At this precise moment Motaba decided to get his head wedged between the bars which lined the top of the gorilla bedroom and served two purposes: they kept inquisitive hands from pulling down the ceiling and acted like bars in a gymnasium on which the young apes could swing and dangle and get the maximum amount of exercise. Motaba had found the one place where these bars were fractionally wider apart and, of course, stuck his head through.
Richard was distraught, but no more so than Motaba’s parents, Nandi and Jambo. It was an unpleasant affair, even leaving aside the royal visit. Motaba, as all children would in similar circumstances, started to wail and scream, which agitated his parents still further.
We had then a dear and beloved Welsh lady, a Mrs Hayward, who was one of our volunteers. Seeing the pandemonium, she decided that the best thing she could do was to inform Jeremy, as Zoological Director, of Motaba’s plight. Jeremy, of course, was with the royal party. Mrs. Hayward galloped out of the gorilla complex, down past the Pink pigeons and Palawan peacock pheasants, giving them a nasty shock, raced across the causeway, where the flamingoes viewed her with alarm, sped down the main drive past our giant granite will, hurled herself through the fifteenth-century granite archway into the forecourt and had just reached the front door of the manor house, panting with emotion, when she was engulfed by a brawny arm and a revolver was pushed into her ribs.
‘And where do you think you’re going?’ asked the security man, benignly.
‘To tell Mr Mallinson about the gorilla’s head,’ she squeaked. ‘A likely story,’ said the security man.
‘But it’s true,’ she panted, ‘the gorilla’s got his poor little head jammed in the bars and only Mr Mallinson can save him.’
‘Well, they’re all very busy in there signing things,’ said the security man. ‘Don’t you fret. Stand here until they come out and then you can tell them about your gorilla’s head.’ And, having satisfied himself that she was an unarmed, harmless lunatic, he reholstered his revolver.
Meanwhile, back at the gorilla complex things had gone from bad to worse. Urged on by their offspring’s screams, Nandi and Jambo were attempting to free him by pulling him downwards. Richard was terrified that in their well-intentioned efforts they could break Motaba’s neck, so he hurried up on to the roof of the complex and tore off a skylight under which Motaba was dangling. Now, all our gorillas adore Richard as much as he adores them, but under stressful conditions apes – like humans – are apt to behave strangely. As Richard tore off the skylight, Jambo’s huge, muscular arm and enormous hand flashed up through the bars and Richard fell backwards on to the roof, thus avoiding a blow that would have felled Muhammad Ali, let-alone anyone of lesser stature. When Richard got to his feet, Jambo had slid Motaba further along the bars on the roof out of Richard’s reach. Richard had to rip off another skylight but was again faced by the protective father. All he could do was to talk calmly and quietly to Jambo, who by then had discovered (sagacious animal that he is) that it was wrong to pull at Motaba and so with one massive hand was supporting his child’s bottom.
Through the driving rain, Richard could see the mushroom bed of umbrellas bobbing across the causeway, which indicated that the royal party was almost there. Suddenly, to his astonishment, Motaba was no longer there. Supported by his father’s giant hand, he had found the one spot between the bars, which had allowed him to push his head through, and now he pulled it out. With great relief, Richard got down from the roof and went to survey the bedrooms. He was horrified.
As is always the case when great apes are under stress, they void an extraordinary amount of excrement and urine, so that Richard’s carefully arranged ‘instant jungle’ was like a manure heap. There was nothing he could do, for the royal party had arrived. When he told me this story the following day, I wondered how I would have coped with the conversation with our patron.
‘Oh, yes,’ I would have said, ‘we always keep our gorilla knee deep in excrement, they seem to prefer it. And that little chap in there dangling from the bars like a hanged man on a gibbet? Well, gorillas frequently do this. It’s a sort of . . . sort of habit they have. Yes, very curious indeed.’
Fortunately, by Richard’s and his friend Jambo’s combined intelligence, this dismal conversation was avoided.
Later, at the special luncheon for Trust members I had, of course, to make a speech. It was one of those speeches which, having uttered it, you wished you had not. When the last banal words had been thrust upon my audience, I sank back thankfully in my seat. It was then that our patron took me by surprise. She rose and made a charming and flattering response, and at the end she turned to me and said:
‘But in particular I congratulate the man who has made the Jersey Zoo and the Jersey Wildlife Preservation Trust both to be admired and respected worldwide, and as a token of that gratitude I would very much like to present him with a little gift from his zoo staff. I have no need to explain its significance to him, but I am sure we would all like to be included with its thanks and good wishes for the future.’
She then handed me a small velvet bag. On opening it I found a small silver replica of a Bryant & May matchbox. My first thought was: ‘Why on earth are they giving me a matchbox when they know I gave up smoking years ago?’ Then I opened the matchbox and understood, for inside was a gilt mother scorpion and her babies. It recalled, of course, a scene in my book, My Family and Other Animals, when my brother Larry inadvertently opened a matchbox during lunch in which I had earlier incarcerated a scorpion and her young – the pandemonium at the lunch table may be imagined and it made me the most unpopular member of the family. I explained the contents of my matchbox to the audience, most of whom had read the book and were vastly amused at the aptness of the present.
As I sat later and watched the Festival of Animals, I felt in my dinner-jacket pocket the rectangular little shape of my matchbox. I thought what an extraordinarily lucky man I have been to be surrounded by friends who have helped me turn the matchbox zoo of my childhood into a real organization which can and will help the animals which make the world such a fascinating place, a place that we should all cherish.
A MESSAGE FROM THE DURRELL WILDLIFE CONSERVATION TRUST
The end of this book isn’t the end of Gerald Durrell’s story. The various experiences you have just read about gave impetus and inspiration to his lifetime crusade to preserve the rich diversity of animal life on this planet.
Although he died in 1995, the words of Gerald Durrell in this and his other books will continue to inspire people everywhere with love and respect for what he called ‘this magical world’. His work goes on through the untiring efforts of the Durrell Wildlife Conservation Trust.
Over the years many readers of Gerald Durrell’s books have been so motivated by his experiences and vision that they have wanted to continue the story for themselves by supporting the work of his Trust. We hope that you will feel the same way today because through his books and life, Gerald Durrell set us all a challenge. ‘Animals are the great voteless and voiceless majority,’ he wrote, ‘who can only survive with our help.’
Please don’t let your interest in conservation end when you turn this page. Write to us now and we’ll tell you how you can be part of our crusade to save animals from extinction. For further information, or to send a donation, write to:
Durrell Wildlife Conservation Trust
Les Augrès Manor
La Profonde Rue
Trinity
Jersey, Channel Islands
JE3 5BP
Or visit the website:
www.durrell.org
First published in 1990 by Collins
This edition published 2011 by Bello
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Copyright © Gerald Durrell, 1990
The right of Gerald Durrell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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