How the Penguins Saved Veronica Read online

  Now an idea is beginning to take root. It is perhaps feasible that my demise might be useful in some way. Unless it is proved otherwise, I must work on the assumption that I have no blood ties at all. It would be pleasing if I could make some small difference to the planet. The more I think about it, the more I am attracted to the idea.

  By the time I perform my nighttime ablutions, I am bordering on the obsessive. Indeed, I cannot wait until a time that pen and paper might be handy. I take the nearest thing to write with, which, as I am in the bathroom, happens to be an eyebrow pencil. (Yes, even at my advanced age I am not immune to a little vanity. My natural eyebrows have dwindled to a few pathetic gray wisps, so most mornings I take the trouble to enhance them a little.) I use the eyebrow pencil and write the word “PENGUINS” in the bottom right-hand corner of the mirror.

  My memory is completely intact—I frequently recite passages from Hamlet to reassure myself of the fact—but if there is something I wish to keep at the forefront of my brain, there is no harm in having a written reminder, in a place where I will see it.

  TERRY’S PENGUIN BLOG

  3 November 2012

  Shall I tell you something lovely about Adélie penguins? They have one rather romantic habit. A boy penguin will woo his girl with a gift: a carefully chosen, special pebble. How could she fail to be impressed? Not only this, but he’ll also put on a fine display, throwing his head back, puffing out his chest and making loud braying noises—which, of course, if you are a female penguin, is totally irresistible.

  With any luck he’ll also have a shiny new nest already built by the time she returns from the sea. The pebble gift, in fact, represents more than loyalty and love. Pebbles are the most valuable currency right now, because they’re the key nest-building material. The penguins are not above theft, either. We’ve witnessed a few comical instances of penguins nicking pebbles from one another’s nests when backs are turned.

  Many of last year’s couples are now joyfully reunited. On the whole, the Adélies are a faithful bunch. Occasionally, however, there’s an issue.

  For example, here’s a penguin who interests us. Adélies generally look pretty similar, but you’ll see from the photo why we always recognize this one, even from a distance. Instead of the standard white chest and tummy, with black covering everything else, he’s almost entirely black. Just a few paler feathers in a patch under his chin. His mate, a normal black-and-whiter, was with him for the last four seasons. But where is she now? Did she fail to get through the Antarctic winter? Was she eaten by a leopard seal? Or do we have a rare case of penguin infidelity? We’ll never know. Whatever the reason, Sooty (we call him Sooty) is sitting there on his nest, very, very alone.

  • 4 •

  Patrick

  AT HIS FLAT IN BOLTON

  MAY 2012

  On and on. Every single fricking song I’ve ever heard about loneliness keeps playing inside my head. It’s driving me insane.

  It’s been two weeks. Two bloody gut-wrenching weeks and not a squeak from her. Man, after four years together, you’d think she might provide me with some sort of explanation. But no, not Lynette. Took all her stuff and just rocketed out of my life. No note, no nothing. I hadn’t done anything wrong as far as I could see, not recently, anyway. Not any of the things that normally wind her up. Forgot to put the recycling out? Nope. Left a snotty hankie in the bed? Nope. Licked my plate after dinner? Nope. It’s not as if we’d had a row or anything, either. Not that day, anyhow.

  I hadn’t the foggiest what she was playing at, what it was all about. It was only when Gav told me he’d spotted the two of them hand in hand that the truth of the matter made itself clear like a wallop in the face. I did a bit of research, asking around at the bike shop, pub and any other hotbeds of Bolton gossip I could think of. I found out he’s a builder, the guy she left me for. All muscle, apparently. Often seen at the chippy mouthing off about the Poles and Pakis nabbing our jobs.

  Lynette, Lynette, Lynette! You stick a needle in my heart. What the hell do you want with a racist builder? You, with your master’s in anthropology and your designer jeans and your perfect Cleopatra haircut. You, with your work ethic and your positivity ethic and your just-about-everything-else ethic. You’ve turned your own moral compass upside down. You’ve exchanged your bulging bookshelves for bulging biceps. You, of all people!

