Now that winter was approaching I was beginning to feel even more depressed living in the bothy. If one sat downstairs in the huge living-room one was forced to take part in inane conversations with the other inmates. The only alternative was one’s bedroom, a cell-like place, cold enough to ship beef in. My wages did not allow me – on these long winter evenings – to go to the pub and so on most nights I was wrapped up in my bed by seven reading or writing up my notes. So, not unnaturally, I looked forward to Thursday evenings (when I had dinner with the Beales) with the sort of yearning that a Buddhist has for Nirvana. The warmth and brightness of the Beales’ living-room, the happy conversation about animals, riotous card games with the captain inventing his own rules, songs round the piano, and the gorgeous conflagrations of the captain’s curries – all this was wonderful to me, who was, as far as I was concerned, incarcerated in something closely approaching a Siberian detention camp. Periodically, too, there would be incredible journeys into Dunstable or Luton to see a film that had taken the captain’s fancy. Billy would search me out in the park: ‘Daddy says to come early tonight – we’re going to the cinema.’ So I would arrive early and the captain would be waiting impatiently in the hall looking three times lifesize in his huge overcoat, a gigantic muffler round his neck, his narrow-brimmed trilby pulled down on his forehead.
‘Ah, Durrell,’ he would bark, his spectacles glittering feverishly, ‘come in, come in. At least you’re on time. Can’t understand what these women do. What’s your mother doing, Billy?’
‘Dressing,’ Billy would say succinctly.
The captain would lumber up and down, muttering and consulting his watch.
‘Gladys!’ he would bellow at last, no longer able to contain himself. ‘Gladys! Where the hell are you? Gladys!’
Distantly, from the bedroom, would come Mrs Beale’s voice uttering some soothing excuse.
‘Well, hurry up!’ the captain would roar. ‘D’you know what time it is? Gladys! . . . Gladys! I said do you know what time it is? If you don’t hurry up we’ll miss the beginning of the film . . . Gladys! . . . I’m not shouting . . . I’m just trying to hurry you bloody women up . . . I’m not swearing . . . I just want you to hurry up!’
Eventually Mrs Beale and the three girls would appear, twittering, and the captain would usher them outside and into the car like an enormous sheepdog, grumbling to himself. He would wedge himself behind the wheel, Laura and Mrs Beale beside him, and the rest of us would jam ourselves in the back. After a series of terrifying roars from the engine and strangled grinding noises from the gears we would lurch forward.
‘Ha!’ the captain would say with satisfaction. ‘Soon be there now.’
This was in the days when petrol was still rationed, a fact that annoyed the captain, who treated all forms of rationing as examples of the government’s implacable hatred of himself and his family. In order to save petrol he had evolved a system which was as novel as it was useless. When the car reached the top of a slope the captain would switch off the engine.
‘Push!’ he would roar. ‘All together, push.’
The first time I heard him give this remarkable order I thought we had run out of petrol and that the captain wanted us to vacate the car and push it from behind. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. What the captain meant by ‘push’ was that you all lurched to and fro in your seats. By this method, he assured us, you gave the car extra momentum as it cruised down the hill.
‘Push! Come on push,’ he would bellow, throwing his great bulk to and fro. ‘Push, Gladys!’
‘I am pushing, William,’ Mrs Beale would gasp, red-faced, throwing herself backwards, and forwards with all the abandonment of a puppet in a Punch and Judy show.
‘Well, you’re not pushing enough! You all, behind, come on, push. Harder! Harder!’
‘I can’t push any harder, William,’ Mrs Beale would gasp, ‘and I don’t think it makes any difference.’
‘Of course it makes a difference,’ the captain would snarl. ‘It makes all the bloody difference if you do it properly. Come on, push harder . . . harder!’
The car would reach the bottom of the hill and start up the opposite slope.
‘All together . . . all together . . . harder . . . harder!’ the captain would roar frantically, and the car would be full of gasps and grunts as we all flung ourselves about like a rugby scrum.
Eventually, the car would creep to a halt; the captain would apply the brake.
‘Look at that,’ he would rasp irritably, pointing a spade-shaped hand out of the window. ‘We’ve only got to that gorse bush. Last time we got as far as that may tree. I told you, you weren’t pushing properly.’
‘But we can’t push more than we have pushed, William.’
‘Rhythm. That’s what you lack,’ the captain would explain.
‘But we can’t be expected to have rhythm when we’re pushing, dear.’
‘Of course you can,’ the captain would roar. ‘Any bloody wog knows that. Rhythm, timing . . . You’re not doing it properly. Now, let’s try it again.’
‘I shall be so glad when petrol rationing is over,’ Mrs Beale would confide to me in a whisper.
‘Well, it’s not my fault, is it?’ the captain would shout truculently. ‘It’s not my fault the bloody government only gives a teaspoonful of petrol. I’m only trying to eke it out.’
‘Yes, dear. Don’t swear. And I didn’t say it was your fault.’
‘It’s not my bloody fault. I’m trying to help and you’re not doing it properly.’
