Veronica
LOCKET ISLAND
“You have been kind to me.”
“Don’t sound so surprised, Granny.”
I used to find the word “Granny” toe-curlingly dreadful, particularly when applied to myself, particularly by him. However, I’m becoming quite accustomed to it. The boy has been generous with his attentions and gentle in all his administrations.
“I confess to some degree of amazement,” I tell him.
I’m hunched up in bed, resting my shoulders and head on a mountain of pillows. Renewed health is surging through me. I’m still not up to much, of course, but it is an immense relief to breathe and eat properly once more. Patrick is on the chair beside me. He has just brought me tea. Terry is on the other side of the room, fixing a bright orange tag onto Pip’s flipper. Now that Pip has started to go out, it’s important we keep track of him. I’m desperately concerned about his safety. I have seen numerous penguins meet their deaths, and that first time I saw the chick dangling from the skua’s talons is seared into my memory. I couldn’t bear it if something should happen to our dear Pip now. I try to put the thought out of my head. It’s bad for my blood pressure.
“’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” That phrase has just reeled through my head. Where did it come from? I can’t think. It isn’t Hamlet.
When Pip is a little bigger, he will have to go and live among his fellow penguins. Terry has pointed out that we can’t carry on feeding him forever and it would be wrong to do so anyway. He is not one of us; he is a penguin. He must be allowed to fulfill his penguin potential. He must make a life for himself away from us humans. In due course, the whole colony will move seaward. The Adélies spend winter on the pack ice where the air temperature is higher than on land. They find cracks in the ice to fish through. It is something we humans cannot teach Pip to do. He must learn along with his compatriots.
I switch my attention back to my grandson. If I study Patrick’s face carefully, I can perceive a little something of Giovanni in those eyes.
“I will admit my first impressions of you were not good,” I inform him. “I was rather put off by your lack of cleanliness at the time. I am glad to note it has improved since.”
He bows his head in acknowledgment of this truth. “Much obliged.”
“But the main problem for me was your drug taking.” I’d like to know where I stand on this point. “You seemed to be smoking cannabis when I arrived at your bedsit. I presumed you had an addiction.” I haven’t noticed a trace of it since he arrived here, but it may be that he chooses to take his disgusting habit outside.
He considers. “Well, I guess I was semi-addicted, if you know what I mean. I’m OK now, in case you’re wondering. I just went back to dope because . . . sometimes things get to me. And at the time you decided to walk into my life, my girlfriend had just run off with another guy and life was pretty darn tough, Granny.”
“I see.” I take a sip of Darjeeling. I am impressed. He has made it exactly the correct color; neither too strong nor too weak.
I glance at Terry, who is gently pulling at Pip’s tag to make sure it’s attached firmly. She is half listening to the conversation at the same time.
“Since my arrival here I have reviewed my opinion of those who take cannabis,” I comment, “thanks to Terry.” Had I been offered such a drug at a certain point in my own life, I would doubtless have leaped at the chance. “Addiction is a serious business, but we are all vulnerable at times. I myself am addicted to good-quality tea.”
Patrick grins. “Well, that’s probably a much better addiction to have.”
Terry chips in. “Can any addiction be good, though?”
“I’m beginning to suspect that some aren’t so bad,” I answer. “For example, your own addiction, Terry.”
She raises her eyebrows in surprise. “What addiction?”
“Your addiction to penguins.”
“Well, I can’t deny it,” she acknowledges. “They do pretty much take up all my thoughts and energies.” She pulls Pip’s beak playfully. All three of us look at him with fondness. He sticks out the flipper with the new tag and waves it about a bit, testing if it still works. Then, quite satisfied, he folds his head over nonchalantly to the other side and starts preening.
Terry stands up. “Well, there we are. I’d better take him out to the colony now and introduce him to the other chicks.”
“Must you?” I cry. “So soon?”
“I’ll bring him back, of course, but it’s time to see how he gets on with his own species. We mustn’t let him grow up thinking he’s a human. And he’s big enough to come outside for a proper walk now.”
“Can I come, too?” asks Patrick, also standing.
“Of course.”
I start to struggle out of bed. “What are you doing, Granny?”
“Coming with you.”
“No, you’re not!” Patrick and Terry chant together.
“You stay here and keep warm,” Terry adds.
I start to protest but collapse back onto the bed. I’m physically incapable of a trip to the rookery at the moment, no matter how desperately I feel about it.
Patrick tucks the blanket around me, his big, gentle hands bringing some reassurance.
I reach out my own hand to Pip, who hops up straightaway and rubs himself against it.
“You will look after him, won’t you?” I urge, looking from Patrick to Terry and back again. “Stay close to him. Don’t let him near any skuas or seals. Or any aggressive adult penguins. And you’ll bring him straight home if he looks hungry or lonely or unhappy in any way?”
“Of course we will, Granny.”
“And I want you to bring him here the minute you get back, even if you think I’m asleep.”
I won’t be asleep. I shan’t sleep a wink for worrying.
“It’ll be fine, Veronica,” Terry insists. “Trust us.”
It looks as if I’m going to have to.
Is that a sound at the door? Are they back? I seize my hearing aid and wedge it in, twisting the volume up to maximum.
