The Corfu Trilogy

by Gerald Durrell

  Since early morning the white dusty roads had been jammed with carts and donkeys bringing peasants into the capital for the great event, and a great pall of dust covered the countryside, turning the plants and trees by the roadside white, hanging in the air like microscopic flakes of snow. The town was now as full or fuller than it was on St Spiridion’s day and great bevies of people were eddying across the Platia in their best clothes like clouds of wind-swept blossoms. Every back street was jammed with humanity mixed with donkeys, the whole moving at a glacier pace, and the air was full of excited chatter and laughter, the pungent smell of garlic, and the all-pervading smell of mothballs, the sign of special clothes carefully extracted from their places of safe-keeping. On every side you could hear brass bands tuning up, donkeys braying, the cries of the street vendors, and the excited screams of children. The town quivered and throbbed like a great, multi-coloured, redolent beehive.

  Driving at a snail’s pace, honking his great, rubber-bulbed horn to ‘scarce’ the uncaring populace out of the way, Spiro drove us down to the docks. Here all was bustle and what passed for efficiency; a band was lined up, its instruments sparkling, its uniforms immaculate, its air of respectability only slightly marred by the fact that two of its members had black eyes. Next to it was a battalion of local soldiery, looking remarkably clean and neat. Church dignitaries, with their carefully combed, white, silver, and iron-grey beards, bright and gay as a flock of parrots in their robes, chatted animatedly to each other, stomachs bulging, beards wagging, plump, well-manicured hands moving in the most delicate of gestures. Near the dockside where the King would come ashore stood a forlorn-looking corporal; obviously his responsibilities were weighing heavily on him for he kept fingering his revolver holster nervously and biting his nails.

  Presently, there was a surge of excitement and everyone was saying, ‘The King! The King! The King is coming!’ The corporal adjusted his hat and stood a little straighter. What had given rise to this rumour was the sight of Marko Paniotissa’s yacht putting out into the bay and lumbering to and fro while Marko, in the stern, could be seen unloading bundle after bundle of Greek flags.

  ‘I didn’t see the rocket, did you?’ asked Margo.

  ‘No, but you can’t see the headland from here,’ said Leslie.

  ‘Well, I think Marko’s doing splendidly,’ said Margo.

  ‘It’s certainly a very pretty effect,’ said Mother.

  And indeed it was, for several acres of the smooth sea were covered with a carpet of tiny flags which looked most impressive. Unfortunately, as we were to learn within the next hour and a half, Marko’s timing had been at fault. The man he had stationed up in the north of the island to fire the signal rocket was most reliable but his identification of ships left a lot to be desired and so what eventually appeared was not the ship conveying the King but a rather grubby little tanker on its way to Athens. This in itself would not have been such a grave error but Marko, carried away as so many Corfiotes were that day, had failed to check on the glue with which the flags were stuck to the little wooden pieces that allowed them to float. As we waited for the King we were treated to the sight of the glue disintegrating under the influence of sea water and several thousand Greek flags sinking ignominiously to the bottom of the bay.

  ‘Oh, poor Marko, I feel so sorry for him,’ said Margo, almost in tears.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Larry consolingly, ‘perhaps the King likes little bits of wood.’

  ‘Um… I don’t… you know… think so,’ said Theodore. ‘You see how they’re all shaped like a little cross. That in Greece is considered a very bad omen.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mother. ‘I do hope the King won’t realize that Marko did it.’

  ‘If Marko is wise, he’ll go into voluntary exile,’ contributed Larry.

  ‘Ah, here he comes at last,’ said Leslie as the King’s ship sailed majestically across several acres of little wooden crosses, as though ploughing its way through a marine war cemetery.

  The gang-plank was lowered, the band struck up blaringly, the Army came to attention, and the crowd of church dignitaries moved forward like a suddenly uprooted flower bed. They reached the bottom of the gang-plank, the band stopped playing, and to a chorus of delighted ‘Ah’s’ the King made his appearance, paused briefly to salute, and then made his way slowly down the gangway. It was the little corporal’s great moment. Sweating profusely, he had moved as close to the gang-plank as he could and he had his gaze riveted on the King’s feet. His instructions had been explicit; three paces before the King stepped off the gangway and on to Greek soil he was to give the signal. This would give the fort enough time to fire the cannon as the King stepped ashore.