‘Very well, dear. We’ll try again.’
The car would reach the crest of the next hill and start downwards. The captain would switch off the engine once again.
‘Now,’ he would shout, ‘take your timing from me. Put your backs into it. All together. . . . one, two, three, push . . . one, two, three, push . . . You’re not pushing, Gladys! You’re out of step! How can you expect to get results when you’re out of bloody step? One, two, three, push. Gladys, concentrate!’
So, jerking and gasping, we would creep on our way. However exciting the film, our trips to and from the cinema were always more so.
8. A Superiority of Camels
But the commissariat camu-el, when all is said an’ done,
’E’s a devil an’ a ostrich an’ a orphan-child in one.
Kipling, ‘Oonts’
Winter came upon us like the sudden opening of a tomb. Almost overnight it seemed that the last multi-coloured banners of autumn leaves had been wrenched from the trees by the wind and built up in great mouldering piles that smelt like plum cake when you kicked them. Then came the early-morning frost that turned the long grass white and crisp as biscuit, made your breath hang in pale cobwebs in front of you and nipped at your fingertips with the viciousness of a slamming door. Then came the snow, in great flakes like Madeira lace, settling in a smooth milk-white coating over the countryside – a layer up to your knees and drifts seven feet deep – a covering that muffled all sound except its own squeaking and rustling voice as you walked on it. Now the wind whipped unrestricted across at you like a sabre-cut, squeezing the tears from your eyes, freezing the melting snow on the trees and guttering into fluted icicles like a million melting candles.
I had been moved from my love affair with the giraffe and was now on the section known as ‘The Camels’. The main animals were the herd of bactrian camels, a herd of yaks, a pair of tapir, and sundry antelope and deer. The section boss was a Mr Cole (‘I’m Mr Cole to you, young fellow-me-lad,’ he had said to me the first morning) who bore a remarkable physical resemblance to the camels in his charge. His sidekick was old Tom, who was a delight – a huge, shire-horse of a man who shambled round painfully on feet so encrusted with bunions that his shoes looked as though they were full of potatoes. His tiny, kindly eyes were the clear, hot blue of a jay’s wing; and his swooping eagle nose, through the careful application over the years of beer and home-made wine, had assumed the bright redness and
shiny patina of a holly berry. Old Tom had never married but he kept in close and affectionate touch with all of his fifteen children. So kindly a man was he that his face was set in a permanent smile and his wheezy voice was so full of affection that even if he simply said ‘Good morning’ you felt he was saying it to you because he loved you more than anyone else in the world. In consequence, everyone adored him and would go out of their way to do things for him as he shambled, beaming, round the zoo, looking like Falstaff’s grandfather.
The main herd of camels, consisting of six females, was led and ruled by Big Bill, a huge animal with overstuffed humps like a French armchair, great plus-fours of curls on his legs, and an expression of such sneering superiority that you longed for him to trip over something and fall down. He would stand towering over you, his belly rumbling, squeaking his long, greeny-yellow teeth together and staring at you with a disbelieving disgust as though you were a child murderer or something similarly obscene. Apart from this positively Victorian belief in his superiority he was an untrustworthy beast and would not hesitate to lash out at you with one of his great pincushion-like feet if he felt that you were not giving him the respect that was his due. As you were never quite sure what Big Bill considered to be an affront to his dignity, life with him was hazardous.
Once, on my way to feed the tapirs, I decided to take a shortcut by climbing the fence and crossing the camel paddock. Big Bill was standing in the middle of the paddock ruminating and as I got near him I greeted him.
‘What ho, Bill old boy!’ I said jovially.
It was obvious that my familiar attitude did not appeal to such a superior animal. Big Bill’s jaws stopped moving and his pale yellow eyes fastened on me. Then he suddenly stepped forward swiftly, his head lunged down with open mouth and he sank his long discoloured teeth into the clothing on my chest, lifted me off my feet, shook me and dropped me. Mercifully, I was wearing a thick tweed coat and a very thick roll-top pullover, so that his teeth sank into this instead of the wall of my chest. As I lay on the ground he wheeled round and lashed out with his hind leg. Desperately I rolled to one side and his great hoof missed my head by inches. I got to my feet and fled. It was the last time I took a shortcut across Big Bill’s paddock.
The most elderly of Bill’s wives was a sedate matron known as Old Gran and while I was on the section she gave birth. The baby must have been born early one morning for when we arrived at eight o’clock we found him lying in the straw under his mother’s bulging stomach, looking utterly bewildered and dejected, his fur plastered down and wet from Old Gran’s greeting wash. As she was the most docile of the herd I could examine the infant without risk of being kicked in the face. He was extremely thin and bony and, to begin with, his long legs were too rubbery to support him. On his back, hanging forlornly down one side, were two triangular patches of skin. These miserable objects would later swell and fill out until they became his humps. Old Gran seemed extremely proud of him. She muzzled him the whole time to make sure that he was quite safe down there below her, and then she would put her head back and stare at the roof of the stable with an expression of ineffable smugness.
