How the Penguins Saved Veronica Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  How the Penguins Saved Veronica

  “A warm and witty journey of self-discovery. Prior proves that it’s never too late to become the person you were meant to be. But it might require a trip to Antarctica. And penguins.”

  —Wendy Wax, USA Today bestselling author of My Ex–Best Friend’s Wedding

  “How the Penguins Saved Veronica is a beautiful expedition into Antarctica, but more importantly, the human heart. Hazel Prior has written a sweet and timely story about how one cranky old woman is no match for a tiny, adorable penguin chick.”

  —Brooke Fossey, author of The Big Finish

  “Veronica McCreedy is an unforgettable heroine. Crotchety, clever and oddly lovable, she kept me turning pages well into the night. . . . A story of love, loss, forgiveness and the unlikely bonds that form when we least expect it. Humorous and true with finely drawn characters.”

  —Elyssa Friedland, author of The Floating Feldmans

  PRAISE FOR

  Ellie and the Harpmaker

  “Uplifting escapism. . . . Fresh and sweet, rejuvenated by a set of unusual characters, the raw beauty of England and the musicality of Prior’s prose. . . . Prior’s lyricism feels like a warm song.”

  —The Washington Post

  “A beautiful love song of a story, wonderfully told with a warm heart and much hope. Hazel Prior’s writing is a lyrical delight.”

  —Phaedra Patrick, international bestselling author of The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper

  “How I loved this book! An uncommonly lovely story told with elegance, insight and so much heart. Hazel Prior’s brilliant debut will delight.”

  —Kristan Higgins, New York Times bestselling author of Life and Other Inconveniences

  “Wow, what a love story. . . . Uplifting and full of heart, and I couldn’t put it down! Perfect for fans of Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine.”

  —Jo Thomas, author of Late Summer in the Vineyard

  “A wonderful, genuine, heartwarming, funny and beautifully written book. If you love Kate Atkinson, Jojo Moyes or Gail Honeyman, you will fall in love with Ellie and the Harpmaker.”

  —Rebecca Tinnelly, author of Never Go There

  “They say opposites attract, and nowhere does that ring more true than Hazel Prior’s debut.”

  —InStyle

  “A lyrical, unexpected book.”

  —Book Riot

  “This novel stresses the importance of music, friendships, and that you can find love in surprising places. . . . [A] charming and quirky novel.”

  —The Concord Insider (Book of the Week)

  “Along similar lines as the Don Tillman trilogy [by Graeme Simsion] and Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine . . . a moody, offbeat work of fiction that took a few interesting turns and which had a wonderfully poetic flow to the writing.”

  —Harlequin Junkie

  “Sweet and quirky. . . . Beautifully written. . . . Highly recommended, especially for book clubs—so much to discuss!”

  —Green Valley News

  “A delightful novel about our inability to see the truth in our own lives, especially when it comes to personal relationships. Though this sort of topic is often fodder for angst-ridden tragedies, this one is a heartwarming beach read.”

  —The Free Lance–Star

  “Prior’s debut resonates with a clear voice, depicting love evolving from a friendship based upon genuine acts of kindness. . . . Ellie and Dan, both delightful, down-to-earth characters, selflessly put each other’s needs ahead of their own, and fans of fast-paced romantic stories will enjoy watching them discover true happiness together.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A melodious and heartwarming debut about love, friendship and a secret that could change everything. This one is special.”

  —Emily Liebert, USA Today bestselling author of Pretty Revenge

  “A lyrical, almost fairy-tale-like novel . . . [that] shows us what can happen when a woman yearning for meaning meets a solitary man dedicated to his craft . . . and they both decide to open their hearts to possibility.”

  —Juliet Blackwell, New York Times bestselling author of The Lost Carousel of Provence

  “With the character-driven charm of Liane Moriarty’s [novels]. . . . Empathetic to its core, it’s a delightfully heartwarming glimpse inside a lushly imagined world. Tender, free-spirited and guaranteed to tug at readers’ heartstrings.”

  —Booklist

  Also by Hazel Prior

  ELLIE AND THE HARPMAKER

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Hazel Prior

  Readers Guide copyright © 2020 by Hazel Prior

  Excerpt from Ellie and the Harpmaker copyright © 2019 by Hazel Prior

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Prior, Hazel, author.