  The King descended slowly. The atmosphere was tense with emotion. The corporal fumbled with his holster and then, at the crucial moment, drew his forty-five and fired five rounds approximately two yards away from the King’s right ear. It immediately became obvious that the fort had not thought to tell the Welcoming Committee about its signal and so the Committee, to say the least, was taken aback, as was the King and, indeed, as were we all.

  ‘My God, they’ve amputated him,’ screamed Margo, who always lost both her head and her command over English in moments of crisis.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, it’s the signal,’ snapped Leslie, training his field glasses on the fort.

  But it was obvious that the Welcoming Committee thought much the same as my sister. As one man, they fell on the unfortunate corporal. He, white-faced and protesting, was pummelled and thumped and kicked, his revolver was torn from his grasp and he was hit smartly on the head with it. It is probable that he would have come to some serious harm if at that moment the cannons had not blared out in an impressive cumulus cloud of smoke from the ramparts of the fort and vindicated his action.

  After this all was smiles and laughter, for the Corfiotes had a keen sense of humour. Only the King looked a trifle pensive. He climbed into the official open car and a snag made its appearance; for some reason the door would not lock. The chauffeur slammed it, the sergeant in charge of the troops slammed it, the band leader slammed it, and a passing priest slammed it but it refused to stay shut. The chauffeur, not to be defeated, backed up, and took a run and kicked it violently. The car shuddered but the door remained obdurate. They tried string, but there was nothing to tie it to. Eventually, since there could be no further delay, they were forced to drive off with the Nomarch’s secretary hanging over the back of the seat and holding the door shut with one hand.

  Their first stop was at St Spiridion’s Church so that the King could make his obeisances to the mummified remains of the saint. Surrounded by a forest of ecclesiastical beards, he disappeared into the dark depths of the church, where a thousand candles bloomed like a riot of primroses. It was a hot day and the chauffeur of the King’s car was feeling a bit exhausted after his fight with the door so, without telling anyone, he left the car parked in front of the church and nipped round the corner for a drink. And who is to blame him? Who, on occasions such as this, has not felt the same? However, his estimation of the time the King would take to visit the saint was inaccurate so when the King, surrounded by the cream of the Greek church, suddenly emerged from the church and took his place in the car, the chauffeur was conspicuous by his absence. As was usual in Corfu when a crisis was reached, everyone blamed everyone else for the chauffeur’s disappearance. A quarter of an hour passed while accusations were hurled, fists were shaken, and runners were sent in all directions in search of the chauffeur. There was some delay because no one knew which café he was honouring with his presence, but eventually he was tracked down and a stream of vituperation was poured on his head as he was dragged ignominiously away in the middle of his second ouzo.

  The next stop was the Platia, where the King was to see the march past of troops and bands and the exhibition by the Scouts. By driving cacophonously through the narrow back streets, Spiro got us to the Platia long before the King’s car.

  ‘
Surely they can’t do anything else wrong,’ said Mother worriedly.

  ‘The island has surpassed itself,’ said Larry. ‘I had hoped they might get a puncture between the docks and the church, but that was asking too much, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, I’m not so sure,’ said Theodore, his eyes twinkling. ‘Remember, this is Corfu. They might well have something more in store for us.’

  ‘I do hope not,’ said Kralefsky. ‘Really! Such organization! It makes one blush.’

  ‘They can’t think up anything more, Theo, surely,’ Larry protested.

  ‘I wouldn’t like to be… er… um… bank on it… you know…’ said Theodore.

  As it turned out, he was perfectly right.

  The King arrived and took his place on the dais. The troops marched past with great vigour and all of them managed to be more or less in step. Corfu was rather a remote garrison in those days and the recruits did not get much practice but, nevertheless, they acquitted themselves creditably. Next came the mass bands – bands from every village in the island, their variously coloured uniforms glowing, their instruments so polished that the gleam of them hurt the eyes. If their delivery quavered a little and was slightly off-key, it was more than made up for by the volume and force of their playing.

