How the Penguins Saved Veronica Page 2

  He explains that each week he’s going to pick a different penguin and show us the qualities that make the chosen species unique. This week features the Emperor penguin.

  I am transfixed. Every year Emperor penguins walk some seventy miles across a desert of ice to reach their breeding grounds. This is indeed a remarkable achievement, especially when you consider that traveling on foot isn’t exactly their forte. They walk like Eileen, shuffling forward with a singular lack of grace. They look rather uncomfortable in their own skins. Yet their persistence is inspiring.

  When the program is finished, I pull myself out of the chair. I have to acknowledge this is not as difficult a task as it is for many others who have reached my mature years. I would even classify myself as sprightly. I am aware that this body cannot be wholly relied upon. In the past it was a faultless machine, but over the years it has suffered losses in both elasticity and efficiency. I must be prepared for the fact that it might let me down at some point in the near future. Yet so far it has managed to keep going marvelously well. Eileen, with her habitual charm, often comments that I am “as tough as old boots.” Every time she says this, I’m tempted to reply, “All the better to kick you with, my dear.” I repress the urge, though. One must always strive to avoid rudeness.

  It is now a quarter past eight. I make my way to the kitchen to get my evening cup of Darjeeling and a caramel wafer. My eyes fall on the wooden box, still sitting unopened on the table. I consider twisting the combination on the padlock and taking a peek at what’s inside. In an illogical, sadistic sort of way I’d like to. But no, that would be a foolish move. It would be like Pandora in the myth, letting loose a thousand demons. The box must absolutely go back to the spiders without my interference.

  • 2 •

  Veronica

  THE BALLAHAYS

  Life has just become a degree more difficult. I tried to comb my hair into some semblance of order this morning, but the mirror in the bathroom wasn’t there. I hurried back to the bedroom only to discover that one has vanished, too. So has the one in the hall and the one in the living room.

  I proceed with breakfast, none too pleased with this new and unreasonable state of affairs.

  At nine o’clock, Eileen lets herself in.

  “Morning, Mrs. McCreedy! What a lovely one it is, too!” She will insist on being exasperatingly cheerful.

  “What have you done with all my mirrors?”

  She blinks slowly like a frog.

  “I put them in the back room, like you told me to!”

  “That is absurd! How can I sort out my hair and makeup without a mirror?” She really is an irrational creature. “Would you kindly put them back before you do anything else?”

  “What, all of them?”

  “Yes, all of them.”

  She produces a faint huffing sound. “Whatever you say, Mrs. McCreedy.”

  I should hope so, too. I don’t pay her all that money for nothing.

  I remember too late that a certain wooden box is still on the kitchen table and she’s bound to want to interfere.

  “You haven’t managed to open it yet, then?” she says the minute she lays her eyes on it, assuming this is by incapacity rather than by choice. “I could probably get Doug to saw off the padlock with a hacksaw if you can’t remember the code.”

  “I do remember the code, Eileen. My memory is faultless. I can recall dozens of lines of Hamlet from my school days.” She does a quick rolling of the eyes here. She thinks I don’t notice it, but I do. “And I don’t want some Doug of yours tinkering around with my box,” I continue. “I’d be grateful if you’d see to those mirrors without further ado.”

  “Yes, of course, Mrs. McCreedy. Whatever you say.”

  I watch as she drags the mirrors from the back room and hangs them up where they were before, muttering to herself.

  Once the mirrors are back, I set about tackling the problem of my hair. There isn’t a great deal of it these days, and it is startlingly white, but I like to keep it tidy. I relish looking at myself very little, though. My reflection isn’t a pleasant sight when compared to reflections of the past. Years ago I was really something to look at. People called me “a true beauty,” “a stunner.” No vestige of that is left now, I observe as I scrape the comb over my thin strands. My skin has become papery and loose. My face is scribbled all over with wrinkles. My eyelids sag. My cheekbones, which used to be so beautiful, jut out at peculiar angles. I should be used to these repugnant physical flaws by now, but it still galls me to see myself like this.

