Beasts in My Belfry

  ‘Er . . . yes, sir, I’m sure I shall,’ I said.

  ‘You’ve never done any of this sort of work before?’ he inquired. ‘No, sir,’ I replied, ‘but I’ve kept a lot of animals at one time or another.’

  ‘Ha!’ he said, almost sneeringly. ‘Guinea pigs, rabbits, goldfish – that sort of thing. Well, you’ll find it a bit different here.’

  I was longing to tell him that I had kept considerably more exotic pets than rabbits, guinea pigs and goldfish but I did not feel that this was the right moment.

  ‘I’ll hand you over to Phil Bates now,’ boomed the captain, polishing his bald head with one hand. ‘He’s the head keeper. He’ll fix you up. I don’t know where they’re going to put you but he’ll find room for you on one of the sections.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ I said.

  He surged to his feet and waddled out of the office and I followed him. It was rather like following in the footsteps of a mastodon. He scrunched out on to the gravel path and paused, glaring around him, listening.

  ‘Phil!’ he bellowed suddenly. ‘Phil! Where are you?’

  So enormous and fierce was his voice that a peacock which had been busily displaying to itself gave him a terrified look, put down its tail and scuttled away as fast as it could.

  ‘Phil!’ roared the captain, ‘Phil!’

  Distantly, I could hear somebody whistling tunelessly. The captain cocked his head on one side.

  ‘There he is,’ he said, ‘the bloody man! Why doesn’t he come?’

  Just at that moment Phil Bates, still whistling, slouched unhurriedly round the corner of the administration building. He was a tall, well-built man with a brown, kindly face.

  ‘Were you calling me, Captain?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ rumbled the captain. ‘Want you to meet Durrell, here.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Phil, smiling at me. ‘Welcome to Whipsnade.’

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you then, Durrell,’ said Captain Beale. ‘You’re in good hands with Phil. Er . . . see you around, I expect.’

  He flipped his braces with a sound like a cracking whip, bobbed his big, shining bald head at me and lumbered off back into his office.

  Phil smiled affectionately at the captain’s retreating back and then turned to me.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘the first thing is to fix you up with some digs. I’ve had a word with Charlie Bailey about you – he’s on elephants – and he seems to think that he can put you up in his cottage. Let’s go have a word with him.’

  As we walked down the broad main drive there seemed to be peacocks everywhere, flaunting their metallic tails at us, and golden pheasants, looking as though they had been constructed out of cheap Woolworth’s jewellery, glowed in the undergrowth. Phil whistled tunelessly and happily to himself. It was, I discovered, a habit he had and you could always tell in which part of the grounds he happened to be by this incessant tuneless whistle. Presently, we came to a series of what looked like immense and very ugly cement pillboxes. These, I was to discover, formed the Elephant House. Behind them was a small shed in which the elephant keepers were having their tea break.

  ‘Er . . . Charlie,’ called Phil apologetically, ‘can you spare a minute?’ A short, stocky little man appeared, with a bald head and shy, rather dreamy blue eyes.

  Charlie, this is . . . er . . . what’s your Christian name?’ asked Phil.

  ‘Gerry,’ I said.

  ‘This is Gerry.’

  ‘Hallo, Gerry,’ said Charlie, smiling at me as though I was the one person he had always wanted to meet.

  ‘Now, do you think you can find room for him in your cottage?’ asked Phil.

  Charlie smiled at me sweetly.

  ‘I’m sure we can,’ he said. ‘I’ve talked it over with Mrs Bailey and she seems to think it will be all right. Perhaps Gerry would like to go and see her?’

  ‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ said Phil.

  ‘See you later then, lad,’ said Charlie.

  Phil led me out to the main gate and up to the edge of the common.

  ‘Take that path over there and it’s the first cottage on the left,’ he said, pointing. ‘You can’t miss it.’

  I made my way down the path over the common, where the goldfinches were pinking and flashing scarlet and yellow among the newly budding gorse. At the top of the upper slope I came to the cottage. I opened the gate, walked down through the little flower-filled garden and knocked on the front door. It was extremely peaceful; the bees hummed drowsily among the flowers; somewhere a wood-pigeon was cooing self-satisfiedly to himself; and distantly came the yapping of a dog.