  Where does this leave me? OK, here it is. I’ve lapsed. You turned me into a health freak, Lynette, and got me into cooking all those fruity, vegetabley, superfoody meals. Well, you probably don’t give a flea’s fart, but just in case you want to know, I’m on a diet of cake, crisps and beer. My own biceps, which I confess I was just a little bit proud of before, are gathering a lovely layer of fat. As is my stomach zone. More blubber every day. Soon this lean, mean sex machine will be a walking lump of jelly. Thank you for everything, Lynette. Nice one.

  * * *

  —

  Three weeks. Where did it all go wrong? Was it me? I guess it was. I know Lynette didn’t like me taking over the cooking. She didn’t mind having a gourmet dinner waiting for her when she got home from work, but at the same time she did see the kitchen as her domain. It was her who bought the coffee machine and skillet and juicer; her who rang the landlord every time the dishwasher played up. Thinking about it, she was maybe a bit of a control freak. Or was it all my fault?

  I guess there were rows. But I thought that didn’t matter. I still reckoned she was the girl for me. I still fancied the pants off her. I still wanted to be with her.

  I can’t seem to shake her out of my thick skull. She’s this living specter that haunts the flat. One minute it’s her head bent low over her Margaret Atwood novel, her hair sweeping down over the pages. The next minute it’s her strident laugh echoing in the stairwell. The next it’s the image of her teetering in high heels as she scatters fish food into the tank for our one pet, the goldfish called Horatio that she took with her. I’ve become a total head case. Can’t seem to snap out of it. I wouldn’t have her back now, though. Not if she begged me. Not even if she stripped off all her clothes and covered herself in taramosalata.

  I was seriously late for work on Monday, nearly half an hour. Crawled in with bags under my eyes, grime under my fingernails and a stinking hangover.

  “Not getting any better, is it?” said Gav. That’s so Gav. Not a word of reproach, even though the bike shop is his own business, built from scratch, and he cares about it like . . . well, it’s up there with his wife and kiddos. And he can barely afford to pay me for the one day a week I work for him, and it’ll be all my fault if he goes under because of my sloppy behavior.

  “Sorry, mate,” I muttered.

  “Just hate to see you like this, Patrick,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

  “Any repairs this morning?”

  “Yeah, got a couple for you out the back.”

  I slunk into the yard, glad of the prospect of oil and tires and inner tubes for a bit.

  But I spent the morning wondering if Lynette makes the builder do that thing she used to make me do and if he’s any better at it than I was. Does he find it fun or humiliating? Does she still flick back her seductive Cleopatra hair and laugh in that serrated, sexy kind of way?

  My hands were getting the shakes, big-time. Couldn’t get the chain in place; it kept slipping and slithering away. Man, I needed some weed . . .

  Some weed . . . Now the thought’s arrived, it’s kind of henpecking me. I’d give anything, like, anything, for a joint. My own stock got used up years ago, and I don’t exactly move in those circles anymore. I guess there’s Judith, though.

  * * *

  —

  Four weeks. My landlord has kicked me out, of course. Well, I couldn’t keep up the rent payments, could I? Not without Lynette’s tidy bunch of wages from Benningfield Solicitors Ltd. I thought I’d be on the streets, but I guess I�
�ve been lucky. I’ve got this bedsit belonging to a mate of a mate of Gav’s. Gav did some asking around for me. That’s the kind of thing he does. He’s churchy, but he’s OK; his kindness is genuine. He doesn’t inflict his religion on other people—if he did, I’d be out of that shop as fast as you can say “bicycle clips.”

  My new home is up two flights of dingy stairs, and the couple who live below me shout at each other all day, but hey, there’s a sofa and a telly. It’s a bit of a dive, but the rent’s, like, a fifth of what it was in the flat.