  Title: How the penguins saved Veronica / Hazel Prior.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2020.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019050953 (print) | LCCN 2019050954 (ebook) | ISBN 9781984803818 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781984803825 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PR6116.R59 H69 2020 (print) | LCC PR6116.R59 (ebook) | DDC 823/.92—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019050953

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019050954

  First published in the UK, as Away with the Penguins, by Bantam Press, an imprint of Transworld Publishers, a division of Penguin Random House UK.

  First US edition: June 2020

  Cover design and illustration by Vikki Chu

  Interior art by Vikki Chu

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0

  CONTENTS

  Praise for Hazel Prior

  Also by Hazel Prior

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

&
nbsp; Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Readers Guide

  Excerpt from Ellie and the Harpmaker

  About the Author

  For Jonathan

  I find Penguins at present the only comfort in life. . . .

  One can’t be angry when one looks at a Penguin.

  —JOHN RUSKIN

  • 1 •

  Veronica

  THE BALLAHAYS

  AYRSHIRE, SCOTLAND

  MAY 2012

  I have told Eileen to get rid of all the mirrors. I used to like them, but I certainly don’t now. Mirrors are too honest. There is only so much truth a woman can take.

  “Are you sure, Mrs. McCreedy?” Her voice implies she knows my mind better than I do. She always does that. It is one of her innumerable annoying habits.

  “Of course I’m sure!”

  She clicks her tongue and tilts her head to one side so that her corkscrew curls brush against her shoulder. It’s quite a maneuver when you consider the extraordinary width of her neck.

  “Even the lovely one with the gilt edge, the one over the mantelpiece?”

  “Yes, even that one,” I explain patiently.

  “And all the bathroom mirrors, too?”

  “Especially those!” The bathroom is the last place I want to look at myself.

  “Whatever you say.” This in a tone slightly bordering on impertinence.

  Eileen comes every day. Her main role is cleaning, but her domestic skills leave much to be desired. She seems to be laboring under the impression I don’t see dirt.

  Eileen has a limited collection of facial expressions: cheerful, nosy, busy, nonplussed and vacant. Now she puts on her busy face. She bumbles around emitting a semi-musical noise like a bored bee, collecting the mirrors one by one and stacking them in the hall. She is unable to close the doors behind her because her hands are full, so I follow in her wake, shutting them carefully. If there’s one thing that I can’t abide in life it’s a door left open.

  I stroll into the larger of the two sitting rooms. There is now an unsightly dark rectangle in the wallpaper above the mantelpiece. I’ll have to fill the space with something else. A nice oil painting with plenty of verdure, I think; maybe a Constable print. That would set off the Lincoln green of the velvet curtains. I should like a calming pastoral scene with hills and a lake. A swath of landscape empty of human beings would be best.

  “There we are, then, Mrs. McCreedy. I think that’s all of them.”

  At least Eileen refrains from using my Christian name. Most young people these days seem to have abandoned Mr., Mrs. and Miss, which, if you ask me, is a sad reflection on modern society. I addressed Eileen as Mrs. Thompson for the first six months she worked for me. I only stopped doing it because she begged me. (“Please call me Eileen, Mrs. McCreedy. I would be so much happier if you would.” “Well, please continue to call me Mrs. McCreedy, Eileen,” I replied. “I would be so much happier if you would.”)

  I like the house much better now that it’s lost the appalling specters of Veronica McCreedy taunting me from every corner.

  Eileen puts her hands on her hips. “Well, I’ll be putting this lot away then, now. I’ll stack them in the back room, shall I? There’s still some space in there.”

  The back room is excessively dark and a little on the cold side, not really usable as a living space. The spiders think it belongs to them. Eileen, in her great wisdom, uses it as a depository for any item I desire to be rid of. She is a firm believer in hoarding everything “just in case.”

  She heaves the mirrors across the kitchen. I resist the urge to close the doors as she goes back and forth, knowing this will only make life more difficult for her. I console myself with the thought that they’ll all be shut again soon.

  She is back five minutes later. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, Mrs. McCreedy, but I had to move this out of the way to fit the mirrors in. Do you know what it is, what’s in it? Do you want it? I can always ask Doug to take it to the rubbish tip next time he goes.”

