How the Penguins Saved Veronica Read online

  I wonder if she’ll respond. Part of me reckons she will. Part of me reckons she won’t.

  I start thinking (OK, maybe hoping) that Granny Veronica might be a sweet old biddy. I can picture her, all plump and rosy cheeked and vanilla scented. She’ll have a glint in her eye and a bright, girlish laugh. Maybe she’ll speak with a soft Scottish lilt. She’ll bring me a homemade apple cake wrapped in a checked cloth.

  As I stand at the bar of The Harp with my first beer (I’ll call Gav in a mo), I’m getting into the idea. I’m even hatching a plan. I know what I’ll do: I’ll make a cake when Granny Veronica comes. Cake is cool. I can totally do cake. Cake making could be the thing Granny and I have in common. We can bond over it. We’ll compare recipes. And she’ll tell me I’ve inherited her eyes and nose and her fondness for almond essence. And I’ll confide in her about Lynette. And she’ll be all sweet and sympathetic and grandmotherly. Sorted.

  Granny’s going to totally adore me.

  • 6 •

  Patrick

  BOLTON

  I haven’t a clue why, but I’ve woken up feeling better. I’m fizzing with new life and determination. I spring out of bed, scoop up the dirty clothes off the floor and push them into a plastic bag. There aren’t any clean clothes left, but I pull on my old Gorillaz T-shirt and my jeans with the ripped knees—they’re marginally less stinky than the rest. God, I’ve let things go. It’s pitiful. Time to sort myself out. I stick my nose in the fridge, but there’s nothing in there except half a pint of sour milk. I’ll have to go without breakfast.

  I launch myself out into the communal hallway, down the stairs and out the front.

  I’m in top gear. The traffic hasn’t got busy yet, and there’s none of the bad-tempered honking of horns you usually get here. The sun’s dazzling today, and the leaves on all the trees look floodlit. Nice.

  This is the start of a new life, a single but way more together new me. Lynette was right about one thing. If you don’t look after your health, man, everything falls apart. I take deep breaths as I jog along the road, through the park then down the slope till I reach Tesco. I’m going to enjoy this.

  * * *

  —

  The contents of my trolley: avocados, dates, shiitake and brown mushrooms, leafy salad, a lean cut of lamb, fresh mint, potatoes, apples, sunflower seed bread, quinoa and (OK, I’m not an angel) my reward for it all: two six-packs of lager. I use my credit card, trying not to wince at the cost. If I’m lucky, my next benefit will be just in time.

  I stop off at the newsagent’s on my way home and get distracted flipping through mags. Then realize I’ve stayed too long and the meat might have gone off. I dash back homeward, my shopping bags banging against my legs. Up the stairs two at a time.

  I realize I have voice mail. I listen to the message as I put the shopping in the fridge.

  “Good morning, Patrick. This is Veronica McCreedy.” The voice doesn’t have a Scottish lilt. It’s very English. Clear-cut and prissy. “I am just ringing to inform you that I am now at Glasgow Central. I am due to arrive at Bolton at 11:17 and, assuming I can get a taxi without delay, I should be at your house at around twelve noon.”

  Nothing else. Just that. Hell’s bells!

  She might have given me a bit more notice. I glance at my watch. It’s nearly ten now. And I haven’t got the ingredients for the lemon polenta cake. I’m starving and a whole load less buzzy and keen than I was first thing. Still, if I’m about to meet my one living relative, I’d better get that cake made. Everything seems to hang on the cake. Cake might be my one chance to hit it off with this new granny of mine.

  I zoom out again, banging the door behind me. All the way back along the street (the traffic is nightmarish now, and the cars are in crazy honking mode), back through the park and down the slope to the supermarket. Hot and sweaty. I can definitely smell myself now and it’s not good.

  I charge round, grabbing polenta, golden castor sugar, lemons and that. I pick the shortest queue at checkout but (just my luck) end up with the slowest checkout assistant in the universe.

  “Beautiful morning, isn’t it, love?” she says, holding my bag of lemons in midair rather than scanning it. She’s one of those people who can’t talk and act at the same time.

