Call of the penguins, p.2
Call of the Penguins, page 2
When we reach the enclosure, at first I can see nothing but human couples and families with young children jostling round. We shuffle forward. We are in a broad space with a netting roof and an artificially blue, kidney-shaped pool. Areas are partitioned off with red tape and behind them I perceive a collection of birds standing amongst rocks, sand and a few low brick caves.
Eileen elbows her way through, parting the crowds and calling, ‘Excuse me, excuse me!’ so that we can find a good spot to stand and watch. Daisy is bubbling with excitement. I, too, am straining forward to look. At last I see them.
The African penguins (otherwise known as Jackass penguins) have black-and-white markings around their heads, a strip of black circling their fronts, and pink patches of skin showing above their eyes. They are mostly skulking around, but a few slide off into the pool for a dip as we approach. They are extremely attractive. But the Macaroni penguins charm us even more, with their mighty headdresses of long yellow feathers that stick out where their ears should be. It is a bizarre and jaunty look. They are quite splendid.
‘Are they named after macaroni cheese?’ asks Daisy.
‘I was wondering that, too,’ admits Eileen.
‘Because they have cheese-coloured tufts,’ nods Daisy.
It seems unlikely but none of us know. We watch as two penguins stand on a stone and preen each other, long beaks rifling through shining plumage. Task completed, one of them hops off the stone. Noticing his audience, he waddles towards us and looks at us with one eye and then the other, his crest waving a little in the breeze. Then he points his beak to the sky and swings his head from side to side in a series of movements that look almost like a dance.
‘Oh, look at him!’ cries Daisy. Seldom have I seen a child so enthralled.
The penguin ruffles his feathers, opens his beak and lets out a loud, crooning sort of honk.
My eyes start prickling. For seventy-odd years I did not permit myself to cry at all because somebody once said it was a sign of weakness. I no longer believe that, but I am still uncomfortable with any demonstrative show of emotion in public. Nevertheless, my tears gush forth with embarrassing frequency these days, and there is little I can do about it.
‘Here you are, Mrs McCreedy. Take this,’ Eileen offers. I have a freshly laundered handkerchief in my handbag, but I graciously accept her tissue.
‘Are you OK, Veronica?’ asks Daisy, glancing up to examine my expression.
‘It is a sinus condition. It troubles me sometimes,’ I tell her sharply.
These penguins are not quite like my Adélie friends, but they manifest the same qualities of bumptiousness and enthusiasm. Our friendly Macaroni trumpets again.
‘We call him Mac,’ one of the so-called penguin patrollers tells us, stepping up. She’s a young woman with a confident air and a swinging ponytail. ‘He was hand-reared. From a chick,’ she adds.
I look from her to the penguin and back again. ‘So you will have used a syringe to feed him a carefully balanced formula of liquidized krill and tuna?’
Her eyes widen a little. She looks as if she is trying to calculate what the answer should be. ‘Ummm … well, it wasn’t me who—’
‘This is Veronica McCreedy,’ Daisy interrupts. ‘She’s been to Antarctica and saved a baby penguin called Pip and after that she was ill and Pip saved her! And’ – Daisy takes a breath – ‘she’s friends with Robert Saddlebow.’
‘The Robert Saddlebow,’ Eileen adds.
‘Sir Robert Saddlebow,’ I point out.
I must admit, I am rather enjoying my protégée’s admiration.
‘Well, your nan is an amazing woman,’ says the patroller, clearly not believing a word of what Daisy has told her. I wonder whether to correct her on the ‘nan’ front but cannot be bothered. In any case, most of my attention is focused on the penguin, who is utterly delightful.
‘Can I feed it?’ asks Daisy, all eagerness.
‘Not now. It’s feeding time in twenty minutes.’ The patroller looks relieved to be back on familiar territory. She crouches down to Daisy’s level and speaks to her in a big-sisterly way. ‘You can watch them all enjoying their dinner then. In fact, I might let you have a fish or two and you can help.’
