Next morning dawned blue and breathless, the sun already warm at seven o’clock. Everything augured well. Mother, in order to leave no stone unturned in her efforts to keep Larry in a good mood, gave him his breakfast in bed. Even Margo, in the interests of peace, refrained from giving us our normal excruciating half-hour when she sang the latest pop tunes in the bath, without the benefit of knowing either the tune or the lyric with any degree of certainty.
By ten o’clock, the Rolls had been loaded up and we were preparing to go. Jack made some last-minute slight but important adjustment to the engine, Mother counted the food packages for the last time, and Margo had to go back into the house three times to get various items that she had forgotten. At last we were ready and assembled on the pavement.
“Don’t you think we ought to have the roof down, since it’s such a nice day?” suggested Jack.
“Oh, yes, dear,” said Mother. “Let’s take advantage of the weather while we’ve got it.”
Between them Leslie and Jack lowered the canvas roof of the Rolls. We entered the car, and were soon bowling along through the English countryside, as lush and as green and as miniature as you could wish for, full of birdsong. Even pieces of woodland on the rolling Purbeck hills were set in bas-relief against the blue sky in which, high and faint, like the ghosts of minnows, a few threads of cloud hung immobile. The air was fragrant, the sun was warm and the car, purring softly as a sleepy bumblebee, slid smoothly between tall hedges, breasted green hills, and swept like a hawk down into valleys where the cottages clustered under their thatched roofs so that each village looked as though it was in need of a haircut.
“Yes,” commented Larry, musingly, “I’d forgotten how Victorian dolls’ house the English landscape could look.”
“Isn’t it lovely, dear?” said Mother. “I knew you’d like it.”
We had just swept through a hamlet of white-washed cottages, each with a thatch that looked like an out-sized piecrust on top, when Jack suddenly stiffened behind the wheel. “There!” he barked suddenly. “Didn’t you hear it? Distinctly. Tickety-tickety-ping, and then a sort of scroobling noise.”
There was a pause.
“I would have thought,” Larry observed to Mother, “that this family was quite unbalanced enough without adding insanity by marriage.”
“There it goes again. The scrooble! The scrooble! Can’t you hear it?” cried Jack, his eyes gleaming fanatically.
“Oh, God!” said Margo bitterly. “Why is it we can’t go anywhere without you wanting to take the car to pieces?”
“But it might be serious,” said Jack. “That tickety-tickety-ping might be a cracked magneto head.”
“I think it was just a stone you kicked up,” said Leslie.
“No, no,” said Jack. “That’s quite a different ping. That’s just a ping without the tickety.”
“Well, I didn’t hear any tickety,” said Leslie.
“Nobody ever hears his tickety except him,” complained Margo, angrily. “It makes me sick!”
“Now, now, dear — don’t quarrel,” said Mother, peaceably. “After all, Jack is the engineer of the family.”
“If he’s an engineer, it’s a curious sort of technical language they are teaching them now,” commented Larry. “Engineers in my day never discussed their tickety-pings in public.”
“If you think it’s serious, Jack,” said Mother, “we’d better stop and let you have a look at it.”
So Jack pulled into a lay-by, flanked with willows in bloom, leapt out of the car, opened the bonnet, and flung himself into the bowels of Esmerelda, as a man dying of thirst would throw himself into a desert pool. There were a few loud groans and some grunts, and then a high nasal humming noise that sounded like an infuriated wasp caught in a zither. It was our brother-in-law humming.
“Well,” said Larry, “since it seems that our postillion has been struck by lightning, how about a life-giving drink?”
“Isn’t it a bit early, dear?” asked Mother.
“It may be too early for the English,” observed Larry, “but don’t forget that I’ve been living among a lot of loose-moraled foreigners who don’t think that there’s one special time for pleasure, and who don’t feel that you’re putting your immortal soul in danger every time you have a drink, day or night.”
“Very well, dear,” said Mother. “Perhaps a small drink would be nice.”
Leslie broached the boot and passed us out the drinks.
“If we had to stop, this is quite a pleasant spot,” said Larry, condescendingly, gazing round at the rolling green hills, chess-boarded by tall hedges, and patterned here and there with the black and frothy green of woodland.
“And the sun really is remarkably hot,” put in Mother. “It’s quite extraordinary for the time of year.”
“We shall pay for it in winter, I suppose,” said Leslie, gloomily. “We always seem to.”