  The front door was opened by Mrs Bailey. She was a handsome woman with fine eyes; her hair was beautifully coiffured and her overall was spotless. She had the brisk, clean appearance of a hospital matron.

  ‘Yes?’ she inquired cautiously.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘Mrs Bailey?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that’s me.’

  ‘Well, Charlie told me to come and see you. I’m Gerry Durrell. I’m new here.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, touching her hair and smoothing her apron. ‘Yes, yes, of course. Do come in.’

  She ushered me through a small hall into a parlour where there was a big kitchen range, a scrubbed table and comfortable, rather battered chairs.

  ‘Do sit down,’ she said. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’d love a cup of tea, if it’s no trouble,’ I said.

  ‘No trouble at all,’ she said earnestly. ‘And how about a piece of cake or some scones? I’ve got some scones. Or would you like some sandwiches? I could make you some sandwiches.’

  ‘Well, I . . . I don’t want to put you to all that trouble,’ I said, rather taken aback by this sudden largesse of food.

  ‘Oh, it’s no trouble at all,’ she said. ‘I know what you young men are like – always hungry. And, anyway, it’s tea time. I won’t be a minute; I’ll just put the kettle on.’

  She bustled out into what was presumably the kitchen and I heard her clattering crockery and plates around. Presently she reappeared and laid the table. In the centre she placed an enormous plum cake, a whole pile of scones, a loaf of brown bread, a great pat of buttercup-yellow butter, and a pot of strawberry jam.

  ‘The jam’s home-made,’ she said.

  She sat down opposite me.

  ‘Tea won’t be a minute. The kettle will be boiling in a second. Now you just tuck in and have something to eat.’

  She watched me indulgently as I helped myself to bread and butter and an enormous helping of strawberry jam.

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Now, what have you come to see me for?’

  ‘Didn’t Charlie explain?’ I asked.

  ‘Explain?’ she said, cocking her head on one side. ‘Explain what?’

  ‘Well, he said there might be a chance that you’d be able to find room for me to live here,’ I said.

  ‘But I thought that was all settled,’ said Mrs Bailey.

  ‘Oh, is it?’ I said, surprised.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I said to Charlie, I said – and I trust his judgement – I said to Charlie, I said, you have a look at the boy and if you like him then he can come.’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind of you,’ I said. ‘Charlie didn’t tell me that.’

  ‘Reeely!’ she said. ‘Reeely! Some day he’ll forget his own head. I said I was perfectly willing to have you providing you were respectable.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about being respectable,’ I said doubtfully, ‘but I’ll try not to be a nuisance.’

  ‘Oh, you won’t be a nuisance,’ she said. ‘Well, that’s all right then. Where are your things?’

  ‘I’ll bring them down from the zoo later,’ I said.

  ‘Good. Now that’s settled I’ll go and make some tea. Help yourself to some more bread.’

  ‘Er . . . there’s just one more thing,’ I said.

  ‘What’s that?’ she inquired.

  ‘We
ll . . . well, what do I have to pay you a week? You see, I don’t get a very big salary and I can’t afford very much, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Now,’ she said, wagging a finger at me sternly, ‘I don’t want to rob you. I know what sort of salary you’re going to get and I don’t want to rob you at all. What do you suggest?’

  ‘Would you say that two pounds would be too little?’ I asked hopefully, thinking to myself that this would leave me one pound ten to buy cigarettes and other essentials of life with.

  ‘Two pounds?’ she said, shocked. ‘Two pounds? That’s far too much. I said I wasn’t going to rob you.’

  ‘But all the food and stuff to buy,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, but I’m not robbing you to the tune of two pounds. Not me. You’ll pay me twenty-five shillings a week. That’s quite sufficient.’

  ‘Are you sure you can manage on that?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course we’ll manage,’ she said. ‘I’m not having it said that Mrs Bailey took advantage of a young man, especially when he’s just started work.’

  ‘Well, I still think it’s awfully little,’ I protested.