  I grunt and look at the lemons pointedly.

  “They say it’s going to rain this afternoon, though. Best make the most of it while you can.”

  “Yup.”

  “Polenta! I’ve often wondered about that.”

  “Mmmm.”

  Eventually, we get through my six items. I’m about to stick my credit card in the machine when she stops me, waving a frantic hand in my face.

  “You’ve forgotten your club card!”

  “No, I haven’t!” I tell her.

  “You mean . . . so you don’t actually have a club card?”

  “You got it.”

  “Oh! Can I interest you in getting a card? They’re very good, you know. You get points on your shopping every time, then you get money back on some items. It soon mounts up.”

  “Not now, sorry. I’ve got to dash.”

  She pulls a face as if I’m the one who’s being difficult and then (God help us!) slows down even more.

  “Here’s your receipt and here’s your token,” she tells me, pressing a round plastic disk into my hand. “Just pop it in one of the charity boxes on your way out.”

  I duly post the plastic disk into the first charity box without reading which local PTA group or garden club it will go to. And at last I’m free to get back home and make the goddamned cake. I pant up the slope, swerving in jaggy patterns to overtake people on the pavement. They’re all such bloody slow coaches.

  But, hang on a mo, what’s this? Two people on the pavement just ahead of me, wound around each other. The man with a great, square head and huge shoulders, the back of his neck deeply tanned. The woman as thin as a whippet. Designer jeans and a crisply ironed top. A perfect cut of Cleopatra hair. It’s her. It’s Lynette.

  Straightaway there’s this massive earthquake right inside my guts. It’s like all my organs and intestines have suddenly decided to turn upside down and tie themselves in knots. My head screams. My feet stop pelting along the road. I’m stuck there, just stuck on the pavement gawping like an idiot.

  Lynette! Lynette Lynette Lynette. All over him. The fricking builder.

  I stare until their back views disappear down the far end of the street.

  Man, I’m in need of a joint. I leg it back to the bedsit, throw the shopping on the floor and reach for my rollies. Stuff them with dope and light them quick. Take deep drags and breathe the smoke out into the room. My hands are still shaking. Ash drops from the end of the joint onto the carpet.

  There’s a ring at the bell. Makes me jump. Lynette?

  No, of course not. It’ll be Veronica bloody McCreedy.

  She’s more than twenty minutes early. I don’t believe in early. Lynette reckoned you should be early for everything, but c’mon . . . it’s cool to be late. It gives people a chance to get ready for you. Twenty minutes early; that’s pretty much an insult.

  I’m still shaking like jelly, and I’m in no mood for small talk. What kind of a person is this McCreedy woman anyway, to give up her own son? I mean . . .

  The bell rings again. I glance out of the window, just in time to see a taxi driving away. A woman is standing by the front door. Can’t see much of her from here though, just the top of her head and a bit of white hair. A purple clip file and a large scarlet handbag.

  I guess I can’t just leave her standing there, can I? She’s an old woman.

  I go down and open the door. She looks me up and down. Me: spliff in hand, ripped jeans, crumpled T-shirt, hair a mess, face unshaven and my whole body reeking like a pig shed. Her: all dressed up smart in a starchy jacket and pleated skirt. Not quite twin
set and pearls, but almost. Her puckered lips pasted with vivid red lipstick.

  “Patrick?”

  “Yup, that’s me.”

  I guess you can’t blame her for that look of horror. I almost feel sorry for her. I must be several rungs below the bottom of her worst expectations.

  “Come on up.” I can’t manage a smile. She follows me upstairs, her eyes taking in the battered banister and stained eighties wallpaper. I push open the door to the bedsit and wave her in.

  “So this is where you live, is it?” Her voice is dripping with disapproval. The bag of dirty clothes has toppled over and emptied itself all over the floor again. The bed’s unmade. The dope plants are there by the window in plain view. But do I care? No. All I can think about is Lynette and the builder right now. There’s no way I’m going to pretend I’m something I’m not. Or make out I’m pleased that Veronica McCreedy is here.