After twenty-four hours the baby could walk, or – to be more accurate – he could, after considerable effort, hoist himself on to his legs. After this preliminary effort the whole performance began to lack reality. He had not as yet obtained full control of his lanky legs with their great, bulbous joints. In fact, at times it seemed as though some other power were in control of these necessary adjuncts and that he was trying manfully to get possession of them. He would stagger a few steps, his knees buckling under him, and the more they bent the more worried became his expression. Then he would come to a stop, swaying violently, and consider the problem. But the longer he stood still the less inclined his legs became to support him. His knees would fold up, his body would lunge wildly from side to side and then, quite suddenly, the whole scaffolding of his limbs would cave in and he would fall heavily to the ground, his legs sticking out at such weird angles that it was only their elasticity that prevented them from being snapped.
Grimly determined, he would climb upright again by painful stages and then set off at a brisk run, but even this method was no use. His legs would shoot out in the most unpredictable directions and he would stagger wildly. The faster he went the more involved became the antics of his legs. He would leap in the air in an effort to disentangle them from each other but the knot would be too intricate and once again he would fall in a heap on the ground. But he persisted in these exercises every morning while nearby his mother would stand chewing the cud and watching him proudly.
After two days he had at last succeeded in controlling his legs to a certain degree. He was so proud of his accomplishment that he took daring risks such as gambolling like a lamb. This sometimes ended disastrously. The gambolling was as laughable as his first attempts to walk. He would frisk around his mother, bucking and bouncing, his hump flaps waving like pocket handkerchiefs out of a train window. Sometimes his legs would let him down and he would fall heavily to the ground. This would have a sobering effect and when he got to his feet he would walk behind his mother very sedately. Then his feelings would get the better of him and he would be off again. The rest of the herd considered him a nuisance for he was not a very good judge of distance and would frequently bump into one of them, tripping them up and causing a hiatus in their orderly progression. Quite frequently he would receive a kick from an outraged matron whose rear he had assaulted by tripping over his own feet while executing a particularly complicated and beautiful gambol.
In a separate small paddock with their own shed, housed there as a temporary measure, lived three of Big Bill’s sons. They were about two years old and had been separated from the main herd in case Big Bill took exception to their presence. They were without doubt three of the most idiotic and irritating animals I have had to cope with. They stood about six feet high, their humps were still fairly wobbly with youth and they had a certain amount of difficulty in controlling their gangling legs. Their paddock was small and so it had been stripped bare of grass by their great fat feet and it was this dust bowl that one had to sweep up every morning with the three young camels’ assistance.
When you arrived they would be clustered round the gate, staring into each other’s faces benignly and forming such a solid phalanx that you could not get the gate open.
Eventually after much pushing with brushes and spades, they would become dimly aware of the fact that you wanted to come in and that they were in the way, so they would move and stand peering at you with a vacuous expression of deep interest as you entered the paddock. As you walked across it they would follow you, breathing affectionately down your neck, treading on your heels and occasionally missing their footing so that they barged into you and you fell over. No amount of threats or cajolery could make them stand in one spot while you swept up; they would follow you around and wherever you decided to brush, there one of the camels would be, standing beaming at you. With an enormous amount of labour and a torrent of blasphemy you would have to hurl yourself against the animal and push its reluctant body over six feet so that you could get on with the sweeping-up process.
By the time you had moved one camel from the spot you wanted to sweep, one of the others would have taken up his position on the same ground. The whole process of sweeping their paddock was frustrating in the extreme, but at last it would be swept and garnished and, heaving a sigh of relief, you would let yourself out and lock the gate behind you. The three young camels, standing in the centre of the paddock, would stare after you misty-eyed, as though watching the departure of their dearest friend. Then, each wagging its tail in a ridiculously lamb-like gesture, they would produce three identical steaming piles of ordure in the middle of the area you had so carefully cleaned.
That camels have readily adapted themselves to a harsh life is borne out by what Lydekker says of them:
The Bactrian camel feeds chiefly upon the saline and bitter p
lants of the steppes which are rejected by almost all other animals; and displays a curious partiality for salt, drinking freely at the brackish water and salt lakes, which are so common throughout its habitat. Instead of confining itself to a strictly vegetable diet, the Bactrian camel, according to the reports of Prejevalski, will, when pressed by hunger, readily devour almost anything that it may come across, including felt-blankets, bones and skins of animals, flesh and fish.
Although I never saw Big Bill eat anything other than oats, mangolds and hay, he adored the blocks of rock salt we gave the camels and would break great pieces off in his yellow teeth and scrunch them up with a noise like a crackle of musketry while gazing at you witheringly.
Two of my favourite animals on the section were a pair of South American tapirs who had been christened with the unlikely names of Arthur and Ethel. Tapirs look rather like a cross between an elephant and a horse, with a touch of pig thrown in for good measure. They look, in fact, very like the reconstruction of some of the prehistoric horses except for their little rubbery trunks. Rotund, benign, with little twinkling eyes, they waddled round their paddock like Tweedledum and Tweedledee.