The Corfu Trilogy

by Gerald Durrell

  By the time we had installed ourselves in the olive groves at the edge of the bay, it was obvious that we were in for one of those sudden and exceedingly sharp siroccos which blew up at that time of the year. The wind lashed the olive trees and churned up the bay to white-capped rollers.

  ‘We might as well go home,’ said Leslie. ‘It isn’t going to be much fun picnicking in this.’

  ‘We can’t, dear,’ said Mother. ‘We promised to meet Larry here.’

  ‘If they’ve got any sense, they’ll have put in somewhere else,’ said Leslie.

  ‘I can’t say I envy them being out in this,’ said Theodore, gazing at the waves pounding the rocks.

  ‘Oh, dear, I do hope they will be all right,’ said Mother. ‘Larry really is foolish.’

  We waited an hour, with Mother getting increasingly panicky with each passing moment. Then Leslie, who had climbed to a neighbouring headland, came back with the news that he could see them.

  ‘I must say I think it’s surprising they got this far,’ said Leslie. ‘The boom’s swinging about all over the place and they’re tacking practically in circles.’

  Presently the yacht headed into the narrow mouth of the bay and we could see Donald and Max dodging about, pulling at ropes and canvas while Larry and Captain Creech clung to the tiller and were obviously shouting instructions. We watched their progress interestedly.

  ‘I hope they remember that reef,’ said Leslie.

  ‘What reef?’ said Mother in alarm.

  ‘There’s a damn great reef just there where that white water is,’ said Leslie.

  Spiro had been standing gazing out to sea like a brown gargoyle, his face scowling.

  ‘I don’t likes it, Master Leslies,’ he said in a hoarse whisper. ‘They don’t looks as though they knows how to sails.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Mother. ‘Why ever did I agree to this?’

  At that moment (owing to the fact, we discovered later, that Donald and Max misinterpreted their instructions and had hauled up a length of canvas instead of taking it down) several things happened simultaneously. The yacht’s sails were suddenly caught by an errant gust of wind. They puffed out. The boom came over with a splintering crash that one could hear quite clearly on shore and knocked Max overboard. The yacht turned almost on her side and, propelled by the gust of wind, ran with a remarkably loud scrunching noise straight onto the reef, where she remained upright for a brief moment and then, as if despairing of the yachtsmen on board, she lay down languidly on her side. Immediately all was confusion.

  Mother shouting ‘Oh, my God! Oh, my God!’ had to sit down hurriedly on an olive root. Margo burst into tears, waving her hands and screaming, ‘They’ll drown! They’ll down!’ Spiro, Leslie, and I made our way to the edge of the bay. There was not much we could do as there was no boat available to launch as a rescue vessel. But presently we saw the four expert sailors swimming away from the wreck of the yacht, Larry and Donald apparently propelling Captain Creech through the water. Leslie and I and Spiro stripped off our clothes hurriedly and plunged into the sea. The water was icy cold and the waves had considerably more force in them than I gave them credit for.

  ‘Are you all right?’ shouted Leslie as the flotilla of shipwrecked mariners came towards us.

  ‘Yes,’ said Max. ‘Right as rain.’

  He had a four-inch gash on his forehead and the blood was running down his face and into his moustache. Larry had one eye bruised and scraped and rapidly swelling. Captain Creech’s face, bobbing between Larry’s and Donald’s, had achieved an extraordinary mauve colour, rather like the bloom of a plum.

  ‘Give us a hand with the Captain,’ said Larry. ‘Silly old bastard only told me as we went over that he couldn’t swim.’

  Spiro, Leslie, and I laid hands upon Captain Creech and relieved the panting Donald and Larry of their rescue work. We must have made an arresting tableau as we staggered, gasping, through the shallows and out onto the shore. Leslie and Spiro were supporting Captain Creech, one on each side of him, as his legs seemed in imminent danger of buckling.

  ‘Ahoy there!’ he called to Mother. ‘Ahoy there, my wench.’

  ‘Look at Max’s head!’ screamed Margo. ‘He’ll bleed to death!’

  We staggered up into the shelter of the olive groves, and while Mother, Margo, and Theodore did hasty first-aid on Max’s head and Larry’s eye, we laid Captain Creech under an olive tree, since he seemed incapable of standing up.