  I blow out a slow lungful of smoke. “Do sit down.”

  She removes a pair of underpants from the one armchair and lowers herself cautiously into it. She’s clutching that expensive-looking handbag, the sort the queen always has, scarlet and shiny. Apart from her ruby lipstick, she looks much the same as other old people look. You know: white hair, hollow cheeks, sunken eyes. Family resemblance? Maybe something about the bone structure, but hard to say. I reckon not.

  I’m in such a bad way myself I’m almost relieved to note she isn’t a sweet old biddy at all. She’s the opposite. She’s what Lynette used to call a “trout.” Stiff, stuffy, formal. And no, she hasn’t brought me cake. Hasn’t brought me anything except a scowl.

  TERRY’S PENGUIN BLOG

  10 November 2012

  Survival is a tricky business. The creatures of the Antarctic have each evolved ways of coping with the hostile conditions. Antarctic petrels produce a special stomach oil: an energy-rich food source during long flights, it’s also a defense mechanism that they spray out of their mouths into the face of their predators. A tough hide is also necessary in most cases. Leopard seals have thick layers of blubber to protect them from the extreme cold. Penguins trap a layer of air under their feathers to keep them warm underwater.

  Penguins must also manage for long periods without food. In the Antarctic winter, Emperor males survive an unbelievable four months without eating, keeping their eggs warmly balanced on their feet while the females stock up with food for the new chicks. Our own Adélies, much more sensibly, breed during November (the Antarctic springtime), when conditions are relatively easy. But they still have plenty of problems to contend with. Predators are plentiful. Ice and snow can be perilous. They need to be incredibly tough to survive.

  • 7 •

  Veronica

  BOLTON

  JUNE 2012

  I have done whatever I had to do in order to survive. If this has made me hard or vitriolic, then so be it. I am what I am.

  I must accept the fact that Patrick is what he is, too. But it is difficult to conceal my disappointment. I did not expect perfection. I did not expect affection, either. I know better than that. But this? I despair. It is yet another slap in the face from that cruel dictator commonly known as Fate.

  How is it possible that this disgraceful, smeary, drug-befuddled creature could be my own grandson? Doesn’t he know about the existence of soap and water? And his bedsit! I simply do not understand how anyone can live in this squalor. Even a rabbit would find it tiny. Even a rat would find it filthy.

  I deliberately didn’t give the boy much advance warning of my visit because I wanted to see how he truly lived. I’m already regretting my decision. He’s had a good few hours to tidy up in any case, yet he hasn’t made the slightest effort on my behalf. It appears he hasn’t been brought up to respect other people. No doubt his mother’s to blame.

  He turns his back on me entirely, stomps to the far end of the room and mumbles something I can’t catch. Then he comes back and stands in front of me. He’s smoking like a chimney. I have no idea what substance he is using to pollute the already fetid atmosphere and destroy both his lungs and his brain cells, but it certainly isn’t tobacco. I examine him as best I can through the layers of grime that besmirch his features. His face has a structure similar to my own, with slightly prominent cheekbones and a strong jawline. He is a large lad with olive skin and messy brown hair (too much of it at the top and too little of it at the sides). His eyes are dark, but apart from that I can’t see any resemblance to the man I once adored. A sinking sensation gathers in the pit of my stomach. I should have steeled myself for this.

  I steel myself now.

  “So you reckon you’re my granny?” No offer of tea after my long journey.

  I’m tempted to say that this has been a most inconvenient and inexplicable administrative error, and, in fact, no, I am not his grandmother after all; but I was brought up to be honest, and truthfulness has become a habit. “Yes, indeed,” I say. “It appears to be the case. I have printouts of certain documents.” I take them out of the clip file to show him. The druggy stench intensifies as he comes closer and bends to look. “Here is your birth record,” I tell him. “You will observe that your father’s name is entered as Joe Fuller. That is the name given to my son by his adoptive parents when they took him to live with them in Canada. Various other references also indicate that this is the same Joe Fuller. DNA tests can provide further proof if necessary, but I’ve been assured by legal experts that these references are one hundred percent reliable.”

