Authors: Gerald Durrell
I decided on the sea trip, and so intent was I on planning it that I had quite forgotten Gladstone, who was wheezing at me with the breathless indignation of an asthmatic in a fog.
‘If you
must
keep that harmonium covered with feathers,’ said Larry, glancing up irritably, ‘you might at least teach it to sing properly.’
He was obviously not in the mood to receive a lecture on the jackdaw’s singing abilities so I kept quiet and shut Gladstone up with a mammoth mouthful of food.
‘Marco’s sending Count Rossignol for a couple of days,’ Larry said casually to Mother.
‘Who’s he?’ asked Mother.
‘I don’t know,’ said Larry.
Mother straightened her glasses and looked at him.
‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’ she asked.
‘What I say,’ said Larry. ‘I don’t know; I’ve never met him.’
‘Well, who’s Marco?’
‘I don’t know; I’ve never met him either. He’s a good artist though.’
‘Larry, dear, you can’t start inviting people you don’t know to stay,’ said Mother. ‘It’s bad enough entertaining the ones you
do
know without starting on the ones you don’t.’
‘What’s knowing them got to do with it?’ asked Larry, puzzled.
‘Well, if you know them, at least they know what to expect,’ Mother pointed out.
‘Expect?’ said Larry coldly. ‘You’d think I was inviting them to stay in a ghetto or something, the way you go on.’
‘No, no, dear, I don’t mean
that
,’ said Mother, ‘but it’s just that this house so seldom seems normal. I do try but we don’t seem able to live like other people somehow.’
‘Well if they come to stay here they must put up with us,’ said Larry. ‘Anyway, you can’t blame
me
; I didn’t invite him. Marco’s sending him.’
‘But that’s what I mean,’ said Mother. ‘Complete strangers sending complete strangers to us, as if we were an hotel or something.’
‘Trouble with you is you’re anti-social,’ said Larry.
‘And so would you be if you had to do the cooking,’ said Mother indignantly. ‘It’s enough to make one want to be a hermit.’
‘Well, as soon as the Count’s been, you can
be
a hermit if you want to. No one’s stopping you.’
‘A lot of chance
I
get to be a hermit, with you inviting streams of people to stay.’
‘Of course you can, if you organize yourself,’ said Larry. ‘Leslie will build you a cave down in the olive groves; you can get Margo to stitch a few of Gerry’s less-smelly animal skins together, collect a pot of blackberries, and there you are. I can bring people down to see you. “This is my mother,” I shall say, “she has deserted us to become a hermit.” ’
Mother glared at him.
‘Really, Larry, you do make me cross sometimes,’ she said.
‘I’m going down to see Leonora’s baby,’ said Margo. ‘Is there anything you want from the village?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Larry, ‘that reminds me. Leonora’s asked me to be a god-parent to the brat.’
Leonora was our maid Lugaretzia’s daughter, who used to come up to the house and help us when we had a party and who, because of her sparkling good looks, was a great favourite of Larry’s.
‘You? A godfather!’ said Margo in astonishment. ‘I thought godfathers were supposed to be pure and religious and things.’
‘How nice of her,’ said Mother doubtfully. ‘But it’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’
‘Not half so odd as it would be if she asked him to be father,’ said Leslie.
‘Leslie, dear, don’t say things like that in front of Gerry, even in fun,’ said Mother. ‘Are you going to accept, Larry?’
‘Yes. Why shouldn’t the poor little thing have the benefit of my guidance?’
‘Ha!’ said Margo derisively. ‘Well, I shall tell Leonora that if she thinks you’re going to be pure and religious she’s trying to make a pig’s poke out of a sow’s ear.’
‘If you can translate that into Greek, you’re welcome to tell her,’ said Larry.
‘My Greek’s just as good as yours,’ replied Margo belligerently.
‘Now, now, dears, don’t quarrel,’ said Mother. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t clean your guns with your handkerchief, Leslie; the oil is impossible to get out.’
‘Well, I’ve got to clean them with
something
,’ said Leslie aggrievedly.
At this point I told Mother I was going to spend the day exploring the coast and could I have a picnic?
‘Yes, dear,’ she said absently. ‘Tell Lugaretzia to organize something for you. But do be careful, dear, and don’t go into very deep water. Don’t catch a chill and… watch out for sharks.’