  I’m still banging my head against walls, feeling shriveled up inside. I suppose it’s that insane, illogical, messy thing we call love. Must have loved Lynette even more than I thought I did.

  Jeez, I hate builders.

  I met up with Judith (the ex who still speaks to me) on Tuesday. She was reluctant to part with any of her weed plants, but the combination of my dubious charm and a thick wad of cash did the trick. She had a new blue streak in her hair and was looking pretty good in a bony, greasy sort of way. We shared a spliff along with some chips, and I thought we might sleep together for old times’ sake, but no. She said she couldn’t be bothered. She was more into girls now, anyway.

  Oh well, I came away with some dried stuff in a jar and—because I know I can’t afford to keep on buying it—a grow-your-own kit in the form of two nice, leafy pot plants. My babies. I’ve named them Weedledum and Weedledee (I think I must be missing that goldfish more than I’m letting on). I’ve dragged the table in front of the windowsill and put them there, where they catch the early-morning sunlight. I’ve rigged up a high-powered lamp, too. Pricey on the electricity bill, but needs must. I’ve got through a few of the dried buds already. It was bliss. You know how it is. The stress just melts away. But I’m not proud I’m going down this path again. And I’m going to have to ration myself until the plants have grown a bit.

  I’m still a wreck. My flat’s a wreck, my life’s a wreck, everything I do is a wreck. I asked Gav on Monday why he hadn’t sacked me.

  “Haven’t a clue, mate,” he said.

  “You can tell me to sling my hook if you like,” I told him. “I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

  “Well, I would do just that . . . except that you know everything there is to know about bicycles, you can fix things that nobody else can fix and . . . well, if I gave you two safety pins, a battery and a carrot, you’d go and construct, like, a bloody hadron collider or something. Plus, you’re honest, you’re hardworking and—at least until recently—you’re totally reliable.”

  “I’m losing it with the customers, though,” I tell him.

  I can’t muster up the patter anymore. You know the sort of thing: Hello, madam, what a lovely bicycle! What seems to be the problem? Oh yes, we’ll have it fixed in no time. Of course I can show you how to pump up your tire. No, don’t worry. It isn’t going to explode. I seem to have lost the knack.

  * * *

  —

  Wednesday. A day of nothingness. A narrow band of sunlight is creeping round the edge of the curtains. I think I’ll go out the front this morning just for a quick look outside before settling into my telly-watching day.

  I head downstairs to the communal hallway. There’s a letter sitting on the shelf where the guy in the bottom flat throws all the post. My guts lurch at the sight of my name on the envelope. The letter must be from Lynette, because I never get letters. E-mails, yes; letters, no. But when I calm down and look properly, I know it’s not her. Lynette’s writing is like a schoolteacher’s: narrow, neat and totally upright as if it’s trying to prove something. This writing is all on a slant. Copperplate-y. In ink pen. Very thin lines. Sort of careful but scratchy, too, like marks from a cat’s claws. The postmark is . . . God, I don’t know. Looks Scottish or something. The letter was sent to my old address, but it’s been forwarded by my ex-landlord, I guess. I’m amazed he bothered.

  I tear the envelope open. Just a few paragraphs inside, same old-fashioned writing.

  Dear Patrick,

  I trust you are well? I am writing with news that may surprise you, as it has surprised me. After some careful research from a reputable agency, I have discovered important information regarding my estranged son. I have obviously questioned the veracity of this information, but it seems that it is corroborated on several counts: birth certificates, censuses and other legal documentation.

  My son himself was given up for adoption as a baby. He is, sadly, no longer alive, but, unbeknownst to me and apparently quite late in life he became involved with a woman and had a child. That child, I am reliably informed, is you. Although you and I have never met, it appears we have a very close blood tie: I am your grandmother.

  You will doubtless deduce that I am no longer in the first flush of youth, but nevertheless, I would be most interested to meet you. I am able-bodied and quite prepared to travel to your place of abode should this suit you.

  I look forward to your swift response.