Just at that moment, from beneath the bonnet of the car, came a loud reverberating sneeze. Larry froze, his glass halfway to his mouth.
“What was that?” he asked.
“Jack,” answered Leslie.
“That noise?” exclaimed Larry. “That was Jack?”
“Yes,” said Leslie. “Jack sneezing.”
“Dear God!” cried Larry. “He’s brought a bloody germ with him. Mother, I’ve spent a week avoiding infection by every means known to the British Medical Association, only to be transported out here into the wilderness without a medical practitioner within fifty miles, to be bombarded by cold germs by my own brother-in-law. It really is too much!”
“Now, now, dear,” said Mother soothingly. People sneeze without having colds, you know.”
“Not in England,” said Larry. “The sneeze in England is the harbinger of misery, even death. I sometimes think the only pleasure an Englishman has is in passing on his cold germs.”
“Larry, dear, you do exaggerate,” said Mother. “Jack only sneezed once.”
Jack sneezed again.
“There you are!” said Larry, excitedly. “That’s the second time. I tell you, he’s working up for an epidemic. Why don’t we leave him here; he can easily hitch a lift back into Bournemouth, and Leslie can drive.”
“You can’t just leave him on the roadside, Larry, don’t be silly,” said Mother.
“Why not?” asked Larry. “The Eskimos put their old people out on ice-floes to be eaten by polar bears.”
“I don’t see why Jack has to be eaten by a polar bear just because you’re frightened of a stupid little cold,” exclaimed Margo, indignantly.
“I was speaking figuratively,” said Larry. “In this area, he’d probably be pecked to death by cuckoos.”
“Well, I’m not having him left, anyway,” said Margo.
At that moment, Jack emerged from under the bonnet of the car. His ample nose seemed to have grown to twice its normal size, and to have assumed the colouring of an over-ripe persimmon. His eyes were half closed and watering copiously. He approached the car, sneezing violently.
“Go away!” shouted Larry. “Take your filthy germs into the fields!”
“Id’s nod germs,” said Jack, endeavouring to enunciate with clarity. “Id’s by hay feber.”
“I don’t want to know the scientific name for it — just take it away!” shouted Larry. “Who the hell do you think I am? Louis Pasteur? Bringing your bloody germs to me.”
“Id’s hay feber,” Jack repeated, sneezing violently. “Dere must be some damn flower or udder growing here.” He glanced about balefully through streaming eyes and spotted the willows. “Ah!” he snarled, though a flurry of sneezes, “dad’s id, der bloody things.”
“I can’t understand a word he’s saying,” said Larry. “This cold’s unhinged what passed for his mind.”
“It’s his hay fever,” explained Margo. “The willows have started it up.”
“But that’s worse than a cold,” said Larry in alarm. “I don’t want to catch hay fever.”
“Y
ou can’t catch it, dear,” said Mother. “It’s an allergy.”
“I don’t care if it’s an anagram,” said Larry. “I’m not having it breathed all over me.”
“But it’s not infectious,” insisted Margo.
“Are you sure?” asked Larry. “There’s always a first time. I expect the first leper said that to his wife, and before she knew what was happening, she’d founded a colony, all ringing their bells and shouting ‘unclean’.”
“You do complicate things, dear,” said Mother. “It’s perfectly ordinary hay fever.”
“We muzt ged away from deze trees,” said Jack. He entered the car and drove us off at such a furious pace that we just missed hitting a large wagon of manure pulled by two giant Shire horses, which was coming round the corner.
“I don’t remember entering into any suicide pact with him,” cried Larry, clinging to the door.
“Not so fast,” said Margo. “You’re going too fast.”
“Air!” groaned Jack. “God to have air to ged rid of de pollen.” After a few miles of furious driving, accompanied by squeaks of alarm from Mother and Margo and admonitory roars from Larry, Jack had taken sufficient air through his nose to ease his affliction somewhat. We settled down to a more sedate pace.
“I should never have set foot in England again. I knew it,” complained Larry. “First it’s cold genus, then it’s hay fever, then a death-defying ride like something out of Ben Hur. When you get to my age, you can’t stand this sort of pace without getting a coronary.”
