Marrying Off Mother: And Other Stories

by Gerald Durrell

  She leaned forward, her eyes blazing.

  ‘It’s such fun to be able to choose your own name. All of us have our names wished on us by our parents. But to be able to choose — why, it’s like being born again.’

  ‘So what name did he choose?’ I asked.

  Sister Claire looked at me in wide-eyed astonishment.

  ‘Why, Booth-Wycherly, of course,’ she said.

  I stared at her lovely face for a moment and then I started to laugh. Jean and Melanie joined me, for the jest was rich. Soon, incited by our laughter, but not completely understanding it, Sister Claire and Michel joined us.

  As we laughed, I am sure that somewhere in that terra incognita we call Heaven, Miss Booth-Wycherly was laughing too.

  A Parrot for the Parson

  She came flying down the platform wearing an elegant blue tweed suit and a blue tam-o’shanter that made her ultramarine eyes look twice their size.

  ‘Darling, I’m here. It’s me, Ursula,’ she cried out, as she dodged like a rugger player round people, baggage and porters. She flung herself into my arms, fastened her lovely mouth on mine and indulged in the loud buzzing noise she made whenever her lips made contact with mine. All the men on the platform stared at me with envy and all the women stared at Ursula with hatred as she was so radiant and lovely.

  ‘Darling,’ she said at last, removing her mouth, ‘I missed you most dreadfully.’

  ‘But I only saw you the day before yesterday,’ I protested, trying to disentangle myself from her vice-like grip.

  ‘Yes, but darling, it was such a long yesterday,’ she said and kissed me once more. ‘Oh darling, to be with you in London in the spring. How scrumptious,’ she said.

  ‘Where’s your luggage?’ I asked.

  ‘The porter’s bringing it,’ she said, pointing down the platform to where an extremely elderly porter was struggling with four large suitcases and a hatbox and a huge brass cage containing a grey parrot.

  ‘What the hell have you brought a parrot for?’ I asked, filled with alarm.

  ‘Darling, his name is Moses and he talks beautifully, even though he does use a lot of bad language. I bought him off a sailor, so I suppose the sailor taught him. You know how uncouth sailors are, when they’re not being captains or admirals. I’m sure Nelson never swore. I mean, he might have said the odd damn when he lost his arm and his eye, but I think that was permissible, don’t you?’

  As usual, when coming in contact with my favourite girlfriend, I began to feel a sense of unreality creeping over me.

  ‘But what do you want a parrot for? You can’t keep him at the hotel.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling, Claridge’s keep anything for you. He’s a present for the Reverend Penge, who’s very sick, poor dear.’

  My mind reeled. This was obviously yet another of Ursula’s charitable deeds which always caused disaster, and I was caught up in the middle of it. Leaving the subject of the parrot for a moment I looked at her mountain of suitcases and the hatbox.

  ‘Do you really need all that luggage?’ I enquired. ‘Or are you planning to stay in London permanently?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling, that’s only for three days and I knew you wanted me to look nice,’ she said. ‘Why, I’ve scarcely brought anything, only the bare essentials. After all, you don’t want me to go about nude, do you?’

  ‘I refuse to reply to that question for fear of being incriminated,’ I said.

  We arrived at the taxi rank, the luggage was stowed and Moses in his cage was installed in the back. As he was doing this, the porter was unwise enough to say ‘Pretty Polly’ to Moses, who, with a clarity of diction I have rarely heard equalled in a parrot, told the porter where he should go and what he should do to himself when he got there, both suggestions geographically and biologically impossible.

  ‘Do you think this parrot is a wise gift to give a reverend gentleman in frail health?’ I asked my beautiful companion as the taxi started in the direction of Claridge’s.

  Ursula turned her magnetic blue eyes on me in puzzlement.

  ‘But of course,’ she said, ‘because it talks.’

  ‘Well, I know it talks,’ I said. ‘It’s what it says that worries me.’

  As if on cue, Moses opened his beak and spoke again.

  ‘Oooh Charlie boy, oh let’s do it again, Charlie boy. Oh I do love a cuddle. Heh, heh, heh, there’s nothing like a cuddle.’