  ‘Take it or leave it,’ she said. ‘Take it or leave it. You can go elsewhere if you like.’

  She smiled at me and pushed the cake and scones nearer.

  ‘Not if you make home-made strawberry jam,’ I said. ‘I’d rather stay here.’

  She beamed at me.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a nice little bedroom for you upstairs; I’ll show it to you in a minute. Now, I’ll just make the tea.’

  Over tea she explained to me how Charlie normally worked at London Zoo but during the war he had had to be evacuated with the elephants to Whipsnade and so she had come with him. Elephants are single-minded creatures and once they have accepted a keeper he generally has to remain with them for the rest of his life.

  ‘We’ve got ever such a nice house of our own in Golders Green,’ she said. ‘It’s very, very nice and although I say it myself as shouldn’t, it’s a credit to us both. Of course, this cottage is all right – it’s quite comfortable here –but I shall be glad to get back to my own place.

  ‘Besides, you know what people are, you can’t always trust them. The last time I went up to have a look nobody had thought to scrub the front door-step for ages. It was almost black. I could have cried. No, I shall be glad to get back among my own things, although it’s been reely quite pleasant here in the country, I must admit.’

  After I had consumed several cups of tea, two slices of cake and vast quantities of strawberry jam and bread, Mrs Bailey reluctantly removed the things from the table.

  ‘Now, are you sure you’ve had enough?’ she said, looking at me searchingly, as though trying to find signs of malnutrition on my face. ‘Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like another slice of bread or another slice of cake or anything? And you haven’t touched the scones!’

  ‘No, really, honestly,’ I protested. ‘I couldn’t eat any more or I’ll never eat any supper.’

  ‘Ah, yes, supper,’ she said, and her face clouded. ‘Supper. I’m afraid I’ll have to do something cold for supper. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘No, I don’t mind,’ I said.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘You go up and find Charlie and then come back with him when he knocks off. Bring your things and we’ll settle you in. How’s that?’

  So I made my way back over the common and up to the zoo. Here I wandered enraptured for an hour or so. Whipsnade was so vast I could not possibly explore all of it in the time but I found the wolves’ wood where the pine trees grew straight and close together and in the gloom among their roots the wolves prowled with sly eyes, slinking from tree to tree and occasionally having yapping, yarring fights with each other. They moved so rapidly and silently through the trees that it was like watching flakes of wood ash caught on sudden eddies of wind. Near to the wolves an acre or so of ground had been enclosed for the brown bears – great bumbling, biscuit-coloured ones that meandered and snuffled and dug with their claws in amongst bramble and gorse bushes that grew in their enclosure.

  I was entranced at seeing animals under these conditions. To me it seemed the ideal way to keep them. I had yet to learn that a very large area to keep animals in is a mixed blessing both from the animals’ and the keeper’s point of view.

  Suddenly I remembered the time. I hurried back to the elephant house and met Charlie. We picked up my suitcases and made our way across the common to the cottage.

  ‘Take your boots off, both of you,’ said Mrs Bailey as she opened the door to us. ‘I don’t want mud over my nice clean floors.’

  She pointed to where she had spread newspapers in the hall. Dutifully, we took off our boots and went stockinged feet into the parlour where the table was groaning with food – ham, tongue and salad, new potatoes, peas, beans, carrots, and an enormous trifle wearing an ample coat of cream.

  ‘Now, I’m not sure whether there’s going to be enough,’ said Mrs Bailey worriedly. ‘It’s only a snack, I’m afraid, but it’ll have to do.’

  ‘It looks all right to me, dear,’ said Charlie, in his soft voice.

  ‘Well, it’s not quite what I had in mind. The boy needs something hot. But, anyway, it’ll have to do.’

  We sat down and started to eat. The food was delicious and we ate in companionable silence for a while.

  ‘What made you come to Whipsnade, Gerry?’ asked Charlie at last, dissecting his plateful of food with gentle thoroughness.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’ve always been interested in animals and I want to become an animal collector; you know, go out to Africa and places like that and bring animals back for zoos. I want to get experience with some of the bigger things. You know, you can’t keep big things down in Bournemouth. I mean, you can’t have a herd of deer in a suburban garden, can you?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘no, I see that.’

