Gone with the penguins, p.2
Gone with the Penguins, page 2
‘Yes, Eileen. I have.’
I’ve told him all about the article and I’ve been aching for him to pick it up and read it. Finally, now he does. In my excitement I brush against the dancing sunflower that’s by the kettle and set it off. Mrs McCreedy wouldn’t approve because it’s made of plastic and she’s very anti-plastic these days, but it always cheers me to see it jiggling away. Our kitchen is cosy, cluttered and Formica’d, not like her grand one, with its huge pine dresser and regiments of china teacups.
I switch off the sunflower so as to watch Doug. His chin is a mat of fine, grey stubble. His face doesn’t move apart from his eyes skimming the words. I know from the way his brow is clenched that I’m not to speak until he’s finished.
Now a slight twitch pulls at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t look up but gives a little nod, which is his way of saying he approves.
It’s hard to contain myself, I’m that pleased. ‘Isn’t it fantastic? The Scots Times, too! I’ll have to snip it out and add it to my cuttings folder.’ I dollop some porridge in his bowl and scatter salt over it, the way he likes it. I add sugar on mine. ‘But still, I do worry about Mrs McCreedy.’
He doesn’t respond so I repeat myself as I pour tea into his ‘I heart cookies’ mug and thrust his breakfast towards him. ‘I do worry.’
He blows on the porridge and attacks it with a spoon. ‘You worry too much.’
I plonk myself down opposite him and tuck in, too. ‘On the one hand, I’m happy for her, because she was so miserable for ages and never really spoke to anyone except me and that was hardly … well … it was mainly instructions.’ I pull a face, remembering. ‘But ever since the penguin thing she’s been like a new person. Travel must be good for her. And people. And penguins. On the other hand, she’s eighty-seven now, and if you ask me, that’s too old for all this “gallivanting”, as she calls it.’
Doug frowns. ‘Did you put any salt on this porridge?’ he asks.
‘Of course I did.’ I automatically push the salt pot towards him before remembering the doctor said he should cut down. It’s bad for his blood pressure. I’m sure all the salt over the years has done funny things to his taste buds, too. He seems to prefer takeaway haggis and chips to my home cooking these days.
He leafs through the rest of the Scots Times as he eats.
‘Fuel prices going up again,’ he mutters. ‘And a shortage of diesel.’
My mind slips back to Mrs McCreedy. ‘It’s not that she’s what you’d call doddery, not in the least. She’s still so brisk and upright! I envy her posture, actually. But she will throw herself into risky situations. And she will have her own way. Always has done, always will do. “Eileen,” she said to me the other day, “I only feel alive when there is an adventure on the cards. It’s just as well I have this filming trip to look forward to, or I might as well be dead.” “Don’t speak like that, Mrs McCreedy,” I said. But she carried on speaking like that. Even being a Penguin Ambassador doesn’t seem to be enough for her now.’
I pause. Doug is still scanning the headlines whilst listening to me.
‘Sir Robert is away such a lot, and with her grandson, Patrick, across the other side of the world, she’s still so alone, really. I do wish she could just be happy, like we are.’
Doug sighs and rattles the paper. ‘That McCreedy woman has no right to be unhappy, with all that money and waited on hand and foot by you.’
I don’t like the way he called her ‘that McCreedy woman’, but I continue along my track, trying to make it out. ‘She got into one of her grumpies after that phone call to the research council people. She thinks they’re not giving her enough to do. Isn’t it crazy? Most people like to relax a bit in their old age, but not Mrs McCreedy. She’s the opposite. The older she gets, the more she pushes herself. There’s something almost desperate about her. I’ve got this feeling, right here’ – I pat my chest – ‘this worry that she’s going to do something eccentric and noble and dangerous. You have to admire her, but I get so bothered wondering what she might do next. And if it, whatever it is, might just kill her.’
Suddenly – woomph – I’m dripping with heat. I consider splashing my face with cold water but that would mean getting up.
‘Stop fretting, will you? The woman is like the Queen. She’ll go on for ever.’
‘Thank goodness she’s got Sir Robert. Well, when I say “got”, I don’t mean there’s anything like that in it. Just that he is a great friend to her, is Sir Robert.’
