¥ 1 ¥ Veronica The Ballahays Ayrshire, Scotland May 2012 I have told Eileen to get rid of all the mirrors. I used to like them, but I certainly don't now. Mirrors are too honest. There is only so much truth a woman can take. "Are you sure, Mrs. McCreedy?" Her voice implies she knows my mind better than I do. She always does that. It is one of her innumerable annoying habits. "Of course I'm sure!" She clicks her tongue and tilts her head to one side so that her corkscrew curls brush against her shoulder. It's quite a maneuver when you consider the extraordinary width of her neck. "Even the lovely one with the gilt edge, the one over the mantelpiece?" "Yes, even that one," I explain patiently. "And all the bathroom mirrors, too?" "Especially those!" The bathroom is the last place I want to look at myself. "Whatever you say." This in a tone slightly bordering on impertinence. Eileen comes every day. Her main role is cleaning, but her domestic skills leave much to be desired. She seems to be laboring under the impression I don't see dirt. Eileen has a limited collection of facial expressions: cheerful, nosy, busy, nonplussed and vacant. Now she puts on her busy face. She bumbles around emitting a semi-musical noise like a bored bee, collecting the mirrors one by one and stacking them in the hall. She is unable to close the doors behind her because her hands are full, so I follow in her wake, shutting them carefully. If there's one thing that I can't abide in life it's a door left open. I stroll into the larger of the two sitting rooms. There is now an unsightly dark rectangle in the wallpaper above the mantelpiece. I'll have to fill the space with something else. A nice oil painting with plenty of verdure, I think; maybe a Constable print. That would set off the Lincoln green of the velvet curtains. I should like a calming pastoral scene with hills and a lake. A swath of landscape empty of human beings would be best. "There we are, then, Mrs. McCreedy. I think that's all of them." At least Eileen refrains from using my Christian name. Most young people these days seem to have abandoned Mr., Mrs. and Miss, which, if you ask me, is a sad reflection on modern society. I addressed Eileen as Mrs. Thompson for the first six months she worked for me. I only stopped doing it because she begged me. ("Please call me Eileen, Mrs. McCreedy. I would be so much happier if you would." "Well, please continue to call me Mrs. McCreedy, Eileen," I replied. "I would be so much happier if you would.") I like the house much better now that it's lost the appalling specters of Veronica McCreedy taunting me from every corner. Eileen puts her hands on her hips. "Well, I'll be putting this lot away then, now. I'll stack them in the back room, shall I? There's still some space in there." The back room is excessively dark and a little on the cold side, not really usable as a living space. The spiders think it belongs to them. Eileen, in her great wisdom, uses it as a depository for any item I desire to be rid of. She is a firm believer in hoarding everything "just in case." She heaves the mirrors across the kitchen. I resist the urge to close the doors as she goes back and forth, knowing this will only make life more difficult for her. I console myself with the thought that they'll all be shut again soon. She is back five minutes later. "I hope you don't mind me asking, Mrs. McCreedy, but I had to move this out of the way to fit the mirrors in. Do you know what it is, what's in it? Do you want it? I can always ask Doug to take it to the rubbish tip next time he goes." She dumps the old wooden box on the kitchen table and goggles at the rusty padlock. I choose to ignore her questions and inquire instead, who is this Doug? "You know. Doug. My husband." I'd forgotten she was married. I've never been introduced to the unfortunate man. "Well, I shan't be requiring him to take any of my possessions to the rubbish tip in the near or indeed distant future," I tell her. "You can leave it on the table for now." She runs her finger along the top of the box, stroking away a clean trail in the dust. Expression number two (nosy) has now established itself on her face. She leans in toward me conspiratorially. I lean backward a little, having no desire whatsoever to conspire. "I've tried the padlock to see if there might be something valuable inside," she confesses, "but it's stuck. You need to know the code if you want to open it." "I am well aware of that fact, Eileen." She clearly assumes I am as clueless about the contents as she is. My skin crawls at the thought of Eileen looking inside. Other people meddling is the very reason I locked it all up in the first place. There is only one person who I will ever permit to see the contents of that box, and that person is myself. I am not ashamed. Oh no, never that. At least . . . But I absolutely refuse to be led down that path. There are things contained in that box that I have managed not to think about for decades. Now the mere sight of it provokes a distinct wobble in my knee joints. I sit down quickly. "Eileen, would you be kind enough to put the kettle on?" The clock strikes seven. Eileen has gone, and I am alone in the house. Being alone is supposed to be an issue for people such as me, but I have to say I find it deeply satisfying. Human company is necessary at times, I admit, but it is almost always irksome in one way or another. I am currently settled in the Queen Anne armchair by the fire in the Snug, my second and more intimate sitting room. The fire isn't a real fire with wood and coal, alas, but an electric contraption with fake flames. I have had to compromise on this, as with so much in life. It does at least fulfill its primary requirement of producing heat. Ayrshire is chilly, even in May. I switch on the television. A scraggly girl is on-screen. She's screeching her head off, spiking her fingers in the air and caterwauling something about being titanium. I hastily change channels. I flick through a quiz show, a crime drama and an advertisement for cat food. When I return to the original channel the girl is still caterwauling, "I am titanium." Somebody should tell her she isn't. She is a silly, noisy spoiled brat. What a relief when she finally shuts her mouth. At last it's time for Earth Matters, the only program all week that is worth watching. Everything else is sex, advertising, celebrities doing quizzes, celebrities trying to cook, celebrities on a desert island, celebrities in a rain forest, celebrities interviewing other celebrities and a whole load of wannabes doing everything they can to become celebrities (with a spectacular success rate in making fools of themselves). Earth Matters is a welcome respite, demonstrating as it does in manifold ways how much more sensible animals are than humans. However, I am dismayed to find that