  ‘Port at last,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Port at last. I’ll make sailors of you lads yet.’

  It became obvious, now that we had time to concentrate, that Captain Creech was extremely drunk.

  ‘Really, Larry, you do make me cross,’ said Mother. ‘You might all have been drowned.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ said Larry aggrievedly. ‘We were doing what the Captain told us to do. Donald and Max went and pulled the wrong ropes.’

  ‘How can you take instructions from him?’ said Mother. ‘He’s drunk.’

  ‘He wasn’t drunk when he started,’ said Larry. ‘He must have had a secret supply somewhere on board. He did seem to pop down to the cabin rather a lot, now I come to think about it.’

  ‘Do not trust him, gentle maiden,’ sang Captain Creech in a wavering baritone. ‘Though his heart be pure as gold, He’ll leave you one fine morning, With a cargo in your hold.’

  ‘Disgusting old brute,’ said Mother. ‘Really, Larry, I’m extremely cross with you.’

  ‘A drink, me boyos,’ called Captain Creech hoarsely, gesturing at the dishevelled Max and Donald. ‘You can’t sail without a drink.’

  At length we had dried ourselves as best we could and wrung the water out of everybody’s clothes; then we made our way, shivering, up the hill to the car.

  ‘What are we going to do about the yacht?’ said Leslie, since Donald and Max, as the owners, appeared to be unperturbed by her fate.

  ‘We’ll stops at the next village,’ said Spiro. ‘I knows a fisher-mans there. He’ll fix it.’

  ‘I think, you know,’ said Theodore, ‘if we’ve got any stimulant with us, it would be an idea to give some to Max. He may possibly suffer from concussion after a blow like that.’

  ‘Yes, we’ve got some brandy,’ said Mother, delving into the car.

  She produced a bottle and a cup.

  ‘Darling girl,’ said Captain Creech, fixing his wavering eye upon the bottle. ‘Just what the doctor ordered.’

  ‘You’re not having any of this,’ said Mother firmly. ‘This is for Max.’

  We had to dispose ourselves in the car as best we could, sitting on each other’s laps, trying to give as much space as possible to Max, who had now gone a very nasty leaden colour and was shivering violently in spite of the brandy. To Mother’s annoyance, she found herself, willy-nilly, having to be wedged in alongside Captain Creech.

  ‘Sit on my lap,’ said the Captain hospitably. ‘Sit on my lap and we can have a little cuddle to keep warm.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Mother primly. ‘I’d rather sit on Donald’s lap.’

  As we drove back across the island to town, the Captain regaled us with his version of some sea-shanties. The family argued acrimoniously.

  ‘I do wish you’d stop him singing these songs, Larry,’ said Mother.

  ‘How can I stop him? You’re in the back. You stop him.’

  ‘He’s your friend,’ said Mother.

  ‘Ain’t it a pity, she’s only one titty to feed the baby on. The poor little bugger will never play rugger and grow up big and strong.’

  ‘Might have killed you all, filthy old brute,’ said Mother.

  ‘Actually, most of it was Larry’s fault,’ said Leslie.

  ‘It was not,’ said Larry indignantly. ‘You weren’t there, so you don’t know. It’s extremely difficult when someone shouts at you to luff your helm, or whatever it is, when there’s a howling gale blowing.’

  ‘There was a young lady from Chichester,’ observed C
aptain Creech with relish, ‘who made all the saints in their niches stir.’

  ‘The one I’m sorry for is poor Max,’ said Margo, looking at him commiseratingly.

  ‘I don’t know why he should get the sympathy,’ said Larry, whose eye had now almost completely disappeared and was a rich shiny black. ‘He’s the fool who caused it all. I had the boat under perfect control till he hauled up that sail.’

  ‘Well, I don’t call you a sailor,’ said Margo. ‘If you’d been a sailor you wouldn’t have told him to haul it up.’

  ‘That’s just the point,’ snarled Larry. ‘I didn’t tell him to haul it up. He hauled it up on his own.’

  ‘It was the good ship Venus,’ began the Captain, whose repertoire appeared to be inexhaustible.