Just before lunchtime, we discovered that we were enmeshed in the maze of little lanes that led all over the headlands and the cliffs. In our efforts to try to find Lulworth Cove, we got ourselves thoroughly lost, but at last we followed a road that led down to a circular bay guarded by tall cliffs. The bay looked blue and serene in the sunshine, so we decided to stop and have lunch there. Apart from an elderly couple exercising their dog, the beach was deserted.
“How fortunate,” said Mother. “We’ve got the beach to ourselves. I was afraid this fine weather might bring out a lot of people.”
“Let’s walk half-way round the bay,” suggested Leslie. “It’s not very far, and you get a better view.”
Having all agreed to this plan, we parked the Rolls and, staggering under the burden of food and drink and rugs to sit on, made our way across the shingle.
“I must have something to sit against,” said Mother. “Otherwise I get terrible back-ache.”
“Yes, you must recline in a civilized manner,” agreed Larry, “otherwise you’ll get your viscera in a knot. It leads to ulcers and all sorts of things. Your guts rot and your food falls through into the stomach cavity.”
“Larry, dear, not just before we eat,” said Mother.
“How about leaning against the cliff?” suggested Margo.
“That’s a brain-wave,” said Mother. “Over there, in that sort of little sheltered nook.”
As she started across the shingle towards it, a fairly large chunk of the cliff came away and fell to the beach with a crash, to be followed by a hissing waterfall of sand.
“Thank you,” said Larry. “If you sit there, you sit alone. I have no desire to be buried alive,”
“Look, there’s a big, black rock in the middle of the beach,” said Leslie, “perfect for leaning against.”
He hurried ahead and reached the rock. He threw down the things be was carrying, draped the rock with the rug, padded it with cushions, and had a suitable seat for Mother to sink on to when she had staggered across the shingle to his side. Larry sat down beside her, and the rest of us spread more rugs and sat down, unpacking the vast array of food.
“There’s a very curious smell around here,” Larry complained, his mouth full of curry-puff.
“It’s the seaweed,” explained Leslie. “It always pongs a bit.”
“It’s supposed to be very healthy for you,” said Margo. “Anywhere that smells of seaweed is supposed to be good for the lungs.”
“I wouldn’t have thought that this smell was good for the lungs,” complained Mother. “It’s a bit . . . well, it’s a bit strong.”
“It comes in waves,” said Larry. “I suppose the wind is carrying it.”
“Oh, yes, I can smell it,” said Margo, closing her eyes and Inhaling deeply. “You can almost feel it doing your lungs good.”
“Well, it’s not doing my lungs any good,” exclaimed Larry.
“The wind will probably change in a minute and blow it the other way,” put in Leslie cheerfully, cutting himself a large piece of game pie.
“I do hope so. It’s a bit over-powering,” said Mother. We ate for some time in silence, and then Larry sniffed. “It seems to be getting stronger,” he observed.
“No, it’s just the way the wind blows it,” answered Leslie. Larry got to his feet and peered about.
“I don’t see any seaweed,” he said, “except right over there at the water’s edge.”
He came over to where we were sifting and sniffed again. Well, no wonder you’re not complaining,” he commented bitterly, “there’s hardly any smell over here. It seems to be concentrated where Mother and I are sitting.”
He went back to where Mother was sipping her wine and enjoying a Cornish pasty, and prowled around. Suddenly he let out such a cry of anguish and rage that everybody jumped, and Mother dropped her glass of wine into her lap “Great God Almighty, look!” roared Larry. “Just took where that bloody fool Leslie’s put us! No wonder we’re being stunk out; we’ll probably die of typhoid!”
“Larry, dear, I do wish you wouldn’t shout like that,” complained Mother, mopping up the wine in her lap with her handkerchief. “It’s quite possible to say things in a calm way.”
“No, it isn’t!” said Larry, violently. “No one can keep calm in the face of this… this olfactory outrage!”
“What outrage, dear?” asked Mother.
“Do you know what you’re leaning against?” he asked. “Do you know what that back-rest is, that was chosen for you by your son?”
“What?” replied Mother, glancing nervously over her shoulder. “It’s a rock, dear.”
“It’s not a rock,” said Larry, with dangerous calm, “nor is it a pile of sand, a boulder, or a fossilized dinosaur’s pelvis. It is nothing remotely geological. Do you know what you and I have been leaning against the last half hour?”
“What, dear?” asked Mother, now considerably alarmed.
“A horse,” replied Larry. “The mortal remains of a ruddy great horse.”