  ‘You see what I mean,’ I said. ‘Do you think your kind gesture is wise?’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to tell you about poor old Reverend Penge,’ said Ursula. ‘He was the vicar of Portel-cum-Hardy, a tiny village near where we live and he got himself into terrible trouble with the choir.’

  ‘You mean a mixed choir, or just boys?’ I asked.

  ‘No, no, they were just boys,’ she said. ‘Well, I mean nobody would have worried if it had been just one teeny-weeny choirboy, but naturally when it came to a whole choir the villagers got up in arms. As they said — and I think quite rightly — there is a limit. Enough’s enough.’

  ‘How big was the choir?’

  ‘Oh, I think about ten but I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘But I thought the vicar was a very nice man and they should not have blackballed him from the Church.’

  ‘Is that what they did?’ I asked, fascinated.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, a trifle uncertainly, ‘or maybe because the Church is so pure they whiteballed him. I’m not sure. Anyway, poor dear, he’s living in one room somewhere off the King’s Road and he wrote me the most pathetic letter saying how ill he was and how he had no one to talk to, so that is why I bought him a parrot.’

  ‘But of course,’ I said, resignedly. ‘What better present for a whiteballed vicar than a foul-mouthed parrot.’

  ‘It was the only thing,’ said Ursula. ‘After all, I couldn’t very well bring him a choirboy, now could I? Do be sensible, darling.’

  I sighed.

  ‘Why are you staying at Claridge’s and not at my hotel?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t like the hotel you stay in, darling. One of the waiters smells of cod-liver oil and besides Daddy always stays at Claridge’s — it’s like the pub round the corner,’ she said.

  Moses ruffled his feathers and vouchsafed something to us.

  ‘Get your pants down, get your pants down, let’s have a peek,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t you think that perhaps a small, inarticulate choirboy would have been preferable?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling. Anyway, he could go to prison if it was inarticulate.’

  ‘If who was inarticulate?’ I asked, bewildered.

  ‘The choirboy. It’s called reducing a miner,’ she said. ‘Although I’ve never understood what a miner’s got to do with choirboys since choirboys are choirboys and miners work digging coal.’

  As usual in a conversation with Ursula, I was left in a state of such puzzlement that it was best to drop the whole subject and start again.

  ‘When are we going to get rid of Moses?’ I asked.

  ‘Moses knows,’ said Moses. ‘Moses knows — heh, heh, heh — drop your pants, there’s a good boy.’

  Tomorrow morning. I thought we’d take him first thing,’ she said.

  ‘Moses likes a bit of bum,’ said Moses.

  ‘I still think that with this parrot’s preoccupation with sex it is an unwise gift,’ I said. ‘You might have the Reverend Penge scooting down to St Paul’s Cathedral in search of more choirboys, incited by Moses’s licentiousness.’

  ‘Go stuff yourself,’ said Moses, fixing me with a glittering eye.

  ‘Darling, the Reverend Penge can’t go scooting anywhere,’ Ursula explained patiently, ‘he’s old and very fragile. He can’t go pursuing choirboys. He can’t run as fast as they can. They would have to be brought to him. I mean, of course, one wouldn’t want that, but you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’’m only surprised you didn’t get him a sheepdog.’

  ‘A
sheepdog!’ she said in amazement. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘For rounding up the choirboys,’ I explained.

  Ursula looked at me severely.

  ‘You know, darling, there are times when you don’t seem to take life seriously enough.’

  I gazed at her four suitcases, her hatbox and at Moses in his cage and then gazed deeply into her lovely eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said contritely, ‘I’ll try being less frivolous in future.’

  ‘That’s right, darling,’ she said, if you try, you can take life as seriously as I do.’

  ‘I will do my very best,’ I said.

  She linked her arm through mine and gave me a brief kiss.

  ‘Darling, isn’t it going to be divine,’ she said dreamily. ‘Three days in London with you — how truly scrumptious.’

  ‘Moses likes a bit of bum,’ said Moses.

  ‘Darling, I do see what you mean,’ said Ursula thoughtfully. ‘He does seem terribly preoccupied with bits of the body.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I expect the Reverend Penge was too. I’m sure they will get on splendidly.’

  ‘You know, you are a comfort to me,’ she said, snuggling up and gazing at me with her huge eyes. ‘Whenever I’m in doubt about something, I say to myself, “What would Gerry have done?’”