  I do my utmost to improve matters with the application of lipstick, powder and rouge. But the fact remains: I am not fond of mirrors.

  * * *

  —

  The wind cuts through me. It is that damp, feral variety of wind one finds only in Scotland. I huddle in my coat and pick my way northward along the coast path. I have always believed in the efficacy of a daily walk, and I refuse to be put off by inclement weather. To my left the sea churns in slate-gray patterns and spits a wild, white froth out into the air.

  My cane steadies me over the uneven turf and sand. I have brought my fuchsia gold-trimmed handbag, which is now floundering tiresomely against my thigh. I should have left it on the hook in the hall, but one never knows when one might require a handkerchief or a painkiller. I have also brought my litter-picking tongs and a small refuse sack. It is lifelong habit of mine to pick up litter because of something my dear father once said. It is a small act of remembrance as well as a token gesture to atone for the chaos left behind by the human race. Even the rugged pathways of the Ayrshire coast have been sullied by the carelessness of mankind.

  It is no easy task wielding cane, tongs, sack and handbag, especially in this wind. My bones are beginning to complain at the effort of it all. I work out a way of angling my weight to lean into each gust so that it supports me instead of fighting me.

  A gull screeches and dips through the clouds. I pause for a moment to admire the beauty of the tempestuous seascape. I have a liking for rocks, waves and wilderness. But something scarlet is bobbing up and down on the billows. Is it a crisp packet or a biscuit wrapper? My younger self would scurry down onto the beach, wade straight in and get it, but now, alas, I’m incapable of such things. The spray blows into my face and drips down it like tears.

  People who litter the countryside should be shot.

  I push back against the wind and battle my way homeward. I am flagging slightly by the time I reach the front gates.

  The Ballahays boasts a substantial driveway and is surrounded by three acres of pleasant grounds. Most of the garden is walled, which is one of the reasons I like the place so much. Within these walls are cedars, rockeries, a fountain, various statues and four herbaceous borders. They are tended by Mr. Perkins, my gardener.

  I glance up at the house as I approach. An ivy-clad, late Jacobean–style creation, The Ballahays is constructed from mellow brick and stone. With its twelve bedrooms and several creaking oak staircases, it is admittedly not the ideal home for me. Trying to keep up with its needs is a considerable task. It suffers from crumbling plaster and terrible drafts, and there are mice in the roof. I purchased it back in 1956 simply because I could. I enjoy both the privacy and the views and therefore have not troubled myself to move.

  I step indoors, deposit the refuse sack and tongs in the porch and hang up my coat.

  As soon as I enter the kitchen my attention is summoned by the box. That wretched box, again. I had almost forgotten. I sit down at the table. I look at the box and the box looks back at me. Its presence permeates the room. It is impertinent; mocking, challenging me to open it.

  Nobody could claim that Veronica McCreedy is the sort of person who fails to rise to a challenge.

  I make myself do it. Twist the controls and line up the numbers one by one. You will note how perfectly I remember those numbers. One nin
e four two. 1942. Still engraved in my memory, even after all this time. The lock is stiff, but that’s hardly surprising; it’s been seventy years.

  The very first thing that meets my eyes is the locket. Small and oval, a “V” etched into the tarnished silver amidst a design of curling tendrils. The chain is fine and delicate. I run it through my fingers. Before I can stop myself, I’ve snapped the catch and the locket springs open. My throat clenches and lets out an involuntary gasp. All four specimens are there, just as I knew they would be. They are tiny, as indeed they had to be to fit into such a case. They seem so tired and so very, very fragile.

  I will not cry. No. Absolutely not. Veronica McCreedy does not cry.

  Instead I gaze at them: the strands of hair from four heads. Two are intertwined, brown and auburn. Then there is the dark, dark, luscious sprig of hair that a long-gone version of myself used to take out and kiss so often. Tucked in next to it is a tiny wisp, so fine and light it is almost transparent. I cannot bear to touch it. I snap the locket shut again. Close my eyes, steady myself and breathe. Count to ten. Force my eyes open again. I place the locket carefully back in the corner of the box.

