immense privilege to work with both Transworld and Berkley. Thank you also to the brilliant marketing and publicity people (Alison, Tara, Danielle, Fareeda and Jessica) for all your ideas and hard work. You’ve done me proud. I’m also indebted to the marvelous team at Penguin Random House Canada, particularly Helen Smith, who sent me an uplifting penguin book and a whole load of enthusiasm when I most needed it.
A special thank-you to Nia Williams for reading my first chapters when I was in panic mode and for giving me a big thumbs-up. Without Nia’s constant encouragement, I would have found it hard to carry on.
Penguins are amazing, and they have made this story what it is. Massive thanks go to my dear friend Ursula Franklin, whose love of penguins provided me with the initial idea, whose penguin-themed books have helped me with research and whose photos of penguins are a wonder, delight and inspiration.
Living Coasts (Torquay) has given me the unforgettable experience of meeting real penguins close at hand. I’ve absorbed anecdotes from penguin patroller Lauren, and I’ve been lucky to meet Jason Keller, who generously shared facts about hand-rearing a baby penguin. Noah Strycker’s book Among Penguins has been invaluable, and Noah answered my awkward questions about being a penguin researcher in Antarctica. Louise Emmerson from the Australian Antarctic Division kindly supplied data about Adélie chicks. Thank you a thousand times to all of you fantastic penguin people.
Locket Island, of course, doesn’t really exist, but I have done my best to capture the spirit of the South Shetlands. I am indebted to the British Antarctic Survey for their website, which includes many fascinating blogs written by scientists working in Antarctica. I have also reaped inspiration from the TV programs made by David Attenborough. World Wildlife Fund is another tour de force, and I’d like to thank them for supplying information on Adélies and for their “adopt a penguin” campaign. I can’t help hoping this novel will inspire people to adopt penguins—or do something else meaningful to them that will help care for our world.
For historical accuracy I’ve used numerous books, websites and bits and pieces remembered from my parents, but I’ve also been fortunate to talk with several people who experienced the war firsthand. I’m grateful to the residents of Westerley Christian Care Home in Minehead for sharing so many of their wartime memories with me. I’d also like to thank Mary Adams for letting me read her memoir and for telling me about things like Anderson shelters and glycerin cake.
Thanks, too, go to everyone who has contributed toward other areas of research, including Nia Williams (again), Ed Norman and Swati Singh. Any mistakes are my own.
I’m humbled and delighted that so many bookish people have supported my writing. Thanks to fellow authors: Kristan Higgins, Phaedra Patrick, Simon Hall, Rebecca Tinnelly, Juliet Blackwell, Emily Liebert and Jo Thomas. Also to all the librarians, booksellers and book bloggers. You are shining stars.
Thank you (and sorry) to all the friends who have put up with my strange ways and supported me, even when I was—as often happens—“elsewhere.” In addition, I must acknowledge our Purrsy, who is always with me as I write, being purr-some and funny, giving his own kind of moral support, which helps enormously and which animal lovers will understand.
Most of all, thank you to Jonathan—for sacrificing your study to me and my mess, and for taking care of all sorts of logistics, bills, laundry, gardening and countless other things so that I can write. You have stood by me through everything, and it was you who made this possible.
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
1. The story is told from the viewpoint of an old lady and a young man. What issues does Veronica have with Patrick when she first meets him? What issues does Patrick have with Veronica? Are they right in their assumptions? Do you think their judgments are typical of the way the older and younger generations view each other?
2. There are many types of caring in the story. What are they, and which do you think is most important?
3. Veronica McCreedy does not cry. How has this suppression of feelings affected Veronica’s life? Is it ever good to hide how you feel?
4. The diary sections set in wartime Britain highlight a different lifestyle and values from those we have in the twenty-first century. Which aspects are better and which are worse now?
5. In what ways is Veronica manipulative? In what ways does she also expect others to be manipulative? Is this a forgivable trait?
6. You learn more about the characters’ backgrounds as you read further into the novel. Did your opinion of any of them change? If so, how?
7. Have you ever found it easier to talk to an animal/bird than to a human? What is the role of Pip the Penguin in the novel?
8. Which character do you most admire, and why?
9. Terry says: “Human intervention has harmed wildlife beyond belief.” Is she right? What can we do to remedy the situation?
10. What do you think Veronica learned from the penguins?
DON’T MISS HAZEL PRIOR’S DEBUT NOVEL
Ellie and the Harpmaker
AVAILABLE FROM BERKLEY
• 1 •
Dan
A woman came to the barn today. Her hair was the color of walnut wood. Her eyes were the color of bracken in October. Her socks were the color of cherries, which was noticeable because all the rest of her clothes were sad colors. She carried an enormous shoulder bag, canvas. It had a big buckle (square), but it was hanging open. The woman’s mouth was open too. She was shifting from one foot to the other by the door so I told her to come in. The words came out a bit mangled due to the fact that I was wearing my mask. She asked what I’d said, so I took it off and also took off my earmuffs and I said it again. She came in. Her socks were very red indeed. So was her face.
“I’m sorry to be so rude, but I’m gobsmacked.” She did look it, to be honest. “Did you . . . you didn’t, did you . . . make all these?”
I told her yes.
“Wow! I just can’t believe it!” she said, looking round.
I asked her why not.
“Well, it’s not exactly what you expect to find in the middle of nowhere! I’ve been past the end of your lane so many times and I just had no idea that all this was here!”
I put my earmuffs and mask on the workbench and informed her that indeed, all this was here. Perhaps I should have pointed out as well that this is not the middle of nowhere. Not at all. Exmoor is the most somewhere place that I know and my workshop is an extremely somewhere part of it. I did not say this, though. It would have been rude to contradict her.
Morning light was pouring in on us from the three windows. It outlined the sloping rafters. It floodlit the curls of wood shavings. It silvered the edges of the curves and arcs all around us and made strung shadows on the floor.
The woman was shaking her head so that the waln
ut-colored hair bounced around her face. “How lovely! They’re beautiful, so beautiful! It is like a scene from a fairy tale. And how strange that I’ve stumbled across this place today of all days!”
Today is Saturday, September 9, 2017. Is that a particularly strange day to stumble across a Harp Barn? I smiled politely. I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to ask why it was strange. Lots of people find things strange that I don’t find strange at all, and lots of people don’t find strange the things that I find very strange indeed.
The woman kept looking at me and then gazing around the barn and then back at me again. Then she pulled on the strap of her canvas bag to rearrange it in a different way over her shoulder and said: “Do you mind my asking, have you been here long?”
I informed her that I’d been here for one hour and forty-three minutes. Before that I was out in the woods, having my walk. She smiled and said: “No, I mean, have you had this place a long time? As a workshop?”
I told her I came here when I was ten years old and I was now thirty-three years old, so that meant (I explained in case her math was not very good) that I’d been here for twenty-three years.
“No! I just can’t believe it!” she said again. She seemed to have a problem believing things. She shook her head slowly. “I think I must be in a dream.”
I offered to pinch her.
She laughed. Her laugh was interesting: explosive and a little bit snorty.
The next thing that happened was I went across and shook her hand because that is what you are supposed to do. You are not supposed to do pinching. I knew that really. “My name is Dan Hollis, the Exmoor Harpmaker,” I said.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Ellie Jacobs, the Exmoor . . . housewife.”