Authors: Gerald Durrell
‘I don’t ask you to discuss art with them,’ said Larry testily, ‘but I think you might try and conceal your revolting taste in literature. Here I fill the house with good books and I find your bedside table simply groaning under the weight of cookery books, gardening books, and the most lurid-looking mystery stories. I can’t think where you get hold of these things.’
‘They’re very good detective stories,’ said Mother defensively. ‘I borrowed them from Theodore.’
Larry gave a short, exasperated sigh and picked up his book again.
‘You’d better let the Pension Suisse know when they’re coming,’ Mother remarked.
‘What for?’ asked Larry, surprised.
‘So they can reserve the rooms,’ said Mother, equally surprised.
‘But I’ve invited them to stay here,’ Larry pointed out.
‘Larry! You haven’t! Really, you are most
thoughtless
. How can they possibly stay here?’
‘I really don’t see what you’re making a fuss about,’ said Larry coldly.
‘But where are they going to
sleep?
’ said Mother, distraught. ‘There’s hardly enough room for us, as it is.’
‘Nonsense, Mother, there’s plenty of room if the place is organized properly. If Margo and Les sleep out on the veranda, that gives you two rooms; you and Gerry could move into the drawing-room, and that would leave those rooms free.’
‘Don’t be silly, dear. We can’t all camp out all over the place like gipsies. Besides, it’s still chilly at night, and I don’t think Margo and Les ought to sleep outside. There simply isn’t room to entertain in this villa. You’ll just have to write to these people and put them off.’
‘I can’t put them off,’ said Larry. ‘They’re on their way.’
‘Really, Larry, you are the most annoying creature. Why on earth didn’t you tell me before? You wait until they’re nearly here, and then you tell me.’
‘I didn’t know you were going to treat the arrival of a few friends as if it was a major catastrophe,’ Larry explained.
‘But, dear, it’s so silly to invite people when you know there’s no room in the villa.’
‘I do wish you’d stop fussing,’ said Larry irritably; ‘there’s quite a simple solution to the whole business.’
‘What?’ asked Mother suspiciously.
‘Well, since the villa isn’t big enough, let’s move to one that is.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Whoever heard of moving into a larger house because you’ve invited some friends to stay?’
‘What’s the matter with the idea? It seems a perfectly sensible solution to me; after all, if you say there’s no room here, the obvious thing to do is to move.’
‘The obvious thing to do is not to invite people,’ said Mother severely.
‘I don’t think it’s good for us to live like hermits,’ said Larry. ‘I only really invited them for you. They’re a charming crowd. I thought you’d like to have them. Liven things up a bit for you.’
‘I’m quite lively enough, thank you,’ said Mother with dignity.
‘Well, I don’t know what we’re going to do.’
‘I really don’t see why they can’t stay in the Pension Suisse, dear.’
‘You can’t ask people out to stay with you and then make them live in a third-rate hotel.’
‘How many have you invited?’ asked Mother.
‘Oh, just a few… two or three… They won’t all be coming at once. I expect they’ll turn up in batches.’
‘I think at least you might be able to tell me how many you’ve invited,’ said Mother.
‘Well, I can’t remember now. Some of them didn’t reply, but that doesn’t mean anything… they’re probably on their way and thought it was hardly worth letting us know. Anyway, if you budget for seven or eight people I should think that would cover it.’
‘You mean, including ourselves?’
‘No, no, I mean seven or eight people as well as the family.’
‘But it’s absurd, Larry; we can’t possibly fit thirteen people into this villa, with all the good will in the world.’
‘Well, let’s
move
, then. I’ve offered you a perfectly sensible solution. I don’t know what you’re arguing about.’
‘But don’t be ridiculous, dear. Even if we did move into a villa large enough to house thirteen people, what are we going to do with the extra space when they’ve gone?’
‘Invite some more people,’ said Larry, astonished that Mother should not have thought of this simple answer for herself.
Mother glared at him, her spectacles askew.
‘Really, Larry, you do make me cross,’ she said at last.
‘I think it’s rather unfair that you should blame me because your organization breaks down with the arrival of a few guests,’ said Larry austerely.
‘A few guests!’ squeaked Mother. ‘I’m glad you think eight people are a few guests.’
‘I think you’re adopting a most unreasonable attitude.’
‘I suppose there’s nothing unreasonable in inviting people and not letting me know?’
Larry gave her an injured look, and picked up his book.
‘Well, I’ve done all I can,’ he said; ‘I can’t do any more.’