My legs are weary now. Daisy and Eileen trot off to find the enclosures with the seals and otters whilst I head for the tea shop. I purchase a slice of cherry Bakewell tart and cup of Darjeeling tea. At least, they call it Darjeeling (presumably to justify the extra pound on the price) but it is of a very disappointing quality. I am not one to complain, however.
I park myself at a small table by the window and look out at the chink of sea that is visible beyond the edge of the building. Having visited the Macaronis and Africans, it is perhaps inevitable that my mind insists on winging its way back to Antarctica, to the colony of Adélie penguins, to my friend Terry and my grandson, Patrick. I am invested in the Locket Island research project both metaphorically and literally, as I have committed a monthly sum towards it, mainly because Patrick is now part of the team.
Terry and he have been together for a year now. Terry is really Teresa, you will understand, and 100 per cent female – although, with her lack of make-up or any particular hairstyle, she does little to flaunt the fact. Unlike Sir Robert, she is never likely to become a television celebrity but, like him, she is one of the few people on this planet who has won my respect.
Some would say that Patrick doesn’t deserve Terry and there was a time I would have agreed with them. Patrick is like caviar. This is not because he is an upper-class delicacy (quite the reverse!) but because he is an acquired taste. The first time I met him, which was a mere eighteen months ago, I took an immediate dislike to him. With his scruffy appearance, unsophisticated mannerisms and seeming immaturity for his twenty-eight years of age, Patrick remains an unlikely candidate for my affection. I am not somebody who finds it easy to love and the blood tie alone would not be enough. But I have seen the sweeter side of Patrick. I have seen how he cares for others. I have seen how he adores Terry. And I have seen how he loves the penguins.
My hand automatically goes up to my neck and I run my fingers along the fine chain of the locket that I still wear every day under my clothing. Daisy spotted the chain the other day and asked me what it was, so I pulled it out to show her. She is very taken with the idea of having a piece of jewellery that contains tiny items of personal value. I did not open it for her, however. Unlike Terry, I am not skilled in the art of empathy, but I do recognize various aspects of human nature. I have found it useful to reserve some means of bribing Daisy if she becomes a little uncontrollable, along the lines of: ‘If you do not come and sit at the table at once, Daisy, I will never show you what’s inside my locket,’ or ‘If you do not give me back my lipstick, Daisy, the locket will always be a closed book to you.’ My little ploy works well, for Daisy is possessed with an insatiable curiosity.
I drain my tea and flick the Bakewell crumbs from my lap with the paper napkin. I glance towards the door of the cafe and see that Eileen is already here to fetch me, Daisy dragging her in by the hand. We march back to the enclosure together. The penguin patroller with the pony-tail is wielding a blue plastic bucket, from which she is throwing limp fish at the crowd of penguins. The fish have shocked, glazed expressions on their dead faces, but the penguins’ enthusiasm is captivating. They hop about, grabbing the fish, gulping them down their greedy beaks and clamouring for more.
Daisy is offered the bucket. She extracts a fish with a mixture of revulsion and rapture, stares at it for a moment, then flings it at a penguin so hard that I fear she will knock it down like a skittle. She is relieved when Eileen, ever practical, hands her a wet wipe afterwards.
Most of the human spectators are taking photos.
‘It’s time for our selfie, Veronica. Our selfie with the penguins!’ Daisy cries. ‘So I can prove to Noah that there are penguins in Scotland.’
She holds the phone out at arm’s length to take a picture of us together but (as her arms are not very long) fails to capture all that she wishes. Eileen is then presented with the phone and forced to take hundreds of photos of Daisy and me with the friendly penguin called Mac. I am glad I reapplied my lipstick on my way from the tea shop and pleased I have brought a presentable handbag in complementary tartan reds. I ensure that I keep it well out of reach of Mac’s beak. I have already, in my time, lost one handbag to the forces of penguin curiosity.
On the drive back, Daisy tells us she is googling Macaroni penguins. I am astonished when, contrary to my expectations, she comes up with some interesting information. Apparently, the birds were named after eighteenth-century dandies called ‘macaronis’ who often wore flamboyant tassels in their hats.
