The Corfu Trilogy

by Gerald Durrell

  ‘Can’t we do something about those birds?’ he inquired heatedly. ‘They’ll scare everything for miles.’

  ‘Not the snipe,’ said Leslie; ‘the snipe stick close until you almost walk on them.’

  ‘It seems quite futile to continue,’ said Larry. ‘We might as well send a brass band ahead of us.’

  He tucked the gun under his arm and stamped irritably on to the bridge. It was then that the accident occurred. He was in the middle of the groaning, shuddering plank when two snipe which had been lying concealed in the long grass at the other end of the bridge rocketed out of the grass and shot skywards. Larry, forgetting in his excitement his rather peculiar situation, shipped the gun to his shoulder and, balancing precariously on the swaying bridge, fired both barrels. The gun roared and kicked, the snipe flew away undamaged, and Larry with a yell of fright fell backwards into the irrigation ditch.

  ‘Hold the gun above your head! Hold it above your head!’ roared Leslie.

  ‘Don’t stand up or you’ll sink,’ screeched Margo. ‘Sit still.’

  But Larry, spreadeagled on his back, had only one idea, and that was to get out as quickly as possible. He sat up and then tried to get to his feet, using, to Leslie’s anguish, the gun barrels as a support. He raised himself up, the liquid mud shuddered and boiled, the gun sank out of sight, and Larry disappeared up to his waist.

  ‘Look what you’ve done to the gun,’ yelled Leslie furiously; ‘you’ve choked the bloody barrels.’

  ‘What the hell do you expect me to do?’ snarled Larry. ‘Lie here and be sucked under? Give me a hand, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Get the gun out,’ said Leslie angrily.

  ‘I refuse to save the gun if you don’t save me,’ Larry yelled. ‘Damn it, I’m not a seal… get me out!’

  ‘If you give me the end of the gun I can pull you out, you idiot,’ shouted Leslie. ‘I can’t reach you otherwise.’

  Larry groped wildly under the surface for the gun and sank several inches before he retrieved it, clotted with black and evil-smelling mud.

  ‘Dear God! Just look at it,’ moaned Leslie, wiping the mud off it with his handkerchief, ‘just look at it.’

  ‘Will you stop carrying on over that beastly weapon and get me out of here?’ asked Larry vitriolically. ‘Or do you want me to sink beneath the mud like a sort of sportsmen’s Shelley?’

  Leslie handed him the ends of the barrels, and we all heaved mightily. It seemed to make no impression whatsoever, except that when we stopped, exhausted, Larry sank a little deeper.

  ‘The idea is to rescue me,’ he pointed out, panting, ‘not deliver the coup de grâce.’

  ‘Oh, stop yapping and try to heave yourself out,’ said Leslie.

  ‘What d’you think I’ve been doing, for heaven’s sake? I’ve ruptured myself in three places as it is.’

  At last, after much effort, there came a prolonged belch from the mud and Larry shot to the surface and we hauled him up the bank. He stood there, covered with the black and stinking slush, looking like a chocolate statue that has come in contact with a blast furnace; he appeared to be melting as we watched.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Margo.

  Larry glared at her. ‘I’m fine,’ he said sarcastically, ‘simply fine Never enjoyed myself more. Apart from a slight touch of pneumonia, a ricked back, and the fact that one of my shoes lies full fathom five, I’m having a wonderful time.’

  As he limped homewards he poured scorn and wrath on our heads, and by the time we reached home he was convinced that the whole thing had been a plot. As he entered the house, leaving a trail like a ploughed field, Mother uttered a gasp of horror.

  ‘What have you been doing, dear?’ she asked.

  ‘Doing? What do you think I’ve been doing? I’ve been shooting.’

  ‘But how did you get like that, dear? You’re sopping. Did you fall in?’

  ‘Really, Mother, you and Margo have such remarkable perspicacity I sometimes wonder how you survive.’

  ‘I only asked, dear,’ said Mother.

  ‘Well, of course I fell in; what did you think I’d been doing?’

  ‘You must change, dear, or you’ll catch cold.’

  ‘I can manage,’ said Larry with dignity; ‘I’ve had quite enough attempts on my life for one day.’

