Patrick
BOLTON
I got an e-mail from those Antarctica penguin people today. Some guy called Terry saying he thought I’d like to know Veronica is all right and sending me a link to a blog. After breakfast I logged on to have a look. Straight up there was a photo of Granny V, and I have to say I was fricking flabbergasted. In the photo she was smiling, actually smiling! She looked ecstatic, like she’d seen a throng of angels or something. But it wasn’t angels. It was penguins. A great mass of them all around her, a kind of ocean of stumpy black-and-white figures. And her, all togged up with a fluffy-hooded scarlet jacket, with her big, shiny handbag as well, all blazing reds against the snow. Blazing red lipstick to match. So you couldn’t miss that smile.
Clearly, Granny V likes penguins. Shedloads.
I grabbed a coffee and read the blog. “Take a look at this lady,” it said. That Terry guy sounded impressed. He almost made Granny V out to be a miracle worker. I guess she must be on her best behavior.
It’s funny. I keep pushing Granny V to the back of my mind, but she just keeps resurfacing again. That day she came to the flat, I was nowhere near ready for all this sudden long-lost relation stuff. I blame Lynette. The shock of her being wound around builder boy was the only thing in my head that day. There wasn’t space for anything else (timing, man; it’s fricking vital). But when I saw Granny at the airport, I wasn’t thinking of me-me-me quite so much, and I got this weird feeling, as if the first time we’d met I’d been missing something. Like her harshness was a kind of coat she wrapped tightly round herself so nobody could see what was underneath. Even Eileen.
I’ve missed a hell of a lot of Granny V’s life. Will I ever catch up with her properly? Is it too late? What is she like really, I mean really like, underneath all the war paint and stuffiness? What on earth possessed her to go all the way to Antarctica, to be with penguins?
I wonder more and more about my dad, too. Joe Fuller. He’s her son. He’s our missing link, the middle generation, the thing that cements us (like it or not) together—yet neither of us ever got the chance to know him at all. I’ve always had him down as a lump of slime because of what happened to Mum. But maybe he didn’t know what he was doing, maybe he had issues. You don’t know anything about other people really, do you? Even the ones you know well, you don’t really have much of an idea about what makes them tick.
Now, suddenly, I wish I knew more. Any info would be good. What he ate for breakfast, what he watched on telly, if he was into trivia, like me, or mechanical stuff, like me. He was a mountaineer, so I guess he must have been an adventurous kind of guy. Maybe he got that from Granny.
That family who adopted him, surely they must be able to fill in some details? The parents are dead, and there weren’t any brothers or sisters, but the cousin’s still alive, as far as I know, in Chicago. Maybe I can get in touch with her. Or maybe I can track down my dad’s mates. Assuming he had any.
I wander over to the window and stare out at the drainpipes.
Granny must be keen to know about her son, too, mustn’t she? She took the trouble to locate me, after all. But she’s not Internet savvy. I could help her. When she gets back from Antarctica, we should meet up and talk about it. I’m hungry for everything she knows, right from the moment she gave him up for adoption.
Why the hell did she go and do a thing like that? I didn’t get anywhere near to the bottom of it. Man, I wasn’t even halfway down; I was too busy pratting about on the surface. When Granny V gets back, things’ll be different. I’m going to get digging.
The phone is ringing when I get back from my jog. Panting like a dog from the last lap up the stairs, I pick up the receiver.
“Still nasty weather, isn’t it!” a voice says, as if we’re continuing a conversation we started earlier.
“Um, who is it?”
“Eileen Thompson. You know. We met at the airport.”
“Hi there, Eileen. What can I do you for?”
“Well, you see, I’ve just had an e-mail from them. Them in Antarctica. The Terry one, actually.”
“Oh yeah. Me, too. Did you see the blog?”
“Yes, yes, I did. Mrs. McCreedy looked very nice, didn’t she? Very smart, I thought.”
“Yes, very, er . . . colorful.” I pace the room, flapping cool air up my T-shirt with one hand, holding the phone to my ear with the other.
“But did Terry tell you the other thing?” she says.
“Which other thing, Eileen?”
“The other thing about Mrs. McCreedy. She’s been bitten by a penguin!”
“What?”
“Your grandmother. Bitten. By a penguin.”
“Righto.” I’m not sure if I’m meant to be worried. I have to admit I’m not that familiar with penguin bites. “It’s not fatal, I presume?”
“No, no, not at all! The Terry scientist says Mrs. McCreedy was rather put off by it, though, and nearly decided to come back home. But she’s OK about it now. And I had a brief note from Mrs. McCreedy herself as well, which was e-mailed to me via Terry.”
“This Terry bloke seems to be acting as Granny’s servant, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, I suppose he does. But I’m very relieved somebody’s looking after her. She can be a bit . . . well, you know. She’s not as young as she used to be.”
I smile. Eileen’s a gem.
There’s a minuscule pause down the line then an abrupt question: “Have you opened the box?”
Am I imagining it or is she hoping I have?
“The box? The one you sent? You told me Granny had said not to—so, no.”
“Ah yes. Just wondered. You see, I do worry about her, Patrick. She’s got used to having nobody much around her, except me, and she doesn’t, you know, let me in much. I mean, she lets me in to her house of course—she has to do that—but she never lets me in to what she’s thinking or feeling. Then there’s this thing I read in Doug’s Daily Mail yesterday . . .”
She pauses for dramatic effect. I think I’m meant to be impressed by her current affairs savviness. She definitely assumes I’m on total tenterhooks about what she’s going to tell me next.
“Go on,” I say.
“It was all about old people and loneliness.” Her voice becomes a confidential whisper. “It said what a bad thing that is, the not communicating. Wait a moment. I’ve got it here.” Another pause and the sound of pages turning. “Yes, here it is! ‘A new study . . . blah blah blah . . . confirms the heavy toll that loneliness can take on your health blah blah . . . Not sharing thoughts and opinions with others increases your risk of dementia by 40 percent.’ Forty percent!”
“Dementia?” I’m amazed. “Granny V seemed spot-on both the times I met her.”
“Oh yes. She is, she is! I didn’t mean to alarm you. Please, that’s not what I meant at all. But just sometimes there’s a . . . a little blip. A tiny little memory blip. And I wonder if she’s needing more in the way of family and friends, to stop her getting worse. That’s why I’m so very glad she’s got you now, Patrick. And the nice Terry man. And penguins.”