  She dumps the old wooden box on the kitchen table and goggles at the rusty padlock.

  I choose to ignore her questions and inquire instead, who is this Doug?

  “You know. Doug. My husband.”

  I’d forgotten she was married. I’ve never been introduced to the unfortunate man.

  “Well, I shan’t be requiring him to take any of my possessions to the rubbish tip in the near or indeed distant future,” I tell her. “You can leave it on the table for now.”

  She runs her finger along the top of the box, stroking away a clean trail in the dust. Expression number two (nosy) has now established itself on her face. She leans in toward me conspiratorially. I lean backward a little, having no desire whatsoever to conspire.

  “I’ve tried the padlock to see if there might be something valuable inside,” she confesses, “but it’s stuck. You need to know the code if you want to open it.”

  “I am well aware of that fact, Eileen.”

  She clearly assumes I am as clueless about the contents as she is.

  My skin crawls at the thought of Eileen looking inside. Other people meddling is the very reason I locked it all up in the first place. There is only one person who I will ever permit to see the contents of that box, and that person is myself.

  I am not ashamed. Oh no, never that. At least . . . But I absolutely refuse to be led down that path. There are things contained in that box that I have managed not to think about for decades. Now the mere sight of it provokes a distinct wobble in my knee joints. I sit down quickly. “Eileen, would you be kind enough to put the kettle on?”

  * * *

  —

  The clock strikes seven. Eileen has gone, and I am alone in the house. Being alone is supposed to be an issue for people such as me, but I have to say I find it deeply satisfying. Human company is necessary at times, I admit, but it is almost always irksome in one way or another.

  I am currently settled in the Queen Anne armchair by the fire in the Snug, my second and more intimate sitting room. The fire isn’t a real fire with wood and coal, alas, but an electric contraption with fake flames. I have had to compromise on this, as with so much in life. It does at least fulfill its primary requirement of producing heat. Ayrshire is chilly, even in May.

  I switch on the television. A scraggly girl is on-screen. She’s screeching her head off, spiking her fingers in the air and caterwauling something about being titanium. I hastily change channels. I flick through a quiz show, a crime drama and an advertisement for cat food. When I return to the original channel the girl is still caterwauling, “I am titanium.” Somebody should tell her she isn’t. She is a silly
, noisy spoiled brat. What a relief when she finally shuts her mouth.

  At last it’s time for Earth Matters, the only program all week that is worth watching. Everything else is sex, advertising, celebrities doing quizzes, celebrities trying to cook, celebrities on a desert island, celebrities in a rain forest, celebrities interviewing other celebrities and a whole load of wannabes doing everything they can to become celebrities (with a spectacular success rate in making fools of themselves). Earth Matters is a welcome respite, demonstrating as it does in manifold ways how much more sensible animals are than humans.

  However, I am dismayed to find that the current series of Earth Matters seems to have ended. In its place there’s a program called The Plight of Penguins. With a gleam of hope I observe that the program is presented by Robert Saddlebow. That man demonstrates that it is occasionally possible to be a celebrity for the right reasons. Unlike the vast majority, he has actually done something. He has voyaged around the world campaigning and raising awareness of conservation issues for several decades now. He is one of the few people for whom I feel a degree of admiration.

  This evening Robert Saddlebow is relayed to my fireside all bundled up and hooded, in the midst of a white wasteland. A flurry of snowflakes whirls around his face. Behind him is a clump of dark shapes. The camera homes in and reveals them to be penguins, a seething great tribe of them. Some are huddled together, others sleeping on their bellies, others waddling round within the group, on missions of their own.

  Mr. Saddlebow informs me that there are eighteen species of penguin in the world (nineteen if you count White-Flippered Littles or Blues as a separate species), many of which are endangered. During the filming of the program, he says, he has developed a massive respect and admiration for these birds; for the race as a whole, for each species and for every individual penguin. They live in the harshest conditions on the planet yet take on daily challenges with a gusto and spirit that would put many of us humans to shame. “What a tragedy it would be if any one of these species was lost to the planet!” declares Robert Saddlebow, fixing his ice-blue eyes on me from the screen.

  “A tragedy indeed!” I say back to him. If Robert Saddlebow cares about penguins this much, then so do I.