  He refused all offers of assistance, collected a bottle of brandy from the larder, and retired to his room, where, on his instructions, Lugaretzia built a huge fire. He sat muffled up in bed, sneezing and consuming brandy. By lunch-time he sent down for another bottle, and at tea-time we could hear him singing lustily, interspersed with gigantic sneezes. At supper-time Lugaretzia had paddled upstairs with the third bottle, and Mother began to get worried. She sent Margo up to see if Larry was all right. There was a long silence, followed by Larry’s voice raised in wrath, and Margo’s pleading plaintively. Mother, frowning, stumped upstairs to see what was happening, and Leslie and I followed her.

  In Larry’s room a fire roared in the grate, and Larry lay concealed under a towering pile of bedclothes. Margo, clasping a glass, stood despairingly by the bed.

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’ asked Mother, advancing determinedly.

  ‘He’s drunk,’ said Margo despairingly, ‘and I can’t get any sense out of him. I’m trying to get him to take this Epsomsalts, otherwise he’ll feel awful tomorrow, but he won’t touch it. He keeps hiding under the bedclothes and saying I’m trying to poison him.’

  Mother seized the glass from Margo’s hand and strode to the bedside.

  ‘Now come on, Larry, and stop being a fool,’ she snapped briskly; ‘drink this down at once.’

  The bedclothes heaved and Larry’s tousled head appeared from the depths. He peered blearily at Mother, and blinked thoughtfully to himself. ‘You’re a horrible old woman… I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before,’ he remarked, and before Mother had recovered from the shock of this observation he had sunk into a deep sleep.

  ‘Well,’ said Mother, aghast, ‘he must have had a lot. Anyway, he’s asleep now, so let’s just build up the fire and leave him. He’ll feel better in the morning.’

  It was Margo who discovered, early the following morning, that a pile of glowing wood from the fire had slipped down between the boards of the room and set fire to the beam underneath. She came flying downstairs in her nightie, pale with emotion, and burst into Mother’s room.

  ‘The house is on fire… Get out! Get out!’ she yelled dramatically.

  Mother leaped out of bed with alacrity. ‘Wake Gerry… wake Gerry,’ she shouted, struggling, for some reason best known to herself, to get her corsets on over her nightie.

  ‘Wake up… wake up… Fire… fire!’ screamed Margo at the top of her voice.

  Leslie and I tumbled out onto the landing

  ‘What’s going on?’ demanded Leslie.

  ‘Fire!’ screamed Margo in his ear. ‘Larry’s on fire!’

  Mother appeared, looking decidedly eccentric with her corsets done up crookedly over her nightie.

  ‘Larry’s on fire? Quick, save him,’ she screamed, and rushed up stairs to the attic, closely followed by the rest of us. Larry’s room was full of acrid smoke, which poured up from between the floorboards. Larry himself lay sleeping peacefully. Mother dashed over to the bed and shook him vigorously.

  ‘Wake up, Larry; for heaven’s sake wake up.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, sitting up sleepily.

  ‘The room’s on fire.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ he said, lying down again. ‘Ask Les to put it out.’

  ‘Pour something on it,’ shouted Les, ‘get something to pour on it.’

  Margo, acting on these instructions, seized a half-empty brandy bottle and scattered the contents over a wide area of floor. The flames leaped up and crackled merrily.

  ‘You fool, not brandy!’ yelled Leslie; ‘water… get some water.’

  But Margo, overcome at her contribution to the holocaust, bu
rst into tears. Les, muttering wrathfully, hauled the bedclothes off the recumbent Larry and used them to smother the flames. Larry sat up indignantly.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he demanded.

  ‘The room’s on fire, dear.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see why I should freeze to death. Why tear all the bedclothes off ? Really, the fuss you all make. It’s quite simple to put out a fire.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ snapped Leslie, jumping up and down on the bedclothes.

  ‘I’ve never known people for panicking like you all do,’ said Larry; ‘it’s simply a matter of keeping your head. Les has the worst of it under control; now if Gerry fetches the hatchet, and you, Mother, and Margo fetch some water, we’ll soon have it out.’

