I asked whether I was right in assuming that each snail had winched its rope in.
‘Yes, yes, that’s quite correct,’ said Theodore. ‘They apparently have some… um… sort of mechanism inside which can pull the rope back again.’
I said I thought it was one of the most remarkable things I had ever seen.
‘Yes, indeed. Extremely curious,’ said Theodore, and then added a bomb-shell that took my breath away. ‘Once they are alongside, the… um… male half of one snail mates with the, um… female half of the other snail and… um, vice versa, as it were.’
It took me a moment or so to absorb this astonishing information. Was I correct in assuming, I inquired cautiously, that each snail was both male and female?
‘Um. Yes,’ said Theodore, ‘hermaphrodite.’
His eyes twinkled at me and he rasped the side of his beard with his thumb. Larry, who had been wearing the pained expression he normally wore when Theodore and I discussed natural history, was equally astonished by this amazing revelation of the snails’ sex life.
‘Surely you’re joking, Theodore?’ he protested. ‘You mean to say that each snail is both a male and a female?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Theodore, adding with masterly understatement, ‘it’s very curious.’
‘Good God,’ cried Larry. ‘I think it’s unfair. All those damned slimy things wandering about seducing each other like mad all over the bushes, and having the pleasures of both sensations. Why couldn’t such a gift be given to the human race? That’s what I want to know.’
‘Aha, yes. But then you would have to lay eggs,’ Theodore pointed out.
‘True,’ said Larry, ‘but what a marvellous way of getting out of cocktail parties – “I’m terribly sorry I can’t come,” you would say. “I’ve got to sit on my eggs.” ’
Theodore gave a little snort of laughter.
‘But snails don’t sit on their eggs,’ he explained. ‘They bury them in damp earth and leave them.’
‘The ideal way of bringing up a family,’ said Mother, unexpectedly but with immense conviction. ‘I wish I’d been able to bury you all in some damp earth and leave you.’
‘That’s an extremely harsh and ungrateful thing to say,’ said Larry. ‘You’ve probably given Gerry a complex for the rest of his life.’
But if the conversation had given me a complex, it was one about snails, for I was already planning vast snail-hunting expeditions with Roger, so that I could bring dozens of them back to the villa and keep them in tins, where I could observe them shooting their love darts at each other to my heart’s content. But, in spite of the fact that I caught hundreds of snails during the next few weeks, kept them incarcerated in tins and lavished every care and attention on them (even gave them simulated thunder-storms with the aid of a watering can), I could not get them to mate.
The only other time I saw snails indulging in this curious love-play was when I succeeded in obtaining a pair of the giant Roman, or apple, snails that lived on the stony outcrops of the Mountain of the Ten Saints, and the only reason I was able to get up there and capture these snails was because, on my birthday, Mother had purchased for me my heart’s desire, a sturdy baby donkey.
Although, ever since we arrived in Corfu, I had been aware that there were vast quantities of donkeys there – indeed the entire agricultural economy of the island depended on them – I had not really concentrated on them until we had gone to Katerina’s wedding. Here a great number of the donkeys had brought with them their babies, many of them only a few days old. I was enchanted by their bulbous knees, their great ears, and their wobbling, uncertain walk and I had determined then, come what might, that I would possess a donkey of my own.
As I explained to Mother, while trying to argue her into agreeing to this, if I had a donkey to carry me and my equipment, I could go so much farther a field. Why couldn’t I have it for Christmas, I asked? Because, Mother replied, firstly, they were too expensive, and secondly, there were not any babies available at that precise time. But if they were too expensive, I argued, why couldn’t I have one as a Christmas and birthday present? I would willingly forgo all other presents in lieu of a donkey. Mother said she would see, which I knew from bitter experience generally meant that she would forget about the matter as rapidly and as comprehensively as possible. As it got near to my birthday, I once again reiterated all the arguments in favour of having a donkey. Mother just repeated that we would see.
