Veronica
LOCKET ISLAND
Terry is all smiles.
“My last blog was retweeted eight hundred and forty-six times!”
Mike looks up from his notes and raises his eyebrows. “You don’t say?”
“I do say! It was that picture of Pip and Veronica with Great Expectations that did it. There’s a load of lovely comments, too.”
“Wow! Well done, Terry!” he exclaims with unusual verve and generosity of spirit.
“And well done, Pip and Veronica,” she replies, pointedly.
He nods in my direction by way of acknowledgment. I’ve finally made it to the lounge and am huddled up in a purple rug in my chair. It is evening and we’re all planning on watching a film together. One of the shelves bears a small collection of flat boxes that are apparently DVDs (I haven’t the faintest idea what that stands for). Terry has brought the computer screen in with her and deposited it on the table to be connected up to the DVD-playing thingamajig. Patrick is in the kitchen, preparing a “dinner-on-laps” for us all.
Dietrich, meanwhile, is playing tug-of-war with Pip at the other end of the room. The rope between them is Dietrich’s orange scarf. I’m not sure how this game started, but Pip, who absolutely will not let go, has one end clamped firmly in his beak. Whenever Dietrich (who is on his hands and knees) pulls at the other end, Pip’s head ducks forward and he skates wobblingly across the floor, flippers outstretched for balance. Then Dietrich lessens his grip and Pip hurriedly shuffles backward to gain the ground he’s lost. With the next tug from Dietrich, Pip decides to plump onto his tummy. Legs paddling frantically, he slithers forward, dragged by the scarf. It is taut, growing longer by the minute.
“All right, then, little lad. You win,” chuckles Dietrich, resigning the prize up to the victor. “Please don’t chew it to pieces, though.” Pip gives a little hoot of delight. He pulls the scarf into a corner, loop by loop, and busies himself with the task of dissecting it.
“What’s that you were saying about your blog, Terry?” Dietrich asks as he clambers to his feet.
“Big thumbs-up,” she answers. “Eight hundred and forty-six retweets.”
Terry has told me about Twitter and tweets and retweets, all of which seem singularly pointless to me.
“Mein Gott, that’s even better than when we had the Plight of Penguins coverage from Robert Saddlebow!”
“I know.” She emanates pride. “Lots of new followers, too! It could even be worth dropping hints about how the penguin project is struggling for funds.” The mood in the room immediately plummets several levels from jovial to somber. This happens whenever there’s a reference to the demise of their project. Terry has confided in me that, in her new role, she has applied to the Anglo-Antarctic Research Council for money but has come up against a brick wall. “What do you think, guys?”
Dietrich scratches his chin. “Well, we don’t want to come across as grasping.”
“Perhaps,” suggests Mike, “it would be best to put the emphasis on not just the Locket Island research but the fragile state of penguins—or even the planet—in general.” He turns toward me. I see passion smoldering in his eyes; see that, in spite of his cactus-like conduct, he really does care. “Did you know that we’re in the worst extinction period since the dinosaurs disappeared? Within a hundred years half of all living species could be gone.”
Approaching the hundred-year mark as I am, I find this an alarmingly short time span. I shan’t be around to witness the devastation, but still . . .
Half of all living species, gone. I’d thought that I, Veronica McCreedy, could make a difference, but I’ve begun to realize it will take more than one old woman and her legacy of a few million pounds to save the Adélies and their environment.
“In the next fifteen to forty years, masses of animals will already be extinct,” Mike continues. “Polar bears, chimpanzees, elephants, snow leopards, tigers . . . the list goes on.”
“Good God!” I exclaim. Such is my horror that I am feeling quite unwell again.
“Such a sad legacy we’re leaving for the next generation,” comments Dietrich. I know he’s thinking of his own children. His eyes look misty.
“So what’s the use of all this Twitter business?” I ask Terry. “What on earth can those tweety people do?” I very much doubt that they would donate millions to conservation charities, even if, in some parallel universe that bears no resemblance to ours, they wanted to.
She’s looking pensive. “Perhaps I could blog more about that. I could throw in tips about how people might change their lifestyles: what they buy, what they eat, the industries they support, the way they travel. Every little bit helps.”
I wonder if the situation is not irremediable? In the wartime, everyone made sacrifices for the common good. It could be done again if only enough people cared sufficiently.
I pick up litter with my tongs on the Ayrshire coast, but I certainly do not give enough thought to these things. I must strive to get into better habits. When I arrive home, I shall tell Eileen my money is not to be spent on ginger thins from Kilmarnock stores anymore, although I am fond of them. Ginger thins, I recall, come in a cardboard box coated in plastic. Within that they are in a molded plastic tray that is wrapped in a further layer of plastic. No doubt they have also unnecessarily been transported halfway across the globe. I am quite willing to sacrifice ginger thins for the benefit of the planet.
