Gone with the penguins, p.31
Gone with the Penguins, page 31
‘It’s so unfair,’ I wail.
Sir Robert folds his napkin, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone fold their napkin with such sadness. ‘You’re not wrong, Eileen. It’s unfair to the penguins, and it’s unfair to a whole load of other creatures who have no chance of adapting fast enough to these climatic extremes. And it’s unfair to the young people on this planet, too, like Daisy.’
Mrs McCreedy thrusts her hanky back in her bag and shuts it with a smart clopping noise. ‘She will be utterly devastated.’
We discuss whether we should tell Daisy about the death of her namesake and all the others. In the end we decide we will break the news after Christmas. She is old enough to deal with the truth. She knows, and we know, that we are losing penguins too fast from this planet.
‘How can they survive disasters like this,’ I ask, ‘when all their children are swept away? What on earth can we do?’
50
Eileen
On the road
Four months later
DAISY ASKS THE very same question.
She is understandably distraught about the death of all those Emperor chicks. Thank goodness there is good news as well as the bad (she’s looking forward to meeting Ginty) but I’ve been expecting a tantrum all the same. That’s one of the reasons I’ve put off telling her for so long. It’s a chilly April morning and I’ve come down to Jedburgh to collect her in my ‘new’ (eight years old, three owners but new to me) campervan. Daisy sits in the passenger seat beside me, eyes fixed to the front as we set off back north.
There’s no tantrum. Instead she quietly weeps for those thousands of drowned pom-pom penguins.
How very grown-up she is becoming. Bigger, too. Soon she will be taller than me, the rate she is growing.
‘Bad things happen if good people do nothing,’ I say, quoting Mrs McCreedy. ‘And if we all just do nothing …’ I clear my throat. ‘But if some of us do something, it might just help, don’t you think?’
‘So what can we do?’ Daisy repeats, chewing her lip.
I am learning all sorts about wildlife these days, and I’ve done my best to memorize the points Sir Robert told me.
‘Well, Daisy, you’re very good already at litter-picking and recycling.’
‘Oh yes, I know how important that is for wildlife.’
‘So we should all avoid throwing things away if we can, and buy fewer things in the first place and find ways to mend things that are old or broken.’
This is met with an eye-roll. ‘Don’t patronize me, Eileen. I know all about that and I do it already.’
Patronize. My, what long words she is using! If we are not careful, we’ll have another Mrs McCreedy on our hands. Slightly panicked, I start to rattle off the list of things Sir Robert mentioned about reducing carbon emissions: ‘Check where your money’s being invested. Insulate and draft-proof your house. Use a green energy supplier. Drive less …’
‘Um, Eileen, I’m only eleven. I haven’t got money or a house or a car or an energy supplier.’
‘… Don’t turn up your heating – put on another jumper instead. Switch things off when you’re not using them. Protect green spaces. Plant trees. Cut down on your meat and dairy food – that’s a biggie, Sir Robert says. Meat production creates tonnes of greenhouse gas, apparently. I’ve found a very nice veggie recipe for toad-in-the-hole, but I’m afraid I’m never going to warm to quinoa. Or keen-wah, or whatever it’s called.’
‘We sometimes have spinach and feta lasagne at home,’ Daisy tells me. ‘It’s meat-free. And really yummy.’
‘Another thing,’ I add, remembering. ‘It’s best to choose nearby destinations for our holidays …’ She gives a guilty little cough here and crooks an eyebrow at me. I carry on. ‘And when flying is unavoidable, pay a little extra for carbon offsetting. Mrs McCreedy and Sir Robert always do that, you know? And what was it now that he said was the most important thing? Let me think …’
The fields and hills whizz by. We’ve reached the dual carriageway now. I drum my hands on the steering wheel whilst I’m trying to remember.
‘Ah, that was it! Share! Share your passion with everyone. That way, caring for the world will gradually become the accepted norm, just as it should be. It takes hundreds of people to make change happen, so it’s really important to put it out there that you care.’