  ‘Don’t argue about it, dear,’ said Mother. ‘I’ve got a severe headache. The sooner we get into town, the better.’

  We got to town eventually and dropped Donald and Max at their hotel and the still carolling Captain Creech at his and drove home, wet and cold and acrimonious.

  The following morning we were sitting, all feeling slightly wilted, finishing our breakfast on the veranda. Larry’s eye had now achieved sunset hues which could only have been captured by the brush of Turner. Spiro drove up honking his horn, the dogs racing in front of the car, snarling and trying to bite the wheels.

  ‘I do wish Spiro wouldn’t make quite so much noise when he arrives,’ said Larry.

  Spiro stumped up onto the veranda and went through his normal morning routine.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Durrells, morning Missy Margo, morning Master Larrys, morning Master Leslies, morning Master Gerrys. How’s your eyes, Master Larrys?’ he said, screwing up his face into a commiserating scowl.

  ‘At the moment I feel as if I shall probably be going round with a white stick for the rest of my days,’ said Larry.

  ‘I’ve got a letters for yous,’ said Spiro to Mother.

  Mother put on her glasses and opened it. We waited expectantly. Her face went red.

  ‘The impertinence! The insolence! Disgusting old brute! Really, I have never heard anything like it.’

  ‘What on earth’s the matter?’ asked Larry.

  ‘That revolting old Creech creature,’ said Mother, waving the letter at him.

  ‘It’s your fault, you introduced him to the house.’

  ‘What have I done now?’ asked Larry, bewildered.

  ‘That filthy old brute has written and proposed to me,’ said Mother.

  There was a moment’s stunned silence while we took in this remarkable information.

  ‘Proposal?’ said Larry cautiously. ‘An indecent proposal, I presume?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Mother. ‘He says he wants to marry me. What a fine little woman I am and a lot of sentimental twaddle like that.’

  The family, united for once, sat back and laughed until tears came.

  ‘It’s no laughing matter,’ said Mother, stamping about the veranda. ‘You’ve got to do something about it.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Larry, mopping his eyes. ‘Oh, this is the best thing that’s happened for ages. I suppose he thinks since he took his trousers off in front of you yesterday to wring them out, he must make an honest woman of you.’

  ‘Do stop laughing,’ said Mother angrily. ‘It isn’t funny.’

  ‘I can see it all,’ said Larry unctuously. ‘You in white muslin, Leslie and me in toppers to give you away, Margo as your bridesmaid, and Gerry as your page. It will be a very affecting scene. I expect the church will be full of jaded ladies of pleasure, all waiting to forbid the banns.’

  Mother glared at him. ‘When there’s a real crisis,’ she said angrily, ‘you children are of absolutely no use whatsoever.’

  ‘But I think you would look lovely in white,’ said Margo, giggling.

  ‘Where have you decided on for your honeymoon?’ asked Larry. ‘They say Capri is awfully nice at this time of year.’

  But Mother was not listening. She turned to Spiro, registering determination from top to toe.

  ‘Spiro, you are to tell the Captain the answer is no, and that I never want him to set foot in this house again.’

  ‘Oh, come now, Mother,’ protested Larry. ‘What we children want is a father.’

  ‘And you all,’ said Mother, rounding on us in a fury, ‘are not to tell anybody about this. I will not have my name linked with that disgusting… disgusting reprobate.’

  And so that was the last we saw of Captain Creech. But what we all referred to as Mother’s great romance made an auspicious start to the year.

  9

  The Talking Head

  Summer gaped upon the island like the mouth of a great oven. Even in the shade of the olive groves it was not cool and the incessant, penetrating cries of the cicadas seemed to swell and become more insistent with each hot, blue noon. The water in the ponds and ditches shrank and the mud at the edges became jigsawed, cracked and curled by the sun. The sea lay as breathless and still as a bale of silk, the shallow waters too warm to be refreshing. You had to row the boat out into deep water, you and your reflection the only moving things, and dive over the side to get cool. It was like diving into the sky.

