Patrick
LOCKET ISLAND
I’m here.
Me, Patrick. Here, Antarctica. Unbelievable.
It was quite a journey. I managed to get a last-minute flight, but it was squashed and boring and seemed to go on for-fricking-ever. The last bit, though, the bit by ship, was epic. All those floating icebergs, all different shapes and sizes. Some were like blobs of cream cheese, some were like wedges of white bread. Some were sharp as teeth, some grained and splintered like broken glass catching flashes of sunlight. The wildlife was crazy, too. Seals slouched on the rocks, massive birds wheeling overhead, penguins shooting in and out of the water or standing in troops along the edges. Giant humpback whales one time, too. Still pinching myself.
And now I’m at this field base thing. Granny V is hanging in there, thank God. It’s miserable seeing her like this. She’s sort of acknowledged my presence through her eyes, but she can’t speak or anything. I don’t know if she recognizes me or not. Hard to say.
I’ve found out some more about what happened from the scientists. She snuck out on her own, they said—something they’d never have let her do if they’d known about it, especially seeing as a blizzard was in the offing. Not your massive mow-everything-over-in-its-path type blizzard that you sometimes get out here, but pretty bad. Bad enough that they were majorly panicked and rushed out at once with their first aid kits. Bad enough that when they found her, slumped on the ground, they were worried they wouldn’t get her back to the base alive. Bad enough that the helicopter plus medic couldn’t come out for another four hours.
They did get her back to base, though, and did a good job keeping her warm and stuff. The doc, when he finally got here, diagnosed her with hypothermia and a lung infection. She was given a massive shot of penicillin and prescribed antibiotics. There was talk of trying to fly her back to a hospital in Argentina, but she screamed when they tried to move her. The doc then decided it was better to leave her to rest. Implying the RIP type of rest? He asked them to try and contact Granny’s family anyway. So here I am.
I bet those scientists are miffed. First, they get an eighty-six-year-old who’s spicy as a vindaloo and stubborn as a wild goat. Next, she goes and gets herself dangerously ill. Then, on the ship that should have taken her back, they have me arriving instead—looniest grandson on the planet.
Mind you, they’re a bit of an odd bunch themselves, these three snow-musketeers. In order of how much I like them, they are Terry, Dietrich and Mike. Terry is a cutie in specs. Straggly blond hair tucked into her hood. Little dimples every time she smiles. Sparky eyes, too.
“Oh, I thought, being a Terry, that you were a bloke,” I said first thing when she introduced herself.
“Everyone does,” she said with her dimply smile. “Well, I might as well be,” she added, more to herself than to me. Not self-pitying, just kind of matter-of-fact. No way could you mistake her for a bloke looking at her, though. Man, no!
“I’m so, so sorry about your grandmother,” she said. All heartfelt. Blushing as if it was her fault.
“No worries,” I said. That sounded like I didn’t care, so I added, “She’s a strong woman. Who knows, maybe she’ll be hunky-dory.” That sounded flippant, so I said, “You’ve done great. Thanks for looking after her!” That sounded inane, but I couldn’t think what else to say so I shut up.
After we’d looked in on Granny, they all showed me round their place together, the field camp building. It’s quite big, actually; bigger on the inside than it looks from the outside at least. TARDIS-like. They’ve got a computer room (more of a cupboard, really) and a sort of loo-cum-washroom and a kitchen that adjoins a room they call the lounge, which suggests luxury but it isn’t. And—pretty amazing when you think of it—a bedroom each. There’s even a bedroom for me. Well, it used to be a store room, but they’ve cleared it out and found me a camp bed. Man, I’m glad I don’t have to share a room with Granny. Granny’s actually got a roommate, anyway.
Weirdly, there’s this baby penguin, the oddest, cutest little creature you’ve ever seen, a little fluff ball with big feet and a massive personality. They call him Pip. Apparently, he’s been living at the field center for a week and a half, now. The scientists accept his presence as if it’s completely the norm. I have to say I’m finding it all a bit surreal. It’s hard to get my head around the way they live.
“What made you come out here in the first place?” I asked Dietrich over a strong coffee after I’d settled in a bit. Dietrich is the boss man, but nice with it. Kind of reminds me of Gav, but hairier and more foreign. (Mike is the I-want-to-be-the-boss man. Not nice with it. Doesn’t remind me of anyone much. A younger Piers Morgan, maybe?)