Then one day, Costas, the brother of our maid, made his appearance in the olive grove just outside our little garden carrying on his shoulders a great bundle of tall bamboos. Whistling happily to himself he proceeded to dig holes in the ground and to set the bamboos upright so that they formed a small square. Peering at him through the fuchsia hedge, I wondered what on earth he was doing, so, whistling Roger, I went round to see.
‘I am building,’ said Costas, ‘a house for your mother.’
I was astonished. What on earth could Mother want a bamboo house for? Had she, perhaps, decided to sleep out of doors? I felt this was unlikely. What, I inquired of Costas, did Mother want with a bamboo house?
He gazed at me wall-eyed.
‘Who knows?’ he said shrugging. ‘Perhaps she wants to keep plants in it or store sweet potatoes for the winter.’
I thought this was extremely unlikely as well, but having watched Costas for half an hour I grew bored and went off for a walk with Roger.
By the next day the framework of the bamboo hut had been finished and Costas was now busy twining bundles of reeds between the bamboos to form solid walls and the roof. By the next day it was completed and looked exactly like one of Robinson Crusoe’s earlier attempts at house-building. When I inquired of Mother what she intended to use the house for, she said that she was not quite sure, but she felt it would come in useful. With that vague information I had to be content.
The day before my birthday, everybody started acting in a slightly more eccentric manner than usual. Larry, for some reason best known to himself, went about the house shouting ‘Tantivy!’ and ‘Tally-ho’ and similar hunting slogans. As he was fairly frequently afflicted in this way, I did not take much notice.
Margo kept dodging about the house carrying mysterious bundles under her arms, and at one point I came face to face with her in the hall and noted, with astonishment, that her arms were full of multi-coloured decorations left over from Christmas. On seeing me she uttered a squeak of dismay and rushed into her bedroom in such a guilty and furtive manner that I was left staring after her with open mouth.
Even Leslie and Spiro were afflicted, it seemed, and they kept going into mysterious huddles in the garden. From the snippets of their conversation that I heard, I could not make head or tail of what they were planning.
‘In the backs seats,’ Spiro said, scowling. ‘Honest to Gods, Masters Leslies, I have dones it befores.’
‘Well, if you’re sure, Spiro,’ Leslie replied doubtfully, ‘but we don’t want any broken legs or anything.’
Then Leslie saw me undisguisedly eavesdropping and asked me truculently what the hell I thought I was doing, eavesdropping on people’s private conversations? Why didn’t I go down to the nearest cliff and jump off ? Feeling that the family were in no mood to be amicable, I took Roger off into the olive groves and for the rest of the day we ineffectually chased green lizards.
That night I had just turned down the lamp and snuggled down in bed when I heard sounds of raucous singing, accompanied by gales of laughter, coming through the olive groves. As the uproar got closer, I could recognize Leslie’s and Larry’s voices, combined with Spiro’s, each of them appearing to be singing a different song. It seemed as though they had been somewhere and celebrated too well. From the indignant whispering and shuffling going on in the corridor, I could tell that Margo and Mother had reached the same conclusion.
They burst into the villa, laughing hysterically at some witticism that Larry had produced, and were shushed fiercely by Margo and Mot
her.
‘Do be quiet,’ said Mother. ‘You’ll wake Gerry. What have you been drinking?’
‘Wine,’ said Larry in a dignified voice. He hiccuped.
‘Wine,’ said Leslie. ‘And then we danced, and Spiro danced, and I danced, and Larry danced. And Spiro danced and then Larry danced and then I danced.’
‘I think you had better go to bed,’ said Mother.
‘And then Spiro danced again,’ said Leslie, ‘and then Larry danced.’
‘All right, dear, all right,’ said Mother. ‘Go to bed, for heaven’s sake. Really, Spiro, I do feel that you shouldn’t have let them drink so much.’
‘Spiro danced,’ said Leslie, driving the point home.
‘I’ll take him to bed,’ said Larry. ‘I’m the only sober member of the party.’
