Marrying Off Mother: And Other Stories

by Gerald Durrell

  ‘Weren’t the Mackintoshes related to the Quinsers?’ asked Miz Magnolia.

  ‘Yes, Miz Ruby’s uncle married a Quinser, the one with the fallen arches and a figger like a sack of sweet potatoes,’ said Miz Melancholy.

  I decided to cut across this genealogical reverie.

  ‘Miz Melancholy,’ I said, ‘you have such an attractive name. How did you come by it?’

  She looked at me, puzzled.

  ‘Baptism,’ she said at last.

  ‘But who chose your name?’ I asked.

  ‘Mah father,’ she said. ‘You see, he wanted a boy.’

  Another hour went by in a haze of bourbon and a patchwork of names and families. Finally, the ladies rose to take their unsteady departure.

  ‘Well,’ said Miz Magnolia, when they had vanished in a flurry of kisses and ‘loved seeing yew’. ‘I’m going to come up and see your room.’

  ‘But my room’s fine,’ I protested. ‘It’s absolutely wonderful.’

  ‘I like to check things for mahself,’ said Miz Magnolia ominously. ‘Now Fred’s turned eighty-nine he’s not as observant as he used to be.’

  ‘Eighty-nine?’ I asked incredulously.

  ‘Certainly is,’ said Miz Magnolia, starting up the stairs. ‘He’ll be ninety on December 22nd.’

  Before I could comment on this, the gentleman in the velvet dressing gown appeared at the head of the stairs waving a large and extremely sharp-looking sabre.

  They’re burning Atlanta,’ he shouted.

  ‘Mercy me,’ said Miz Magnolia, ‘he has been watching that darned video of Gone with the Wind again. I wish Cousin Cuthbert hadn’t given it to him at Christmas.’

  ‘They’ll be hayer any minute,’ shouted the man with the sabre.

  ‘Can I introduce you to Great Uncle Rochester,’ said Miz Magnolia.

  ‘Have you buried the silver?’ asked Great Uncle Rochester. ‘There’s not much time.’

  I remembered that during the Civil War the Southerners spent a lot of their spare time burying the family silver in case it was looted by the damned Yankees.

  ‘Yes, yes, honey lamb, don’t fret. I buried the silver,’ said Miz Magnolia, soothingly.

  ‘They’ll be hayer any minute,’ repeated Great Uncle Rochester. ‘We’ll fight to the last man.’

  ‘You have no reason to discompose yourself,’ said Miz Magnolia. ‘I have a personal assurance from General Jackson they will not take Memphis.’

  ‘Jackson?’ said Great Uncle Rochester with scorn. ‘I wouldn’t believe him if he told me I was Lincoln.’

  I felt this observation confused the issue somewhat.

  ‘Well he told me,’ said Miz Magnolia, ‘and surely to heaven you trust me?’

  ‘You didn’t tell me I was Lincoln,’ said Great Uncle Rochester with a sudden flash of perspicacity.

  Great Uncle Rochester, to my alarm, whirled the sabre in the air, caught it deftly by the blade and handed it to me hilt first.

  ‘You take the first watch,’ he said. ‘Wake me at midnight or before if necessary.’

  ‘You may rely on me, sir,’ I said.

  ‘We must fight to the death,’ he said gravely, and stalked off into his room and slammed the door.

  ‘Now we can go and inspect your room,’ said Miz Magnolia happily. ‘I would put that nasty sword thing under your bed if I were yew. Sometimes the cats make a lot of noise in the garden and it is a useful thing to throw.’

  Miz Magnolia minutely examined my room and found it to her satisfaction.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘I must go and examine the hall.’

  ‘The hall?’ I said, puzzled.

  ‘The hall where yew are going to speak,’ she said. ‘If I don’t examine it there is always a disconambulation. There was one poor man who had all his slides in upside down. It was a very confused lecture.’

  ‘I would prefer for that not to happen to me,’ I said, ‘if that can be avoided.’

  ‘Yew just sit yourself in the living room,’ she said, ‘and have a nice drink of Coca-Cola. I’ll be back directly.’

  So I sat in the living room with a weak bourbon and read the local paper. Suddenly, a small, rotund old lady with vivid blue hair made her appearance on the stairs, wearing a voluminous green dressing gown so covered in cigarette burns it looked as though it was made of lace. Humming to herself she descended the stairs and gave a yelp of fright as I got to my feet and she saw me.

