by Paul Gallico
SCRUFFY
Paul Gallico writes: “There is one demonstrable fact in this otherwise total work of fiction and that is on the 25th August, 1944, the Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, caused a signal to be sent to Gibraltar expressing anxiety over disquieting rumours concerning the welfare of the Barbary apes established there, and directing that every effort should be made to restore the dwindling number of apes to twenty-four, and that this number should be maintained thereafter. So much for truth. All that follows is nothing but the wildest imagination.”
From this lurid imagining Paul Gallico has produced Scruffy, the ugliest, nastiest-tempered, roughest old villain of a Barbary ape. The story contains all the fertility of Gallico’s invention, sparked by his love for the British and their odd ways, his understanding of animals, maiden ladies, young lovers, choleric Brigadiers, phychologists doubling as intelligence officers, and prang-prone R.A.F. pilots. It is a unique entertainment written with the inimitable Gallico touch; and renders the unbearable Scruffy the most lovable ape of your acquaintance.
Also by Paul Gallico
THE SNOW GOOSE
THE LONELY
JENNIE
THE SMALL MIRACLE
TRIAL BY TERROR
SNOWFLAKE
THE FOOLISH IMMORTALS
LOVE OF SEVEN DOLLS
LUDMILA
THOMASINA
THE STEADFAST MAN
A Life of St. Patrick
MRS. ’ARRIS GOES TO PARIS
THE HURRICANE STORY
MRS. ’ARRIS GOES TO NEW YORK
TOO MANY GHOSTS
CONFESSIONS OF A STORY-TELLER
“RAMONA”—Lyric by L. Wolfe Gilbert. Music by Mabel Wayne. © Copyright 1927/Copyright Renewal 1955 Leo Feist Inc., New York, N.Y. Used by permission copyright proprietor.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 62-8294
Copyright © 1962 by Paul Gallico
All Rights Reserved
Printed in the United States of America
Jacket art by Ellen Raskin
First Edition January 1962
To
ROBERT FENN
Old Gibraltar hands will, no doubt, amuse themselves trying to identify the characters in this book and associate them with persons living they have known. This pastime I must hasten to inform them and all others so disposed will be a waste of energy since never during the war was I within a thousand miles of Gibraltar, and thus was unable to base my characters upon any persons dwelling or in office there at the time.
There is only one demonstrable fact in this otherwise total work of fiction and that is that on the 25th August, 1944, the Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, caused a signal to be sent expressing his anxiety over disquieting rumours concerning the welfare of the Barbary apes in Gibraltar and the wish that they should not be allowed to die out. And on the 8th September of the same year a second directive was issued to the effect that every effort should be made to restore the establishment of the apes to the number of twenty-four, and that this should be maintained thereafter.
So much for truth. All that follows is nothing but the wildest imagination.
P. W. G.
S C R U F F Y
A D I V E R S I O N
1
Introducing Scruffy
The telephone rang in the narrow, crowded office in the Old Queen’s Gate Headquarters of the 3rd Coast Regiment, Royal Artillery, Gibraltar. It was a humid, hazy August morning. The flyblown calendar on the wall confirmed that it was the fifth day of the eighth month of the year 1939, and the dial of the wrist-watch on the arm of the pleasant-looking young officer who emerged from a huge pile of documents littering his desk said that it was ten minutes past ten.
The officer, who was in shorts and open-necked khaki shirt, was of medium height, with a frank, open face and a pair of gay blue eyes, which at times could reflect the most startling innocence, excitement and enthusiasm.
He picked up the insistently shrilling instrument and said, “Captain Bailey speaking.”
The voice at the other end of the line said, “Hello, sir. Lovejoy here.”
The Captain said somewhat testily, “Yes, yes, Lovejoy. What is it?” Ordinarily he would not have been so short with his right-hand man, the invaluable Gunner Lovejoy, Keeper of the Apes, but at that moment he was busy concocting an official letter which, when it reached its destination through all its official channels, he hoped would soften the heart of the Colonial Secretary to the point where he would not only increase the amount of funds available for the daily food allowance for the Rock apes but would also do something about the monkey-nuts situation. This was a simple problem controlled by the laws of supply and demand. They were out of monkey-nuts on the Rock, and the price of them from both French and Spanish Africa had shot up beyond the Captain’s budget.
