Fillets of Plaice

  Thanking him, I left. I next went to William Drover, the estate agent. He was a seedy little man with glasses and wispy hair like thistledown. I explained that my aunt was thinking of moving to this part of London and had asked me, since I lived in the vicinity, if I would go to an estate agent and find out about flats for her.

  ‘Flats? Flats?’ said Mr Drover, pursing his lips. He took off his glasses and polished them, replaced them and peered round the shop as though expecting to find a flat hidden there.

  ‘It’s an awkward time for flats,’ he said, ‘a very awkward time. Lots of people moving into the district, you know. Most of them are snapped up before you have a chance.’

  ‘So you’ve got nothing on your books? No details that I could show to my aunt?’ I said.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘nothing at all. Nothing at all, I’m afraid. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Well, how about a small house, then?’ I asked.

  ‘Ah, they’re just as bad. Just as bad,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I have a single small house on my books that would suit you. I’ve got a ten-bedroomed house in Hampstead, if that’s any use?’

  ‘No, I think that would be a bit big,’ I said. ‘In any case, she wants to live in this area.’

  ‘They all do. They all do. We’re getting crowded out. We’ll be standing shoulder to shoulder,’ he said.

  ‘Surely that’s good for business?’ I inquired.

  ‘Well, it is and it isn’t,’ he said. ‘You get overcrowded and the tone of the neighbourhood goes down, you know.’

  ‘Well, thank you very much for your help, anyway,’ I said.

  ‘Not at all. Not at all. Sorry I couldn’t help you more,’ he said.

  I next went to the Pixies’ Parlour. They had quite an extensive menu but all they could offer me was a cup of tea. Most unfortunately – and they were terribly apologetic about it – their van, carrying all their supplies for the day, had broken down somewhere in North London and they were bereft of food of any description.

  After this I believed Mr Bellow’s story about Potts Lane.

  It was at about this time that another rather strange character appeared in my life. I had been working for some time with Mr Romilly and he trusted me implicitly. Periodically he would send me down to the East End of London to collect fresh supplies of reptiles, amphibians and tropical fish. These we got from the wholesalers, whereas, as I have explained, the farm (which really ran the shop) sent us all the freshwater stuff that we needed. I enjoyed these jaunts where, in gloomy, cavernous stores in back streets I would find great crates of lizards, basketfuls of tortoises and dripping tanks green with algae full of newts and frogs and salamanders. It was on one of these forays into the East End that I met Colonel Anstruther.

  I had been sent down to Van den Goths, a big wholesaler who specialised in importing North American reptiles and amphibians, and I had been given instructions by Mr Romilly to bring back 150 baby painted terrapins – those enchanting little freshwater tortoises with green shells and yellow and red markings on their skins. They were each about the size of a half crown. We did quite a brisk trade in these for they were a good and simple pet to give a child in a flat. So I made my way down to Van den Goths and saw Mr Van den Goth himself, a great heavily built man who looked like an orangutan carved out of tallow. He placed my terrapins in a cardboard box with moss, and then I asked him if he would mind if I looked round.

  ‘Help yourself,’ he said. ‘Help yourself.’ And he lumbered back to his chair and picked up a Dutch newspaper, which he was reading, stuck a cigar in his face and ignored me. I pottered round for some time examining some of the beautiful snakes that he had and became breathless with admiration over a crate full of iguanas, bright green and frilled and dewlapped like any fairytale dragon. Presently I glanced at my watch and saw to my alarm that I had over-stayed my time by at least half an hour. So, grabbing my box of terrapins, I said a hurried goodbye to Mr Van den Goth and left to catch the bus.

  What I had not noticed, and it was very remiss of me, was that both the terrapins and the moss which Mr Van den Goth had put in the box were excessively moist. During my wanderings round the shop this moisture had soaked through the bottom of the cardboard box with the not unnatural result that as I climbed up the stairs to the top of the bus and was just about to take my seat, the entire bottom of the box gave way and a cascade of baby terrapins fell on the floor.