  ‘Mercy me!’ she squeaked, holding her clasped hands to her ample bosom.

  ‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ I said. ‘My name’s Durrell and I’m staying here.’

  ‘Oh, you’re the Englishman who’s come to lecture us,’ she said, smiling. ‘Ah’m so glad to meet you. Ah’m Great Aunt Dorinda.’

  ‘A great pleasure, madam,’ I said.

  ‘Ah just came down for a Coca-Cola,’ she said, floating across to the drinks cabinet. She sniffed all the Coca-Cola bottles until she found one to her liking.

  ‘Ah’ll just take it upstairs,’ she said. ‘Ah’m so sorry mah husband Mr Rochester is not here at the moment, but he’s out fighting the war — such a noisy business. But he’ll be back directly when he’s won it. Ah’m not sure how long it will take. Ah don’t really know very much about these masculine pursuits, but it seems to make them happy and that’s the main thing, don’t yew think?’

  ‘Indeed I do, madam,’ I said.

  ‘But as ah say, he’ll be back presently. Ah’m not sure when, of course. I believe some wars take longer than others,’ she said vaguely.

  ‘So I am led to believe,’ I agreed.

  ‘Well, do make yourself at home,’ she said and giving me a shy smile and clutching her Coca-Cola bottle she drifted upstairs. Somewhat shaken by this encounter I poured myself another bourbon and, finding no ice in the cooler, I went out to the back regions where I presumed Fred had his abode.

  I found him in a green baize apron sitting at the kitchen table which was covered with such an enormous pile of silver it would have made Captain Kidd blink.

  ‘Ah am cleaning de silver,’ he said unnecessarily.

  ‘So I see,’ I said. ‘Could I have some ice?’

  ‘Yes, suh,’ he said, ‘you sho’ can. Ain’t nothin’ worse than warm Coca-Cola.’

  He fetched the ice cubes and put them in my drink.

  ‘Yes, suh, it’s nice to live in a house with no strong liquor. Strong drink is raging.’

  He picked up a silver dish in which you could have easily bathed a baby and started to polish it. I sipped my bourbon furtively.

  Take a seat, suh,’ said Fred, hospitably, drawing out a stool. Take a seat and set awhile.’

  Thank you,’ I said, sitting down and hoping the strong smell of liquor would not drift across the table to Fred’s nostrils.

  ‘Are you a religious man?’ he asked, busy with polishing silver so bright that it did not seem in need of it.

  ‘Church of England,’ I said.

  ‘Is dat right?’ said Fred. ‘Dat would be in England, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Is dat anywhere near de Pope?’ asked Fred.

  ‘No, a fair distance away.’

  ‘Dat Pope’s always kissing de ground,’ said Fred, shaking his head. ‘Ah don’t know why he don’t have a disease, carrying on like dat.’

  ‘It’s a habit Popes have,’ I explained.

  ‘It’s a bad habit,’ said Fred firmly. ‘It’s not clean. He don’t know who’s bin there before him.’

  He picked up a salver big enough to accommodate the head of John the Baptist and started work on it.

  ‘Ah was never a religious man until I was saved by Charity,’ he remarked.

  ‘By Charity?’ I asked, puzzled.

  ‘Mah third wife,’ he explained. ‘She introduced me to the Church of the Second Revelation en ah become saved. It was all explained to me. All de woes of de world you can blame on one woman.’

  ‘Who?’ I asked, hoping he was
not going to say Miz Magnolia.

  ‘Eve,’ he said, ‘dat who. She was de one what created strong liquor and fornication.’

  ‘How did she invent strong liquor?’ I enquired, feeling that, if true, this was a point in Eve’s favour rather than the reverse.

  ‘Apples,’ said Fred. ‘Dat tree of knowledge got apples on it en where yew got apples yew can be sure they’re gonna make cider. En she was probably drunk to do what she did.’

  ‘What did she do?’ I asked, now thoroughly mystified.

  ‘She was dislocated in her brain by drink,’ said Fred with conviction. ‘What woman in her right mind gonna talk to a snake? No, a normal woman would-a gone a-running and phoned up de police and de fire brigade.’

