Gone with the penguins, p.29
Gone with the Penguins, page 29
‘I feel I didn’t do you or myself justice in my letter,’ he resumes, ‘and I want to try again. And if I fail again, fail better. When I talk about wildlife I am competent with words, but when it comes to matters of the heart, my sentences tie themselves in terrible knots. I have tried to convey my feelings in writing, but there are some things our poxy vocabulary isn’t wide or deep enough to express. On top of that, I can’t let myself give up hope yet. I have read your answer over and over … and you did not actually say no.’
‘Didn’t I?’ I reply with a sharp intake of breath. ‘I thought I had made it perfectly clear.’ That was uncivil of me. ‘I am listening,’ I add, still putting one foot carefully in front of the other.
‘You must have known for ages how much I admire you. How much I always have done. How I adore you and love you, Veronica McCreedy.’
I drink up his words but at the same time I shake my head.
‘Sir Robert, do not be so stupid.’
‘Stupid? I think not. You … you didn’t realize I had fallen for you? And there was me thinking it was written all over my face every time I looked at you.’
‘No! It cannot be possible. How can you even entertain such an idea when I am always so cantankerous and crabby?’
‘You have a forthright way about you, and that is one of the things I love. But it is your choices that reveal the true you. And your choices show you to be nothing short of extraordinary. In your world, possibilities become probabilities and probabilities become fact. And anything, literally anything, can happen. I want to be part of your world, Veronica McCreedy. You have lit me up with love – such a love – love like nothing I have ever known. And I so desperately want everything to be perfect for you. You are caring and courageous and nobody deserves happiness more than you. But all I have to offer is myself. I would get down on one knee but it would take a crane to get me up again, and we’re in a hurry so I’d better not. And so, here goes. Once more I beg you: Veronica, will you marry me?’
I take another few paces, savouring the moment, listening to the echo of his words, feeling the contrast between the cold cut of the air and the warmth within that curls around my heart like a blanket.
Then I make myself say it. ‘No, Sir Robert, I will not marry you.’
‘You do not feel you could love me at all, then?’
He sounds so crestfallen. His hold on my arm loosens a little. His feet are dragging.
‘It isn’t that,’ I acknowledge. Why does this have to be so difficult?
‘What is it, then?’
I owe him an explanation, but even that will be painful. I glance up at the stars, seeking inspiration. They look so near I could almost reach out and take one.
Another breath. Then, as if slowly carving up my own heart, I destroy all the magic of this moment. ‘My personal dignity has always meant a lot to me, Sir Robert. If my physical functions deteriorate or my mental capacity should desert me … if am confined to a wheelchair … if I should become unable to use a fork or spell my own name …’
He finishes for me. ‘You would not wish me to become your carer. Veronica, I have thought about it too, because at our age these things can happen. It would hurt, of course, to see you suffer in any way. But please know that my love is strong enough to withstand all of this, to endure no matter what happens.’
He talks of love so much. I stop walking for a moment and turn towards him, for I need to search his eyes. Even in the darkness I see the love right there; huge, fathomless, shining like the sea.
‘Do you trust me on this?’ he asks.
‘I do,’ I reply truthfully. Sir Robert does not lie. I should have given him more credit in the first place and never presumed his feeling was mere pity.
‘Anyway,’ he continues, ‘it’s just as likely I’ll be the one who repeats myself endlessly and needs to be spoon-fed – who knows? The real question is this: do you care for me enough?’
‘I do!’ I cry, before I can stop myself.
At my answer, I sense a great gladdening going on right next to me. ‘So – forgive me if I’m wrong,’ he murmurs after another beat, and now his voice becomes louder, surer, ‘but I thought you liked risk?’
‘I do,’ I protest.
Now I realize I have said ‘I do’ three times.
And, like the dawn, everything starts springing into focus. When you are depressed there are no answers; no good ones, anyway. There is only bleakness. But when something good happens – the sudden appearance of a much-loved penguin who you thought was dead, for example – a tide of possibilities comes flooding back.