  It was fortunate for me that there was only one other occupant on the top of the bus and he was a slender, military-looking man, with a grey moustache and a monocle, wearing a very well-cut tweed suit and a pork-pie hat. He had a carnation in his buttonhole and a malacca cane with a silver knob. I scrabbled madly on the floor collecting the terrapins, but baby terrapins can move with extraordinary speed when they want to and I was heavily outnumbered. Suddenly, one of them rushed up the central alley of the bus and turned in by the military-looking man’s foot. Feeling it clawing at his well-polished shoe, he glanced down. God, I thought, now I’m for it! He screwed his monocle more firmly into his eye and surveyed the baby terrapin which was making a laborious effort to climb over the toe of his shoe.

  ‘By George!’ he said. ‘A painted terrapin! Chrysemys Picta! Haven’t seen one for years!’

  He looked round to see the source from which this little reptile had emanated and saw me crouched, red-faced, on the floor with baby terrapins running madly in all directions.

  ‘Hah!’ he said. ‘Is this little chap yours?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, but the bottom has fallen out of the box.’

  ‘By George, you’re in a bit of a stew, what?’ he shouted.

  ‘Er . . ., yes . . ., I am, actually.’

  He picked up the baby terrapin that had managed to get on the toe of his shoe and came down the bus towards me.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘let me help. I’ll head the bounders off.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you,’ I said.

  He got down on his hands and knees in the same position that I was in, and we crawled together up and down the bus collecting baby terrapins.

  ‘Tally-ho!’ he would shout at intervals. ‘There’s one going under that seat there.’

  Once, when a small terrapin approached him at a run, he pointed his malacca cane at it and said, ‘Bang! Bang! Back, sir, or I’ll have you on a charge.’

  Eventually, after about quarter of an hour of this, we managed to get all the baby terrapins back into the box and I did a rough splinting job on it with my handkerchief.

  ‘It was very kind of you, sir,’ I said, ‘I’m afraid you’ve got your knees all dusty.’

  ‘Well worth it,’ he said. ‘Well worth it. Haven’t had sport like that for a long time.’

  He screwed his monocle more firmly in his eye and gazed at me. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘What are you doing with a great box full of terrapins?’

  ‘I . . . I work in a pet shop and I’ve just been down to the wholesalers to get them.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I come and sit near you and have a chin-wag?’

  ‘No, sir,’ I said. ‘No.’

  He came and planted himself firmly on the seat opposite mine, put his malacca cane between his knees, rested his chin on it and gazed at me thoughtfully.

  ‘Pet shop, eh?’ he said. ‘Hmmm. Do you like animals?’

  ‘Yes, very much. They’re about the only thing I do like.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ he said. ‘What else have you got in this shop?’ He seemed genuinely interested and so I told him about what we had in the shop and about Mr Romilly, and I was wondering whether to tell him about Mr Bellow, but I had been sworn to secrecy on that so I decided not to. When we reached my stop I got to my feet.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said. I’ve got to get off here.’

  ‘Hah,’ he said. ‘Hah. Yes, so have I. So have I.’

  It was perfectly obvious that this was not his stop and that he wanted to continue talking to me. We got down on
to the pavement. My rather liberal and eccentric upbringing had left me in no doubt as to the arts and wiles of a pederast. I knew, for example, that even military-looking gentlemen with monocles could be thus inclined, and the fact that he had got off at a stop that was not his argued an interest in me which I felt might possibly turn out to be unsavoury. I was cautious.

  ‘Where’s your shop, then?’ he said, swinging his cane between his finger and thumb.

  ‘Just over there, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, then I’ll walk there with you.’

  He strolled down the pavement gazing intently at the shops as we passed.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what do you do with yourself in your spare time?’

  ‘Oh, I go to the zoo and the cinema and to museums and things,’ I said.

  ‘Do you ever go to the Science Museum?’ he inquired. ‘All those models, and things like that?’

  ‘I like that very much,’ I said. ‘I like models.’

  ‘Do you? Do you?’ he said, screwing his monocle in and glaring at me. ‘You like to play, do you?’

  ‘Well, I suppose you could call it that,’ I said.

  ‘Ah,’ he said.

  We paused outside the door of the Aquarium.

  ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, sir,’ I said. ‘I’m . . . I’m rather late as it is.’

  ‘Wondered,’ he said. ‘Wondered.’

  He pulled out a wallet and extracted from it a card. ‘There’s my name and address. If you’d like to come round one evening, we could play a game.’