To Mother, every sea, no matter how shallow or benign, was an evil and tumultuous body of water, full of tidal waves, water spouts, typhoons, and whirlpools, inhabited entirely by giant octopus and squids and savage, sabre-toothed sharks, all of whom had the killing and eating of one or other of her progeny as their main objective in life. Assuring her that I would take great care, I hurried off to the kitchen, collected the food for myself and my animals, assembled my collecting equipment, whistled the dogs, and set off down the hill to the jetty where my boat was moored.
The
Bootle-Bumtrinket
, being Leslie’s first effort in boatbuilding was almost circular and flat-bottomed, so that, with her attractive colour scheme of orange and white stripes, she looked not unlike an ornate celluloid duck. She was a friendly, stalwart craft but owing to her shape and her lack of keel she became very flustered in anything like a heavy sea and would threaten to turn upside down and proceed that way, a thing she was prone to do in moments of stress. When I went on any long expeditions in her I always took plenty of food and water in case we were blown off course and shipwrecked, and I hugged the coastline as much as possible so that I could make a dash for safety should the
Bootle-Bumtrinket
be assaulted by a sudden sirocco. Owing to my boat’s shape, she could not wear a tall mast without turning over and her pocket-handkerchief-sized sail could only garner and harvest the tiniest cupfuls of wind; thus, for the most part, she was propelled from point to point with oars. When we had a full crew on board – three dogs, an owl, and sometimes a pigeon – and were carrying a full cargo – some two dozen containers full of seawater and specimens – she was a back-aching load to push through the water.
Roger was a fine dog to take to sea and he thoroughly enjoyed it; he also took a deep and intelligent interest in marine life and would lie for hours, ears pricked, watching the strange convolutions of the brittle starfish in a collecting bottle. Widdle and Puke, on the other hand, were not sea dogs and were really most at home tracking down some not-too-fierce quarry in the myrtle groves; when they came to sea they tried to be helpful but rarely succeeded and in a crisis would start howling or jumping overboard, or, if thirsty, drinking seawater and then vomiting over your feet just as you were doing a tricky bit of navigation. I could never really tell if Ulysses, my scops owl, liked sea trips; he would sit dutifully wherever I placed him, his eyes half-closed, wings pulled in, looking like one of the more malevolent carvings of oriental deities. My pigeon, Quilp – he was the son of my original pigeon, Quasimodo – adored boating: he would take over the
Bootle-Bumtrinket
’s minute foredeck and carry on as though it were the promenade deck of the
Queen Mary
. He would pace up and down, pausing to do a quick waltz occasionally and, with pouting chest, would give a contralto concert, looking strangely like a large opera singer on a sea voyage. Only if the weather became inclement would he get nervous and would then fly down and nestle in the captain’s lap for solace.
On this particular day I had decided to pay a visit to a small bay, one side of which was formed by a tiny island surrounded by reefs in which there dwelled a host of fascinating creatures.
My particular quarry was a peacock blenny which I knew lived in profusion in that shallow water. Blennies are curious looking fish with elongated bodies, some four inches long, shaped rather like an eel; with their pop eyes and thick lips they are vaguely reminiscent of a hippopotamus. In the breeding season the males became most colourful, with a dark spot behind the eyes edged with sky blue, a dull orange hump-like crest on the head, and a darkish body covered with ultramarine or violet spots. The throat was pale sea-green with darkish stripes on it. In contrast, the females were light olive with pale blue spots and leaf-green fins. I was anxious to capture some of these colourful little fish, since it was their breeding season, and I was hoping to establish a colony of them in one of my aquariums so that I could watch their courtship.
After half an hour’s stiff rowing we reached the bay which was rimmed with silvery olive groves and great golden tangles of broom that sent its heavy musky scent out over the still clear waters. I anchored the
Bootle-Bumtrinket
in two feet of water near the reef, and then, taking off my clothes, and armed with my butterfly net and a wide-mouthed jar, I stepped into the gin-clear sea which was as warm as a bath.
Everywhere there was such a profusion of life that it required stern concentration not to be diverted from one’s task. Here the sea-slugs, like huge warty brown sausages, lay in battalions among the multi-coloured weeds. On the rocks were the dark purple, black pin-cushions of the sea urchins, their spines turning to and fro like compass needles. Here and there, stuck to the rocks like enlarged woodlice, were the chitons and the brightly freckled top shells, moving about, each containing either its rightful owner or else a usurper in the shape of a red-faced, scarlet-clawed hermit crab. A small weed-covered rock would suddenly walk away from under your foot, revealing itself as a spider crab, with his back a neatly planted garden of weeds, to camouflage him from his enemies.