  With kind regards,

  Veronica McCreedy

  • 5 •

  Patrick

  BOLTON

  JUNE 2012

  What the hell am I supposed to do with this? A new granny? It’s not exactly what I need right now. It’s hardly on my dreams-come-true list. Especially bearing in mind she’s the mother of my dad and, well, let’s face it, he’s never been my favorite person. Not after what he did to my mum.

  I stomp back upstairs, screw up the letter and chuck it over toward the bin. It misses and bounces onto the floor next to the heap of dirty washing. There’s no washing machine here. I’m going to have to get myself sorted and find a launderette sooner or later.

  I’ve recorded some old Top Gear episodes, so I watch them and then one or two of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? I like trivia. There’s no point gawping at all these programs about death and depression and murder. It’s not going to help you in life if you’re just going to sit there getting heavy about stuff, is it?

  I’ve successfully used up a third of the day without thinking about Lynette much, so that’s got to be good. I stand up, stretch and go over to the window. The view from here is mostly stained brickwork and drainpipes. There’s one tree, but it’s kind of bedraggled and nondescript. The sky is hanging murkily over the rooftops. After its brief appearance this morning, the sun seems to have gone on strike again.

  Weedledum and Weedledee are doing fine. There are some lovely little shoots just aching to be picked and dried and smoked. It’s a beautiful thing. The plants smile at me temptingly.

  “No, no, stop it. Not yet,” I tell them. I cross the room and pick up the crumpled letter on the floor instead. I uncrumple it slowly and read again.

  The woman’s barking mad. What century does she think she’s living in? I have obviously questioned the veracity of this information . . . no longer in the first flush of youth. Is she having a laugh? Can it be true that she’s my actual grandmother? She seems to have done her research.

  I’ve never made any attempt to find my dad. He’s not worth the effort. I can’t remember anything about him, but I do know he didn’t give a monkey’s bum-hair about myself and my mother. Poor Mum. That nightmare . . . It sickens me and drags me down all the time.

  I stand like an idiot staring at the letter from Veronica McCreedy. Family, you know; it’s supposed to be a good thing, isn’t it? But complicated. I’m already a mess. And at twenty-seven, suddenly to be granted an incredibly formal and quite likely addle-headed granny—is it seriously going to help that much? I imagine not.

  Still, I’m a tad curious. And you know what it’s like with curiosity. It’s like this worm that keeps nibbling away at you. It just keeps nibbling and nibbling until you can’t help but give way.

  What’s the worst that can happen?

  Veronica McCreedy hasn’t thought to give me an e-mail address or phone number, so if I reply I�
�ll have to send it snail mail. I haven’t got writing paper, but there’s a jotter pad somewhere, I think. Yes, it’s by the pile of books and mags, with a screwdriver on top of it. I put the screwdriver in my jacket pocket, then grab a pen and write a note. Brief and to the point:

  OK. When do you want to meet? I’m free next week. Any day but Monday.

  I add my new address and phone number at the top. If she’s fully with it she’ll notice. If not, who cares, really?

  I know it’s rude to write to her like that, but I’m actually pretty peed off with the woman. It would have been nice if she’d contacted me a bit sooner in life when I was, like, six years old and in desperate need of an adult to look after me. It might have saved a lot of people a lot of aggro.

  I’ll go out, get this reply in the post then pop to The Harp and reward myself with a beer. Maybe I’ll give Gav a call. He could meet me there. I think I owe him one. His mum died a few months ago and one of his kids is ill and he’s got me as an employee. He definitely could do with a pint or two.

  The thought of a pint or two puts a spring in my step. I hurtle down the stairs again, the letter in my jeans back pocket. Outside the air feels damp and gray. I jog down the street. Traffic booms past. I’m not thinking of much apart from beer as I go, but no sooner have I put the note through the postbox than I start to feel bad about being so blunt to Granny Veronica. She’s an old woman, after all. She’s probably fragile. It wasn’t cool of me to come on all terse like that, even if her letter was bizarre.