The Picnic and Suchlike Pandemonium

by Gerald Durrell

  ‘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 one, 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.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Mother, ‘and the Air Ministry roof did promise . . .’

  ‘This is an awful country,’ complained Larry. ‘Only a full-blooded masochist would enjoy living here. Everything in the place is a mortification of the flesh, from the cooking to the licensing laws, from the women to the weather.’

  ‘We’d better get back to the car quickly. It’s going to teem down in a minute,’ said Leslie.

  Hastily, we bundled up our goods and chattels and boxes and bags, and made our way along the beach. Arguing about the dead horse had distracted us, and we had moved further round the bay than we had meant to. Now we had quite a long walk back to the car. Before we were half-way there, the rain started. A few fat drops hit us at intervals and then, as if the rain had been getting the range, the clouds above us seemed simply to open like a trap door and the rain fell in what can only be described as a solid blanket. Within seconds, we were all drenched to the skin. The rain was icy. With chattering teeth, we ran up the hill to the Rolls, where the next of our misfortunes became apparent. Jack, beguiled by the sunlight, had left the hood back so that the inside of the Rolls was awash.

  ‘God damn it!’ bellowed Larry, raising his voice above the roar of the rain, ‘does nobody use any intelligence around here?’

  ‘How was I supposed to know it was going to rain?’ asked Jack, aggrievedly.

  ‘Because it always bloody does in this sponge of an island,’ answered Larry.

  Leslie and Jack were trying to get the hood up, but it soon became apparent that for some reason it was refusing to function.

  ‘It’s no good,’ panted Leslie at last, ‘we can’t shift it. We’ll just have to sit in the car and drive like hell to the nearest shelter.’

  ‘Splendid!’ said Larry. ‘I’ve always wanted to be driven in an open car through a monsoon.’

  ‘Oh, stop moaning, for heaven’s sake,’ snapped Leslie. ‘We’re all going to get equally wet.’

  We piled into the Rolls, and Jack started her up. At first, in order to try to get us to shelter as quickly as possible, he drove fast, but soon, the cries and roars from the back made him slow down, for to travel at any speed turned the rain into a stinging whip across one’s face. We had progressed perhaps half a mile, when a familiar shuddering sensation made it clear to us all that we had a puncture. Cursing, Jack eased the Rolls to a standstill, and he and Leslie changed the wheel, while the rest of us sat in sodden silence, and the rain beat down. Margo’s hair, so carefully prepared for the occasion, now hung in rat’s tails about her face. Mother looked as though she’d just finished swimming the Atlantic single-handed, while Larry was probably in the worst condition of all. He’d put the ear-flaps down on his deer-stalker, but a steady stream of water, like a miniature Niagara, flowed off the peak of his hat and into his lap. The thick tweed of his coat absorbed water with the eagerness and completeness of a Saharan sand-dune. The coat was heavy in itself, but now it had absorbed some ten gallons of rainwater, it hung round Larry like a suit of damp armour.

  ‘What I want to know, Mother, is what you’ve got against me?’ he remarked, as Jack and Leslie got into the car and we started off again.

  ‘Whatever do you mean, dear?’ asked Mother. ‘I’ve got nothing against you. Don’t be silly.’

  ‘I can’t believe that this is all fortuitous,’ said Larry. ‘It seems too well-planned, as if you had some deep, psychological urge to destroy me. Why didn’t you simply put a pillow over my face when I was in my pram? Why wait until I’m in my prime?’

  ‘You do talk nonsense, Larry,’ said Mother. ‘If a stranger heard you talking like that, he’d think you meant it.’

  ‘I do mean it,’ exclaimed Larry. ‘Never mind; my publishers are going to love the publicity; “Famous Novelist killed by Mother. ‘I did it because I thought he was suffering,’ she said”.’

  ‘Oh, do be quiet, Larry!’ said Mother. ‘You make me cross when you talk like that.’

  ‘Well, the picnic was your idea,’ Larry pointed out.

  ‘But the Air Ministry roof . . .’ Mother began.

  ‘Spare me,’ pleaded Larry. �
�If you mention the Air Ministry roof once again, I shall scream. One can only hope they have all been struck by lightning.’

  We had now reached the top of the cliffs. It was almost as dark as twilight, and the driving curtains of rain were pushed and trembled by gusts of wind so that one could not see more than a short distance with any clarity. A flash of golden lightning, accompanied by an enormous clap of thunder right overhead, made both Mother and Margo squeak with apprehension. It was at that moment that we got our second puncture.