  ‘That’s, er . . ., very kind of you, sir,’ I said, keeping my back firmly to the wall.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ he said. ‘Hope to see you, then. Don’t bother to ring up . . . just call. I’m always there. Any time after six.’

  He strolled off down the street, very much the military man. There was no trace of mincing or of effeminacy about him but I was not so innocent as not to know that these were not essential manifestations of homosexuality in a person’s character. I stuffed his card into my pocket and went into the shop.

  ‘Where have you been, you naughty boy?’ asked Mr Romilly.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ I said. ‘But . . . but I . . . I had a little accident on the bus. The bottom fell out of the box and all the terrapins got out, and a Colonel chappy helped me to pick them all up but it delayed us a bit. I’m very sorry, Mr Romilly.’

  ‘That’s alright, that’s alright,’ he said. ‘It’s been a very quiet afternoon. Very quiet . . . very quiet. Now, I’ve got the tank ready for them if you’d like to put them in.’

  So I put the baby terrapins in the tank and watched them swimming about, and then I took out the colonel’s card and looked at it. ‘Colonel Anstruther’, it said, ‘47 Bell Mews, South Kensington’ and it had a telephone number. I mused on it for a bit.

  ‘Mr Romilly,’ I said. ‘You don’t know a Colonel Anstruther, do you?’

  ‘Anstruther? Anstruther?’ said Mr Romilly, frowning. ‘I can’t say that I do . . . Ah, but wait a bit, wait a bit. Where does he live?’

  ‘Bell Mews,’ I said.

  ‘That’s him. That’s him!’ said Mr Romilly, delighted. ‘Yes, yes . . . yes. That’s him. A fine soldier. And a very fine man, too. Was he the person who helped you pick up the terrapins?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, just like him. Always a man to help a friend in need,’ said Mr Romilly. ‘They don’t breed them like that nowadays, you know. They don’t breed them like that at all.’

  ‘So he’s . . ., um . . ., well-known and, er . . . respected?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, yes, indeed. Yes, indeed. Everyone knows him in that area. They’re all very fond of the old Colonel.’

  I pondered on this information for some time, and then I thought that perhaps I would take the Colonel up on his invitation. After all, I thought, if the worst comes to the worst I could always scream for help. In spite of the fact that he had told me not to ring I thought I had better be polite, so a few days later I phoned him up.

  ‘Colonel Anstruther?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. Yes,’ he said. ‘Who’s that? Who’s that?’

  ‘It’s, um . . ., my name is . . . Durrell,’ I said. ‘I met you on the bus the other evening. You were kind enough to help me catch up my terrapins.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. How are the little chaps?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘They’re . . . they’re doing fine. I wondered if, perhaps, I could . . . take you up on your kind offer of coming round to see you?’

  ‘But of course, my dear chap. Of course!’ he said. ‘Delighted! Delighted! What time would you be here?’

  ‘Well, what time would be convenient?’ I asked.

  ‘Come round about six-thirty,’ he said; ‘come to dinner.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ I said ‘I’ll be there.’

  Bell Mews, I discovered, was a short, cobbled cul-de-sac with four small houses on each side. What confused me to start with was that I did not realise that the Colonel owned all four houses on one side which he had knocked into one, and he had, with a brilliant display of the military mind, labelled each door ‘47’. So after some moments of confusion I finally knocked on the nearest door marked ‘47’ and waited to see what would happen. While I waited I reflected upon the stupidity of having four houses in a mews of a hundred feet long all labelled ‘47’, and if it came to that, where were all the other numbers? They were presumably scattered round the various roads and other similar mews in the vicinity. The postman’s lot in London, I felt, must be a very unhappy one.

  At that moment, the door marked ‘47’ that I had knocked on was flung open and there stood the Colonel. He was dressed, to my consternation, in a bottle-green velvet smoking jacket with watered silk lapels, and he brandished in one hand a carving knife of prodigious dimensions. I began to wonder whether I had been wise to come after all.

  ‘Durrell?’ he said inquiringly, screwing his monocle into his eye. ‘By Jove, you’re punctual!’

  ‘Well, I had a little difficulty,’ I began.

  ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘The forty-seven foxed you, did it? It foxes them all. Gives me a bit of privacy, you know. Come in! Come in!’

  I edged my way into the hall and he closed the door.

  ‘Good to see you,’ he said. ‘Come along.’

  He led the way, at a brisk trot, through the hall, holding the carving knife in front of him as though leading a cavalry charge. I had a brief glimpse of a mahogany hatstand and some prints on the wall, and then we were in a large, spacious living-room, simply but comfortably furnished, with piles and piles of books everywhere and colour reproductions on the walls of various military uniforms. He led me through this and into the large kitchen.

  ‘Sorry to rush you,’ he panted. ‘But I’ve got a pie in the oven and I don’t want it to get burnt.’

  He rushed over to the oven, opened it and peered inside.

  ‘Ah, no, that’s alright,’ he said. ‘Good . . . good.’

  He straightened up and looked at me.

  ‘Do you like steak and kidney pie?’ he inquired.

  ‘Eh, yes,’ I said, ‘I’m very fond of it.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘It’ll be ready in a moment or two. Now, come and sit down and have a drink.’

  He led me back into the living-room.

  ‘Sit you down, sit you down,’ he said. ‘What’ll you drink? Sherry? Whisky? Gin?’

  ‘You, er . . ., haven’t got any wine, have you?’ I said.

  ‘Wine?’ he said. ‘Yes, of course, of course.’

  He got out a bottle, uncorked it, and poured me a glass full of ruby red wine which was crisp and dry. We sat chatting, mainly about terrapins, for ten minutes or so and then the Colonel glanced at his watch.

  ‘Should be ready now,’ he said, ‘should be ready. You don’t mind eating in the kitchen, do you? It saves a lot of mucking about.’

  ‘No. I don’t mind at all,’ I said.

 
We went into the kitchen and the Colonel laid the table; then he mashed some potatoes and heaped a great mound of steak and kidney pie onto them and put the plate in front of me.

  ‘Have some more wine,’ he said.

  The steak and kidney was excellent. I inquired whether the Colonel had made it himself.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Had to learn to cook when my wife died. Quite simple, really, if you put your mind to it. It’s a wonder what you can do with a pinch of herbs here and there, and that sort of thing. Do you cook?’

  ‘Well, in a rather vague sort of way,’ I said. ‘My mother has taught me various things, but I’ve never done it very seriously. I like it.’

  ‘So do I,’ he said. ‘So do I. Relaxes the mind.’

  After we had finished off the steak and kidney pie he got some ice cream out of the fridge and we ate that.

  ‘Ah,’ said the Colonel, leaning back in his chair and patting his stomach, ‘that’s better. That’s better. I only have one meal a day and I like to make it a solid one. Now, how about a glass of port? I’ve got some rather good stuff here.’

  We had a couple of glasses of port and the Colonel lit up a fine thin cheroot. When we had finished the port and he had stubbed his cheroot out, he screwed his monocle more firmly in his eye and looked at me.

  ‘What about going upstairs for a little game?’ he asked.

  ‘Um . . ., what sort of game?’ I inquired cautiously, feeling that this was the moment when, if he was going to, he would start making advances.

  ‘Power game,’ said the Colonel. ‘Battle of wits. Models. You like that sort of thing, don’t you?’

  ‘Um . . ., yes,’ I said.

  ‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

  He led me out into the hall again and then up a staircase, through a small room which was obviously a sort of workshop; there was a bench along one side with shelves upon which there were pots of paint, soldering irons, and various other mysterious things. Obviously the Colonel was a do-it-yourselfer in his spare time, I thought. Then he threw open a door and a most amazing sight met my gaze. The room I looked into ran the whole length of the house and was some seventy to eighty feet long. It was, in fact, all the top rooms knocked into one of the four mews houses that the Colonel owned. The floor was neatly parqueted. But it was not so much the size of the room that astonished me as what it contained. At each end of the room was a large fort made out of papier mâché. They must have been some three or four feet high and some four or five feet across. Ranged round them were hundreds upon hundreds of tin soldiers, glittering and gleaming in their bright uniforms, and amongst them there were tanks, armoured trucks, anti-aircraft guns and similar things. There, spread out before me, was the full panoply of war.