Daisy stares out of the window, thinking hard. ‘I could carry on writing my blogs, couldn’t I?’
‘That’s a brilliant idea, Daisy. You do that. And while you’re at it, you could let people know all about what Mrs McCreedy is doing.’
51
Veronica
The Ballahays
‘AFTER ALL,’ I point out to Sir Robert, as we walk up the familiar road, ‘there are many precedents for such things. That place in Somerset, for example. Or is it Wiltshire?’ I rifle through my brain but it refuses to come up with the name of the park. ‘With the lions,’ I add, hoping he will catch on.
He is, thankfully, as attuned as ever to my way of thinking. And whilst many people would find it hard to resist a degree of snideness at my ineptitude, he continues as if I had said the name myself.
‘Quite. Longleat Safari Park was initiated by a wealthy eccentric who had vision. It takes a great deal of vision to set up these things.’
‘And, presumably, wealth and eccentricity. Both of which qualities I possess.’
‘In abundance.’ That perennial, famous twinkle is riding in his eyes.
I recall our conversation about it at the Centaurus research station in Antarctica; how I’d hinted that great things might be achieved if only we could pool our resources and add them to the money raised from Operation PIP.
It was the appearance of Pip himself on that near-disastrous day that first seeded the idea in my head. And it was shortly after Sir Robert’s proposal that I recognized my new dream might just blossom into reality.
Life has become altogether a different creature since then; more complex, more stunning, more vivid. More wonderful in every way.
Ginty runs ahead of us, tail awhirl. She sniffs at something dark and turgid by the wayside then circles back to us. Sir Robert stops, picks up a stick and hurls it across the bracken. Ginty bounds after it, wildly happy, ears streaming in the wind. She has not quite grown into her big golden paws yet.
‘She is perfect,’ Sir Robert tells me, his eyes full of affection which is directed first at his new retriever-sheepdog conundrum and then at me.
‘Nobody is perfect,’ I reply. ‘But she certainly merits admiration.’
My gift has been a resounding success. We named her Ginty after the island off Australia we visited last year, where, in addition to plenitudinous Little penguins, we were introduced to a couple of very sweet dogs. Precious memories indeed for us both, for it was on Ginty Island that Sir Robert and I first really got to know one another.
His argument about being absent too much to own a dog no longer stands. Sir Robert is nowhere near retiring (retirement is an untenable concept for him) and he will still be away filming several times a year, but now he has me and many others willing to dog-sit whenever this occurs. Besides, I decided a dog would forestall any laziness on our part, would make us get out every day, whatever the weather.
For we continue our habit of daily walking, and I believe it contributes much towards our general well-being. To walk is to think. To walk is to observe. To walk is to take in the wonders of this world. To walk is to preserve your health and longevity. To walk in the company of friends is to know happiness.
To walk with a dog adds an element of hilarity. We never know what Ginty will get up to next.
‘Ginty! Ginty!’ I call.
She lollops up and lays her stick at my feet. She looks at it lovingly then backs away with care and takes a quick glance up at me, willing me to throw it. Her disappointment when I get out the lead is palpable.
I apologize to her as I clip it to her collar.
‘I’ll take her,’ Sir Robert offers. ‘You need to hold on to your handbag. And litter tongs.’
We link our free arms and stride through the gates. My elegant oak ‘The Ballahays’ sign remains in place, but on the other side, in larger, brighter letters, hangs another sign which reads ‘McCreedy Pip Penguin Centre’, complete with opening times and ticket prices.
The name is one of the countless aspects that have been discussed at length. I was in favour of making it the ‘Saddlebow McCreedy Pip Penguin Centre’, or some such combination, since my fiancé is now just as invested in the project as I am. But he would not have it. He is on the board of directors, and the trust is set up in his name as well as mine, along with Patrick’s, Terry’s and a few others, but he insists that, since this has been my home for so many decades, it should be my name only that adorns the gates.