‘Like the song about Yankee Doodle!’ Eileen cries in a tone of wonder and revelation. ‘Do you know it, Daisy?’ Daisy doesn’t and Eileen insists on teaching it to her.
‘Yankee Doodle went to town
Riding on a pony
Stuck a feather in his cap
And called it macaroni.’
My ears are assailed with one high-pitched voice and one deeper, ill-tuned voice singing these profound lyrics all the way home. Under normal circumstances I would find this unbearable but today, for reasons I cannot quite fathom, I don’t mind it in the least.
3
Patrick
Locket Island, South Shetlands, Antarctica
THE SUN’S RAYS are glancing off wet rock, every crevice of the land is wedged with fleecy rags of snow, and I’m gazing across acres and acres of penguins. My nostrils are zinging with the smell of fish and guano. My ears are full of gabbling, squawking, honking and twittering. All around me cute, stumpy birds are waddling about in the pebbles and ice. Above is a great white drift of clouds. In the distance, a range of blue peaks and glaciers. It’s one of those moments when it hits me.
I live here, I fricking live here; this small island off the Antarctic peninsula, shared with a collection of seals, albatrosses, skuas and gulls … plus three other human beings. And five thousand Adélie penguins. I never thought I’d end up counting penguins as a profession. But then I never thought I’d discover a rich, eccentric grandmother who was obsessed with them, either.
Over the last year, I’ve fully adjusted to the Locket Island lifestyle. I don’t miss Bolton one bit. Well, maybe I miss Gav and the bicycle shop and telly and fresh vegetables, but not a lot else. It’s amazing how quickly this wilderness has become my world. At this precise moment there’s just one thing missing: Terry. It’s such a bummer we have to work in different areas of the colony. It was much better when we were working together, even if it did mean we got distracted sometimes …
Terry always says I should relax more. ‘We don’t have to live in each other’s pockets to prove we’re in love, do we?’ she said recently when I was coming on all possessive. But I can’t help being passionate, can I? I’d spend every moment of the day with her if I could. Not that I’m complaining. It’s pretty incredible she wants to spend any time at all with a loser like me.
I glance at my watch. I’ve been counting and weighing penguins for three hours.
‘I think I’ve earned a kiss at least,’ I mutter.
A cheeky little penguin looks up at me, his eyes beady, his stomach swollen with self-importance.
‘No, I don’t mean from you, mate,’ I tell him.
We’re not due back at the field base for another hour. I think I’ll go and find Terry and escort her back for lunch. I pull out my radio but then change my mind and tuck it back into my belt. I know her whereabouts roughly and it would be much more fun to surprise her.
I pick my way through the rocks and scree and head as fast as I can up the slope. The temperature today is only 3.5 degrees Celsius but I’m wearing plenty of layers and the climb makes me hot. I take off my parka and bundle it under my arm. I pause, panting a little, when I reach the top. From here I have a good view of the mountains and the distant lake, which is mottled blue and white to match the sky. This island got its name because it’s oval-shaped and on a map it looks like a locket, the semi-circular lake on the north edge making the hole that a chain would go through. I can see the ocean beyond, shining bright and decked with white blobs of icebergs.
The part of the penguin colony allocated to Terry is down on the other side. I can make out her orange jacket from here, a colourful dot amongst the thousands of black-and-white dots that are penguins. I head towards her, weaving my way around the pebble nests. There are so many tiny chicks. They’re old enough to be active now so I have to be careful where I’m treading. The adults have super-smart plumage like glossy dinner jackets with white starched shirts, but the babies are dark grey and rather amorphous. You could easily hold one in the palm of your hand and you’d find it soft and squashy. I don’t pick them up though. Rules is rules. Sample weights of the chicks will be collected just before they start fledging, but otherwise it’s a ‘don’t touch’ policy. Even the adults only get handled if we’re tagging or weighing them, and then there’s a special technique for that. I’m proud to say I now classify as a fully trained penguin wrangler.