the current series of Earth Matters seems to have ended. In its place there's a program called The Plight of Penguins. With a gleam of hope I observe that the program is presented by Robert Saddlebow. That man demonstrates that it is occasionally possible to be a celebrity for the right reasons. Unlike the vast majority, he has actually done something. He has voyaged around the world campaigning and raising awareness of conservation issues for several decades now. He is one of the few people for whom I feel a degree of admiration. This evening Robert Saddlebow is relayed to my fireside all bundled up and hooded, in the midst of a white wasteland. A flurry of snowflakes whirls around his face. Behind him is a clump of dark shapes. The camera homes in and reveals them to be penguins, a seething great tribe of them. Some are huddled together, others sleeping on their bellies, others waddling round within the group, on missions of their own. Mr. Saddlebow informs me that there are eighteen species of penguin in the world (nineteen if you count White-Flippered Littles or Blues as a separate species), many of which are endangered. During the filming of the program, he says, he has developed a massive respect and admiration for these birds; for the race as a whole, for each species and for every individual penguin. They live in the harshest conditions on the planet yet take on daily challenges with a gusto and spirit that would put many of us humans to shame. "What a tragedy it would be if any one of these species was lost to the planet!" declares Robert Saddlebow, fixing his ice-blue eyes on me from the screen. "A tragedy indeed!" I say back to him. If Robert Saddlebow cares about penguins this much, then so do I. He explains that each week he's going to pick a different penguin and show us the qualities that make the chosen species unique. This week features the Emperor penguin. I am transfixed. Every year Emperor penguins walk some seventy miles across a desert of ice to reach their breeding grounds. This is indeed a remarkable achievement, especially when you consider that traveling on foot isn't exactly their forte. They walk like Eileen, shuffling forward with a singular lack of grace. They look rather uncomfortable in their own skins. Yet their persistence is inspiring. When the program is finished, I pull myself out of the chair. I have to acknowledge this is not as difficult a task as it is for many others who have reached my mature years. I would even classify myself as sprightly. I am aware that this body cannot be wholly relied upon. In the past it was a faultless machine, but over the years it has suffered losses in both elasticity and efficiency. I must be prepared for the fact that it might let me down at some point in the near future. Yet so far it has managed to keep going marvelously well. Eileen, with her habitual charm, often comments that I am "as tough as old boots." Every time she says this, I'm tempted to reply, "All the better to kick you with, my dear." I repress the urge, though. One must always strive to avoid rudeness. It is now a quarter past eight. I make my way to the kitchen to get my evening cup of Darjeeling and a caramel wafer. My eyes fall on the wooden box, still sitting unopened on the table. I consider twisting the combination on the padlock and taking a peek at what's inside. In an illogical, sadistic sort of way I'd like to. But no, that would be a foolish move. It would be like Pandora in the myth, letting loose a thousand demons. The box must absolutely go back to the spiders without my interference. ¥ 2 ¥ Veronica The Ballahays Life has just become a degree more difficult. I tried to comb my hair into some semblance of order this morning, but the mirror in the bathroom wasn't there. I hurried back to the bedroom only to discover that one has vanished, too. So has the one in the hall and the one in the living room. I proceed with breakfast, none too pleased with this new and unreasonable state of affairs. At nine o'clock, Eileen lets herself in. "Morning, Mrs. McCreedy! What a lovely one it is, too!" She will insist on being exasperatingly cheerful. "What have you done with all my mirrors?" She blinks slowly like a frog. "I put them in the back room, like you told me to!" "That is absurd! How can I sort out my hair and makeup without a mirror?" She really is an irrational creature. "Would you kindly put them back before you do anything else?" "What, all of them?" "Yes, all of them." She produces a faint huffing sound. "Whatever you say, Mrs. McCreedy." I should hope so, too. I don't pay her all that money for nothing. I remember too late that a certain wooden box is still on the kitchen table and she's bound to want to interfere. "You haven't managed to open it yet, then?" she says the minute she lays her eyes on it, assuming this is by incapacity rather than by choice. "I could probably get Doug to saw off the padlock with a hacksaw if you can't remember the code." "I do remember the code, Eileen. My memory is faultless. I can recall dozens of lines of Hamlet from my school days." She does a quick rolling of the eyes here. She thinks I don't notice it, but I do. "And I don't want some Doug of yours tinkering around with my box," I continue. "I'd be grateful if you'd see to those mirrors without further ado." "Yes, of course, Mrs. McCreedy. Whatever you say." I watch as she drags the mirrors from the back room and hangs them up where they were before, muttering to herself. Once the mirrors are back, I set about tackling the problem of my hair. There isn't a great deal of it these days, and it is startlingly white, but I like to keep it tidy. I relish looking at myself very little, though. My reflection isn't a pleasant sight when compared to reflections of the past. Years ago I was really something to look at. People called me "a true beauty," "a stunner." No vestige of that is left now, I observe as I scrape the comb over my thin strands. My skin has become papery and loose. My face is scribbled all over with wrinkles. My eyelids sag. My cheekbones, which used to be so beautiful, jut out at peculiar angles. I should be used to these repugnant physical flaws by now, but it still galls me to see myself like this. I do my utmost to improve matters with the application of lipstick, powder and rouge. But the fact remains: I am not fond of mirrors. The wind cuts through me. It is that damp, feral variety of wind one finds only in Scotland. I huddle in my coat and pick my way northward along the coast path. I have always believed in the efficacy of a daily walk, and I refuse to be put off by inclement weather. To my left the sea churns in slate-gray patterns and spits a wild, white froth out into the air. Excerpted from How the Penguins Saved Veronica by Hazel Prior All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.