We walk down the drive, Ginty straining at the lead. The garden, thanks to Mr Perkins’s dedication, is as beautiful as ever. The lawn is mown; the early-flowering rhododendrons are a riot of magenta buds and blooms. The house, ahead of us, stands tall and proud, its mellow stonework dripping with wisteria.
Along with Molly’s Ford Fiesta and Sir Robert’s Volkswagen Golf, Eileen’s campervan is parked beside the house. I consult my watch, for we were due to meet at three and it is still only ten minutes to. Having timed our walk to perfection, it is somewhat galling that they are so early. Still, I cannot conceal my pleasure at seeing the other two Mackateers, standing there in the porch, manically waving.
Daisy prances forward to greet us.
‘It’s so exciting!’ she shouts as we embrace, making my hearing aid quiver. She receives her face-full of smelly dog tongue from Ginty with absolute delight. ‘Oh, she’s so beautiful!’
‘Have you been here long?’ I ask.
‘Only about fifteen minutes, Mrs McCreedy,’ Eileen answers, patting Ginty on the head. ‘We made good time from Jedburgh. The kettle’s on. I expect you’d like a nice cuppa and a ginger thin? Or perhaps a crumpet?’
‘Oh no, please,’ moans Daisy. ‘Don’t make me wait any longer! I’m dying to see them, but Eileen wouldn’t let me until you were here.’
I turn to Sir Robert. ‘Penguins first, tea after?’
‘I don’t think we have any choice in the matter.’
Together, the four of us proceed down the smart new steps that lead from the back room to the aquatic station.
Work is not yet finished, but the underground cavity has been shored up and is structurally stronger than ever it was. It has been used to accommodate the pool. A walkway passes beside the glass-tanked part so that avian underwater balletics can be observed. Black-and-white bodies glide and swoop gracefully through the water, as if for our benefit. Ginty observes them with her head tilted to one side, as fascinated as we are.
We follow the passage on as it slopes gently upwards. Sir Robert holds open the next door and we exit to the outside area that has been designated as the free-range penguin run. It features various huts and artificial burrows, another small pool and a striped penguin crossing (an idea adopted from Lochnamorghy). The wooden daytime cabin for penguin patrollers (re-employed from the Lochnamorghy staff) is almost finished.
Twenty-four penguins have moved in and now have a far bigger space than they had at either Lochnamorghy or Edinburgh Zoo. Their antics are as entertaining as ever. Some plop into the pool and engage in water sports. Some stand meditatively, inhaling the tang of salty Scottish air; some are busy preening. Some nestle against each other. Others squabble, flirt and explore the walkways.
‘There he is, there he is!’ calls Daisy.
Hoping, no doubt, for fish, Mac bobs his head and waddles towards us. Daisy crouches down. ‘Oh, Mac, Mac, Mac!’ she croons, joyously turning the monosyllable into a little tune.
We keep Ginty on a tight leash, but she seems to understand that these penguins are special. Her sheepdog instincts will hopefully make her easy to train, so she can become an extra protector for them and help us round them up when necessary. If the dogs of Ginty Island can do it, so can she.
Daisy is already deep in conversation with Mac, telling him that along with Tony in the Falklands and Pip in Antarctica and the Emperor penguins, Veronica and Eileen – and Daisy, the Emperor chick who is gone but definitely not forgotten – he is her very top favourite penguin ever.
She knows the rules, though, and does not touch him.
‘Can we feed him?’ she asks.
‘Not quite yet,’ I answer. ‘Molly will let us know when it’s time. She will be down in a minute.’
Molly was the first to move in, since the penguins needed an expert permanently on site to keep an eye on them. She was in need of a lodging anyway. She is installed in one of the upstairs bedrooms in the wing of the house that is now given over to staff and offices. Eileen will be moving in shortly, too. I am pleased the whole property has finally been put to good use, since the majority of the rooms have long stood empty. The remainder of The Ballahays is a comfortable space in which Sir Robert and I now live.
