The penguin

A short story by Cressida McLaughlin

- Cressida McLaughlin

Peggy nestled the last penguin in its wicker basket and looked at them all laid out in front of her.

Her knees ached and she needed to replace the carpet, but it was a long way down the list of things the house needed, things she needed. But this - carrying on her gran's tradition, felt like an achievement amongst the unpacked boxes and crumbling plaster, all the places her gran should be but no longer was.

She snuggled into her wool coat, tucking her chin into the collar. The air sparkled with cold, the sky a frosty, December blue. She could only take two baskets at a time, which meant four trips around the cul-de-sac, past neat gardens with trimmed grass, beds waiting patiently for the time when spring bulbs would break through. Gran's garden - her garden now - was rough around the edges. She'd made vague plans with Alf, gran's gardener, over egg mayonnaise sandwiches at her funeral, but hadn't followed it up.

At number two, Wendy opened the door with a smile, the scents of something bubbling away in the slow cooker making Peggy's mouth water.

"Peggy, darling," Wendy said. "Are you settling in okay? What's this?"

"A basket," she replied stupidly. "A few things."

Wendy examined the gold-wrapped Christmas pudding, the bundle of cinnamon sticks and a mince-pie scented candle.

"A penguin!" Wendy lifted out the small, crocheted bird, her eyes sparkling.

It had yellow feet, a berry red scarf. "It's gorgeous. Where is this from?"

"I made it," Peggy admitted. "I find crochet calming." And an ideal procrastination technique, she didn't add. She had a pattern for Brussels sprouts to try next.

"Goodness!" Wendy held it up to the light, as if it was a precious stone. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Barney and Selina were next.