  ‘Have a little more salad,’ said Mrs Bailey, oblivious to the difficulties of keeping big game in a back garden.

  ‘No, I’ve got plenty here,’ I said, ‘thanks.’

  ‘So when are you going to set off?’ asked Charlie. He was quite serious. I warmed to him.

  ‘Well, as soon as I’m trained,’ I said.

  Charlie nodded and then smiled secretly and gently to himself, his lips moving soundlessly. This was a habit he had, of smiling and silently repeating to himself what you had just said to him, as though to memorise it.

  ‘Finish up these peas,’ said Mrs Bailey. ‘They’ll only be thrown away.’

  Eventually, replete with food, we made our way upstairs to bed. My room was an oak-beamed one lying under the eaves of the cottage. It was comfortably furnished and by the time I had finished unpacking my books and clothes it looked to me positively palatial. I climbed into bed and heaved a great sigh of triumph. I had arrived. I was here – at Whipsnade. Gloating over this thought I fell asleep, to be awakened – it seemed – only seconds later by Charlie bringing me in a cup of tea.

  ‘Up you get, Gerry,’ he said. ‘Time for work.’

  After a crisp and sizzling breakfast of sausages, bacon and eggs, and a large pot of tea, Charlie and I made our way over the dew-blurred common and in through the gates of the park, together with a milling crowd of fellow workers.

  ‘Where are you working, Gerry?’ inquired Charlie.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Phil Bates didn’t tell me.’

  Just at that moment Phil Bates appeared at my elbow. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘good morning. Settled in? Good.’

  ‘Where do you want me to work?’ I inquired.

  ‘I thought,’ said Phil judiciously, ‘I thought that this morning you could start on the lions.’

  2. A Lusk of Lions

  For lo, the gentil kind of the lioun!

  Chaucer, The Legend of Good Women

  I admit it came as something of a shock to be told that I was to start work on the lions. I flatter myself that I showed no outward sign of uneasiness when
Phil told me, but I did feel he might have let me start on something fairly tame – a herd of dewy-eyed deer, for example. It seemed rather unfair to pitchfork me in amongst a lot of lions before I had got to grips with the job. However, I received the news with all the nonchalance I could muster and set off through the park in search of my section.

  I found that the section was spread out along the crest of the downs, half hidden in a fringe of elder bushes and tall nettles. Where the hillside dropped down to the valley this undergrowth ended and its place was taken by great cushions of green grass, each harbouring an ants’ nest under its rabbit-cropped wig. From this point there was a magnificent view over the mosaic of fields that separated you in a broad sweep from the downland across the valley, fields whose pastel colours seemed to shift and change as the great cloud shadows swept across them.

  The nerve centre of the section was a small, tumble-down hut hemmed in by a copse of tangled elder bushes. The hut wore a toupee of honeysuckle at a rakish angle, practically obscuring one of its two windows and so making the interior dark and gloomy. Outside it sported a battered notice-board on which was the euphemistic title ‘The Haven’. The furnishings were monastic in their simplicity – three chairs in various stages of decay, a table that rocked and jumped like a nervous horse when anything was placed on it, and a grotesque black stove that crouched in one corner pouting smoke through its iron teeth and regurgitating embers in quite incredible quantities.

  It was in this dim hutch that I discovered the two keepers who were in charge of the section. Jesse was a red-faced, taciturn individual with fierce blue eyes under shaggy white brows and a nose the colour and texture of a large strawberry. Joe, on the other hand, was brown-faced and, with his twinkling blue eyes and husky, infectious laugh, he exuded good humour. When they had finished their breakfast, which my arrival had interrupted, Jesse walked the length of the section with me showing the animals and explaining the work. At one end of the section there was the wombat, Peter, then an enclosure full of Arctic foxes and another full of racoon-like dogs. Then came the cage containing the two puff-ball-white polar bears and a pit containing one pair of tigers. Further along the downs was a great enclosure in which there was another pair of tigers and then, finally, the animals from which the section took its name, the lions.