  ‘Well,’ said Jack, philosophically, as he pulled the car into the side of the road. ‘That’s it.’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘What do you mean: “that’s it”?’ asked Larry. ‘Why don’t you change the wheel? It may have escaped your notice, but it’s still raining in the back here.’

  ‘Can’t,’ replied Jack, succinctly ‘We’ve only got one spare.’

  ‘Only one spare?’ cried Larry, incredulously. ‘Dear God! What organization! What planning! Do you realize that if Stanley had carried on like this he’d still be looking for Livingstone?’

  ‘Well, I can’t help it,’ said Jack. ‘We’ve used up our spare. You don’t expect to get two punctures – one on top of the other.’

  ‘The art of life is to be prepared for the unexpected,’ said Larry.

  ‘Well, this is unexpected,’ replied Margo. ‘If you’re so clever, you deal with it.’

  ‘I will,’ said Larry, to our surprise. ‘When surrounded by morons the only thing to do is to take charge.’

  So saying, he climbed laboriously out of the car.

  ‘Where are you going, dear?’ asked Mother.

  ‘Over there,’ said Larry pointing. ‘There is a man in a field. Don’t ask me what he is doing in the field in the pouring rain; he’s probably the village idiot. But from him I might ascertain where the nearest cottage or hostelry is with a telephone, and we can walk there and phone for a breakdown van.’

  ‘That is clever of you,’ said Mother, admiringly.

  ‘Not really’ replied Larry. ‘It’s just that when you are surrounded on all sides by stupidity, any logical decision seems like a stroke of genius.’

  He marched off down the road, and I followed him, determined not to miss anything.

  We reached the field, on the far side of which was the man, pacing about among the rows of some newly-emerging crop, whistling cheerily to himself. His shoulders were protected from the rain by a sack, and another one was draped over his head. Now and then he’d pause, bend down, examine a plant carefully, and then pull it up. I began to wonder whether he was the village idiot. We made our way towards him, between the furrows. The dark earth was as sticky as molasses and long before we reached him, both Larry and I were carrying some five pounds of soil on each shoe.

  ‘What with my coat weighing about eight hundred pounds, and the mud on my shoes, I might well suffer a cardiac arrest,’ panted Larry.

  ‘Hello, there!’ I called to the man as soon as we were within ear-shot. He straightened up and looked at us, mud-covered, dripping. ‘Goo’ afternoon,’ he called.

  ‘You’d think, with its meteorological history, that the English language could have thought up another greeting, wouldn’t you?’ said Larry. ‘It’s perfectly preposterous to say “good afternoon” on a day whose climatic conditions could make even Noah worry.’

  As we reached the man, Larry became as charming as his ridiculous costume and dripping condition would allow.

  ‘So sorry to worry you,’ he said, ‘but our car’s broken down. I was wondering if you’d be kind enough to tell us where the nearest telephone is, so that we can telephone for a breakdown van to come?’

  The man studied us carefully. He had tiny, twinkling blue eyes and a hawk-like nose set in a great slab of a face as russet as an autumn apple.

  ‘Telephone?’ he queried. ‘There’s no telephone ‘ere-abouts. No call for ‘un really, sur – no, not out ‘ere.’

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ went on Larry patiently, ‘but where’s the nearest one?’

  ‘Nearest one?’ said the man. ‘Nearest one . . . Now, let me think . . . It’s a good long time since I used the telephone, but it’ll come to me presently . . . Now, Geoff Rogers, he’s just down the valley this way, but he hasn’t got one . . . nor hasn’t Mrs Charlton, she’s up that way . . . no, I think your best solution, sur, is to go to the cross roads and turn right. That’ll bring you to “The Bull” – the pub, sur, they’ve got a telephone . . . Leastways, they ’ad one when I was there last spring.’

  ‘I see,’ Said Larry. ‘How do we get to the cross roads from here?’

  ‘It’s a tidy walk, sur,’ said the man. ‘A good three miles it be.’

  ‘If you could just give us directions,’ Larry suggested.

  ‘It’s a tidy walk – an’ up ’ill most o’ the way,’ went on the man.

  ‘Well,’ answered Larry, ‘that’s not important. If you could just tell us which . . .’

  ‘I could lend you Molly,’ said the man. ‘That ‘ud be quicker.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing your wife . . .’ Larry began, when the man interrupted with a bellow of laughter.

  ‘My wife!’ he crowed. ‘My wife! Bless your soul, sur, but that’s a laugh, and no mistake. Molly ain’t my wife, bless you, sur. She’s my ’orse.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Larry. ‘Well, it’s very kind of you but I haven’t ridden for years, and we’ve already had one unfortunate experience with a horse today.’

