Veronica
LOCKET ISLAND
The charms of death are manifold. No more pain. No more stress. No more memories. No more having to make decisions. “’Tis a consummation,” as Hamlet said (you will observe I remember with some accuracy my Shakespeare from my schooldays), “devoutly to be wished. To die. To sleep.” It is rather appealing. Relaxing. And there’s the added bonus of no more pain—have I said that already?
Because at this moment there is pain, intense and merciless. It seeps in and out of my body’s pores, claws at my lungs and sears into every pocket of my heart like burning acid. I sincerely hope death will arrive soon.
My Antarctic companions will have a job getting my body back to Ayrshire for a decent burial. Or perhaps they won’t bother. It may be that I’ll get buried here under the snow. It may be that troops of penguins will wander over my grave. In their inimitable penguin way, they’ll ignore my decaying presence and get on with the business of fornication, reproduction and defecation. They will themselves die around me in huge numbers. My soul can rise up and mingle with theirs. This is, of course, assuming I have a soul (which is debatable) and they have souls (which is also improbable).
I take a quick backward glance at my life. At this stage there are supposed to be profound revelations, are there not? They don’t seem to be materializing at all. My history imparts no great wisdom, no last words fine enough to go down for posterity. I can only think: Well, what was that all about?
Patrick is here, Patrick my grandson, a large, ungainly presence at my bedside. He’s said “Hello, Granny” to me but very little else. I couldn’t reply, but I managed to flicker my eyelids to let him know I was aware of him. He seems incredibly gauche. He’s sitting on a chair by the bed, holding something. I think it’s a newspaper or magazine; it rattles in that sort of way. He sighs a lot, too.
I am baffled that he came. He must know I’m too ill to make any inheritance arrangements now.
After a long period of silence I hear somebody else coming into the room.
“Are you two all right?”
Terry’s voice is light and warm, designed to be comforting. My grandson’s answer comes quickly. “Yes. Fine, just, y’know . . . quiet.”
“Pip’s been with me for the last hour, watching me do some tidying, but I’ve brought him back in for a bit. I just felt Veronica might like him here. She finds his presence soothing, I think. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Um. No. No. He’s very cute.”
“I’ll just shake out his bedding. Can you hold him for a sec?”
“Er—”
There’s a slight scuffling sound then an “Ow!” from Patrick.
“Maybe not,” says Terry. “He doesn’t know you yet. Hang on a mo. If I hold him and you just stroke him gently, like this.”
“Are you sure he won’t go for me again? That beak is sharp!”
“You just scared him because you were grabby. See? He’s happy now. He goes all gooey when his neck is stroked. Don’t you, Pip?”
A brief pause and then she chuckles. “There, he really likes you now.”
I hear Pip’s little cheep and sense he’s asking to be put down.
“We’ll let him wander around a little, shall we?”
“Won’t he make a mess on the floor?”
“Nah. If he does I’ll clear it up in no time. Not a problem.”
“Not, well . . . unhygienic or anything?”
“Well, I’d say if he makes Veronica happy, he should visit as often as he likes, don’t you think?”
“Yup. You’re right. Um, Terry, yes. Quite right.”
Patrick’s voice sounds abashed. You’d think he’d never met a young woman holding a baby penguin before.
Terry speaks again. “Could you keep an eye on him for a few minutes? I’m going to get myself a cuppa. Would you like one?”
“Oh, er, yes. Cool. Thanks.”
I sense him sitting down again and hear a few pages of the magazine turn. Then Terry’s footsteps at the door.
“Here we go. Tea for us. And I’ve brought this for Pip. It’s his suppertime.”
A strong smell of fish permeates the room along with various clacking, cheeping and sucking noises.
Penguin feeding in the presence of a dying eighty-six-year-old. If the dying one wasn’t me, I’d laugh out loud.