I pause again. Doug doesn’t like to show it, but he is very impressed that I personally know Sir Robert Saddlebow (yes, not any old Robert Saddlebow. The famous one off the telly). And that Mrs McCreedy and he are special friends.
Doug licks his spoon slowly. ‘Well, I guess Sir Robert will keep cooking up interesting things for her to do. She always gets her way.’
My husband is a clever man.
‘You’re quite right there, Dougie. She does. Always. Anyway, I’m glad we’ve got Daisy coming to visit. It’s nice for Mrs McCreedy to have a child in her life. Such a dear one, too. Oh Lorks, look at the time! I’d best be getting along to fetch her.’
‘I’d best be getting along, too,’ he says, swallowing the last mouthful and brushing the back of his hand against his lips.
Doug works in an oatcake factory, which is funny because he hates oatcakes. They’re one of the things that Doug says are plain wrong, along with students, the government, Volvo drivers, English film stars being cast in Scottish roles and dachshund dogs wearing coats. ‘Oats are for porridge, and porridge only,’ he always says. ‘Squash them into flat, hard discs and even a slab of cheese, ham and pickle can’t take away the sensation of chipboard in your mouth.’
He does make me laugh.
Mrs M took Daisy under her wing (or should I say ‘flipper’, haha) when she came back from Antarctica with a new zest and zim and the need for a fresh project. Daisy is the daughter of Gav who is the friend of Patrick who is Mrs McCreedy’s grandson, you see, and Daisy was seriously ill at the time. Mrs M helped the family by way of little injections of money for private treatments, not to mention a shower of gifts and holidays at The Ballahays whenever they wanted. When Daisy was well enough, she even took her, together with her mum, along to the Falklands, where she was presenting that documentary with Sir Robert. Daisy was hooked on penguins, too, what with all Mrs M’s talk about them. That trip was a huge boost after the years of dreadful pain for the poor wee girl.
I pick her up from the service station where her parents and I arranged to meet. It’s midway between here and Bolton, where they live. I’m used to the drive by now.
She’s grown bigger since I last saw her and the freckles on her nose are darker, too. She must have been out in the garden a lot in Bolton. It’s lovely that she has so much thick nut-brown hair these days, gathered up with pink and yellow butterfly clips. It’s the last week of her school holidays and we chat about all sorts of things – bicycles and spiders and the nicest flavours of ice cream and her best friend who is called Aurora – and the time flies by.
When we pull up, Mrs McCreedy is stood waiting in the grand porch of The Ballahays like a statue in a scarlet shawl.
Daisy jumps out of the car, pelts up the gravel drive and flings herself at Mrs M so hard that she has to put an arm out to the wall to steady herself.
‘Let go, young lady. You are crumpling my blouse,’ Mrs M tells her severely. She rummages in her handbag for a hanky and dabs her eyes. ‘Eileen, would you put the kettle on, please? We need to get Daisy settled in.’
I’ve bought a treat for Daisy: some cupcakes with thick icing and multicoloured sprinkles. Like me, she loves anything sugary.
Mrs M has already arranged cups and saucers from one of her fancy tea sets on the table.
‘What would you like to drink, Daisy?’ I ask.
‘Oh, I should like a Darjeeling, thank you, Eileen,’ she answers, putting on a posh voice.
Then she bursts into giggles, giving away the fact that her answer was supposed to be an imitation of Mrs M. It was quite good, actually.
‘Tee hee hee, not really! Have you got any squash?’
‘Yes.’ I put a bottle in front of her. ‘Help yourself, dear.’
‘Can I have it in a teacup, though?’ Daisy asks, looking from me to Mrs M and back again.
Mrs M agrees to it, but I see her wince as Daisy pours a large amount of the squash into a cup, making it wobble as she rests the bottle on its fine edge. She then overfills it from the tap and has to slurp quickly to avoid spilling any.
We settle around the table. Daisy grabs a cupcake, spiking her fingers in glee, and I take one, too. Mrs McCreedy delicately accepts one of her favourite ginger thins that I’ve also laid out on a plate. (It took me a while, but I’ve managed to source some that aren’t sold in plastic packaging. Mrs McCreedy is so pernickety about it.)
‘And how are your dear parents and your brother?’ Mrs M asks. She pauses then adds his name. ‘Noah.’
I’m glad she got it right. She’s not normally very good at names.