  ‘No, no. You couldn’t ride ’er,’ said the man. ‘Ur pulls a trap.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Larry. ‘But, then, how do we get her back to you?’

  ‘Oh, don’ you worry about that, sur. You jist ’itch up ur reins nice and snug to the trap and she’ll come back to me. Oh, aye, she always comes back to where I’m at. She’s as good as a wife, sur, and that’s no disrespect to my ol’ woman. If I goes to the pub of a Saturday, an’ ’as one too many, they puts me in the trap, sur, and Molly takes me ’ome without a word of a lie, sur.’

  ‘A sagacious animal,’ observed Larry. ‘Will your trap carry six people?’

  ‘Yes, sur, if you takes it slow, like – and a couple of you walks up the steep bits.’

  So we went round behind the hedge, where we found Molly, covered in sacks, chewing thoughtfully at her nosebag. She was as sturdy as an Exmoor pony but twice as big; the trap was a nice one; there was plenty of room. The man unhitched Molly and handed the reins to Larry, who passed them hurriedly to me.

  ‘You’re supposed to be the zoologist of the family. You drive,’ he instructed.

  The man gave us directions which, like all directions in the country, were full of confusing details like ‘pass the blasted fir tree on your left’ and ‘go straight past the sheep dip or round it if you prefer’. We made him repeat them twice to get them right, and then, thanking him profusely, climbed into the trap. Molly who must have been chilly standing in the hedge, responded eagerly to my chirrups of encouragement, and we set off towards the road at a spanking trot. Our appearance was greeted with hilarity and disbelief by the family.

  ‘What are you going to do with that? Give us a tow?’ enquired Leslie.

  ‘No,’ said Larry austerely ‘this vehicle is to take us to shelter and to a telephone. If we tie some picnic knives to the wheels, Margo can pretend she’s Boadicea, and with a bit of luck we can run down a villager and cut off his legs.’

  After a certain amount of argument, we persuaded everyone to vacate the sodden Rolls for the equally sodden but more mobile trap. The rain had eased off now to a fine mizzle, which, if anything, made you damper than a hard downpour. Molly, her ears back to hear my encouraging comments on her prowess, pulled with a will and we progressed at a rapid walk down the lanes. After some twenty minutes,
we were in totally unfamiliar and uninhabited country.

  ‘I do hope you know where we are going, dear,’ said Mother, anxiously.

  ‘Of course I do,’ answered Larry, impatiently. ‘The man’s instructions are burnt on my brain in letters of fire. Here, Gerry, turn right there, at that oak tree, and then second left.’

  We progressed some distance in silence, and then we reached a cross roads without benefit of a signpost. Before Larry could give instructions, Molly, of her own volition, had turned to the left.

  ‘There you are,’ said Larry in triumph, ‘the horse agrees with me. Even the dumb beasts of the field recognize a born leader. Anyway, her owner probably frequents this pub, so she knows the way.’

  We plunged into a piece of damp and dripping woodland, where the wood pigeons clapped their wings at us and magpies ducked suspiciously. The road wound to and fro through the rain-soaked trees.

  Very soon now we’ll reach this wonderful old country pub,’ said Larry, waxing poetical. ‘There’ll be a huge, wood fire to warm our outsides, and a huge hot whisky and lemon to warm our insides. The landlord, a humble peasant, will leap to do our bidding, and while we are roasting by the fire . . .’

  Here, we rounded a corner and Larry’s voice died away. Fifty yards ahead of us, squatting in the mud, was the Rolls.

  Molly may have had her failings, but she knew her way back to her master.

  The Maiden Voyage

  However glib you are with words, your brain is inclined to falter if you try to describe the Piazza San Marco in Venice under a full daffodil-yellow summer moon. The buildings look as though they have been made out of crumbling over-sweet nougat in the most beautiful shades of browns and reds and subtle autumn pinks. You can sit and watch, fascinated, for the tiny tellers, Moorish figures, that come out and strike the big bell on St Mark’s cathedral at every quarter, so that it echoes and vibrates around the huge square.

  On this particular evening, it was as ravishing as only Venice could be, spoiled only by the conglomeration of my belligerent family, clustered around two tables which were bestrewn with drinks and tiny plates of appetisers. Unfortunately, it had been my mother’s idea and, as had happened throughout her life, what she had produced as a treat had already, even at this early stage, started turning into a fiasco that was edging her slowly but relentlessly towards that pillory that all families keep for their parents.