The reason that this was a concern of Captain Timothy Bailey, Royal Artillery, was that in addition to his myriad other duties in connection with commanding anti-aircraft batteries, the job of Officer in Charge of Apes had been wished on him. This position carried with it no kudos, no perks, no medal at the end of it, not so much even as a “Well done!” from anyone.
From time immemorial, or ever since the British had taken over and held the Rock, and with it the responsibility for the simian packs that infested its upper reaches and every so often came swarming down to raid the town like a gang of destructive hooligans, the method for choosing the O.I.C. Apes had been for the Brigadier to make testy noises in his throat and with a look of distaste upon his features that he should have to concern himself with such a matter, run a finger down his list of officers and select the one least likely to squawk or make a nuisance of himself over the appointment.
From the point of view of Brigadier J. W. Gaskell, O.B.E., D.S.O., M.C., Captain Timothy Bailey had been the ideal choice. The young officer had a record of good conduct, respect for his superiors, no bad habits, and total absorption in the labours assigned to him. He appeared to have no time-wasting hobbies, to be of a serious turn of mind and eager to please.
“Yes, yes, Lovejoy,” repeated Captain Bailey. “What is it?” And then added, “Are you drunk or sober?”
“Sober, sir,” reported Lovejoy, and from the earnestness and timbre of his voice the Captain knew that this was so. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but he’s off again.”
“Oh Lord,” groaned the Captain, “how long ago?”
“Half an hour.”
“Why didn’t you stop him?”
“I tried to, sir—but you know how he is.”
“Then why didn’t you call me earlier?”
“I couldn’t, sir—I’ve just got back from first aid.”
A throb of sympathy ran through Captain Bailey and softened his voice. “Oh, I say—are you O.K.?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Whereabouts?”
“The usual place, sir—the hand.”
A proverb rose to the top of Captain Bailey’s brain and went floating about there. It said, “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.” The point was that the ape, Harold, otherwise known as Scruffy, always did bite any hand that fed him. Yet somehow this managed to be a part of the perverted charm of the beast, and the spell he had contrived to cast over both of them.
“Poor old chap,” Captain Bailey repeated. “Hadn’t you better be having a drink?”
“I’ve been thinking about that, sir—but I thought it best to call you first.”
“Quite right,” Captain Bailey agreed. “Where are you calling from?”
“St. Michael’s Hut. I came back here after the M.O. fixed me up. I thought perhaps the old bas—, pardon me, sir—I mean, Scruffy might’ve come back. But he hasn’t. I reckon he’s well on his
way now. You ought to be hearing from the C.R.A. within a couple of hours.”
Captain Bailey said, “Blast! Well, thanks for warning me. By the way, what started him off this time?”
“Well, sir,” explained the voice at the other end of the line, and Captain Bailey in his mind’s eye could see Lovejoy scrunched up like a goblin in the narrow confines of St. Michael’s Hut, the little gazebo not far from Prince Ferdinand’s Battery, where the apes hung out.
“Well, sir, you know how Scruffy is about his scoff—when he wants monkey-nuts there’s no two ways about it. It was carrots this morning. He takes one look at them, picks up the biggest, and lets go for me ’ead.”
Captain Bailey’s sporting sense momentarily got the better of him and he asked, “Did he hit you?”
Gunner Lovejoy replied with what almost amounted to pride, “He ain’t never missed yet.”
“Yes, of course,” Captain Bailey said. “And then?”
“He knew I’d fetch ’im one on his ruddy ar— Beg pardon, sir—I mean he knew I’d take measure if I caught him, so he called me a dirty name and went off down to the car park.”
Captain Bailey shuddered and said, “Oh dear. Were there any cars there?”
Gunner Lovejoy said, “Yes, sir—four.”