The mums and dads are working unbelievably hard to get those chicks fed, taking it in turns to babysit and trek to and from the sea. When they return, they’re stuffed full of krill, which they empty down the chick’s gullet, beak to beak. Penguin language is a complete mystery to me, but those adults and chicks all recognize each other’s calls. It’s mind-blowing that they can find their own in amongst the clamour.
I get a real pang seeing all this parental love … such mega commitment and devotion. It would’ve been nice to have some of that when I was growing up. Those chicks have no idea how lucky they are.
But enough with the self-pity.
There’s Terry, straight ahead of me, looking like only Terry can look: 100 per cent absorbed in a massive sea of penguins. My heart lifts as she turns and waves. The sun is shining in her pale blonde hair and she starts pacing towards me, neatly skirting round all the nests.
‘Patrick!’ she calls over the penguin racket. ‘Is something wrong?’
I shake my head emphatically. ‘No, nothing wrong. Can’t a man see his girl once in a while?’
She walks into my open arms, which I greedily wrap around her. We share a long, delicious kiss and I almost knock her glasses off.
‘Why didn’t you radio?’ she asks, coming up for air. We’re all supposed to let each other know where we are on the island, just in case.
‘Do I really have to announce to the whole world that I’m in the mood for love?’
‘Not the whole world,’ she points out. ‘Just me and Dietrich and Mike.’
‘Dietrich and Mike don’t understand.’
She frowns a little. I run my fingers over her brow, smoothing out the wrinkles she’s made. ‘Relax. I didn’t slip over and break my back, OK?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I risked all sorts of terrible dangers to come and see you: ice, snow, rocks, seals … penguins. I thought you might come with me on a hot date now?’
She can’t help smiling her incredibly gorgeous smile. ‘Where did you have in mind?’
‘Well, I believe there’s a very comfortable if rather rundown research station not far from here, with sausage rolls that just need to be whipped out of the fridge and put in the oven.’
‘I’ll give you sausage rolls,’ she answers in her mock-scolding voice, pushing me sideways.
‘I wish you would.’
She won’t let us leave until she’s done another fifteen minutes of penguin monitoring, though, so I give her a hand.
It’s a small operation we run here, not like some of the massive Antarctic stations which cover marine biology, oceanography and meteorology. Our speciality is penguins (and five thousand isn’t that big for a penguin colony, would you believe it. Some are over thirty thousand). Still, four of us isn’t really enough, which is why Terry is always pushing herself to get more work done. As well as running the project, she tries to engage the public across the world by writing blogs about our work. She featured Granny V in the blogs a lot last year which went down very well with the fans. Dietrich is the oldest and most qualified of the four of us. He’s been studying the birds his whole life and calls himself a ‘penguinologist’. Mike’s special skill is biochemistry; he analyses blood, bones and faeces so he can work out details about the diet and health of the birds. We all muck in with the donkey work – the endless monitoring of penguins, counting them, weighing them and tagging them. These facts and figures are at the core of what we do. They tell us a huge amount about the health of our whole ecosystem; and penguin numbers are going up and down at an alarming rate at the moment.
‘Do you mind having a girlfriend who’s your boss?’ Terry asks as we finally head back up the slope together.
‘If you don’t, I don’t,’ I tell her. She never gives herself airs or graces. In fact she’s the unbossiest boss I’ve ever known.
‘It would be nice to see more of you, though,’ I add, looking at her sideways. I hope I’m not sounding too clingy again.
‘Let me think. Which bit of me haven’t you seen, Patrick?’
We snigger.
As we reach the top, she goes back to the subject though, which is clearly bugging her. ‘Go on, admit it. You’d prefer me ordering you around if I was in a crisp suit or a sassily seductive police uniform.’
‘Nope. Parka jackets, woolly jumpers and thermal vests absolutely do it for me.’
Dietrich and Mike are already at the field base when we arrive. They look at us knowingly as we come in, Dietrich with a benign smile and Mike with one that’s a lot less benign. Mike doesn’t really do benign. They both assume we’ve been spending time canoodling rather than penguin-counting. They already have the sausage rolls on the table along with a mountain of peas and oven chips.
‘Tuck in,’ says Dietrich, whose English is flawless.