There was the sound of lurching feet on the tiles as Leslie and Larry, clasped in each other’s arms, staggered down the corridor.
‘I’m now dancing with you,’ came Leslie’s voice as Larry dragged him into his bedroom and put him to bed.
‘I’m sorrys, Mrs Durrells,’ said Spiro, his deep voice thickened with wine, ‘but I couldn’t stops thems.’
‘Did you get it?’ said Margo.
‘Yes, Missy Margos. Don’ts you worrys,’ said Spiro. ‘It’s down with Costas.’
Eventually Spiro left and I heard Mother and Margo going to bed. It made a fittingly mysterious end to what had been a highly confusing day as far as I was concerned. But I soon forgot about the family’s behaviour, as, lying in the dark wondering what my presents were going to be the following day, I drifted off to sleep.
The following morning I woke and lay for a moment wondering what was so special about that day, and then I remembered. It was my birthday. I lay there savouring the feeling of having a whole day to myself when people would give me presents and the family would be forced to accede to any reasonable requests. I was just about to get out of bed and go and see what my presents were, when a curious uproar broke out in the hall.
‘Hold its head. Hold its head,’ came Leslie’s voice.
‘Look out, you’re spoiling the decorations,’ wailed Margo.
‘Damn the bloody decorations,’ said Leslie. ‘Hold its head.’
‘Now, now, dears,’ said Mother, ‘don’t quarrel.’
‘Dear God,’ said Larry in disgust, ‘dung all over the floor.’
The whole of this mysterious conversation was accompanied by a strange pitter-pattering noise, as though someone were bouncing ping-pong balls on the tile floor of the hall. What on earth, I wondered, was the family up to now? Normally at this time they were still lying, semi-conscious, groping bleary-eyed for their early morning cups of tea. I sat up in bed, preparatory to going into the hall to join in whatever fun was afoot, when my bedroom door burst open and a donkey, clad in festoons of coloured crepe paper, Christmas decorations, and with three enormous feathers attached skilfully between its large ears, came galloping into the bedroom, Leslie hanging grimly on to its tail, shouting, ‘Woa, you bastard!’
‘Language, dear,’ said Mother, looking flustered in the doorway.
‘You’re spoiling the decorations,’ screamed Margo.
‘The sooner that animal gets out of here,’ said Larry, ‘the better. There’s dung all over the hall now.’
‘You frightened it,’ said Margo.
‘I didn’t do anything,’ said Larry indignantly. ‘I just gave it a little push.’
The donkey skidded to a halt by my bedside and gazed at me out of enormous brown eyes. It seemed rather surprised. It shook itself vigorously so that the feathers between its ears fell off and then very dexterously it hacked Leslie on the shin with its hind leg.
‘Jesus!’ roared Leslie, hopping around on one leg. ‘It’s broken my bloody leg.’
‘Leslie, dear, there is no need to swear so much,’ said Mother. ‘Remember Gerry.’
‘The sooner you get it out of that bedroom the better,’ said Larry. ‘Otherwise the whole place will smell like a midden.’
‘You’ve simply ruined its decorations,’ said Margo, ‘and it took me hours to put them on.’
But I was taking no notice of the family. The donkey had approached the edge of my bed and stared at me inquisitively for a moment and then had given a little throaty chuckle and thrust in my outstretched hands a grey muzzle as soft as everything soft I could think of – silkworm cocoons, newly born puppies, sea pebbles, or the velvety feel of a tree frog. Leslie had now removed his trousers and was examining the bruise on his shin, cursing fluently.
‘Do you like it dear?’ asked Mother.
Like it! I was speechless.
The donkey was a rich dark brown, almost a plum colour, with enormous ears like arum lilies, white socks over tiny polished hooves as neat as a tap-dancer’s shoes. Running along her back was the broad black cross that denotes so proudly that her race carried Christ into Jerusalem (and has since continued to be one of the most maligned domestic animals ever), and round each great shining eye she had a neat white circle which denoted that she came from the village of Gastouri.
