Veronica
THE BALLAHAYS
JULY 2012
I shall have to muster a quite extraordinary quantity of determination. But that is always the case if you want to achieve anything at all in life.
I remember when I was a child I expected hugely wonderful things to simply fall into my lap. Many people suffer from this illusion, I believe. They carry on expecting the wonderfulness to turn up round the next corner nearly the whole way through. In my case, however, that expectation died early. At a particular moment, about seventy years ago, all my dreams evaporated into thin air. Everything since then has been simply a marker of time. Life has been a trail of insignificant events, spooling uselessly along, forgotten the minute after they happened. Appointments with the doctor, dentist, optician, pediatrician. Standing in the queue at the supermarket. Instructing Eileen regarding laundry. Instructing Mr. Perkins regarding petunias. Sleeping. Reading. Crosswords. Flower arranging. Tea.
I have bothered to keep going merely out of habit. Yet those diaries have given me a sharp prod. They’ve reminded me of something I’d forgotten: my former spark. Ever since reading them, this inner voice has been taunting me. You used to be a human dynamo, it whispers. You used to throw yourself at things. You used to rise to any challenge. But have you actually done anything, anything at all of worth, in the last half a century?
I must try to do something before it’s too late. Not just something with my money but something with my life, whatever dregs are left of it. Naively, I had hoped that the discovery of a new family member would provide a solution on both counts. I was wrong.
I need to find an alternative; a mission, something that inspires me. There are, alas, few things on this planet that match that description.
One has presented itself recently, however. As I clean my teeth, I glance up from the basin. It is still there, admitting no doubt, spelled out in my own writing across the mirror.
“Why not?” I ask my reflection.
Veronica McCreedy looks back at me with fire in her eyes.
Eileen is wearing a hideous pink-and-white-checked overall. She has a distinctly bleachy smell.
“Did you want me to clean the bathroom mirror, Mrs. McCreedy?” She has come downstairs, it seems, specially to present me with this question. I am, at this moment, busy hunting for my reading glasses, which have gone missing again, as is their wont.
“Really, Eileen, need you ask?” I reply. “It is your job to clean whatever needs cleaning.”
“Yes, I know that, but there seems to be a message written there in brown pencil. I wasn’t sure if it was important. Something about a locket, an island, somebody called Adele and . . . and penguins?”
I do not like her tone. It is that half-concerned, half-amused voice that she uses when she suspects I might be finally succumbing to dementia.
“‘Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t,’” I quote. “That is from Hamlet, you know.”
“Yes, I’m sure it is, Mrs. McCreedy. But what about the writing on the mirror?”
“The writing on the mirror is merely a reminder,” I tell her. “Pen and paper are never at hand when one requires them, so I was using my ingenuity, as needs must.”
“A reminder?”
“Yes. Not that I am in the least likely to forget, of course. My memory is entirely reliable and one hundred percent intact.”
“So you keep saying,” she mutters.
I glare at her. “You may clean the rest of the mirror apart from the corner with the words written on it.”
“Right you are. So . . . so it’s a reminder of what? If you don’t mind me asking.” She is wearing her nosy expression.
I sigh. I do mind her asking, if truth be told, but unfortunately, I am going to have to take her into my confidence. Worse still, I am going to require her assistance.
I inform her that I am planning to take a trip to the South Shetlands.
“The Shetlands!” she said, giving an exaggerated shiver. “Goodness, Mrs. McCreedy! You are full of surprises. What a strange holiday destination! But at least you’ve decided on the South Shetlands. Not quite so cold as the north ones, I imagine.”
“No, Eileen.” I am going to have to explain it to her in words of one syllable. “The South Shetlands are a completely different group of islands, not the ones near Scotland.”
She is wearing the nonplussed expression now.
“They are in the Southern Hemisphere,” I inform her.
“Oh well, that’s all right then. They’ll be a lot more suitable, I should think.” She grins. “Nice and exotic. Full of golden beaches and palm trees, no doubt. I thought you’d gone crazy for a moment there, Mrs. McCreedy!”
She is still in need of elucidation. “The South Shetlands are in Antarctica,” I tell her.
It takes some time to convince her that I am serious, along with many assurances that, yes, I am absolutely in possession of my marbles.
When this Herculean task has been completed, I ask if she would be willing to use her computer know-how to send an e-mail to the field camp where Robert Saddlebow stayed on Locket Island.
“I believe you can find the correct address by means of a blog, if you use your googly whatsit?”
“Oh, I see. Yes, Mrs. McCreedy, quite likely I can. Websites do usually have a contact option. It should be possible, if you’re really sure that’s what you want.”
“Have you ever known me not to be sure about anything?”
“Well, no, Mrs. McCreedy, but . . .” She mumbles something I can’t catch. People nowadays never speak clearly enough. However, I do not ask her to repeat it. I feel fairly certain I am not thereby losing any great gems of wisdom.
Once we have located my glasses (they have somehow ended up on top of the fridge), I write down all the details on a piece of paper, because I have found this is the best way to convey precise instructions to Eileen. She knows I am absolutely in earnest whenever I do this.
My mind returns to the penguins. I have charged myself with an important and worthwhile undertaking. I am feeling rather pleased.