The Corfu Trilogy (the corfu trilogy)

by Gerald Durrell

  ‘Why, what happens?’ asked Mother.

  ‘And some toast would be nice,’ said Aunt Fan.

  ‘Oh, Mummy, do be quiet,’ said Prue. ‘You have no idea what happens at these meetings, Louise. Mrs Haddock goes into a trance, then becomes covered with ectoplasm.’

  ‘Ectoplasm?’ said Mother. ‘What’s ectoplasm?’

  ‘I’ve got a pot of my own honey in my room,’ said Aunt Fan. ‘I’m sure you will enjoy it, Louise. So much purer than these synthetic things you buy now.’

  ‘It’s a sort of stuff that mediums produce,’ said Prue. ‘It looks like… Well, it looks like, sort of like – I’ve never actually seen it, but I’m told that it looks like brains. Then they make trumpets fly about and things. I tell you, my dear, I never go into the lower regions of the hotel when they are holding a meeting.’

  Fascinated though I was by the conversation, I felt the chance of seeing a woman called Mrs Haddock covered with brains, with a couple of trumpets floating about, was too good to miss, so I volunteered to go down and order tea.

  However, to my disappointment, I saw nothing in the lower regions of the hotel to resemble remotely Cousin Prudence’s description, but I did manage to get a tray of tea brought up by the Irish porter. We were sipping this, and I was endeavouring to explain to Aunt Fan what ectoplasm was, when Margo arrived, carrying a large cabbage under one arm, accompanied by a dumpy little woman with protruding blue eyes and wispy hair.

  ‘Mother!’ said Margo dramatically. ‘You’ve come!’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ said Mother grimly. ‘And not a moment too soon, apparently.’

  ‘This is Mrs Haddock,’ said Margo. ‘She’s absolutely marvellous.’

  It became immediately apparent that Mrs Haddock suffered from a strange affliction. For some obscure reason she seemed to be incapable of breathing while talking. The result was that she would gabble, all her words latched together like a daisy chain and would then, when her breath ran out, pause and suck it in, making a noise that sounded like ‘Whaaaha.’

  Now she said to Mother, ‘I am delighted to meet you Mrs Durrell. Of course, my spirit guide informed me of your coming. I do hope you had a comfortable journey… Whaaaha.’

  Mother, who had been intending to give Mrs Haddock a very frigid and dignified greeting, was somewhat put off by this strange delivery.

  ‘Oh, yes. Did we?’ she said nervously, straining her ears to understand what Mrs Haddock was saying.

  ‘Mrs Haddock is a spiritualist, Mother,’ said Margo proudly, as though she were introducing Leonardo da Vinci or the inventor of the first aeroplane.

  ‘Really, dear?’ said Mother, smiling frostily. ‘How very interesting.’

  ‘It gives one great comfort to know that hose who have gone before are still in touch with one… Whaaaha,’ said Mrs Haddock earnestly. ‘So many people are unaware… Whaa… aha… ofthe spirit world that lies so close.’

  ‘You should have seen the puppies tonight, Margo,’ observed Aunt Fan. ‘The little tinkers had torn up all their bedding.’

  ‘Mummy, do be quiet,’ said Prue, eyeing Mrs Haddock as though she expected her to grow horns and a tail at any moment.

  ‘Your daughter is very lucky in as much as she has… Whaa… aha… managed to obtain one of the better guides,’ said Mrs Haddock, rather as though Margaret had riffled through the Debrett before settling on her spirit counsellor.

  ‘He’s called Mawake,’ said Margo. ‘He’s absolutely marvellous!’

  ‘He doesn’t appear to have done you much good so far,’ said Mother tartly.

  ‘But he has,’ said Margo indignantly. ‘I’ve lost three ounces.’

  ‘It takes time and patience and implicit belief in the future life… Whaaaha… my dear Mrs Durrell,’ said Mrs Haddock, smiling at Mother with sickly sweetness.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ said Mother, ‘but I really would prefer it if Margo were under a medical practitioner one could see.’

  ‘I don’t think they meant it,’ said Aunt Fan. ‘I think they’re teething. Their gums get sore, you know.’

  ‘Mummy, we are not talking about the puppies,’ said Prue. ‘We are talking about Margo’s guide.’

  ‘That will be nice for her,’ said Aunt Fan, beaming fondly at Margo.