  I had a momentary but very clear vision of the Garden of Eden with half a dozen bright red fire-engines and a covey of policemen surrounding the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.

  ‘Yes, and den she was de cause of all de over-population we got now, yes siree.’

  ‘But Eve didn’t have many children,’ I protested.

  ‘But what did dey do?’ he asked. ‘What did dey do, eh? Fornication — if yew’ll excuse the word. Fornication left right and centre. Stand to reason all dat begatting gonna lead to over-population. Yes, fornication and cider, dat’s why de good Lord expelled dem.’

  I must say this gave me a completely new slant on the downfall of Adam and Eve.

  ‘If they’d had prohibition in those days it might of helped,’ Fred continued, ‘but even de good Lord couldn’t think of everything.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ I said thoughtfully.

  My ecclesiastical investigations with Fred were, to my sorrow, cut short by the arrival of Miz Magnolia, who came bustling in to tell me that the hall was not in any way, shape or form disconambulated, and that the cream of Memphis society would be expecting me on stage in an hour’s time.

  ‘You have just time for a Coca-Cola,’ she said coyly.

  It seemed to me that since my arrival in Memphis I had done nothing but imbibe the Demon Drink in vast quantities, but nevertheless I had one more heart-warming libation before my appearance.

  My lecture was a wild success. Not, I fear, because of its riveting content but because of my axe-cent.

  Tour axe-cent is really something else,’ said a large, red-faced, white-whiskered man to me afterwards. ‘It’s really and truly, sir, something else. It’s surely exciting, you know — like that guy, what’s his name — yes, William Shakespeare.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘Have you ever thought of moving down South and becoming an American?’ he asked. ‘With an axe-cent like yours we’d surely welcome yew.’

  I said that I was gratified; the thought had not occurred to me, but I would bear it in mind.

  The next morning, suffering I regret to say from a hangover, due to over-indulgence in Southern hospitality, I made my way in a somewhat fragile state downstairs to breakfast, where I found them all assembled round a highly polished table, glittering with silver like a mountain brook, and Fred in attendance.

  ‘Oh,’ said Great Aunt Dorinda, ‘this is mah husband Mr Rochester.’

  ‘We have met, Dorinda,’ said Great Uncle Rochester. ‘This gallant gentleman helped me fend off the rebel horde of Yankees last night.’

  ‘That must have been nice for yew both,’ said Aunt Dorinda. ‘Ah do think it’s lovely when yew can share things together.’

  ‘Did you get a good night’s sleep?’ asked Miz Magnolia, ignoring the other two.

  ‘Splendid,’ I said, as Fred helped me to a tiny Southern breakfast of six slices of bacon, crisp and fragrant as autumn leaves, four eggs, gleaming like newly emerged suns, eight pieces of toast engulfed in butter and a large, glittering, trembling spoonful of lemon preserve.

  ‘I am going to get the latest news,’ said Great Uncle Rochester, rising and drawing his dressing gown around him.

  ‘Will yew be back for lunch or still fighting?’ asked Great Aunt Dorinda.

  ‘Madam, a war cannot be hurried,’ said Great Uncle Rochester, sternly.

  ‘No, no, ah realize that,’ said Great Aunt Dorinda, ‘but ah just wanted to know about the ice cream.’

  ‘There are more important things on my mind, woman, than ice cream,’ said Great Uncle Rochester. ‘Is it vanilla or strawberry?’

  ‘Strawberry,’ said Great Aunt Dorinda.

  ‘I’ll have two scoops and some nutcake,’ said Great Uncle Rochester, and took his leave of us, while Great Aunt Dorinda went to the kitchen.

  ‘Ah do declare, ah do not know what things are coming to,’ said Miz Magnolia, perusing the local paper. ‘Now they’ve got a nigger they want to make the mayor.’

  I glanced uneasily at the door through which Fred had disappeared.

  ‘If you ask my opinion, we are ruled by a bunch of white trash and niggers — we really are — white trash and niggers,’ she said, sipping her coffee.

  ‘Tell me, Miz Magnolia, in view of the sensitivity of black people today, do you think it wise to talk like that when Fred’s about?’ I asked.

  ‘Talk like what?’ she said, turning enormous puzzled eyes on me.

  ‘Well, talking about niggers and so on.’ ‘But Fred’s not a nigger,’ she said indignantly.