  Patrick scarcely bothers to look, as if his long-lost family simply doesn’t matter to him. “I took my mum’s name,” he remarks. “My father didn’t hang around for long after I was born. Less than a week, in fact.”

  He seems to think I should apologize for this. I do not.

  “So are you going to tell me what happened?” he asks unpleasantly.

  “About your father?”

  “Yes, my father, the guy who deserted me and my mum. Your son. You said you were ‘estranged’ from him. How come?”

  I refuse to descend to his level of rudeness. I provide the briefest sketch of the facts. “I parted with your father when he was only a little baby, just a few months old. Sadly, I have never seen him since. It was impossible to track him down—until it was too late.”

  I tried so many times over the years. It was only in 1993 that I received any information, when that awful letter arrived at The Ballahays.

  Patrick gives a noise like a harrumph. “So when did he die?”

  “My son died in 1987.” The words drop from my mouth like stones.

  “Right.” He is unmoved. He goes to the window and comes back again, breathes a long line of putrid-smelling smoke into the air. “How did he die?”

  “He was a keen mountaineer,” I reply, tautly. “He went mountaineering in the Rockies and was tragically killed falling down into a gorge.”

  “Clever.”

  I wince at his insensitivity. I am starting to loathe this Patrick. I go on, nevertheless. “I never had any contact with the couple who adopted him. They were apparently unable to have children themselves. By the time of his accident they’d both passed away. A few years later some relatives of theirs—cousins, I believe—finally sorted through the family archives and discovered an old document that stated I was his birth mother. One of them, a woman living in Chicago, contacted me by letter to let me know what had happened. This was back in 1993.” I’d given up all hope of ever seeing my son by then, but the last thing I’d expected was news of his death. The memory of that letter is still raw. “She had only met him on a handful of occasions, as they were far-flung geographically. She couldn’t give me nearly as much information as I’d hoped. He died unmarried and, she wrote—and I had no reason to doubt it—childless.”

  Patrick breathes smoke in and out again. His expression is inscrutable. “But now you say he was my dad.”

  “Ye
s.” I know I’m glaring at him with ice-cold eyes. Rarely have I experienced such bitter disappointment. “Recently, it occurred to me that this cousin might have been wrong in her assumptions. I decided it was worth delving a little further—just to be one hundred percent sure my son didn’t leave any offspring. And, to my utmost astonishment, the agency uncovered all this.”

  “And nobody over there knew about me?”

  “It seems not. As you say, he left England again soon after your birth.”

  My son, the tiny baby who used to wave his miniature fingers in the air, trying to clutch at my loose curls of hair; who cuddled into my lap and gazed up at me while I read to him . . . he became a man; he produced his own son. Did he search for me when he was in this country all those years ago? Or perhaps he didn’t even know I existed? The cousin hadn’t known he was adopted, so it’s possible he didn’t even know himself. When we parted he was too young to remember me, and his Canadian parents might never have seen fit to enlighten him. I don’t know, and it seems the man in front of me, my far-from-delightful grandson, knows nothing, either. So many questions remain unanswered.

  Patrick grunts. “Seems like he conveniently forgot all about Mum and me.”

  Who can say if he forgot? It does appear that he severed any contact with his partner and child. I have no idea why a man would do this. I assume my son had his reasons. Again and again throughout history men have deserted their women and babies. No doubt they’ll continue to do so as long as there is life on this planet.

  I can see Patrick’s brain trying to grasp it all. I wish he’d sit down. He looks strained and hostile. He runs his fingers through his hair with one hand, still holding the cigarette in the other.

  “So did you find out anything else about his life?”

  “Yes, but only a little, from the cousin.” I tick off the points I’m prepared to tell him. “He spent most of his life in Canada. He liked to do dangerous things such as skiing and parachuting as well as the mountaineering. He traveled a lot. He came to England for a brief spell in his early forties. During this time he must have met your mother, and you were born soon after.”