  ‘And then you do the opposite,’ I said.

  ‘No, darling, you’re being modest,’ she said. ‘Everything I do is based on your advice.’

  Seeing that Ursula left behind her, in her efforts to help people, a trail of carnage worse than a dinosaur in a china shop, this was scant praise.

  ‘In fact,’ she went on, ‘there was a point when I was seriously thinking about falling in love with you, but I decided not to.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ I exclaimed. ‘When did I get this reprieve?’

  ‘Well, it was some time ago, on the beach under the pier when we were swimming and you said that I’d got a bottom like a cherry stone,’ she said. ‘It was very hurtful.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, sweetheart, but you know cherubs were painted by all the best painters in all the best positions and looked delightful.’

  ‘What sort of painters?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘Well, all the most famous medieval ones,’ I said, wishing I had not brought up the subject.

  ‘You mean like Bottomcelli?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘he painted the most beautiful bottoms in the business, hence his name, and he would have been captivated by yours.’

  ‘Really, darling? How wonderful. It’s nice to know there’s one man in the world who appreciates your bottom,’ she said. ‘Come to think of it, it’s not often that your bottom gets adulated. I suppose it’s because it’s always under you. It’s all to do with modesty. I suppose that’s why they say hiding your bum under a bushel, because if you have a behind like a Cherubum you don’t want it displayed to all and sultry.’

  it’s a very old English saying,’ I said resignedly.

  I had once thought of buying Ursula a dictionary, but discarded the idea when I found out she could not spell.

  When we reached Claridge’s, our taxi door was smartly opened by the immaculately top-hatted doorman who hooked a white-gloved finger into the brass loop at the top of the cage and wafted it out. It became immediately obvious that Moses had been enjoying the taxi ride and took grave exception to its being interrupted. The doorman lifted the parrot cage the better to view the bird and was just going to say smilingly, ‘Pretty Polly,’ when Moses fixed him with a brilliant stare and said, with searing malevolence, ‘You bastard son of a ditch-delivered whore!’ The words were spoken with such venom and clarity that the doorman reeled back as if he had stepped on the wrong end of a rake.

  Ursula was out of the taxi with the speed and agility of an eel. ‘Oh, how kind of you to carry Moses,’ she smiled, turning some twenty-five thousand watts of her personality on to the man. ‘He’s a parrot, you know, and he can talk beautifully. Unfortunately, he’s having trouble with his eyes — it’s a parrot disease called Parotitis and we’ve brought him up to Harley Street to have his eyes tested — you see, he’s mistaking people for other people. He must have mistaken you for somebody he dislikes. He’ll be right as rain when he’s been fitted up with a new pair of spectacles.’

  ‘Moses likes a pair of testicles,’ Moses remarked conversationally.

  Faced with the whole improbable scene for which his training had not prepared him, the doorman looked stunned.

  ‘Does madam wish to have this talking bird in her room?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Oh, yes, please,’ said Ursula, ‘and all this baggage. You are kind.’

  She turned back and leant into the taxi.

  ‘I forgot to bring his damned cover,’ she said. ‘Once that’s over him, he doesn’t say a word. I’ll have to buy another. Goodbye, darling, see you at lunch. One sharp at the Dorchester. I love you to bits.’

  She kissed me and followed the parrot into Claridge’s. Moses was now singing in a fine, rich, ringing baritone, ‘Aint’t it a pity she’s only one titty to feed the baby on. Poor little bugger will never play rugger and grow up big and strong.’

  I gave the driver the address of my hotel and sat back, mopping my brow.

  ‘A right little lady you’ve got there, guv,’ said the driver. ‘She’s a real card, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘She’s a whole deck of cards,’ I said bitterly.

  The driver chuckled.

  ‘And that there parrot,’ he said. ‘Laugh? I could’ve killed myself listening to ‘im. A real pornographic parrot that one and no mistake.’

  ‘Yes, the two of them make an enchanting couple,’ I said, acidly.

  ‘Yuss,’ said the driver, ‘but if I had to choose, straight up, I’d choose that parrot.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, faintly insulted at this implied slur on Ursula’s charms.

  ‘Well, put it this way, guv,’ he said, ‘if the parrot got a bit much you could always strangle him. But your lady, well, she’s far too beautiful to strangle, i’nt she, ay?’