Soon I came to the area of the bay that I knew the blennies favoured. It was not long before I spotted a fine male, brilliant and almost iridescent in his courting outfit of many colours. Cautiously I edged my net towards him and he retreated suspiciously, gulping at me with his pouting lips. I made a sudden sweep with the net but he was too wary and avoided it with ease. Several times I tried and failed and after each attempt he retreated a little further. Finally, tiring of my attentions, he flipped off and took refuge in his home, which was the broken half of a terracotta pot of the sort that fishermen put down to trap unwary octopuses in. Although he was under the impression he had reached safety, it was in fact his undoing, for I simply scooped him up, pot and all, in my net and then transferred him and his home to one of the bigger containers in the boat.
Flushed with success I continued my hunting, and by lunch-time had caught two green wives for my blenny, as well as a baby cuttlefish and an interesting species of starfish, which I had not seen previously. The sun was now blistering hot and most of the sea life had disappeared under rocks to lurk in the shade. I went on shore, to sit under the olive trees and eat my lunch. The air was heavy with the scent of broom and full of the zinging cries of cicadas. As I ate, I watched a huge dragon-green lizard with bright blue eye markings along his body, carefully stalk and catch a black and white striped swallowtail butterfly. No mean feat, since swallowtails rarely sit still for long and their flight is erratic and unpredictable. Moreover the lizard caught the butterfly on the wing – leaping some sixteen inches off the ground to do so.
Presently, having finished my lunch, I loaded up the boat and getting my canine crew on board, began to row home so that I could settle my blennies in their aquariums. Reaching the villa, I placed the male blenny, together with his pot, in the centre of the larger of my aquariums and then carefully introduced the two females. Although I watched them for the rest of the afternoon
they did nothing spectacular. The male merely lay, gulping and pouting, in the entrance of his pot while the females gulped and pouted with equal zest at either end of the aquarium.
The following morning when I got up I found, to my intense annoyance, that the blennies must have been active at dawn for a number of eggs had been laid inside, on the roof of the pot. Which female was responsible for this I did not know, but the male was a very protective and resolute father, attacking my finger ferociously when I picked up the pot to look at the eggs.
Determined not to miss any of the drama I rushed to get my breakfast and ate it squatting in front of the aquarium, my gaze fixed on the blennies. The family, who had hitherto regarded fish as the least of potential trouble-makers among my pets, began to have doubts about the blennies, for as the morning wore on I would importune each passing member of the household to bring me an orange, or a drink of water, or to sharpen my pencil for me, for I was whiling away the time drawing the blennies in my diary. My lunch was served at the aquarium and as the long, hot afternoon wore on I began to feel sleepy. The dogs, long since bored with a vigil they could not understand, had gone off into the olive groves and left me and the blennies to our own devices.
The male blenny was deep in his pot, scarcely visible. One of the females had wedged herself behind some small rocks, while the other sat gulping on the sand. Occupying the aquarium with the fish were two small spider crabs, each encrusted with weeds, and one wearing a small, pink sea anemone like a rakish bonnet on his head. It was this crab who really precipitated the romance of the blennies. He was wandering about the floor of the aquarium, delicately popping bits of debris into his mouth with his claws, like a finicky spinster eating cucumber sandwiches, when he happened to wander up to the entrance of the pot. Immediately the male blenny emerged, glowing with iridescent colours, ready for battle. He swooped down onto the spider crab and bit at it viciously time after time. The crab, after a few
ineffectual attempts to ward off the fish with its claws, meekly turned tail and scuttled off. This left the blenny, glowing virtuously, as the victor and he sat just outside his pot looking smug.
Now a very unexpected thing happened. The female on the sand had had her attention attracted by the fight with the crab and now she swam over and stopped some four or five inches away from the male. At the sight of her he became very excited and his colouring seemed to glow all the more. Then suddenly he attacked the female. He dashed at her and bit at her head, at the same time curving his body like a bow and giving her blows with his tail. I watched this behaviour in amazement until I realized that throughout this beating and buffeting the female was completely passive and made no attempt at retaliation. What I was witnessing was not an unprovoked attack, but a belligerent courtship display. As I watched I saw that, with slaps from his tail and bites at the female’s head, the male blenny was in fact herding her towards his pot as a sheepdog herds sheep.