  Now was the time for butterflies and moths. In the day, on the hillsides, which seemed sucked free of every drop of moisture by the beating sun, you would get the great languid swallow-tails, flapping elegantly and erratically from bush to bush; fritillaries, glowing almost as hot and angry an orange as a live coal, skittered quickly and efficiently from flower to flower; cabbage whites; clouded yellows; and the lemon-yellow-and-orange brimstones bumbled to and fro on untidy wings. Among the grasses the skippers, like little brown furry aeroplanes, would skim and purr, and on glittering slabs of gypsum the red admirals, as flamboyant as a cluster of Woolworth jewellery, would sit opening and closing their wings as though expiring from the heat. At night the lamps would become a teeming metropolis of moths, and the pink geckos on the ceiling, big-eyed and splay-footed, would gorge until they could hardly move. Oleander hawk-moths, green and silver, would zoom into the room suddenly, from nowhere, and in a frenzy of love, dive at the lamp, hitting it with such force that the glass shattered. Death’s-head hawk-moths, mottled ginger and black, with the macabre skull and cross-bones embroidered on the plush fur of their thoraxes, would come tumbling down the chimney to lie fluttering and twitching in the grate, squeaking like mice.

  Up on the hillsides where the great beds of heather were burnt crisp and warm by the sun, the tortoises, lizards, and snakes would prowl, and praying mantises would hang among the green leaves of the myrtle, swaying slowly and evilly from side to side. The afternoon was the best time to investigate life on the hills, but it was also the hottest. The sun played a tattoo on your skull, and the baked ground was as hot asagriddle under your sandalled feet. Widdle and Puke were cowards about the sun and would never accompany me in the afternoons, but Roger, that indefatigable student of natural history, would always be with me, panting vigorously, swallowing his drooling saliva in great gulps.

  Together we shared many adventures. There was the time when we watched, entranced, two hedgehogs, drunk as lords on the fallen and semi-fermented grapes they had eaten from under the vines, staggering in circles, snapping at each other belligerently, uttering high-pitched screams and hiccups. There was a time we watched a fox cub, red as an autumn leaf, discover his first tortoise among the heather. The tortoise, in the phlegmatic way they have, folded himself up in his shell, tightly closed as a portmanteau. But the fox had seen a movement and, prick-eared, it moved round him cautiously. Then, for it was still only a puppy, it dabbed quickly at the tortoise’s shell with its paw and then jumped away, expecting retaliation. Then it lay down and examined the tortoise for several minutes, its head between its paws. Finally it went forward rather gingerly and after several unsuccessful attempts managed to pick the tortoise up with its jaws, and with head held high, trotted off proudly through the heather. It was on these hills that we watched the
baby tortoises hatching out of their papery-shelled eggs, each one looking as wizened and as crinkled as though it were a thousand years old at the moment of birth, and it was here that I witnessed for the first time the mating dance of the snakes.

  Roger and I were sitting under a large clump of myrtles that offered a small patch of shade and some concealment. We had disturbed a hawk in a cypress tree near by and were waiting patiently for him to return so that we could identify him. Suddenly, some ten feet from where we had crouched, I saw two snakes weaving their way out of a brown web of heather stalks. Roger, who for some obscure reason was frightened of snakes, uttered an uneasy little whine and put his ears back. I shushed him violently and watched to see what the snakes would do. One appeared to be following close on the heels of the other. Was he, I wondered, perhaps in pursuit of it in order to eat it? They slid out of the heather and into some clumps of sun-whitened grass and I lost sight of them. Cursing my luck, I was just about to shift my position in the hopes of seeing them again when they reappeared on a comparatively open piece of ground.

  Here the one that was leading paused and the one that had been following it slid up alongside. They lay like this for a moment or so and then the pursuer started to nose tentatively at the other one’s head. I decided that the first snake was a female and that her follower was her mate. He continued butting his head at her throat until eventually he had raised her head and neck slightly off the ground. She froze in that position and the male, backing away a few inches, raised his head also and they stayed like that, immobile, staring at each other for some considerable time. Then slowly the male slid forward and twined himself round the female’s body and they both rose as high as they could without overbalancing, as entwined together as two convolvulus. Again they remained motionless for a time and then started to sway like two wrestlers pushing against each other in the ring, their tails curling and grasping at the grass roots around them to give themselves better purchase. Suddenly they flopped sideways, the hinder ends of their bodies met and they mated lying there in the sun, as entangled as streamers at a carnival.