If the remainder of my life is to contain any joy or significance, my dignity may just have to be sacrificed, my fear of decrepitude shunned. I shall take that risk, make that sacrifice; for at last I know it: my wish to be with Sir Robert is far, far greater than my fear.
Out of all the many risks I have taken, this is surely the biggest. I will be brave and I will trust … in us. I will trust in love.
‘I would very much like to walk by your side for a while longer,’ I admit.
‘Is that a yes?’ he asks, breathless.
Dazzled, laughing with wonderment, I snatch my star. ‘That is a yes, Sir Robert. I shall marry you.’
And then I feel it – what I have not felt for fifty years and what I have not felt with such soaring elation for a full seventy-five years: the touch of a man’s lips on mine.
The moment lasts, so sweet – so unimaginably sweet – and his arms slip around me and I feel loved, madly and wholly loved at last.
‘Incidentally, I love you too,’ I confess. He lets out a cry, as if the joy is so huge it cannot be kept in.
And now my own emotion is causing me to hallucinate, for the sky is awash with dancing lights. I suck in deep breaths and blink several times, but they are still there, flickering, bending, fanning out in great waves of violet, green and gold.
‘It’s the Aurora Australis, the Southern Lights,’ Sir Robert gasps.
We gaze and gaze. It seems that all the crazy, miraculous, wonderful things that have been hiding throughout my life now cannot contain themselves any longer; they are spilling out across the universe.
As the minutes slide towards midnight we carry on, talking about our love and much else besides. And as we talk we continue walking until our outsides are appallingly numb; but inside we are burning brighter than ever.
‘Sir Robert?’ I say as the lights fade and at last we step back into the warmth, my miles completed (slightly over, according to the pedometer).
‘Do you think you could call me just Robert now?’ he asks.
I consider. ‘Oh no. I don’t think so. Sir Robert,’ I continue, ‘there is something I’d like to ask you. This is not in any way a condition of our marriage, but it is a sort of proposal of my own.’
‘Do you realize, Veronica, this is the first time you have ever asked me for anything?’
It is true.
‘What a long way you’ve come,’ he whispers. He smiles and kisses me again, lightly this time. ‘Veronica, I would give you the Crown jewels if I could. But I doubt that’s what you want.’
‘No, that isn’t what I want. It is just a small favour.’
‘Name it,’ he says.
46
Veronica
WHAT SMILES MEET us when we break the news to our friends in the morning. What glowing congratulations! What cries of delight!
Eileen bursts into tears and I find myself wrapped in a damp, squashy hug.
‘I can’t help it, Mrs McCreedy! I have to, I’m just so happy for you. It’s wonderful. Gosh! Just gosh. And double-gosh.’
Patrick is all agog, too. He prises Eileen off me so that he can embrace me tightly. ‘This is well cool. Amazing. Nice one, Granny.’
Then Terry, taking her turn, cries, ‘I’ve been hoping for this to happen for so long! You and Sir Robert are made for one another, and you deserve to be so happy. And I know you will be.’ She adds, in a whisper that everyone can hear: ‘What a catch, Veronica!’
Sir Robert is also receiving his share of hugs.
Daisy is beside herself with glee, pirouetting around us. ‘Wow, I didn’t think you could do marrying when you were so old.’
Eileen reprimands her. ‘Don’t be rude, Daisy. They are not old – well, not much … that is, I mean, age is only a matter of numbers. It’s not a real thing, not if you’re fit and well and can do things like long hikes in Antarctica. It’s only in the mind, isn’t it? And even if it wasn’t, love is like a begonia … you never can predict when it’s going to bloom. Or like a Hoover bag that might just suddenly explode at any time …’
Daisy hoots with laughter. ‘You’re saying love is like a HOOVER BAG, Eileen?’
Sir Robert smiles. ‘Or like a fine Scotch whisky. It just gets better with age.’
We must inure ourselves to incredulity such as Daisy’s. At her age, I, too, was baffled – disgusted, even – if ever I witnessed affection between two elderly people. Now I understand that this is the best and truest love, for it does not look with the eyes, but with the soul. It is not a physical compulsion; it is a deep inner connection. Just because our bodies are decayed, does it mean our hearts are decayed, too? No! Our hearts are grown huge.
