‘Oh… er… no, no, of course not,’ said Mother guiltily, as though she had been planning vast banquets among the myrtle bushes for Jonquil’s benefit.
‘Jus’ so long as you know,’ said Jonquil. ‘I didn’t want to upset nothing, see? I jus’ want to get some work done.’
So she promptly retired to the garden, clad in a bathing costume, and slept peacefully in the sun throughout her stay.
Durant, he informed us, wanted to work too, but first he had to get his nerve back. He was shattered, he told us, quite shattered by his recent experience. Apparently, while in Italy he had suddenly been seized with the desire to paint a masterpiece. After much thought he decided that an almond orchard in full bloom should give a certain scope to his brush. He spent considerable time and money driving about the countryside in search of the right orchard. At long last he found the perfect one; the setting was magnificent and the blooms were full and thick. Feverishly he set to work, and by the end of the first day he had got the basis down on canvas. Tired, but satisfied, he packed up his things and returned to the village. After a good night’s sleep he awoke refreshed and invigorated, and rushed back to the orchard to complete his picture. On arrival there he was struck dumb with horror and amazement, for every tree was gaunt and bare, while the ground was thickly carpeted with pink and white petals. Apparently during the night a spring storm had playfully stripped all the orchards in the vicinity of their blossom, including Durant’s special one.
‘I vas stricken,’ he told us, his voice quivering, his eyes filled with tears. ‘I swore I vould never paint again… never! But slowly I am recovering my nerves… I am feeling less shattered… Sometime I vill start to paint again.’
On inquiry, it turned out that this unfortunate experience had taken place two years previously, and he had still not recovered.
Michael got off to a bad start. He was captivated by the colouring of the island, and told us enthusiastically that he would begin work on an immense canvas that would capture the very essence of Corfu. He could hardly wait to start. It was most unfortunate that he happened to be a prey to asthma. It was equally unfortunate that Lugaretzia had placed on a chair in his room a blanket which I used for horse-riding, there being no saddles available. In the middle of the night we were awakened by a noise that sounded like a troop of bloodhounds being slowly strangled. Assembling sleepily in Michael’s room we found him wheezing and gasping, the sweat running down his face. While Margo rushed to make some tea and Larry to get some brandy, Leslie opened the windows and Mother put Michael back to bed, and, since he was now clammy with sweat, tenderly covered him with the horse-blanket. To our surprise, in spite of all remedies, he got worse. While he could still speak, we questioned him interestedly about his complaint and its cause.
‘Psychological, purely psychological,’ said Larry. ‘What does the wheezing sound remind you of ?’
Michael shook his head mutely.
‘I think he ought to sniff something up… something like ammonia or something,’ said Margo. ‘It’s wonderful if you’re going to faint.’
‘Well, he’s not going to faint,’ said Leslie tersely, ‘but he probably would if he sniffed ammonia.’
‘Yes, dear, it is a bit strong,’ said Mother. ‘I wonder what could have brought it on… Are you allergic to something, Michael?’
Between gasps Michael informed us that he was only allergic to three things: the pollen of the lilac flowers, cats, and horses. We all peered out of the window, but there was not a lilac tree for miles. We searched the room, but there was no cat hidden anywhere. I indignantly denied Larry’s accusation that I had smuggled a horse into the house. It was only when Michael seemed on the verge of death that we noticed the horse-rug, which Mother had tucked carefully under his chin. This incident had such a bad effect on the poor man that he was quite unable to put a brush to canvas during his stay; he and and Durant lay side by side in deck-chairs, recovering their nerve together.
While we were still coping with these three, another guest arrived in the shape of Melanie, Countess de Torro. She was tall, thin, with a face like an ancient horse, crow-black eyebrows and an enormous cushion of scarlet hair on her head. She had hardly been in the house five minutes before she complained of the heat, and to Mother’s consternation and my delight, she caught hold of her scarlet hair and removed it, revealing a head as bald as a mushroom top. Seeing Mother’s startled gaze, the Countess explained in her harsh, croaking voice. ‘I’ve just recovered from erysipelas,’ she said; ‘lost all my hair… couldn’t find eyebrows and wig to match in Milan… might get something in Athens.’