  ‘The spirit world is so much wiser than any earthly being… Whaaaha,’ said Mrs Haddock. ‘You couldn’t have your daughter in better hands. Mawake was a great medicine man in his own tribe. One of the most knowledgeable in the whole of North America… Whaaah.’

  ‘And he’s given me such good advice, Mother,’ said Margo. ‘Hasn’t he, Mrs Haddock?’

  ‘Nomorepunctures. The white girl must have no more punctures… Whaaaha,’ intoned Mrs Haddock.

  ‘There you are,’ hissed Prue triumphantly, ‘I told you.’

  ‘Have some honey,’ said Aunt Fan companionably. ‘It’s not like that synthetic stuff you buy in the shops nowadays.’

  ‘Mummy, be quiet.’

  ‘I still feel, Mrs Haddock, that I would prefer my daughter to have sensible medical attention rather than this Mawake.’

  ‘Oh, Mother, you’re so narrow-minded and Victorian,’ said Margo in exasperation.

  ‘My dear Mrs Durrell you must learn to trust he great influences of the spirit world that are after all only trying to help and guideus… Whaaaha,’ said Mrs Haddock. ‘I feel that if you came to one of our meetings you would be convinced of the great powers of good that our spiritguides have… Whaaaha.’

  ‘I prefer to be guided by my own spirit, thank you very much,’ said Mother, with dignity.

  ‘Honey isn’t what it used to be,’ said Aunt Fan, who had been giving the matter some thought.

  ‘You are just prejudiced, Mother,’ said Margo. ‘You’re condemning a thing without even trying.’

  ‘I feel sure that if you could persuadey our Mother to attend one of our meetings… Whaaaha,’ said Mrs Haddock, ‘she would find a whole new world opening up before her.’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ said Margo, ‘you must come to a meeting. I’m sure you’d be convinced. The things you see and hear! After all, there are no bricks without fire.’

  I could see that Mother was suffering an inward struggle. For many years she had been deeply interested in superstitions, folk magic, witchcraft, and similar subjects, and now the temptation to accept Mrs Haddock’s offer was very great. I waited breathlessly, hoping that she would accept. There was nothing I wanted more at that moment than to see Mrs Haddock covered with brains and with trumpets flying round her head.

  ‘Well,’ said Mother, undecided, ‘we’ll see. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m sure that once we break through the barrier for you we’ll be able to give you a lot of help and guidance… Whaaaha,’ said Mrs Haddock.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Margo. ‘Mawake’s simply wonderful!’

  One would have thought she was talking about her favourite film star.

  ‘We are having another meeting tomorrow evening here in the hotel… Whaaaha,’ said Mrs Haddock, ‘and I do hope that both you and Margo will attend… Whaaaha.’

  She gave us a pallid smile as though reluctantly forgiving us our sins, patted Margo on the cheek, and left.

  ‘Really, Margo,’ said Mother as the door closed behind Mrs Haddock, ‘you do make me cross.’

  ‘Oh, Mother, you are so old-fashioned,’ said Margo. ‘That doctor wasn’t doing me any good with his injections, anyway, and Mawake is working miracles.’

  ‘Miracles,’ snorted Mother scornfully. ‘You still look exactly the same size to me.’

  ‘Clover,’ said Aunt Fan, through a mouthful of toast, ‘is supposed to be the best, although I prefer heather myself.’

  ‘I tell you, dear,’ said Prue, ‘this woman’s got a grip on you. She’s malignant. Be warned before it’s too late.’

  ‘All I ask is that you just simply come to a meeting and see,’ said Margo.

  ‘Never,’ said Prue, shuddering. ‘My ner
ves wouldn’t stand it.’

  ‘It’s interesting, too, that they have to have bumble-bees to fertilize the clover,’ observed Aunt Fan.

  ‘Well,’ said Mother, ‘I’m much too tired to discuss it now. We will discuss it in the morning.’

  ‘Can you help me with my cabbage?’ asked Margo.

  ‘Do what?’ inquired Mother.

  ‘Help me with my cabbage,’ said Margo.

  ‘I have often wondered whether one could not cultivate bumble-bees,’ said Aunt Fan, thoughtfully.

  ‘What do you do with your cabbage?’ inquired Mother.

  ‘She puts it on her face,’ hissed Prue. ‘Ridiculous!’

  ‘It isn’t ridiculous,’ said Margo, angrily. ‘It’s done my acne a world of good.’

  ‘What? Do you mean you boil it or something?’ asked Mother.