There was a long silence, during which Larry placidly read his book and Mother piled bunches of roses into vases and placed them haphazardly round the room, muttering to herself.
‘I wish you wouldn’t just
lie
there,’ she said at last. ‘After all, they’re your friends. It’s up to you to do something.’
Larry, with a long-suffering air, put down his book.
‘I really don’t know what you expect me to do,’ he said. ‘Every suggestion I’ve made you’ve disagreed with.’
‘If you made sensible suggestions I wouldn’t disagree.’
‘I don’t see anything ludicrous in anything I suggested.’
‘But, Larry dear, do be reasonable. We can’t just rush to a new villa because some people are coming. I doubt whether we’d find one in time, anyway. And there’s Gerry’s lessons.’
‘All that could easily be sorted out if you put your mind to it.’
‘We are
not
moving to another villa,’ said Mother firmly; ‘I’ve made up my mind about that.’
She straightened her spectacles, gave Larry a defiant glare, and strutted off towards the kitchen, registering determination in every inch.
Be not forgetful to entertain strangers:
for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.
– H
EBREWS
xiii, 2
The new villa was enormous, a tall, square Venetian mansion, with faded daffodil-yellow walls, green shutters, and a fox-red roof. It stood on a hill overlooking the sea, surrounded by unkempt olive groves and silent orchards of lemon and orange trees. The whole place had an atmosphere of ancient melancholy about it: the house with its cracked and peeling walls, its tremendous echoing rooms, its verandas piled high with drifts of last year’s leaves and so overgrown with creepers and vines that the lower rooms were in a perpetual green twilight; the little walled and sunken garden that ran along one side of the house, its wrought-iron gates scabby with rust, had roses, anemones, and geraniums sprawling across the weed-grown paths, and the shaggy, untended tangerine trees were so thick with flowers that the scent was almost overpowering; beyond the garden the orchards were still and silent, except for the hum of bees and an occasional splutter of birds among the leaves. The house and land were gently, sadly decaying, lying forgotten on the hillside overlooking the shining sea and the dark, eroded hills of Albania. It was as though villa and landscape were half asleep, lying there drugged in the spring sunshine, giving themselves up to the moss, the ferns, and the crowds of tiny toadstools.
It was Spiro, of course, who had found the place, and who organized our move with the minimum of fuss and the maximum of efficiency. Within three days of seeing the villa for the first time the long wooden carts were trailing in a dusty procession along the roads, piled high with our possessions, and on the fourth day we were installed.
At the edge of the estate was a small cottage inhabited by the
gardener and his wife, an elderly, rather decrepit pair who seemed to have decayed with the estate. His job was to fill the water tanks, pick the fruit, crush the olives, and get severely stung once a year extracting honey from the seventeen bee-hives that simmered beneath the lemon trees. In a moment of misguided enthusiasm Mother engaged the gardener’s wife to work for us in the villa. Her name was Lugaretzia, and she was a thin, lugubrious individual, whose hair was forever coming adrift from the ramparts of pins and combs with which she kept it attached to her skull. She was extremely sensitive, as Mother soon discovered, and the slightest criticism of her work, however tactfully phrased, would make her brown eyes swim with tears in an embarrassing display of grief. It was such a heart-rending sight to watch that Mother very soon gave up criticizing her altogether.
There was only one thing in life that could bring a smile to Lugaretzia’s gloomy countenance, a glint to her spaniel eyes, and that was a discussion of her ailments. Where most people are hypochondriacs as a hobby, Lugaretzia had turned it into a full-time occupation. When we took up residence it was her stomach that was worrying her. Bulletins on the state of her stomach would start at seven in the morning when she brought up the tea. She would move from room to room with the trays, giving each one of us a blow-by-blow account of her nightly bout with her inside. She was a master of the art of graphic description; groaning, gasping, doubling up in agony, stamping about the rooms, she would give us such a realistic picture of her suffering that we would find our own stomachs aching in sympathy.
‘Can’t you
do
something about that woman?’ Larry asked Mother one morning, after Lugaretzia’s stomach had been through a particularly bad night.
‘What do you expect me to do?’ she asked. ‘I gave her some of your bicarbonate of soda.’
‘That probably accounts for her bad night.’
‘I’m sure she doesn’t
eat
properly,’ said Margo. ‘What she probably wants is a good diet.’
‘Nothing short of a bayonet would do her stomach any good,’ said Larry caustically, ‘and I know… during the last week I have become distressingly familiar with every tiny convolution of her larger intestine.’
