Veronica
LOCKET ISLAND
I am tired of it all and ready to go. “For who would bear the whips and scorns of time . . . The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to?”
Not me. Not anymore. Nobody could call my life a success. Why make the effort to hang on to it any longer?
And yet.
When a cannonball of a young penguin propels himself onto your prostrate body and stares into your face with glittering eyes, you stop whatever you are doing for a moment, even if what you are doing is dying.
His body is warm and small and rounded, horizontally positioned over the blankets, just heavy enough to weigh gently on my chest. Right over my heart.
The world has been wobbling wildly for some time. In this moment it steadies and comes to a standstill. The room looks sharper and brighter and incredibly defined, as if somebody has drawn round everything with a pen. My head is clear. Moreover, all my pain has disappeared. I feel positively light and carefree.
Pip. The baby bird is Pip; I know that without a shadow of doubt. Pip, my own beloved penguin. And the disheveled man who is looming just behind and above is Patrick, my own beloved grandson.
Beloved grandson? Have I gone completely crazy?
I must be hallucinating, because now I see great, fat tears coursing down the man’s face. I look at Pip again, seeking verification.
Is all that grief for me?
“Yes, that’s right,” Pip answers.
I’m sure he spoke. Or maybe he didn’t speak? No, there weren’t any actual words out loud. Perhaps he spoke with his eyes. Yes, I think that’s it. How very curious . . . I am beginning to realize a penguin’s eyes can tell you many things if only you are willing to listen.
Thoughts bubble up from my subconscious, but again, it seems as though they are transmitted to me through Pip. He is smiling with his whole body. “So you’re going to stay with us! You’re not going to die now, are you?”
“Aren’t I?” It seems rather a hasty assumption.
“No,” he replies without hesitation. “I hope not, anyway.”
I am flattered; tickled pink, in fact. “You hope not?” It is a rare gift to be able to communicate with a penguin like this; inaudibly, without moving my lips.
“Look at it this way,” he suggests. I am intrigued to hear what he has to say. “A while back you saved me,” he goes on, “from certain death. You decided my life was worthwhile even though I’m only a penguin. Now it’s only fair if you let me decide whether your life is worthwhile. And do you know what I think? It’s definitely worthwhile.”
It is rather nice to have a penguin tell you that.
“You’ve got a choice,” he continues, not moving his gaze but shuffling one flipper slightly so that it brushes against my cheek. “And I’m asking you nicely if you’ll do your best to recover. Because personally, I’d very much like you to stay alive.”
“You would?” I ask, bemused.
“Yes! And so would this here man, your beloved grandson, aka Patrick.”
“Still harping on about Patrick?”
“Isn’t that the point?”
I focus on Patrick. His eyes are still brimming with tears. I am very confused now about what is real and what is not real.
I transfer my gaze to Pip again. “See?” he says. “It’s perfectly possible for somebody to love you, even though you insist on making it difficult for them. You don’t have to be so alone.”
Am I imagining it or has a shaft of sunlight just fallen across the room?
“Please,” he says, “just live a little longer and you’ll see.”
He is fading now, becoming dim and blurry round the edges. The extraordinary episode seems to have ended. Reality has resumed its course, and I can feel pain flooding back through my veins. But those words keep reverberating in my head.
Live a little longer and you’ll see . . .