  ‘No,’ said Margo, ‘I put the leaves on my face and you tie them on for me. Mawake advised it and it works wonders.’

  ‘It’s ridiculous, Louise dear. You should stop her,’ said Prue, bristling like a plump kitten. ‘It’s nothing more than witchcraft.’

  ‘Well, I’m too tired to argue about it,’ said Mother. ‘I don’t suppose it can do you any harm.’

  So Margo sat in a chair and held to her face large crinkly cabbage leaves which Mother solemnly fixed to her head with lengths of red twine. I thought she looked like some curious vegetable mummy.

  ‘It’s paganism. That’s what it is,’ said Prue.

  ‘Nonsense, Prue, you do fuss,’ said Margo, her voice muffled by cabbage leaves.

  ‘I sometimes wonder,’ said Mother, tying the last knot, ‘whether my family’s all there.’

  ‘Is Margo going to a fancy-dress ball?’ inquired Aunt Fan, who had watched the procedure with interest.

  ‘No, Mummy,’ roared Prue, ‘it’s for her spots.’

  Margo got up and groped her way to the door. ‘Well, I’m going to bed,’ she said.

  ‘If you meet anybody on the landing, you’ll give them a terrible shock,’ said Prue.

  ‘Have a good time,’ said Aunt Fan. ‘Don’t stay out till all hours. I know what you young things are like.’

  After Margo had gone, Prue turned to Mother.

  ‘You see, Louise dear? I didn’t exaggerate,’ she said. ‘That woman is an evil influence. Margo’s behaving like a mad thing.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mother, whose maxim in life was always defend your young regardless of how much in the wrong they are, ‘I think she’s being a little unwise.’

  ‘Unwise!’ said Prue. ‘Cabbage leaves all over her face! Never doing anything that that Mawake doesn’t tell her to! It’s not healthy!’

  ‘I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if she didn’t win first prize,’ said Aunt Fan, chuckling. ‘I shouldn’t think there’d be other people there disguised as a cabbage.’

  The argument waxed back and forth for a considerable time, interlaced with Aunt Fan’s reminiscences of fancy-dress balls she had been to in India. At length Prue and Aunt Fan left us and Mother and I prepared for bed.

  ‘I sometimes think,’ said Mother, as she pulled the clothes up and switched off the light, ‘I sometimes think that I’m the only sane member of the family.’

  The following morning we decided to go shopping, since there were a great number of things unobtainable in Corfu that Mother wanted to purchase and take back with us. Prue said this would be an excellent plan, since she could drop her Bedlington puppies off with their new owner en route.

  So at nine o’clock we assembled on the pavement outside Balaklava Mansions, and we must have presented a somewhat curious sight to passers-by. Aunt Fan, presumably to celebrate our arrival, had put on a pixie hat with a large feather in it. She stood on the pavement entwined like a maypole by the leashes of the eight Bedlington puppies that romped and fought and urinated round her.

  ‘I think we’d better take a taxi,’ said Mother, viewing the gambolling puppies with alarm.

  ‘Oh, no, Louise,’ said Prue. ‘Think of the expense! We can go by tube.’

  ‘With all the puppies?’ asked Mother doubtfully.

  ‘Yes, dear,’ said Prue. ‘Mummy’s quite used to handling them.’

  Aunt Fan, now bound almost immobile by the puppies’ leashes, had to be disentangled before we could walk down the road to the tube station.

  ‘Yeast and maple syrup,’ said Margo. ‘You mustn’t let me forget yeast and maple syrup, Mother; Mawake says they’re excellent for acne.’

  ‘If you mention that man once again I shall get seriously angry,’ said Mother.

  Our progress to the tube station was slow, since the puppies circumnavigated any obstacle in their path in different ways, and we had to pause continually to unwind Aunt Fan from the lamp-posts, pillar-boxes, and occasional passers-by.

  ‘Little tinkers!’ she would exclaim breathlessly, after each encounter. ‘They don’t mean any harm.’

  When we finally arrived at the ticket office, Prue had a prolonged and acrimonious argument over the price charged for the Bedlingtons.

  ‘But they’re only eight weeks old,’ she kept protesting. ‘You don’t charge for children under three.’

  Eventually, however, the tickets were purchased and we made our way to the escalators to face a continuous warm blast of air from the bowels of the earth, which the puppies appeared to find invigorating. Yapping and snarling in a tangle of leads, they forged ahead, dragging Aunt Fan, like a massive galleon, behind them. It was only when they saw the escalators that they began to have misgivings about what, hitherto, had appeared to be an exciting adventure. They did not, it appeared, like to stand on things that move and they were unanimous in their decision. Before long we were all wedged in a tight knot at the top of the escalator, struggling with the screaming, hysterical puppies.