Daisy peels the icing off her cupcake, folds it in half and posts it into her mouth before answering. ‘OK, I suppose.’
When I met them at the service station, her dad – the ever so nice, smiley Gav – told me his bicycle shop is doing really well now; so well he’s looking into setting up another shop in the Scottish Borders. He’s hunting for somewhere with a flat above it, he said.
Mrs McCreedy is pleased when I tell her because it means we’ll get to see even more of Daisy. I also learned that her mum (a slim, quiet, sweet lady called Beth) is about to set off as supervisor on a school trip that Noah is going on. That’s one of the reasons Daisy is staying with us. I tell that to Mrs McCreedy, too, and she fiddles with her hearing aid to turn it up, interested.
‘Where are they going?’ she asks.
‘Switzerland,’ Daisy answers. ‘Dad’s been so crazy busy he hasn’t gone anywhere this summer. Nor me, neither, until now. But Noah gets to go abroad.’ Her nose wrinkles. She puts her teacup down on the saucer with a crash that makes Mrs McCreedy shudder. ‘Mum says it’s because I’ve had a big holiday with you and the penguins and now it’s Noah’s turn.’
Mrs M surveys her. ‘Don’t be despondent,’ she says. ‘We will do our utmost to ensure you have an equally enjoyable time here.’
I’ve been instructed not to say anything about her trip across the world. At least, not yet. We’ll pick our time carefully. I’ve been bursting to tell her, but I do understand. Daisy is likely to be jealous, and we don’t want that.
Daisy adores her visits to The Ballahays. Still, looking after her is a lot for Mrs McCreedy to deal with on her own, so I always stay in one of the spare rooms when she’s here. Doug is very good about it, and manages to microwave the ready meals I leave for him. I’ll call him later and see how he got on with the cauliflower cheese.
‘How are things at school?’ Mrs McCreedy asks.
‘All right. I’m doing a sponsored walk.’ Daisy is very proactive (the word her mum used) at school as a fundraiser for cancer charities and conservation charities. Mrs McCreedy has been a good influence, I think.
‘That is very commendable,’ Mrs M comments. ‘I should be delighted to sponsor you. Where will you be walking, and how far?’
Daisy shrugs. ‘No idea. Somewhere around home, I suppose. I don’t know yet how far. But a loooong way, I expect.’ She opens up her arms to show us the long way.
‘Sponsored walks are all the rage now,’ I comment. ‘Did you see that thing in the Scots Times? An old man is doing the Forth and Clyde Canal walk for charity. It’s quite wonderful.’
Mrs McCreedy gives a little snort. She’s not as impressed as I am, but then she is such an able walker herself.
‘How old is he?’ she asks.
‘Oh, I don’t remember. About your age, I think. I can check if you like.’ I lean round because from here I can reach the kitchen dresser drawer. I pull it open and nab the paper. Just as I remembered, the article is on the front page, accompanied by a photo of the old man with his sweet, gappy smile and his Zimmer frame. ‘Oh no, I’m wrong,’ I mutter as I run through the paragraph. ‘He’s even older than you are, Mrs McCreedy. Quite a lot older, actually. He is ninety-three! Unbelievable. Ninety-three! He doesn’t look it, though.’
‘Let’s see,’ Daisy clamours, grabbing the paper from me.
‘I think he looks tonnes older than Veronica,’ she says, examining the photo. ‘But then, he’s not wearing lipstick and eyeshadow, is he?’ she adds.
‘Don’t be cheeky, little miss,’ I scold.
But Mrs McCreedy doesn’t seem to have noticed. ‘What he is doing is laudable,’ she says. ‘Yet the Forth and Clyde Canal walk is not such an impossible achievement. Especially as he is only doing it a little at a time, and with the help of a Zimmer frame.’
Daisy swallows down the sponge of her cupcake with a swig of squash. I have just remembered she is not to see the article about Mrs McCreedy when she turns the page. Her eyes stretch wide.
‘Hey, that’s you, Veronica!’
I look at Mrs M, whose face is a picture of put-outness, then I look at Daisy and then I look at the newspaper. I squint at the picture and feign surprise. ‘Oh, is it? Well I never! So it is!’