  Eventually, while Larry lay in bed and directed operations, the rest of us managed to rip up the planks and put out the smouldering beam. It must have been smouldering throughout the night, for the beam, a twelve-inch-thick slab of olive wood, was charred half-way through. When, eventually, Lugaretzia appeared and started to clean up the mass of smouldering bedclothes, wood splinters, water, and brandy, Larry lay back on the bed with a sigh.

  ‘There you are,’ he pointed out; ‘all done without fuss and panic. It’s just a matter of keeping your head. I would like someone to bring me a cup of tea, please; I’ve got the most splitting headache.’

  ‘I’m not surprised; you were as tiddled as an owl last night,’ said Leslie.

  ‘If you can’t tell the difference between a high fever due to exposure and a drunken orgy it’s hardly fair to besmirch my character,’ Larry pointed out.

  ‘Well, the fever’s left you with a good hangover, anyway,’ said Margo.

  ‘It’s not a hangover,’ said Larry with dignity, ‘it’s just the strain of being woken up at the crack of dawn by an hysterical pack of people and having to take control of a crisis.’

  ‘Fat lot of controlling you did, lying in bed,’ snorted Leslie.

  ‘It’s not the action that counts, it’s the brainwork behind it, the quickness of wit, the ability to keep your head when all about you are losing theirs. If it hadn’t been for me you would probably all have been burnt in your beds.’

  Conversation

  Spring had arrived and the island was sparkling with flowers. Lambs with flapping tails gambolled under the olives, crushing the yellow crocuses under their tiny hooves. Baby donkeys with bulbous and uncertain legs munched among the asphodels. The ponds and streams and ditches were tangled in chains of spotted toads’ spawn, the tortoises were heaving aside their winter bedclothes of leaves and earth, and the first butterflies, winter-faded and frayed, were flitting wanly among the flowers.

  In this crisp, heady weather the family spent most of its time on the veranda, eating, sleeping, reading, or just simply arguing. It was here, once a week, that we used to congregate to read our mail which Spiro had brought out to us. The bulk of it consisted of gun catalogues for Leslie, fashion magazines for Margo, and animal journals for myself. Larry’s post generally contained books and interminable letters from authors, artists, and musicians, about authors, artists, and musicians. Mother’s contained a wedge of mail from various relatives, sprinkled with a few seed catalogues. As we browsed we would frequently pass remarks to one another, or read bits aloud. This was not done with any motive of sociability (for no other member of the family would listen, anyway), but merely because we seemed unable to extract the full flavour of our letters and magazines unless they were shared. Occasionally, however, an item of news would be sufficiently startling to rivet the family’s attention on it, and this happened one day in spring when the sky was like blue glass, and we sat in the dappled shade of the vine, devouring our mail.

  ‘Oh, this is nice… Look… organdie with puffed sleeves… I think I would prefer it in velvet, though… or maybe a brocade top with a flared skirt. Now, that’s nice… it would look good with long white gloves and one of those sort of summery hats, wouldn’t it?’

  A pause, the faint sound of Lugaretzia moaning in the dining-room, mingled with the rustle of paper. Roger yawned loudly, followed in succession by Puke and Widdle.

  ‘God! What a beauty!… Just look at her… telescopic sight, bolt action… What a beaut! Um… a hundred and fifty… not really expensive, I suppose… Now this is good value… Let’s see… double-barrelled… choke… yes… I suppose one really needs something a bit heavier for ducks.’

  Roger scratched his ears in turn, twisting his head on one side, a look of bliss on his face, groaning gently with pleasure. Widdle lay down and closed his eyes. Puke vainly tried to catch a fly, his jaws clopping as he snapped at it.

  ‘Ah! Antoine’s had a poem accepted at last! Real talent there, if he can only dig down to it. Varlaine’s starting a printing press in a stable… Pah! Limited editions of his own works. Oh, God, George Bullock’s trying his hand at portraits… portraits, I ask you! He couldn’t paint a candlestick. Good book here you should read, Mother: The Elizabethan Dramatists… a wonderful piece of work… some fine stuff in it…’

  Roger worked his way over his hind-quarters in search of a flea, using his front teeth like a pair of hair-clippers, snuffling noisily to himself. Widdle twitched his legs and tail minutely, his ginger eyebrows going up and down in astonishment at his own dream. Puke lay down and pretended to be asleep, keeping an eye cocked for the fly to settle.