‘I know she’s a bit trying,’ said Mother, ‘but, after all, the poor woman is obviously suffering.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Leslie; ‘she enjoys every minute of it. Like Larry does when he’s ill.’
‘Well, anyway,’ said Mother hurriedly, ‘we’ll just have to put up with her; there’s no one else we can get locally. I’ll get Theodore to look her over next time he comes out.’
‘If all she told me this morning was true,’ said Larry, ‘you’ll have to provide him with a pick and a miner’s lamp.’
‘Larry, don’t be disgusting,’ said Mother severely.
Shortly afterwards, to our relief, Lugaretzia’s stomach got better, but almost immediately her feet gave out, and she would hobble pitifully round the house, groaning loudly and frequently. Larry said that Mother hadn’t hired a maid, but a ghoul, and suggested buying her a ball and chain. He pointed out that this would at least let us know when she was coming, and allow us time to escape, for Lugaretzia had developed the habit of creeping up behind one and groaning loudly and unexpectedly in one’s ear. Larry started having breakfast in his bedroom after the morning when Lugaretzia took off her shoes in the dining-room in order to show us exactly which toes were hurting.
But, apart from Lugaretzia’s ailments, there were other snags in the house. The furniture (which we had rented with the villa) was a fantastic collection of Victorian relics that had been locked in the rooms for the past twenty years. They crouched everywhere, ugly, ungainly, unpractical, creaking hideously to each other and shedding bits of themselves with loud cracks like musket-shots, accompanied by clouds of dust if you walked
past them too heavily. The first evening the leg came off the dining-room table, cascading the food onto the floor. Some days later Larry sat down on an immense and solid-looking chair, only to have the back disappear in a cloud of acrid dust. When Mother went to open a wardrobe the size of a cottage and the entire door came away in her hand, she decided that something must be done.
‘We simply can’t have people to stay in a house where everything comes to bits if you look at it,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing for it, we’ll have to buy some new furniture. Really, these guests are going to be the most expensive we’ve ever had.’
The next morning Spiro drove Mother, Margo, and myself into the town to buy furniture. We noticed that the town was more crowded, more boisterous, than usual, but it never occurred to us that anything special was happening until we had finished bargaining with the dealer and made our way out of his shop into the narrow, twisted streets. We were jostled and pushed as we struggled to get back to the place where we had left the car. The crowd grew thicker and thicker, and the people were so tightly wedged together that we were carried forward against our will.
‘I think there must be something going on,’ said Margo observantly. ‘Maybe it’s a fiesta or something interesting.’
‘I can’t care
what
it is, as long as we get back to the car,’ said Mother.
But we were swept along, in the opposite direction to the car, and eventually pushed out to join a vast crowd assembled in the main square of the town. I asked an elderly peasant woman near me what was happening, and she turned to me, her face lit up with pride.
‘It is Saint Spiridion,
kyria
,’ she explained. ‘Today we may enter the church and kiss his feet.’
Saint Spiridion was the patron saint of the island. His mummified body was enshrined in a silver coffin in the church, and once a year he was carried in procession round the town. He was very
powerful, and could grant requests, cure illness, and do a number of other wonderful things for you if he happened to be in the right mood when asked. The islanders worshipped him, and every second male on the island was called Spiro in his honour. Today was a special day; apparently they would open the coffin and allow the faithful to kiss the slippered feet of the mummy, and make any request they cared to. The composition of the crowd showed how well loved the saint was by the Corfiots: there were elderly peasant women in their best black clothes, and their husbands, hunched as olive trees, with sweeping white moustaches; there were fishermen, bronzed and muscular, with the dark stains of octopus ink on their shirts; there were the sick too, the mentally defective, the consumptive, the crippled, old people who could hardly walk, and babies wrapped and bound like cocoons, their pale, waxy little faces crumpled up as they coughed and coughed. There were even a few tall, wild-looking Albanian shepherds, moustached and with shaven heads, wearing great sheepskin cloaks. This great multicoloured wedge of humanity moved slowly towards the dark door of the church, and we were swept along with it, wedged like pebbles in a lava-flow. By now Margo had been pushed well ahead of me, while Mother was equally far behind. I was caught firmly between five fat peasant women, who pressed on me like cushions and exuded sweat and garlic, while Mother was hopelessly entangled between two of the enormous Albanian shepherds. Steadily, firmly, we were pushed up the steps and into the church.