I try to reclaim the paper and there’s a brief wrestling match, but Daisy wins. She reads the article, bleating out certain words louder than the others; words like ‘Penguin Ambassador’ and ‘Sir Robert Saddlebow’ and ‘Galápagos’ and ‘Falklands’, and with every bleat I feel more like a criminal.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she caterwauls.
Mrs M seems to be leaving the job of explaining to me. I blabber something about how we are just getting used to the news ourselves and how we were going to tell her soon, once she’d settled in, and how lovely it is, isn’t it, and how proud we are of our Mrs McCreedy, aren’t we? My face feels like a furnace.
Daisy has been well brought-up, so she congratulates Mrs M politely. She has taken the news better than we thought she might, but she’s not what you’d call thrilled.
It’s just as well we have a treat lined up for her tomorrow.
3
Veronica
Lochnamorghy
MAC VIEWS US with beady eyes from atop his favourite stone. He hops down, stretches out both flippers and tilts his head a little to one side, as if in recognition. Mac is our favourite Scottish penguin; Scottish in the sense that he was born and bred here, at the Lochnamorghy Sea Life Centre. Daisy, Eileen and I are all enamoured of him. He possesses the usual black and white attributes that all penguins are famed for and, in addition, since he is a Macaroni penguin, he sports a superbly flamboyant golden crest that begins behind his beak and flows back on either side of his head.
The other penguins hang back but Mac is fascinated by the public. He waddles towards us over the mini zebra crossing on the concrete walkway. As he shakes his head from side to side, his glorious head feathers wave like streamers.
Daisy is carrying my shiny red handbag, which makes her resemble a little cartoon Queen Elizabeth. I feel somewhat naked without it. I was reluctant to let it into her rather sticky grasp, but she was clamorous and I was unwilling to cause any friction, emotions already being somewhat delicate.
Now, to my relief, she passes it back to me in order to crouch down and greet Mac. She maintains her distance, knowing she isn’t allowed to touch him.
Eileen’s driving has become a little erratic recently and my blood pressure has only just settled. Mac’s presence helps. Whilst I am somewhat riled by the whole Penguin Ambassador debacle, the actual proximity of penguins is always therapeutic. It is also a pleasure to see Daisy’s solemn face light up as she talks to her avian friend.
A boy – slight, serious-looking, a little younger than Daisy – is standing apart from the other tourists, hands in his pockets, staring. Daisy takes it upon herself to introduce him to the penguin.
‘His name is Mac. Mac because he’s a Macaroni,’ she explains. ‘That’s one of the eighteen species of penguins. Isn’t he cute? Those ones over there, with the black bands around their fronts, are African penguins. But Mac’s the best. I’m Daisy and I live in Bolton, but I’ve travelled across the world and seen penguins in the wild, too. Did you know they have five different species in the Falklands? That’s where I’ve been.’
The boy looks suitably impressed, so she continues. ‘I met so many penguins you wouldn’t believe it. And I know Sir Robert Saddlebow.’
‘Seriously?’ The boy’s eyes are as round as saucers. The tips of his ears are tinged with red.
Daisy nods her vigorous affirmation. ‘Yup, I actually do. He’s really nice. And I’m here with that lady there, Veronica McCreedy, who I stay with sometimes.’ She points at me and he darts a look in my direction. I produce a thin smile, which seems to terrify him because he immediately looks away again. ‘She’s got this mansion by the sea, called The Ballahays,’ Daisy continues. ‘It’s huge, with, like, eleven fireplaces and five staircases, and full of really cool things like an old ship’s bell and a globe on legs. And that’s Eileen who helps look after it, and she helps look after Veronica, and me too sometimes, and she lives in Kilmarnock and likes cake.’
I glance at Eileen. She has her eyes fixed on Mac and is pretending not to be listening.
Daisy is in full flow. ‘Me and Veronica and Sir Robert have been on TV. Hang on a mo, I’ll show you.’
She pulls out her phone and swipes through images. The boy is lost for words. He is probably wondering why Daisy has no hair in the photos but now a thick crop of it tumbles around her cheeks. His eyes drink up the pictures, then veer back to Mac, then back to the pictures.
Eventually tiring of his silent admiration, Daisy tucks her phone away. A young couple, evidently his parents, usher the boy away in the direction of the cafe.
‘What a sweet, shy little boy!’ Eileen declares. ‘You have a new fan there, Daisy.’