“. . . Like a mother seeing her child off to school for the first time.”
“Yes, bound to be tricky.”
“It’s probably my fault for letting her get so attached.”
“Don’t blame yourself. I know what Granny’s like. She can be totally—”
“Hullo!” I roar. “Is that you two? Is Pip with you?”
“Oh, hi, Veronica!” Terry calls back. “Yes, we’re just getting our boots off. Be with you in a minute. He’s—”
I hear a scurrying and Pip’s little face appears at my bedroom door.
“Pip!” I cry.
He shakes his flippers and waggles his head.
“You’re all right! You’re all right!” My cheeks are wet with tears. I am unable to stop their flow. “Oh, silly me, showing such weakness!” I declare crossly as Patrick and Terry come in.
“Weakness?” Terry echoes. “Nobody could call you weak, Veronica.” I drag my handkerchief out from under the pillow and dab my eyes furiously.
“It’s totally OK to cry, Granny,” Patrick asserts, scooping Pip up and placing him on the bedspread. “Crying has nothing to do with being weak.”
Terry nods. “I agree. It’s the opposite. Tears come when you’ve been too strong for much too long.”
“Never mind me,” I say tartly. “Would you be so kind as to give me a full report on Pip’s trip to the rookery?”
Pip was shy, at first, they tell me, and he stayed very close to their feet. But soon his curiosity needed satisfying and he edged toward a cluster of chicks who were a similar age to himself. They were playing tag together. He didn’t join in, but he watched the gang with fascination, edging closer and closer.
Terry takes out the camera and shows me a picture.
Terry chuckles. “He’s very wary of the adult penguins, but it’s a great start.”
“He’s a total hero,” added Patrick.
“Thank you for looking after him,” I say to them both, my voice slightly wobbly.
My grandson strokes Pip on the head. “It was our pleasure, Granny.”
Would you believe it, Patrick has mended the generator! According to Terry he went up the ladder to take a look at the wind turbine and came down muttering some gobbledygook about shafts, hubs and flywheels. Then, much to Mike’s chagrin, he helped himself to some scraps of broken fencing and old sledge runners and patched the thing up. We are back to our normal supply of electricity. This means that Dietrich can listen to as many CDs as he likes, Terry can use the computer as much as she likes and I can have as many cups of tea as I like once more. I feel better at the mere thought of it.
“Strange, is it not, that my grandson, who has no qualifications whatsoever, can manage to mend the generator while you, with all your scientific training, could not,” I pointed out to Mike.
“He’s surprised us,” Mike sulkily acknowledged. “But, in my defense, my skills are in biochemistry, Veronica, not mechanics.”
Bravo, Patrick!
I do wonder if there is something particular in the McCreedy genes: a spirit of enterprise, a need to push one’s personal boundaries. I have experienced such a need several times in my life; for example, in coming to Antarctica. From the little I know of my son’s life, I gather he experienced it, too. His adoptive cousin told me in her letter that Enzo (also known as Joe) was inclined to be stubborn and would never recognize his own limitations. He liked to stretch himself and loved wild places, which is why he became a mountaineer. Patrick has demonstrated a similar trait in coming out here and in climbing up ladders to fix things.
I confess, I do feel rather proud.
Now that I’m capable of conversing again, there is a matter I’d like to discuss with my grandson.
“Patrick, you say you don’t remember anything about your father?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. Nothing at all. You?”
“I remember changing his nappies.”
And I remember the feel of him, the warm feel of him, clinging to me with his tiny arms, my own darling little bundle of hope.
“I know you didn’t give him away. I know he was taken from you, without you having any say in the matter,” Patrick declares.
Well, I should have thought that was obvious. If I’d had any say in the matter, everything would have been very different indeed.
For a wild moment, I wonder whether to open my locket and show Patrick the wisp of hair from his father’s head, but I can’t do it. At least, not now. It would be too much. I content myself with the knowledge that Patrick has read my diaries. He knows I loved and treasured Enzo.
He knows a huge amount about me, in fact, and I know very little about him.
“Your mother . . . ?” I begin.
“Killed herself when I was six,” he says.
“Oh.”
I am so sorry to learn this. It is a tragedy indeed that anybody should go so far, especially when many others have their lives ripped away without the benefit of choice. And to leave a small boy alone in the world seems so wrong. But I realize my Enzo deserted the child Patrick, too. His own son. Why did he do that? Why?
“Do you remember when you were little if your mother ever talked about your father?” I ask.
“She never did. I can tell you this, though, Granny: I hated his guts! I blamed her death totally on him. Thought she did it because he’d left her in the lurch. But . . . I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently, and I’ve realized it could’ve been something else. It may have been—you know—the way she was. Depressed as hell. Looking back, I can see that. Maybe he gave it his best shot, but he just couldn’t deal with her erratic behavior—and that’s why he left.”
I look at this shabby boy before me. I am in a state of wonder. He is remarkably willing to give the benefit of the doubt. He is extraordinarily forgiving. He is undeniably kind.
“Maybe one day, Granny—and this is just a suggestion, tell me to get lost if you like—we could go to Canada together and find out more about my dad, about his life.”
“I should like that very much, Patrick. Yes, very much indeed.”