  The two black, leather-bound notebooks are also there. I lift them out. They feel horribly familiar. Even the smell of them, the ragged scent of old leather combined with an echo of the lily-of-the-valley perfume I used to wear.

  Now that I’ve started I can’t stop. I open the first book. Each page is packed with handwriting, eager, loopy letters in blue ink. I squint and manage to read a few lines without my glasses. I smile sadly. As a teenager, my spelling wasn’t very good, but my writing was considerably neater than it is now. I close the book again.

  Read it I must and read it I will, but if my past is about to suck me in, I need to brace myself.

  I brew a nice pot of Earl Grey and arrange some ginger biscuits on a plate, using the Wedgwood porcelain with the pink hibiscus design. I bring it all through to the drawing room on the tea trolley. I settle in the armchair by the bay window. I eat two of the biscuits, drain one cup of tea and pour myself another before I take the first notebook into my hands. I do not open it for a further five minutes. Then I put on my reading glasses.

  And, like a window opening to sunlight and fresh summer air, it is there. My youth: tender, vivid, spread out before me. And even though I know it will hurt me three times over, I can’t help but read on.

  • 3 •

  Veronica

  THE BALLAHAYS

  If I was younger I would run. Run and scream and shout and break things. That is not and cannot be my way now. Instead, I sip tea and I cogitate.

  I have read through the night and am in a state of shock. Having been fed my own fifteen-year-old voice solidly for hours, it feels as if part of that wilder, more vulnerable self has entered me. The sensation is odd and uncomfortable, like a scalpel slipping under my skin. For so many years I have denied access to those memories. Now, as if to make up for lost time, they’ve burst the floodgates of my mental fortress and will not leave me alone.

  Along with the turmoil, a sneaky little question has entered my head. I ponder it over breakfast. I am still pondering it when Eileen arrives. It remains with me during my midmorning walk, while I am trying to read Emily Brontë, over my salmon en croûte lunch, during my postprandial lie-down, while I am completing the Telegraph crossword and while I am picking roses for the dining room table. As I file my nails afterward, I am beginning to realize I’ll have no peace until the question is answered.

  I return to my bedroom. I have placed the diaries back in the box and padlocked them. I’ve removed the locket again, though. It is now under my pillow.

  I fish it out, take it in my hands and run the chain through my fingers once more. I do not open it this time, but my thoughts dwell on that thinnest, palest wisp of hair. With considerable exertion I manage to barricade the tide of emotion once more. I force my brain into action.

  The clock is ticking particularly loudly today. I dislike clocks, but like politicians and paracetamol, they have somehow made themselves indispensable in this world. I tear out my hearing aid. The ticktock dies down. I am able to hear myself think at last.

  By the time Eileen has finished her chores, my mind is made up.

  I go down to the kitchen, select a few items from the fourth-best china set and make a pot of good strong English breakfast tea. I insist on making tea myself. Nobody makes tea as well as I do.

  “Sit down for a moment, Eileen. I believe there is something I’d like you to do for me.”

  She plonks herself on a chair and mutters something.

  “I do wish you would speak up, Eileen.”

  “What have you done with your hearing aid, Mrs. McCreedy?” she mouths back at me, madly gesticulating and pointing at her ears.

  “Bedroom, I believe. Would you be so kind as to—”

  “Of course.”

  She gets up and trots out of the room.

  “Door, Eileen!”

  “But I’m coming back in a—oh, never mind,” she yells, hurling the door shut behind her. She returns an instant later with my hearing aid in her hand, this time remembering to close the door in her wake.

  I put the hearing aid in then pour out two cups of tea.

  Eileen sits down again and slurps noisily. I take a sip from my cup and gather my thoughts. My decision will deeply affect whatever small fraction of future is left for me.