We reveal our plans to the assembled company. We shall get married with all due pomp, circumstance and officialdom at some stage later in Scotland, but both my fiancé and I would like an immediate, informal ceremony whilst we are here in Antarctica. This is largely because we would love Pip to be present.
We cannot wear glad rags because warmth is of paramount importance, but we don our mukluks, fleece jackets, hats and sundries and we are borne in the direction of the colony, this time in the snowmobile. In the milky promise of morning, we trek towards the Emperors one last time.
Sir Robert and I walk hand in hand. We are both a little weary, and our steps are slow. And we are aware of various issues, dark and menacing like the birds of prey that wheel above us. Life will never be free of such shadows. Yet for now we focus only on the good: each other’s company and the prospect of the adventures together that still lie ahead.
Once again, we enter the enchanted world of penguins. Around us, stunning Emperors and Empresses stand like statues, slide on their bellies and waddle about in the snow. With Terry and Patrick’s help, we quickly identify Veronica Penguin and Eileen Penguin. Crumbs of ice glint in their plumage, as if they are bedecked with jewels. Daisy Penguin rushes around them, bobbing her head up and down and twittering incessantly.
There is no sign of Pip, though. A couple of other Adélies scoot along the ice … but, no, they are not wearing orange flipper bands.
‘Pip, Pip!’ I call, hoping he might hear if he is anywhere in the vicinity, hoping he might recognize my voice.
We pick a place with a backdrop of sculpted ice, like a castle constructed from frosted glass and spun lace. We feel like a king and queen, with all our subjects gathered around; a motley assortment of humans jumping about to stay warm, but also a vast throng of courtiers arrayed in their liveries of silken black, grey, yellow and gold.
And suddenly, miraculously, Pip is amongst them, waddling to the front – a smaller, stumpier but most loyal and unique friend. And, once again, everything feels right.
‘Now,’ I say, turning to my husband-to-be.
We must be brief, because the icebreaker ship is already anchored not far away, and smaller boats are bobbing on the waves with provisions for the research centre. Sir Robert, Eileen, Daisy and I will shortly leave on the ship. With these singularly wonderful friends, I shall travel back through the Drake Passage to South America, across the land, sea and sky to Scotland. And, compared to the Veronica McCreedy who came here, I shall do it a wiser and a far happier woman.
Sir Robert cocoons my hands in his. We look into each other’s eyes. My heart roars with joy because everything from now on will be shared with this dear, dear man.
‘I hereby vow to marry you,’ I proclaim, ‘to love you for ever more, Sir Robert; to give to you all that I have and all that I am.’
‘I hereby vow to marry you, Veronica, and to give you my all, and to love you for ever.’
We kiss tenderly to the sound of humans clapping, a wolf whistle that must have come from Patrick, and a cacophony of penguin squawks and trumpeting. In a moment there will be champagne in plastic glasses and there will be soup, for I spied Terry and my grandson stowing it away as we left. This is strange, as ceremonies go, but it is enough, for this cold, for this place, for now.
Except that Sir Robert gently tugs at my glove, pulls it off and slips a ring on to my finger.
It is simple but exquisitely beautiful; a single diamond flashing in a gold setting. On either side of the diamond, intricate patterns are etched into the metal. They are tiny penguins.
Sir Robert grins. ‘Because penguins are for ever.’
The inclemency of the climate will not allow me to admire the ring for long, but there will be time for that. I pull my glove back on over it, feeling more deeply moved than I am prepared to admit. Indeed, my eyes are stinging profusely and I do not trust myself to speak at all.
Sir Robert’s eyes are shining, too. The diamond, he informs me, is ethically sourced. He had the ring made months ago and has been carrying it around with him ever since, just in case.
When I look up again, I scan the penguins for the orange flipper band, for Pip, but he is nowhere to be seen. He must have waddled off, perhaps back to sea. I can’t help wondering if he knew that this happy ceremony was also going to be the last time we would ever see each other, my dearest penguin and I. And that – for him, too – saying goodbye would simply be too painful.