  Then it was the turn of the Scouts and we all clapped and cheered as Colonel Velvit, looking like an extremely nervous and attenuated Old Testament prophet in Scout’s uniform, led his diminutive troops onto the dusty Platia. They saluted the King and then, obeying a rather strangled falsetto order from the colonel, shuffled to and fro and formed the Greek flag. Such a wave of clapping and cheering broke out that it must surely have been heard in the remotest vastnesses of the Albanian mountains. After a short display of gymnastics the troop then went over to where two white lines represented the two banks of a river. Here half the troop hurried away and reappeared with planks necessary for making a pontoon bridge while the other half were busy getting a line across the treacherous waters. So fascinated were the crowd by the mechanics of this that they drifted closer and closer to the ‘river’, accompanied by the policemen who were supposed to be keeping them back.

  In record time, the Scouts, none of whom were more than eight-years-old, created their pontoon across the imaginary river and then led by one small boy blowing vociferously and inaccurately on a trumpet, jog-trotted across the bridge and stood to attention on the opposite side. The crowd were enchanted; they clapped, cheered, whistled and stamped. Colonel Velvit allowed himself a small, tight, military smile and cast a proud look in our direction. Then he barked out a word of command. Three small fat Scouts detached themselves from the troop and made their way to the bridge, carrying fuses, a plunger and other demolition equipment. They fixed everything up and then rejoined the troop, unwinding the fuse wire as they came. They stood at attention and waited. Colonel Velvit savoured his big moment; he glanced round to make sure he had everyone’s undivided attention. The silence was complete.

  ‘Demolish bridge!’ roared Colonel Velvit, and one of the Scouts crouched and pressed the plunger home.

  The next few minutes were confused, to say the least. There was a colossal explosion; a cloud of dust, gravel and bits of bridge was thrown into the air, to descend like hail upon the population. The first three rows of the crowd, all the policemen and Colonel Velvit, were thrown flat on their backs. The blast, carrying with it gravel and splinters of wood, reached the car where we were sitting, battered against the coachwork like machine-gun fire and blew Mother’s hat off.

  ‘Christ Almighty!’ said Larry. ‘What the hell’s that fool Velvit playing at?’

  ‘My hat,’ panted Mother. ‘Somebody get my hat!’

  ‘I’ll gets it, Mrs Durrells, don’ts you worrys,’ roared Spiro.

  ‘Most unnerving, most unnerving,’ said Kralefsky, his eyes closed, mopping his brow with his handkerchief. ‘Far too militant for small boys.’

  ‘Small boys! Bloody little fiends,’ cried Larry angrily, shaking gravel out of his hair.

  ‘I felt sure something else would happen,’ added Theodore with satisfaction, happy now that Corfu’s reputation for calamities was secure.

  ‘They must have had some sort of explosive,’ said Leslie. ‘I can’t think what Colonel Velvit was playing at. Damned dangerous.’

  It became obvious a little later that it was not the colonel’s fault. Having rather shakily lined up his troop and marched them away, he returned to the scene of the carnage to apologize to Mother.

  ‘I cannot tell you how mortified I am, Mrs Durrell,’ he said, tears in his eyes. ‘Those little brutes got some dynamite from some fishermen. I assure you, I knew absolutely nothing about it, nothing.’

  In his dust-stained uniform and battered hat, he looked very pathetic.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, Colonel,’ said Mother, shakily lifting a brandy and soda to her lips. ‘It’s the sort of thing that could happen to anyone.’

  ‘Happens all the time in England,’ said Larry. ‘Never a day passes…’

  ‘Do come and have dinner with us,’ interrupted Mother, giving Larry a quelling look.

  ‘Thank you, dear lady, you are too kind,’ said the colonel. ‘I must go and change.’

  ‘I was very interested in the reaction of the spectators,’ said Theodore, with scientific relish. ‘You know… er… the ones who were blown down.’

  ‘I should think they were damned annoyed,’ said Leslie.