It was unfortunate that, owing to a slight impediment due to ill-fitting false teeth, the Countess was inclined to mumble, so Mother was under the impression that the disease she had just recovered from was of a much more unlady-like character. At the first available opportunity she got Larry into a corner.
‘Disgusting!’ she said in a vibrant whisper. ‘Did you hear what she’s had? And you call her a friend.’
‘Friend?’ said Larry in surprise. ‘Why, I hardly know her… can’t stand the woman; but she’s an interesting character and I wanted to study her at close hand.’
‘I like that,’ said Mother indignantly. ‘So you invite that creature here and we all catch some revolting disease while you take notes. No, I’m sorry, Larry, but she’ll have to go.’
‘Don’t be silly, Mother,’ said Larry irritably; ‘you can’t catch it… not unless you intend to share a bed with her.’
‘Don’t be revolting,’ said Mother, glaring. ‘I won’t stand that obscene person in this house.’
They argued in whispers for the rest of the day, but Mother was adamant. Eventually Larry suggested asking Theodore out and getting his opinion on the matter, and to this Mother agreed. So a note was dispatched, asking Theodore to come out and spend the day. His reply accepting the invitation was brought by a carriage in which reclined the cloak-swathed form of Zatopec, who, it turned out, had drunk a farewell of prodigious size to Corfu, got on the wrong boat, and ended up in Athens. As by then he had missed his appointment in Bosnia, he had philosophically boarded the next vessel back to Corfu, bringing with him several crates of wine. Theodore turned up the next day, wearing, as a concession to summer, a panama instead of his usual Homburg. Before Mother had a chance to warn him about our hairless guest, Larry had introduced them.
‘A doctor?’ said Melanie, Countess de Torro, her eyes gleaming. ‘How interesting. Perhaps you can advise me… I’ve just had erysipelas.’
‘Ah-ha! Really?’ said Theodore, eyeing her keenly. ‘Which… er… treatment did you have?’
They embarked on a long and technical discussion with enthusiasm, and it was only the most determined efforts on Mother’s part that got them away from what she still considered to be an indelicate subject.
‘Really, Theodore’s as bad as that woman,’ she said to Larry. ‘I do try and be broad-minded, but there is a limit, and I don’t think things like that should be discussed at tea.’
Later Mother got Theodore alone, and the subject of the Countess’s disease was explained. Mother was then stricken with a guilty conscience at having misjudged the woman, and was immensely affable to her for the rest of the day, even telling her to take her wig off if she felt the heat.
The dinner that night was colourful and extraordinary, and I was so fascinated by the assembly of characters and the various conversations that I did not know which one to listen to with undivided attention. The lamps smoked gently and cast a warm, honey-coloured light over the table, making the china and glass glitter, and setting fire to the red wine as it splashed into the glasses.
‘But, dear boy, you have missed the meaning of it… yes, yes, you have!’ Zatopec’s voice booming out, his nose curving over his wine glass. ‘You cannot discuss poetry as if it were house painting…’
‘… so I says to ’im, “I’m not doing a bleeding drawing for less than a tenner a time, and that’s di
rt cheap,” I says…’
‘… and the next morning I vas paralysed… shocked beyond everything… thousands of blossoms, bruised and torn… I say I vill never paint again… my nerves had been shattered… the whole orchard gone… phuit! like that… and there vas I…’
‘… and then, of course, I had the sulphur baths.’
‘Ah, yes… um… though, mind you, I think the bath treatment is… er… a little… er… you know… a little over-rated. I believe that ninety-two per cent of sufferers…’
The plates of food, piled like volcanoes, steaming gently; the early fruit in a polished pile in the centre dish; Lugaretzia hobbling round the table, groaning gently to herself; Theodore’s beard twinkling in the lamplight; Leslie carefully manufacturing bread pellets to shoot at a moth that hovered round the lamps; Mother, ladling out the food, smiling vaguely at everyone and keeping a watchful eye on Lugaretzia; under the table Roger’s cold nose pressed hard against my knee in mute appeal.
Margo and the still-wheezing Michael discussing art: ‘… but then I think that Lawrence does that sort of thing so much better. He has a certain rich bloom, as it were… don’t you agree? I mean, take Lady Chatterley, eh?’