Dietrich stroked his beard as he considered the answer to my question. “Ah, you know. The thrill of scientific discovery. Fascination in the extremes of life, the way creatures can function on this level. Then there’s the possibility of helping wildlife and the environment in some small way . . .”
“And you?” I asked Mike. Mike took a prolonged sip of coffee and eyed me, calculating his response.
“I am uniquely qualified for this job,” he said. “It would be a waste not to make use of those skills.” Modest guy (not).
Terry rolled her eyes and gave an impetuous little sigh.
“How about you, Terry?” I asked. “Why did you come out to Locket Island?”
“My dream job. I just love penguins,” she said simply, pushing her glasses up her nose.
I spent the rest of the afternoon at Granny V’s bedside. I was thinking about the diaries and how I should say something soon, just in case she up and died all of a sudden without warning. I’ve had time to think about it during the journey, but the words just don’t come. Gav would know what to say, and he’d say it in exactly the right way, but I’m crap at that sort of thing. So I just sat there like an idiot. Maybe the fact I took the trouble to come out here is enough to make her feel vaguely better in some way. I’m hoping so.
Over dinner, Mike asked me a barrage of questions:
“So, Patrick, what do you do for a living?”
I wriggled in my chair. I get that Mike doesn’t like me much. Terry’s told me he’s a bit resistant to anyone new upsetting the balance of the field camp. He’s only just got used to Veronica, and now he’s having to deal with yours truly. Well, tough, mate!
“I work at a bike shop on Mondays and I get unemployment,” I told him.
“Unemployment? So the shop is your only job?”
“You got it.”
“Do you get your flat paid for by the state, then?”
How to make Patrick feel uncomfortable in one easy step.
“Mike!” Terry cried. “Don’t be so rude!”
Mike turned his fork around, weaving spaghetti onto it with precision. “Sorry, I’m not meaning to be rude. I’m just curious about our newest visitor. We don’t exactly get many.”
“It’s covered by the benefit, yes,” I inform him.
“You don’t have a family or wife to support, I presume?”
“Nope.”
Mike curled his lip. I suppose it was a sort of smile. “So what do you do all day in this bedsit of yours?”
“Oh, this and that. Telly. Mags. Plant care. Nothing to write home about.”
After the meal, Terry came with me back to Veronica’s room.
“Sorry about the inquest,” she whispered in my ear.
I grinned. “That Mike—bit uptight, isn’t he?”
“Oh, he can come across that way, but he’s all right once you get to know him.”
“Are you two together?”
“God, no! He’s got a girlfriend back in London. She’s quite high-powered, does stuff to do with organizing conferences for the corporate world, I think.”
“Oh,” I said. “I’m surprised. I thought he was rather attached to you.”
She looked amused. “Mike? Attached to me? Don’t be silly!”
“Well, he can’t seem to stop looking at you.”
She made a face of total disbelief and disappeared quickly into Veronica’s room. I followed. Pip the Penguin was in his suitcase bed on the floor. He looked up at us. He seemed to register who we were and give his permission for us to tend to the patient, then laid his head back down.
Granny looked just the same as earlier, lying on her back, completely stationary. Her skin was covered in blotches and sagging all over the place. Her hair was sticking out in wisps over the pillow. She had gray circles round her eyes. Man, she looked sick as a dog.
Terry put her hand on Granny’s forehead. “She’s hot now. Let’s see if we can get some water down her. Could you . . . ?”
I tucked my arm behind Granny’s head and carefully levered her up. I realized it was the first time I’d ever touched her. God, it felt sad, her being so fragile and everything. Her eyes flickered a little. My hand caught in something, a chain around her neck.
“What’s this?”
“Oh, it’s a locket she wears,” Terry answered. “I thought it might be uncomfortable for her and tried to take it off, but she hit out. She made it quite clear she wasn’t having any of it. I guess it must have some sentimental value.”
“I guess it must.” I didn’t let on that I’d read about it in her diaries.
Terry held the glass of water to Granny’s lips, and we watched her take a sip or two, a lump moving slowly down her throat. She made a slight movement as if to say that was enough. I laid her head slowly down on the pillow again and gave her hand a little squeeze. It may be my imagination (it was kind of hard to tell), but I think she squeezed back.
“There you are, Granny V,” I said. “Better now?” She didn’t answer, of course.
I wondered how much of this she was registering.
It’s not looking good. Not good at all.