  A queue formed behind us.

  ‘It shouldn’t be allowed,’ said a frosty-looking man in a bowler hat. ‘Dogs shouldn’t be allowed on the tube.’

  ‘I have paid for them,’ panted Prue. ‘They have as much right to travel by tube as you have.’

  ‘Bloody ’ell,’ observed another man. ‘I’m in an ’urry. Can’t you let me get by?’

  ‘Little tinkers!’ observed Aunt Fan, laughing. ‘They’re so high-spirited at this age.’

  ‘Perhaps if we all picked up a puppy each?’ suggested Mother, getting increasingly alarmed by the muttering of the mob.

  At that moment Aunt Fan stepped backwards onto the first step of the escalator and slipped and fell in a waterfall of tweeds, dragging the shrieking puppies after her.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said the man in the bowler hat. ‘Perhaps now we can get on.’

  Prue stood at the top of the escalator and peered down. Aunt Fan had now reached the half-way mark and was finding it impossible to rise, owing to the weight of puppies.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy, are you all right?’ screamed Prue.

  ‘I’m sure she is, dear,’ said Mother soothingly.

  ‘Little tinkers!’ said Aunt Fan faintly as she was carried down the escalator.

  ‘Now that your dogs have gone, Madam,’ said the man in the bowler hat, ‘would it be possible for us, too, to use the amenities of this station?’

  Prue turned, bristling to do battle, but Margo and Mother grabbed her and they slid downwards on the staircase towards the heaving heap of tweed and Bedlingtons that was Great-Aunt Fan.

  We picked her up and dusted her down and disentangled the puppies. Then we made our way along to the platform. The puppies now would have made a suitable subject for an RSPCA poster. Never, at the best of times, a prepossessing breed, Bedlingtons can, in moments of crisis, look more ill-used than any other dog I know. They stood uttering quavering, high-pitched yelps like miniature sea-gulls, shivering violently, periodically squatting down bow-legged to decorate the platform with the results of their fear.

  ‘Poor little things,’ said a fat woman commiseratingly, as she passed. ‘It’s a shame the way some people trea
t animals.’

  ‘Oh! Did you hear her?’ said Prue belligerently. ‘I’ve a good mind to follow her and give her a piece of my mind.’

  Mercifully, at that moment the train arrived with a roar and a blast of hot air, and distracted everybody’s attention. The effect on the puppies was immediate. One minute they had been standing there shivering and wailing like a group of half-starved grey lambs and the next minute they had taken off down the platform like a team of virile huskies, dragging Aunt Fan in their wake.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy, come back,’ screamed Prue as we started off in pursuit.

  She had forgotten Aunt Fan’s method of leading the dogs, which she had explained to me at great length. Never pull on the lead, because it might hurt their necks. Carrying out this novel method of dog-training, Aunt Fan galloped down the platform with the Bedlingtons streaming before her. We finally caught her and restrained the puppies just as the doors closed with a self-satisfied hiss and the train rumbled out of the station. So we had to wait in a pool of Bedlingtons for the next train to arrive. Once we finally got them in the train the puppies’ spirits suddenly revived. They fought each other with enjoyment, snarling and screeching. They wound their leads round people’s legs, and one of them, in a fit of exuberance, leaped up and tore a copy of The Times from the grasp of a man who looked as though he were the manager of the Bank of England.

  We all had headaches by the time we arrived a tour destination, with the exception of Aunt Fan, who was enchanted by the virility of the puppies. Acting on Mother’s advice, we waited until there was a pause in the flow of human traffic before we attempted the escalator. To our surprise, we got the puppies to the top with little or no trouble. They were obviously becoming seasoned travellers.

  ‘Thank goodness that’s over,’ said Mother as we reached the top.

  ‘I’m afraid the puppies were a little bit trying,’ said Prue, flustered. ‘But then you see, they are used to the country. In town they think that everything’s wrong.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Aunt Fan.

  ‘Wrong,’ shouted Prue. ‘The puppies. They think that everything’s wrong.’

  ‘What a pity,’ said Aunt Fan, and before we could stop her she had led the puppies onto the other escalator and they disappeared once again into the bowels of the earth.