  ‘Aunt Mabel’s moved to Sussex… She says Henry’s passed all his exams and is going into a bank… at least, I think it’s a bank… her writing really is awful, in spite of that expensive education she’s always boasting about… Uncle Stephen’s broken his leg, poor old dear… and done something to his bladder?… Oh, no, I see… really this writing… he broke his leg falling off a ladder… You’d think he’d have more sense than to go up a ladder at his age… ridiculous… Tom’s married… one of the Garnet girls…’

  Mother always left until the last a fat letter, addressed in large, firm, well-rounded handwriting, which was the monthly instalment from Great-Aunt Hermione. Her letters invariably created an indignant uproar among the family, so we all put aside our mail and concentrated when Mother, with a sigh of resignation, unfurled the twenty-odd pages, settled herself comfortably, and began to read.

  ‘She says that the doctors don’t hold out much hope for her,’ observed Mother.

  ‘They haven’t held out any hope for her for the last forty years and she’s still as strong as an ox,’ said Larry.

  ‘She says she always thought it a little peculiar of us, rushing off to Greece like that, but they’ve just had a bad winter and she thinks that perhaps it was wise of us to choose such a salubrious climate.’

  ‘Salubrious! What a word to use!’

  ‘Oh, heavens!… Oh, no… oh, Lord!…’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘She says she wants to come and stay… the doctors have advised a warm climate!’

  ‘No, I refuse! I couldn’t bear it,’ shouted Larry, leaping to his feet; ‘it’s bad enough being shown Lugaretzia’s gums every morning, without having Great-Aunt Hermione dying by inches all over the place. You’ll have to put her off, Mother… tell her there’s no room.’

  ‘But I can’t, dear; I told her in the last letter what a big villa we had.’

  ‘She’s probably forgotten,’ said Leslie hopefully.

  ‘She hasn’t. She mentions it here… where is it?… oh, yes, here you are: “As you now seem able to afford such an extensive establishment, I am sure, Louie dear, that you would not begrudge a small corner to an old woman who has not much longer to live.” There you are! What on earth can we do?’

  ‘Write and tell her we’ve got an epidemic of smallpox raging out here, and send her a photograph of Margo’s acne,’ suggested Larry.

  ‘Don’t be silly, dear. Besides, I told her how healthy it is here.’

  ‘Really, Mother, you are impossible!’ exclaimed Larry angrily. ‘I was looking forward to a nice quiet summer’s work, with ju
st a few select friends, and now we’re going to be invaded by that evil old camel, smelling of mothballs and singing hymns in the lavatory.’

  ‘Really, dear, you do exaggerate. And I don’t know why you have to bring lavatories into it – I’ve never heard her sing hymns anywhere.’

  ‘She does nothing else but sing hymns… “Lead, Kindly Light,” while everyone queues on the landing.’

  ‘Well, anyway, we’ve got to think of a good excuse. I can’t write and tell her we don’t want her because she sings hymns.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Don’t be unreasonable, dear; after all, she is a relation.’

  ‘What on earth’s that got to do with it? Why should we have to fawn all over the old hag because she’s a relation, when the really sensible thing to do would be to burn her at the stake.’

  ‘She’s not as bad as that,’ protested Mother half-heartedly.

  ‘My dear mother, of all the foul relatives with which we are cluttered, she is definitely the worst. Why you keep in touch which her I cannot, for the life of me, imagine.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got to answer her letters, haven’t I?’

  ‘Why? Just write “Gone away” across them and send them back.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that, dear; they’d recognize my handwriting,’ said Mother vaguely; ‘besides, I’ve opened this now.’

  ‘Can’t one of us write and say you’re ill?’ suggested Margo.

  ‘Yes, we’ll say the doctors have given up hope,’ said Leslie.

  ‘ I’ll write the letter,’ said Larry with relish. ‘I’ll get one of those lovely black-edged envelopes… that will add an air of verisimilitude to the whole thing.’

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ said Mother firmly. ‘If you did that she’d come straight out to nurse me. You know what she is.’

  ‘Why keep in touch with them? That’s what I want to know,’ asked Larry despairingly. ‘What satisfaction does it give you? They’re all either fossilized or mental.’