  I would not call myself a superstitious person. I will always walk under a ladder if a ladder is there to be walked under, and I am quite partial to black cats whether they choose to cross my path or not. But never in my life have I made a will. That, I have always thought, would be asking for trouble. Yet I’m aware that if I fail to make any provision, my wealth may well pass to the government or some equally undesirable beneficiary. Having now reached mid-octogenarian status, I believe it is incumbent on me to consider the matter in some depth. It is quite possible that this mortal frame will hold up for another fifteen years. I may get a postcard from the queen to congratulate me on my hundredth birthday. Then again I may not.

  As far as I’m aware, I don’t have a single blood relative alive in this world. But now, having revisited the past, it strikes me that circumstances have not provided me with utter certainty on this point. It does not take much to create a new human being, after all. Not every birth is publicly celebrated, and there must be thousands of fathers who have no idea they are fathers. Now that this small but undeniable doubt has manifested itself, I have become quite fixated with it. I am determined to find an answer. And I must pursue it without further ado.

  Eileen is sitting across from me, her hands wrapped around her teacup. She is wearing her vacant expression. I observe that her hair is even wilder and curlier than usual. I do wish she would do something about it.

  “Eileen, I have a favor to ask of you. Would you be able to use your Internet contraption to find me a trustworthy and reputable agency?”

  “Yes, of course, Mrs. McCreedy, if that’s what you want. What sort of agency were you thinking of?” She smirks into her tea. “A dating agency?”

  I am in no mood to pander to her foolishness. “Don’t be ridiculous! No, I need the sort of agency that unearths documentation regarding long-lost relatives.”

  Her hands fly up to her powdery white face, her smile replaced with wide-eyed curiosity. “Oh, Mrs. McCreedy! Do you think you might have some family out there somewhere?”

  She waits, hungry for further information. I have no intention of telling her anything more. At my age, I should be able to do exactly as I wish and not have to proclaim it to the world.

  “So you’d like me to google for agencies. Family reunited sort of thing, you mean?” she asks.

  “Something of the kind, yes. Use your googly doodahs or whatever means is within your power. It would have to be a very discreet agency,” I w
arn her, “and one with a good reputation and track record. I would be grateful if you could make sure of that, please.”

  “Of course, Mrs. McCreedy. How exciting!” she decides.

  “Well, exciting or not, I would very much like to investigate the matter. So I would be indebted to you if you could provide me with an address and phone number at your earliest convenience.”

  “Not a problem, Mrs. McCreedy. I’ll do a search tonight, as soon as I get home. I’m sure I can find you some details. I’ll bring them in when I come tomorrow.”

  “Excellent. Thank you, Eileen.”

  * * *

  —

  I flick the switch. The fake flames leap up in an instant orange blaze. Next I turn on the television for Earth Matters, my favorite program, only to discover they have replaced it with a documentary about penguins. Come to think of it, I do recall having seen something similar recently. It will be a welcome break from the pernicious thoughts that have been my company all day.

  This week we are looking at king penguins. I confess, I am rather charmed by these singularly courageous yet waddlesome creatures. When the camera shows one of them losing its egg, which rolls down into a steep, inaccessible gully, I observe how the poor bird grieves, beak pointing to the sky in despair. It is really quite moving.

  Robert Saddlebow talks passionately of the penguins’ massive population decline in recent years. It appears to be due to environmental factors, but more research is needed.

  I hate to think that these noble and attractive birds might vanish from the planet.

  My father’s words come back to me; words he spoke when I was sitting on his knee as a child, then on many occasions as I was growing up. I can almost hear the words now, spoken in his earnest, gentle voice. There are three types of people in this world, Very. (He called me Very.) There are those who make the world worse, those who make no difference and those who make the world better. Be one who makes the world better, if you can. I have met few people in my life who fall into the third category. I have myself done little in the way of bettering. I have chosen to interpret the three categories as people who throw litter into the countryside, people who leave litter there and people who pick up other people’s litter. I have satisfied my conscience by means of tongs and refuse sack. Otherwise, I cannot see that my life has been useful in the least.