Veronica
LOCKET ISLAND
The charms of life are manifold, even for an eighty-six-year-old like me. If you will excuse my lecturing, I will expand a little: Yes, life brings pain and problems in droves (“battalions,” as Hamlet would say), but also, sometimes when you are on the very point of giving up, it delivers absolute delight. There may be surprises in the form of a grandson you suddenly discover you love, a group of scientists who care so much more than you thought, a girl who takes the trouble to understand. There may be revelations brought to you by a mass of stumpy, squalling birds. There may be new hope suddenly sprouting up in a heart that was convinced all humanity was bad, a heart that had grown sick of the world.
Life can be generous. It can heal the heart and whisper that it’s always possible to start again, never too late to make a difference. It asserts that there are many, many things worth living for. And one of those things—one of the most unexpectedly joyful things of all—is penguins.
We look out to sea. A great gray ship stands in the bay among the icebergs. My suitcases are gathered around me.
A phrase from Hamlet ripples through my head. I have probably not mentioned it before, but such is the strength of my memory that I can recall reams of passages from my childhood Shakespeare.
I murmur the words to myself. “‘This above all: to thine own self be true.’” Close on the heels of this phrase my father’s words come to me, the words that always made me take my litter-picking tongs when going out for a walk. There are three types of people in this world, Very. There are those who make the world worse, those who make no difference and those who make the world better. Be one who makes the world better, Very, if you can.
I remember his face as he said it, his warm smile and the smoke of his Woodbine making gentle wreaths around the kitchen. How I wish he and my mother had lived into old age, to guide me through the multifarious turmoils of life. How I long for them both, even now.
I turn away from the others with a lump in my throat and view the rugged features of Locket Island. Crags jut against acres of silky blue-gray sky. Gulls soar above the banks of snow and multicolored lichens. Meltwater streams glimmer and shimmer over the dark, volcanic rocks. I want to gather it all up into my mind, to take it with me, at least in my memory. I stand here and breathe for a moment.
I haven’t told Patrick that I’ve changed my mind about my legacy. I shall be making a will as soon as I arrive on the green shores of Scotland, but I shan’t be leaving my millions to the penguin project after all. I shall be leaving every penny to my grandson. The choice of how to use it lies with him. I shall always worry about our planet and the dreadful things humans do to it, but there is a limit to what money can do. Sometimes you have to let the heart dictate what happens.
I trust Patrick. And if he goes off the rails, he has Terry, who I trust even more. I may be wrong, but I have my suspicions that the Adélie penguins are going to benefit quite substantially anyway.
It is time to say goodbye. There are various little men arranged at different points in the journey to help me and my suitcases on and off ships and planes. My luggage is somewhat lighter than on the trip out. It now lacks the turquoise cardigan with gold buttons—that was donated toward a particularly good cause. It also lacks one scarlet handbag that was ruined beyond repair, and it is lighter in both soap and Darjeeling tea.
Pip is here with us. I can hardly bear to look at him.
“Are you quite sure you don’t want to stay out here in Antarctica with us, Granny?” Patrick asks.
I sense that the three scientists are making frantic signs at him behind my back, shaking their heads no doubt and drawing hands like knives across their throats. I am severely tempted to say, Yes, I’ve decided to stay here on Locket Island until my dying day. But I’m not sure Mike would survive the horror. So instead I utter the truth: “No. It’s time I was heading home. Locket Island is for you young people. Sort out your futures and the future of the penguins and the future of the planet. This is no place for me, not anymore. I require a lifestyle that includes limitless hot water and fresh vegetables, an electric fire with fake flames and the choice of several good-quality tea sets. I am also beginning to miss the evergreens at The Ballahays. Besides, Eileen needs me.”
Terry steps forward. “You’ll e-mail us, won’t you?”
“E-mail!” I think not.
“Granny doesn’t do e-mail,” Patrick explains.
“Maybe you should think about buying yourself a computer, Mrs. McCreedy,” suggests Dietrich.
What an unpleasant idea. I frown. “There is absolutely no way that is going to happen,” I answer. “I will write proper letters to you using pen and ink. I am sure Eileen will be kind enough to transcribe them into her computer. And I will ask her to print out any replies you might send. And, of course, I shall ask her for a copy of your doodah, Terry.”
“You mean my blog?”
“Yes.” The word had escaped me for a moment.
“It won’t be the same without you, Veronica.”
“Nothing will,” adds Mike, with a wink.
“We’ll miss you,” Dietrich assures me, wrapping my hand in his.
Mike takes my hand next. “Take care!” he says. “You may not believe it, but I’m really glad you came.”
I look at him in astonishment.
Patrick and Terry each give me a hug, then they pick up Pip and hold him out to me. I let my fingers run through his feathers. There isn’t much baby down left now, only a comical topknot that waves slightly in the wind as he bobs his head.
I know I will never see this penguin again, this small, stubby friend who has made a world of difference. He presses his head against my hand in a gesture of affection, as if he knows it, too.
I touch my locket as it hangs there under my many layers of clothes, the metal smooth against my skin. It is tightly packed now. In addition to the four strands that were there before, there are two new specimens of human hair, plus a tiny tuft of fluff from a penguin.
My eyes are watering yet again, which is rather an annoyance. It seems to be becoming a habit.
I turn toward the ship.