“Rubbish!” said Leslie, incredulously. “It’s a rock.”
“Do rocks have teeth?” enquired Larry, sarcastically. “Do they have eye sockets? Do they have the remains of ears and manes? I tell you — owing either to your malevolence or stupidity, your mother and I will probably be stricken with some fatal disease.”
Leslie got up and went to have a look, and I joined him. Sure enough, from one end of the rug protruded a head which undeniably had once belonged to a horse. All the fur had fallen off and the skin, through a motion in the sea water, had become dark brown and leathery. The fish and gulls had emptied the eye sockets, and the skin of the lips was drawn back in a snarl displaying the tombstone-like teeth, a discoloured yellow.
“How damned odd,” said Leslie, “I could have sworn it was a rock.”
“It would save us all a considerable amount of trouble if you invested in some glasses,” remarked Larry with asperity.
“Well, how was I to know?” asked Leslie, belligerently. “You don’t expect a bloody, great, dead horse to be lying about on a beach, do you?”
“Fortunately, my knowledge of the habits of horses is limited,” answered Larry. “For all I know, it may have suffered a heart attack while bathing. This in no way excuses your crass stupidity in turning its rotten corpse into a chaise-longue for me and Mother.”
“Bloody nonsense!” said Leslie. “The thing looked like a rock. If it’s a dead horse, it should look like on
e, not like a damn great rock. It’s not my fault.”
“It not only looks like a dead horse, but it smells like one,” went on Larry. “If your nasal membranes hadn’t been, like your intellect, stunted from birth, you would have noticed the fact. The rich, ambrosial smell alone would have told you it was a horse.”
“Now, now, dears, don’t quarrel over the horse,” pleaded Mother, who had retreated up-wind and was standing with a handkerchief over her nose.
“Look,” said Leslie angrily, “I’ll bloody well show you.” He flung the cushions aside and whipped away the blanket to reveal the horse’s blackened and semi-mummified body. Margo screamed. Of course, when you knew it was a horse, it was difficult to see it as anything else, but to do Leslie justice, with its legs half-buried in the shingle and only its blackened, leathery torso showing, it could be mistaken for a rock.
“There you are!” exclaimed Leslie triumphantly. “It looks just like a rock.”
“It doesn’t remotely resemble a rock,” said Larry coldly. “It looks what it is — an extremely dead horse. If you mistook it for anything, one could only think it was one of the more senile members of the Jockey Club.”
“Are you going to spend all afternoon arguing over a dead horse?” asked Margo. “Really! You men make me sick.”
“Yes, Larry, dear,” said Mother, “let’s move away from it and find another spot to finish lunch.”
“Let’s send Leslie on ahead,” suggested Larry. “Maybe this time he could rustle up a cow or a couple of sheep. Who knows what other odoriferous farmyard trophies await us? A drowned pig would be a tasty addition to our menu.”
“Larry, do stop it,” said Mother firmly. “It’s quite bad enough having that smell, without you talking like that.”
“It’s not my fault,” answered Larry irritably, as we moved along the beach. “It’s Leslie’s. He’s the one who found that delicious, disintegrating Derby winner. He’s the Burke and Hare of Lulworth Cove. Why don’t you attack him?”
We moved further down the beach, and now, our appetites stimulated by the sea air, the lack of smell, and the quarrels that had grown out of the discovery of the dead horse, we attacked our victuals once again with relish. Presently, nicely sated with food, and having, perhaps, drunk a shade too much wine, we all fell asleep and slept long and soundly. It was owing to this that, none of us noticed the change in the weather. I was the first to awaken. At first I thought we had slept so long that it was late evening, for the whole of the bay was dark and gloomy, but a glance at my watch showed that it was only five o’clock. A quick look upwards and I saw why it appeared to be later. When we had gone to sleep, the sky had been a pale but bright blue, and the sea was sparkling, but now the sky was almost slate-coloured and the sea had turned a dark indigo in sympathy with it, and moved sullenly under sudden gusts and eddies of wind. Looking in the direction which the clouds were coming, I could see the horizon was as black as pitch, with shreds of lightning running through it, and to my ears came the not-too-distant rumble of thunder. Hastily, I gave the alarm, and the family sat up, bleary-eyed and half asleep. It took them a moment or so to assimilate the meteorological volte face that had taken place.
The Picnic and Suchlike Pandemonium Page 2