“The most terrifying threat to nature—and to all of us—is climate change,” Mike asserts. “We have to put pressure on the politicians, because the only thing they worry about is the results of the next election. We must tell them over and over that our world is important to us.”
It certainly is.
“What could possibly be more important?” asks Terry with fervor.
“More important than what?” It’s Patrick, staggering into the room with a tray laden with wine bottles, cheese sticks, multicolored dips and mini pizzas.
“Luxury!” exclaims Terry, suddenly all bright and breezy again. I’m not sure if she’s answering the question or admiring the fare.
Mike shoots a look across at her that I can’t quite interpret. He seems to be struggling with something. Then he stares at Patrick, perusing every inch of his face.
“What? What have I done?” asks my grandson. He plonks the tray on the table and looks questioningly round at us all. His eyes settle on Terry.
She pushes her glasses up her nose and becomes a little pinker. She focuses on the food. “You’ve only gone and spoiled us again, Patrick!”
“Looks great,” says Dietrich. “And smells great. Let’s get started. I can hear my tummy rumbling.”
Patrick passes round the cheese sticks. I twirl mine into a greenish creamy mixture and nibble on it. It is rather toothsome.
“So, which film have you decided on?” he asks.
“We haven’t. We got distracted,” answers Terry. “What do you fancy? We’ve seen them all before, so you and Veronica should decide.”
Patrick scans the shelf and reads a few titles out. “The Return of the Pink Panther. Quantum of Solace. Mission: Impossible. The Green Mile . . .”
I prick up my ears. “That last one sounds nice.”
“I don’t think you’d like it, Granny. It’s kind of . . . well, not nice. How about . . .” he considers . . . “Vanity Fair?”
“I should think that will do very well.”
The film is indeed thoroughly enjoyable, at least as far as I am concerned. There is much to be savored in a good costume drama, and the characters interest me. I notice Patrick shuffling in his chair and sighing a bit, however, and realize he has chosen it in view of my preferences, not his own.
I have managed a good breakfast today, including porridge and toast. The remains are by the bed on a tray. Now I am assailed by exhaustion again and in need of a nap. Patrick and Terry are by the door of the bedroom, talking in hushed tones.
“Shall we take Pip out again, then?” I hear Terry ask softly. “I think he’s getting restless.”
“Sounds like a good idea. Should we wake Granny, though?”
They’re standing close together. I can tell by their voices.
I fight off sleep in order to listen.
“No,” answers Terry. “She’ll only put herself through the stress of trying to come with us, and there’s no way that’s possible yet. Best if we just slip out.”
“But we’d better leave her a note, otherwise she’ll freak out to find Pip gone.”
“You’re right. Good plan.”
Patrick and Terry are getting on well. Could there be a whiff of romance in the air? Patrick doesn’t give his feelings away, but I can discern a growing eagerness, like a tree beginning to leaf in the early warmth of spring. Terry cares for him, too, that’s obvious—but then Terry cares for everyone. She treats everyone as if they are special. She is quite the opposite of me.
I hear Patrick walk across to the wastepaper basket and lift Pip out. “C’mon then, little blighter. You’re coming with us today!” Terry and Patrick make cooing noises. I know they’re caressing the chick, stroking his belly and chin. He’ll be loving every moment of it. I slyly lift an eyelid to peek at them. They’re like two parents fussing over a newborn baby.
I mull it over as they take Pip and move outside, closing the door quietly behind them. Patrick and Terry. Terry and Patrick. A quirky little duo. Pip and I have created a close connection between them. The more I ponder it, the more I am convinced of it: Patrick and Terry go together like a cup and saucer.
I’m hazy about how much time has passed. The calendar tells me it is still January. I know I’ve now missed the date I was originally booked for my journey back to Britain. There has been talk of another ship arriving in a week’s time, and, as I am significantly recovered (they had a phone consultation with the doctor and he agreed), Patrick and I are supposed to depart on it. This is most unfortunate in view of the Patrick-and-Terry possibilities, which will simply not have time to come to fruition. There is no way Patrick will be permitted to prolong his visit, even if he wants to. He is neither a scientist nor a millionaire.
Terry and Patrick will inevitably be ripped apart.
That is exactly the kind of mean trick that Fate likes to play. I know, through long and bitter experience, how much strength is required to resist Fate when it is engaged in such brutality.
Patrick and Terry, however, are both too young and feebleminded to realize this or do anything about it.