The Captain shuddered again and said, “Tourists?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well?”
“The usual, sir. He had the windscreen-wipers off quick as wink. You know he loves the rubber off’n them. Caviar, that’s what it is to ’im.”
“Yes, yes,” the Captain assented, “I know. Any other damage?”
The Gunner’s voice grew a shade less confident as it said, “I have the list ’ere, sir. Shall I read it out to you?”
A trifle wearily, the Captain said, “Yes, I suppose you might as well.” He took a fresh sheet of notepaper and poised his pencil.
“Binoculars, one pair, Zeiss, size 8 by 14, value thirty-eight pounds, belonging to a gentleman named Schlummer staying at the Rock Hotel,” the Gunner read off.
“What happened to them?” queried the Captain.
“Bunged ’em over the edge,” replied Lovejoy. “There wouldn’t be much left of them. The drop is seven hundred foot there.”
“Go on,” said the Captain.
“One camera, Ansco Reflex Automatic, three-five lens, fifteen unexposed films in magazine, value forty pounds, property likewise Mr. Schlummer.”
“What happened to that?” asked the Captain.
“Same thing, sir.”
“He didn’t like this fellow, Schlummer, did he?” the Captain suggested.
“That’s right, sir. You might almost say as what he ’ad a point there.”
“German type. Is that the lot?”
“No no, sir,” the Gunner replied cheerfully. “One hat, lady’s, sir, with violets on, property of a Miss Sacking, staying at the Bristol, value three guineas.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed the Captain. “What happened to that?”
“Tore it up, sir. He didn’t like it. It wasn’t all that bad.”
“Yes. Go on.”
“One purse, lady’s, brown leather, chain and clasp broken, contents spilled, money blown over cliff, owner Mrs. Pritchard, likewise staying at Hotel Bristol. Damages and value of money claimed at fourteen pounds ten shillings.”
The Captain noted down the details of the sum and realized that he was sweating slightly. The ape had really been on the rampage.
The Gunner was reading again: “One teddy bear, child’s toy, property of Master Leonard Sletch, father and mother Mr. and Mrs. R. J. Sletch, at Hotel Victoria. Damages claimed to value of—”
The Captain interrupted with a bitter laugh. “That one at least oughtn’t to cost much.”
There was a moment’s silence from the other end of the telephone, and then Lovejoy said, “Well, you see, the trouble was, sir, the kid wouldn’t let go of it.”
“Oh Lord,” breathed Captain Bailey, “don’t tell me—?”
“Yes, sir, he did. But the medical officer’s fixed the kid up, and he’ll be all right. It wasn’t much of a bite—just caught ’im on the end of the finger. But they’re claiming their nipper will be maimed for life.”
A sudden wave of anger passed over Tim and he shouted into the telephone, “Dammitall, Lovejoy—what the devil were you doing all this time? Didn’t you have any balloons on you?”
“No, sir—sorry. Not a one on me person. You know how it is with the budget, sir.”
“Damn and blast the budget!” Tim shouted. “If you’d come and told me you hadn’t any I’d have bought you some out of my own pocket. We can’t have this sort of thing going on.”
This part of the conversation, which would have sounded utterly lunatic to an outsider, was a reference to the fact that the irritable Harold, or Scruffy, who feared nothing living on earth—not man or beast, not lightning, thunder, hell or high water—was subject to the thrall of but one thing, a child’s toy rubber balloon. When Gunner Lovejoy, in extremes of emergency, produced one of these in red, blue, green or yellow, and blew it up to the point where explosion was threatened, it reduced Scruffy temporarily to a wretched, cowering, quivering, panic-stricken mass of fur. In this state he could be handled, and remained tractable for a period of twenty-four hours before his nerves began to recover and he became his old, unpleasant self again. This was a secret shared between Gunner Lovejoy and Tim Bailey, and was resorted to only in the case of genuine emergencies.
Lovejoy repeated, “Sorry, sir.”
“What started him off after that?” demanded Tim. “I should have thought he’d had a lovely morning. Pleased as punch. Cost the Government over a hundred quid. I’d say he could have retired on that. You say he’s off to town? Why—?”