  ‘No,’ went on Theodore proudly, ‘this is Corfu. They all… you know… helped each other up, brushed each other down, and remarked on how good the whole thing was… er… how realistic. It didn’t seem to occur to them that there was anything strange in Boy Scouts having dynamite.’

  ‘Well, if you live long enough in Corfu, you cease to be surprised at anything,’ said Mother with conviction.

  Eventually, after a prolonged and delicious meal in town, during which we tried to convince Colonel Velvit that his bridge demolition had been the high spot of the day, Spiro drove us home through the cool, velvety night. The scops owls called ‘toink toink’ to each other, chiming like strange bells among the trees; the white dust billowed behind the car and remained suspended like a summer’s cloud in the still air; the dark cathedral groves of the olives were pricked out with the pulsing green lights of fireflies. It had been a good, if exhausting, day, and we were glad to be home.

  ‘Well,’ said Mother, stifling a yawn as she picked up her lamp and made her way to the stairs, ‘King or no King, I’m staying in bed until twelve tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh…’ said Larry contritely, ‘didn’t I tell you?’

  Mother paused halfway up the stairs and looked at Larry, the wavering lamplight making her shadow quiver and leap on the white wall.

  ‘Tell me what?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘About the King,’ said Larry. ‘I’m sorry I should have told you before.’

  ‘Told me what?’ said Mother, now seriously alarmed.

  ‘I’ve asked him to lunch,’ said Larry.

  ‘Larry! You haven’t! Really, you are thoughtless…’ Mother began, and then realized that she was having her leg pulled.

  She drew herself up to her full five foot.

  ‘I don’t think that’s funny,’ she said frigidly. ‘Anyway, the laugh would have been on him for I’ve only got eggs in the house.’

  With great dignity, ignoring our laughter, she made her way to bed.

  7

  The Paths of Love

  Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples for I am sick of love.

  SONG OF SOLOMON 5

  It had been one of those prodigious, desiccating, earth-cracking summers that was so hot it even bleached the sky to a pale end-of-summer, forget-me-not colour and flattened the sea so that it lay like a great blue pool, unmoving, warm as fresh milk. At night you could hear the floors and shutters and beams of the villa shifting and groaning and cracking in the warm air as the last juices were sucked out of them. The full moon wo
uld rise like a red coal, glowering down at us from the hot, velvety sky, and in the morning the sun was already too warm to be comfortable ten minutes after it appeared. There was no wind and the heat pressed down on the island like a lid. On the hillside in the breathless air, the plants and grasses withered and died until they stood there, bleached and blonde as honey, crisp as wood shavings. The days were so hot that even the cicadas started singing earlier and siestaed during the heat of the day, and the ground was baked so that there was nowhere you could walk without shoes.

  The villa represented to the local animal life a series of large wooden caves which were perhaps half a degree cooler than the surrounding olive, orange and lemon groves, and so they flocked to join us. At first I was naturally blamed for this sudden influx of creatures but eventually the invasion became so comprehensive that even my family realized I could not be responsible for quite such a large quantity and variety of life forms. Battalions of black ticks marched into the house and beset the dogs, massing in such numbers on their ears and heads that they looked like chain-mail and were just as difficult to remove. In desperation we had to douse them with kerosene, which made the ticks drop off. The dogs, deeply insulted by this treatment, slouched, panting, round the house, reeking of kerosene, shedding ticks in vast quantities. Larry suggested that we put up a notice saying ‘Danger – inflammable dogs’ for, as he rightly pointed out, if anyone lit a match near one of them the whole villa was liable to go up in flames like a tinder box.

  The kerosene only gave us a temporary respite. More and more ticks marched into the house until at night one could lie in bed and watch rows of them performing strange route marches around the room. The ticks, fortunately, did not attack us but confined themselves to driving the dogs mad. However, the hordes of fleas that decided to take up residence with us were another matter. They arrived suddenly, out of nowhere, it seemed, like the Tartar hordes, and over-ran us before we realized what was happening. They were everywhere and you could feel them hopping on to you and running up your legs as you walked around the house. The bedrooms became untenable and for a time we took our beds out on to the broad verandas and slept there.