  ‘Yes,’ I sighed, ‘although the thought has not infrequently crossed my mind.’

  He laughed as he drew up outside my hotel and swivelled round to grin at me.

  ‘She’s got you ‘ooked, guv, if you don’t mind my saying so. Like a stray dawg we got once. I says to the wife, I says, “We don’t want no bleedin’ dog, take ‘im to Battersea Dogs’ ‘ome,” I says. But d’you know, guv, it was so damn charming we couldn’t bear the thought of ‘im being put down. So we’ve still got ‘im. It’s like that with women,’ he said, philosophically, ‘once you’re ‘ooked you can’t bear to ‘ave ’em put down, in a manner of speaking. That’ll be three pound eleven and six, guv, please.’

  ‘The trouble is,’ I said, as I paid him, ‘there’s no Battersea Dogs’ Home I could send her to.’

  ‘No, but there’s always your own ‘ome,’ he said, chuckling. ‘Good luck, guv.’

  I went up to my room, laid out my best suit and a clean shirt on the bed, together with a rather startling tie brought back as an unexpected present from Lisbon by my brother-in-law, made sure my socks had no holes in them and that my shoes were polished. Taking Ursula out to a meal was always a traumatic affair, so I wanted to be sure I did not commit any social solecisms of my own. Hers were quite enough to cope with.

  I got to the Dorchester on the dot of one and I was just straightening my tie and waiting for Ursula’s arrival when the head waiter, whom I knew from other occasions, came hurrying towards me.

  ‘Good morning, Sebastian,’ I said, jovially.

  ‘Good morning, sir. Madam is already at the table.’

  This sounded ominous. Ursula was never on time, let alone early. Sebastian led me to a table for four, but there was no sign of Ursula.

  ‘I think perhaps madam has gone to the powder room,’ Sebastian vouchsafed. I sat down, drew up my chair and my feet were
brought up short by a metallic clang. I lifted the table-cloth and from within his cage Moses regarded me with disfavour. In two pungent words he told me what to do. My blood ran cold. Sebastian, his eyes on the ceiling, was unsuccessfully trying to conceal a smile behind a menu card.

  ‘What the hell’s this?’ I asked.

  ‘I believe it to be a bird belonging to madam,’ said Sebastian suavely, ‘a member of the parrot tribe, so I am told. Madam arrived with it and wished it put beneath the table. Its name, I am informed, is Moses. When it arrived in the foyer, it was quite — er — loquacious and, considering its name, its language was not exactly biblical.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me,’ I said bitterly. ‘How the hell did you get it in here without it insulting all your customers?’

  ‘With the aid of napkins wrapped round the cage,’ said Sebastian. ‘Madam said that darkness had a soothing and soporific effect on the bird and deadened its loquacity and so it appears. Apart from that little exchange with you it has not proffered any remarks since we put it under the table.’

  ‘But why in God’s name did she bring it here?’ I asked, exasperatedly.

  ‘I may be wrong, but I believe madam brought it along in the nature of a surprise present for yourself, sir.’

  ‘Surprise present?’ I snorted. ‘I wouldn’t have this bloody bird with a crock of gold.’

  ‘I must admit . . .’ said Sebastian. ‘Ah, here is madam now. She will doubtless explain the presence of — er — Moses, if I may be so bold as to address him by his first name.’

  I looked at his twinkling eyes.

  ‘Sebastian,’ I said, ‘madam will have a dry martini and I will have a large Scotch and Perrier. Oh, and if you have any hemlock, bring a beakerful for the parrot.’

  He bowed and pulled out a chair as the reason for all my woes approached the table.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she cried. ‘Aren’t you pleased I’m so early?’

  ‘You’re both early,’ I said ominously. She gave a guilty start.

  ‘Oh, so you’ve discovered Moses then?’ she said attempting a lighthearted tone.

  it would be a bit difficult to miss him,’ I said acidly. The toes of both my carefully polished shoes are being scraped to hell under his damn cage, and my left shoe is rapidly filling up with sand and what my limited horticultural knowledge tells me must be sunflower seed. Or it may of course even be manure. Why, might I ask, do we have to have Moses partaking of luncheon with us?’