‘Oh, yes, quite. And then, of course, he did wonderful things in the desert, didn’t he?… and writing that wonderful book… the… er… The Seven Pillows of Wisdom, or whatever it was called…’
Larry and the Countess discussing art: ‘… but you must have the straightforward simplicity, the clarity of a child’s eyes… Take the finest fundamental verse… take “Humpty Dumpty”.… Now, there’s poetry for you… the simplicity and freedom from clichés and outdated shibboleths…’
‘… but then it’s useless prating about the simple approach to poetry if you’re going to produce jingles which are about as straightforward and uncomplicated as a camel’s stomach…’
Mother and Durant: ‘… and you can imagine the effect it had on me… I vas shattered.’
‘Yes, you must have been. Such a shame, after all that trouble. Will you have a little more rice?’
Jonquil and Theodore: ‘… and the Latvian peasants… well, I’ve never seen anything like it…’
‘Yes, here in Corfu and… er… I believe… in some parts of Albania, the peasants have a very… er… similar custom…’
Outside, the moon’s face was peering through a filigree of vine-leaves, and the owls were giving their strange, chiming cries. Coffee and wine were served on the balcony, between the vine-shaggy pillars. Larry strummed on the guitar and sang an Elizabethan marching song. This reminded Theodore of one of his fantastic but true Corfu anecdotes, which he related to us with impish glee.
‘As you know, here in Corfu nothing is ever done the correct way. Everyone starts out with the… er… best intentions, but something always seems to go wrong. When the Greek king visited the island some years ago the… er… climax of his tour was to be a… er… sort of stage show… a play. The climax of the drama was the Battle of Thermopylæ, and, as the curtain fell, the Greek army was supposed to drive… um… the Persian army triumphantly into the… what d’you call them? Ah, yes, the wings. Well, it appears that the people playing the part of the Persians were a bit disgruntled at the thought of having to retreat in front of the king, and the fact that they had to play the part of Persians also… you know… rankled. It only required a little incident to set things off. Unfortunately, during the battle scene the leader of the Greek army… um… misjudged the distance and caught the leader of the Persian army quite a heavy blow with his wooden sword. This, of course, was an accident. I mean to say, the poor fellow didn’t mean to do it. But nevertheless it was sufficient to… er… inflame the Persian army to such an extent that instead of… er… retreating, they advanced. The centre of the stage became a milling mob of helmeted soldiers locked in mortal combat. Two of them were thrown into the orchestra pit before someone had the sense to lower the curtain. The king remarked later that he had been greatly impressed by the… um… realism shown in the battle scene.’
The burst of laughter sent the pale geckos scuttling up the wall in alarm.
‘Theodore!’ Larry laughed mockingly. ‘I’m sure you made that up.’
‘No, no!’ Theodore protested; ‘it’s quite true… I saw it myself.’
‘It sounds the most unlikely story.’
‘Here in Corfu,’ said Theodore, his eyes twinkling with pride, ‘ anything can happen.’
The sea striped with moonlight gleamed through the olives. Down by the well the tree-frogs croaked excitedly to each other. Two owls were having a contest in the tree below the veranda. In the grape-vine above our heads the geckos crept along the gnarled branches, eagerly watching the drifts of insects that were drawn, like a tide, by the lamplight.
9
The World in a Wall
The crumbling wall that surrounded the sunken garden alongside the house was a rich hunting ground for me. It was an ancient brick wall that had been plastered over, but now this outer skin was green with moss, bulging and sagging with the damp of many winters. The whole surface was an intricate map of cracks, some several inches wide, others as fine as hairs. Here and there large pieces had dropped off and revealed the rows of rose-pink bricks lying beneath like ribs. There was a whole landscape on this wall if you peered closely enough to see it; the roofs of a hundred tiny toadstools, red, yellow, and brown, showed in patches like villages on the damper portions; mountains of bottle-green moss grew in tuffets so symmetrical that they might have been planted and trimmed; forests of small ferns sprouted from cracks in the shady places, drooping languidly like little green fountains. The top of the wall was a desert land, too dry for anything except a few rust-red mosses to live in it, too hot for anything except sun-bathing by the dragon-flies. At the base of the wall grew a mass of plants – cyclamen, crocus, asphodel – thrusting their leaves among the piles of broken and chipped roof-tiles that lay there. This whole strip was guarded by a labyrinth of blackberry hung, in season, with fruit that was plump and juicy and black as ebony.