I realize that where human affection should have been, I have spent years stacking up artefacts and antiques; a plethora of self-indulgent but largely useless items which pleased my eye but not my heart. Most of these have now been auctioned off to raise money for the centre. However, I have retained three of my favourite tea sets because life is unequivocally better when one can drink Darjeeling from an elegant cup.
‘It won’t be long now until we open for tourists,’ Eileen observes, rubbing her hands together with relish. She jumped at the chance to be receptionist and has already placed an unaccountably hideous plastic sunflower inside the cabin.
The idea of the general public worries me far more than the penguins, whose close proximity has ever brought me joy. But humans have their uses. The McCreedy Pip Penguin Centre will provide them with an entertaining, educational visit, which will ensure the future welfare of these twenty-four flippered residents. And they can help penguins in other ways, too.
Where my dining room used to be, a study centre has been set up. It includes computers that, with the touch of a key, bring to screen photos of penguins who live across the other side of the world, taken by Patrick’s cameras and satellite imaging. Members of the public will be able to spend five minutes, an hour or as long as they like counting these penguins, thus contributing to the vital data that tells us about the penguins’ environment in Antarctica, and indeed about climate change generally.
In addition, we have provided attractive cards for people to take home with them, printed with the link where these cameras can be found on their own computers. They may thus continue their useful penguin-counting whenever it suits them.
And, of course, if anyone is feeling particularly generous, they are able to adopt a penguin. Patrick and Terry are doing a grand job tagging more penguins than ever, allowing our customers in Scotland to name their penguins, and sending photos and updates of them.
I have, naturally, adopted Pip. Which does not alter anything materially, since I was already paying a monthly stipend towards the project and receiving updates. Pip, busy fishing and waddling in the snows of Antarctica, will doubtless never pause to think of me. But, my goodness, I shall be thinking of him. He will outlive me, of that I am certain.
Pablo may not, but he has already reached a ripe old age for a penguin. The octopus will also probably not last much longer. Nobody seemed to want him, so we took him on as well. He seems to have gone a funny colour and I just hope he was not too stressed by the change of habitation. The penguins have coped incredibly well. Mac is as cheeky as ever. I ensure that no fine pairs of gloves go near him.
To my shock and absolute delight, The Ballahays has become a vast community of penguins and people with links all over the world.
‘Things could not be more different than they were just a few years ago,’ I comment as I gaze around.
Sir Robert nods, his smile all-encompassing. ‘Do you know, Veronica, Darwin said that it’s not the strongest creatures who survive and thrive. Nor even the cleverest. The survivors are the ones who can adapt most quickly to change.’
Evidently, I am one such a creature.
Daisy’s Penguin Blog
THANKS FROM MAC
Just a quick one because I’m super-busy. I’ll be starting a new blog soon, which will be bursting with beautiful, amazing wildlife and tips about how to protect it. But for now I thought you’d like to see where Mac and his pals have ended up (see photos).
Isn’t it perfect? He is incredibly happy to be alive and in a better home than ever.
He wants to say the most HUMUNGOUS HONK of a thank-you to you all. And so do I.
52
Veronica
Ayrshire
June 2015
PATRICK SITS NEXT to Keith. They seem to be competing for which of them can look most uncomfortable in a suit. Patrick has voiced his intention of visiting the UK more often, which is good news indeed. Keith has made it all the way here from the Falkland Islands. He purports it is solely to be present at the wedding, but I suspect there may also be other reasons. Eileen has promised to take him out in her campervan and show him the best of Ayrshire.
Gavin and Beth sit together, as do Mr and Mrs Perkins. Eileen’s friend Fiona is behind them. The other seats are mainly occupied by my valued members of staff and Sir Robert’s friends. The congregation is small. It is a private affair, although we have decided to send photos to the press later. This is an unashamed publicity gimmick because the more visitors we get at the McCreedy Pip Penguin Centre in these early stages, the more likely it is to survive.
Sir Robert and I have specified no wedding gifts, just donations towards the Trust.