  I wondered for a brief moment if she was, perhaps, colourblind.

  ‘No,’ she continued. ‘My great-grandfather bought Fred’s grandfather back in 1850. Ah’ve still got the receipt. Fred was born here. Fred’s no nigger. Fred’s family.’

  I gave up trying to understand the Southern mind.

  Retirement

  In my travels I have met with many events that have saddened and distressed me. But of this multitude of happenings there is one incident that is engraved on my mind and fills me with sorrow whenever I think of it.

  He was a very small man with no more bulk than a forlorn fourteen-year-old boy. His bones seemed as fragile and delicate as the stems of ancient clay pipes. He had a strange head perched on his slender neck like a Greek amphora upside down. In this were framed gigantic liquid eyes the size and shape of a doe’s, a nose as finely chiselled as a bird’s wing and a mouth beautifully formed, generous and compassionate. His ears, delicate as parchment, were large and pointed as a pixie’s are supposed to be. He was the Scandinavian Captain of the merchant vessel we were travelling on from Australia to Europe.

  In those lovely far-off days you could travel on such vessels, which took six weeks and carried only eight or maybe twelve passengers. This was no QE2. It was really like having your own personal yacht. However, it had its pitfalls because you could not choose your fellow passengers. But out of twelve you were sure to meet at least two who vaguely resembled the human race and with whom you could strike up a friendship and thus ignore the others without causing offence. On this particular occasion I was the only male passenger on board. The other eleven were elderly Australian ladies who — with much twittering and excitement — were venturing on their very first voyage on a ship, their very first trip to Europe and their very first venture to the homeland of England where the Queen lives. So, as may be imagined, everything was so new and exciting to them that it had to be crooned over. The cabins were wonderful, with real beds, the showers and baths had real water, in the saloon they were served with real drinks and at meals they sat at a large table (polished) while they were served real food. They were like children at their first picnic and it was a joy to watch their enjoyment. However, the source of their most profound enjoyment was the Captain. They took one look at him and fell immediately, deeply, seriously and irrevocably in love with him. For his part, the Captain displayed such charm and consideration that he became, instantly, a sort of nautical Pied Piper. He would go the rounds of everybody basking in deck-chairs to check that the breakfast had been to their liking, that the beef tea (served at eleven o’clock precisely) had been of the right temperature, later in the saloon he would personally attend to the rites so necessary for fabric
ating that nauseating drink, the dry martini. He would send sailors a-running to alert the ladies to a flock of flying fish, a whale spouting like a fountain in the distance or an albatross floating on ruler-taut wings at our stern as if pinned there to an invisible wire. He took them up to the bows (with an escort of crew members to ensure nobody fell) to watch the dolphins keeping pace with the ship or suddenly zooming ahead in a breathtaking burst of speed and then throwing themselves out of the blue water like exuberant arrows. He took them down to the glittering engine room, where you could have eaten off the floor, and explained to them the internal organs of a ship. He took them up to the bridge from which the ship was run and explained how radar could let you be a ship that passed in the night and not a nasty accident. He took them down to the kitchens and the deep freezes, showing them where the food for their meals was kept and prepared, and they were enchanted. With each revelation they became more and more deeply in love with the Captain and he, enchanting, shy, tender little man that he was, strove each day to produce more and more amazing things for his ladies as a conjuror will produce more and more surprises out of his hat to amaze you.

  The Captain’s got an ‘art of gold,’ the large and forever perspiring Mrs Farthingale said to me over the morning’s beef tea, ‘just pure gold. If my husband had been more like that, perhaps our marriage would ‘ave lasted.’

  Not having known the redoubtable Mr Farthingale, I could pass no comment.

  The Captain’s the sweetest man I ever met, the very soul of courtesy and kindness and such good manners for a foreigner,’ said Miss Landlock, her eyes filling with tears that threatened to overflow into her second martini. ‘And happily married, so the Chief Officer tells me.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘so I believe.’

  She sighed lugubriously.

  ‘All nice ones are,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Fortescue, well into her third gin, poured with a generous hand, ‘there are too few decent blokes around without wives. As soon as I saw the Captain, I said to myself, now there’s a good bloke, not one to go philandering even if he is a sailor.’

  The Captain would never philander,’ said Miss Woodbye, rather shocked. ‘He’s too much of a gentleman.’