The inhabitants of the wall were a mixed lot, and they were divided into day and night workers, the hunters and the hunted. At night the hunters were the toads that lived among the brambles, and the geckos, pale, translucent, with bulging eyes, that lived in the cracks higher up the wall. Their prey was the population of stupid, absent-minded crane-flies that zoomed and barged their way among the leaves; moths of all sizes and shapes, moths striped, tessellated, checked, spotted, and blotched, that fluttered in soft clouds along the withered plaster; the beetles, rotund and neatly clad as business men, hurrying with portly efficiency about their night’s work. When the last glow-worm had dragged his frosty emerald lantern to bed over the hills of moss, and the sun rose, the wall was taken over by the next set of inhabitants. Here it was more difficult to differentiate between the prey and the predators, for everything seemed to feed indiscriminately off everything else. Thus the hunting wasps searched out caterpillars and spiders; the spiders hunted for flies; the dragon-flies, big, brittle and hunting-pink, fed off the spiders and the flies; and the swift, lithe, and multicoloured wall lizards fed off everything.
But the shyest and most self-effacing of the wall community were the most dangerous; you hardly ever saw one unless you looked for it, and yet there must have been several hundred living in the cracks of the wall. Slide a knife-blade carefully under a piece of the loose plaster and lever it gently away from the brick, and there, crouching beneath it, would be a little black scorpion an inch long, looking as though he were made out of polished chocolate. They were weird-looking little things, with their flattened, oval bodies, their neat, crooked legs, and enormous crablike claws, bulbous and neatly jointed as armour, and the tail like a string of brown beads ending in a sting like a rose-thorn. The scorpion would lie there quite quietly as you examined him, only raising his tail in an almost apologetic gesture of warning if you breathed too hard on him. If you kept him in the sun too long he wou
ld simply turn his back on you and walk away, and then slide slowly but firmly under another section of plaster.
I grew very fond of these scorpions. I found them to be pleasant, unassuming creatures with, on the whole, the most charming habits. Provided you did nothing silly or clumsy (like putting your hand on one) the scorpions treated you with respect, their one desire being to get away and hide as quickly as possible. They must have found me rather a trial, for I was always ripping sections of the plaster away so that I could watch them, or capturing them and making them walk about in jam jars so that I could see the way their feet moved. By means of my sudden and unexpected assaults on the wall I discovered quite a bit about the scorpions. I found that they would eat bluebottles (though how they caught them was a mystery I never solved), grasshoppers, moths, and lacewing flies. Several times I found one of them eating another, a habit I found most distressing in a creature otherwise so impeccable.
By crouching under the wall at night with a torch, I managed to catch some brief glimpses of the scorpions’ wonderful courtship dances. I saw them standing, claws clasped, their bodies raised to the skies, their tails lovingly entwined; I saw them waltzing slowly in circles among the moss cushions, claw in claw. But my view of these performances was all too short, for almost as soon as I switched on the torch the partners would stop, pause for a moment, and then, seeing that I was not going to extinguish the light, would turn round and walk firmly away, claw in claw, side by side. They were definitely beasts that believed in keeping themselves to themselves. If I could have kept a colony in captivity I would probably have been able to see the whole of the courtship, but the family had forbidden scorpions in the house, despite my arguments in favour of them.
Then one day I found a fat female scorpion in the wall, wearing what at first glance appeared to be a pale fawn fur coat. Closer inspection proved that this strange garment was made up of a mass of tiny babies clinging to the mother’s back. I was enraptured by this family, and I made up my mind to smuggle them into the house and up to my bedroom so that I might keep them and watch them grow up. With infinite care I manœuvred the mother and family into a match-box, and then hurried to the villa. It was rather unfortunate that just as I entered the door lunch should be served; however, I placed the match-box carefully on the mantelpiece in the drawing-room, so that the scorpions should get plenty of air, and made my way to the dining-room and joined the family for the meal. Dawdling over my food, feeding Roger surreptitiously under the table, and listening to the family arguing, I completely forgot about my exciting new captures. At last Larry, having finished, fetched the cigarettes from the drawing-room, and lying back in his chair he put one in his mouth and picked up the match-box he had brought. Oblivious of my impending doom I watched him interestedly as, still talking glibly, he opened the match-box.
The Corfu Trilogy (the corfu trilogy) Page 12