The Gunner said, “He caught a look at hisself in the wing mirror of one of the cars, sir.”
It was now the Captain’s turn to fall silent for a moment at his end of the telephone. Then, in a more subdued voice he said, “Oh.”
“You know how that sets ’im off, sir,” the Gunner was saying, his voice suddenly smarmy with sharing a confidence. “He hates the sight of hisself. He hates me, he hates you, he hates everybody, but worst of all he seems to hate hisself.”
“Did he break it off?” Tim asked.
“He broke them all off,” amended the Gunner. “Six. They were the several properties of Mr. and Mrs.—”
“All right, all right—never mind. You can give me those later. Anyway, thanks for letting me know.”
The Gunner said, “If you should be needing me later, sir, I’ll be—”
“In the Admiral Nelson,” the Captain concluded for him, and then added almost absent-mindedly, “Have one for me too,” and hung up.
He sat there for a moment looking down upon the list of destruction, and knew that with Scruffy on the loose and headed for town, this was just the beginning. Yet somehow there was really no anger in his heart against the animal, and actually the beginning of a smile was fighting its way to the corners of his mouth. He then looked at his own thumbs, one of which bore one, and the other two, whitening cicatrices, mementoes of Harold—Scruffy. The smile did not disappear—in fact it settled (here, for the truth was that deep down in his heart of hearts Captain Timothy Bailey had a sneaking affection for the brute; he was so damnably and magnificently consistent, and unregeneratedly naughty.
While this conversation was going on, the subject thereof, the notable Scruffy, largest, oldest, toughest and most disagreeable Barbary ape inhabiting Gibraltar, was making his way down to the town via the remains of that spine of stone and brickwork known as King Charles V Wall. The ruins climbed straight up from below, almost like a ladder, constituting a convenient short cut for the ape population when they decided to pay a visit to the city in search of goodies and entertainment. In this instance, Scruffy was both hungry and bored as well as irritated.
Scruffy was one of the ugliest specimens of magot, scientifically known a
s macaca silvana simia, the African tail-less Macaque, or Barbary ape, ever domiciled on the Rock, and likewise one of the largest specimens. He was the size of a full-grown Boxer dog, but twice as strong and ten times as destructive, his for greyish, reddish brown, the hair rather thick and somewhat wavy. His black face was illuminated by a pair of golden-brown eyes brimming with meanness and shining forth malevolently from beneath cavernous brows. Large tufts of hair stood up from his ears. He was pure monkey, and yet he contrived likewise to look like a lot of people one knew, and disliked.
Scruffy’s body was thick-set, his hindquarters heavy, so that at times he resembled a fat Arctic explorer in a fur suit several sizes too large for him. He had a set of murderous canine teeth, a jaw like a steel trap, and was further armed with ten strong nails set into black paws at the end of powerful and muscular arms.
He was grumpy, wary, unfriendly, suspicious, irritable, bad-tempered and vengeful. He was wily as a Red Indian, as treacherous as a snake, and withal brave. He was one four-footed mass of animated vices, unleavened by a single thing that a human might consider a virtue—unless the humans were a pair of odd ones like Gunner John Lovejoy and Captain Timothy Bailey. Each loved and admired Scruffy in his own way, and for his own reasons; the former because he recognized the monkey in rebellion against a world in which he had not asked to be put, and because he felt, without knowing it, the tragedy of the basic loneliness of the animal.
Scruffy’s first port of call was at a back street behind Prince Edward Road, where the wall came to an end. Here he made his way to the red-tiled roof of a small cottage and for a few moments sat scratching himself contemplatively and letting ideas float up into his head.
It is the considered opinion of zoologists, anthropologists and scientists that primates cannot and do not think, though they would have encountered a stiff argument from Gunner Lovejoy and Captain Bailey on the subject, but obviously some mental process must be involved when a beast who has been sitting comfortably pleasuring his nerves by scratching itches, suddenly ceases and commences to de-tile a roof.