I must not dwell on that. Against all the odds, I have been granted another chance to see him, and he has been here today, on this occasion that means so very much to me. I will not be cast down.
I send a quiet message out into the snow and wind and ice that I love him, and will never, never forget him.
47
Eileen
In transit
IT WAS WONDERFUL seeing Mrs McCreedy and Sir Robert getting married – semi-married, I suppose. But it was awful saying goodbye to Pip. Wonderful that we’ve done all our hundred miles inside a month. But awful that we haven’t saved Lochnamorghy in spite of it. Wonderful that we’re going home. But awful that home isn’t home any more, either for Mrs McCreedy or for me. She has the disaster of The Ballahays, and I have the disaster of Doug. What to do, what to do?
At least Daisy is happier about her family now. She’s broken-hearted about Mac, though.
I am sick as a dog again during the Drake Passage, and that bit of the journey seems to go on for ever. The world and my insides crash around so much in opposite directions that I’m sure I’ll never put all the pieces of me back together again.
I do eventually, though. Mrs M has been pretty much fine, just grumpy about the fact she couldn’t ‘perambulate along the deck’ because she kept being thrown off balance. I think her new beau (haha, what fun to be calling Sir Robert Saddlebow that) was struck with seasickness, too, because I didn’t see much of him.
Daisy wasn’t as ill as last time, but has been hit by exhaustion. A girl her age does need routine and structure and her own family around, and all this excitement has maybe been too much for her. It certainly has been a month none of us will ever forget.
I am on deck, leaning on the ship’s side and staring out to the miles and miles of ocean, when I suddenly realize I’m not alone. Mrs M is at my side, looking windswept and determined.
‘Are you all right, Eileen?’
‘Yes, Mrs McCreedy. I’m just having a think. Just trying to take it all in. There’s such a lot to take in, isn’t there?’
‘There certainly is.’
‘I do wish I was strong, like you, Mrs McCreedy.’
‘Strong?’ she mutters. ‘Well, I must say, “strong” is open to interpretation. I used to believe it meant hardness, blocking off one’s feelings, never sharing, never letting on, never crying. And I suspect you think strength means diving headlong into adventures. But real strength also means trusting. Trusting others, and trusting yourself, too. Allowing yourself to feel what you feel. Knowing that, although we cannot see it, there is more, much more, beyond.’
I nod wisely and turn my face back to the sea, but it still seems to be just full of questions; questions forever rolling in and out, backwards and forwards.
South America. We’re stopping overnight in Ushuaia. We badly need to find our land legs.
Keith is here, waiting for us as we wobble off the ship, keen to help us with our luggage and anything else. It’s just lovely to see him again. He is in a multicoloured bomber jacket and has a smart new haircut.
We have a nice dinner all together (king crab on the waterfront) and stroll back to the hotel. How strange it is not to be measuring every step!
Keith stops off for a drink in the bar, offering to buy a round, and I say yes please to a nightcap – perhaps a hot toddy (although I’d really prefer a Horlicks). But the others all say they need an early night and disappear quickly up to their rooms.
Keith and I are sitting there like a couple of lemons.
Keith says: ‘It sounds as if you’ve had a (mostly) marvellous time. I hope you’re proud of yourself, Eileen. You are the glue of this whole enterprise, I hope you realize?’
How funny he is. Me – the glue!
‘I do feel proud, yes. Yes, I think I do. But, Keith, there’s still so much to worry about. So much that’s not settled or anywhere near right.’
‘So I gather.’ He pushes his hair back from his brow, frowning. ‘Are you going to stay with Mrs McCreedy once she’s moved in with her Robert?’
We’ve talked about this, of course. ‘I’ll help her out, for sure, wherever she ends up. We discussed it at Centaurus and she said: “I absolutely cannot manage without you, Eileen.” Those were her exact words. So that’s that. It’s not so much a question of whether I stay with her as whether I stay with Doug.’