‘You remember Katerina’s donkey that you liked so much?’ said Margo. ‘Well, this is her baby.’
This, of course, made the donkey even more special. The donkey stood there looking like a refugee from a circus, chewing a piece of tinsel meditatively, while I scrambled out of bed and flung on my clothes. Where, I inquired breathlessly of Mother, was I to keep her? Obviously I couldn’t keep her in the villa in view of the fact that Larry had just pointed out to Mother that she could, if she so wished, grow a good crop of potatoes in the hall.
‘That’s what that house Costas built is for,’ said Mother.
I was beside myself with delight. What anoble, kindly, benevolent family I had! How cunningly they had kept the secret from me! How hard they had worked to deck the donkey out in its finery! Slowly and gently, as though she were some fragile piece of china, I led my steed out through the garden and round into the olive grove, opened the door of the little bamboo hut, and took her inside. I thought I ought to just try her for size, because Costas was a notoriously bad workman. The little house was splendid. Just big enough for her. I took her out again and tethered her to an olive tree on a long length of rope, then I stayed for half an hour in a dreamlike trance admiring her from every angle while she grazed placidly. Eventually I heard Mother calling me in to breakfast and I sighed with satisfaction. I had decided that, without any doubt whatsoever, and without wishing in any way to be partisan, this donkey was the finest donkey in the whole of the island of Corfu. For no reason that I could think of, I decided to call her Sally. I gave her a quick kiss on her silken muzzle and then went in to breakfast.
After breakfast, to my astonishment, Larry, with a magnanimous air, said that if I liked he would teach me to ride. I said that I didn’t know he could ride.
‘Of course,’ said Larry airily. ‘When we were in India I was always galloping about on ponies and things. I used to groom them and feed them and so forth. Have to know what you’re doing, of course.’
So, armed with a blanket and a large piece of webbing, we went out into the olive grove, placed the blanket on Sally’s back, and tied it in position. She viewed these preparations with interest but a lack of enthusiasm. With a certain amount of difficulty, for Sally would persist in walking round and round in a tight circle, Larry succeeded in getting me onto her back. He then exchanged her tether for a rope halter and rope reins.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘you just steer her as though she’s a boat. When you want her to go faster, just simply kick her in the ribs with your heels.’
If that was all there was to riding, I felt, it was going to be simplicity itself. I jerked on the reins and dug my heels into Sally’s ribs. It was unfortunate that my fall was broken by a large and exceptionally luxuriant bramble bush. Sally peered at me as I extricated myself, with a look of astonishment on her face.
‘Perhaps,’ said Larry, ‘you ought
to have a stick so then you can use your legs for gripping on to her and you won’t fall off.’
He cut me a short stick and once again I mounted Sally. This time I wrapped my legs tightly round her barrel body and gave her a sharp tap with my switch. She bucked several times, indignantly, but I clung on like a limpet, and to my delight, within half an hour, I had her trotting to and fro between the olive trees, responding neatly to tugs on the rein. Larry had been lying under the olives smoking and watching my progress. Now, as I appeared to have mastered the equestrian art, he rose to his feet and took a penknife out of his pocket.
‘Now,’ he said, as I dismounted, ‘I’ll show you how to look after her. First of all, you must brush her down every morning. We’ll get a brush for you in town. Then you must make sure her hooves are clean. You must do that every day.’
I inquired, puzzled, how did one clean donkeys’ hooves?
‘I’ll show you,’ said Larry nonchalantly.
He walked up to Sally, bent down, and picked up her hind leg.
‘In here,’ he said, pointing with the blade of the knife at Sally’s hoof, ‘an awful lot of muck gets trapped. This can lead to all sorts of things. Foot-rot and so forth, and it’s very important to keep them clean.’
So saying, he dug his penknife blade into Sally’s hoof. What Larry had not realized was that donkeys in Corfu were unshod and that a baby donkey’s hoof is still, comparatively speaking, soft and very delicate. So, not unnaturally, Sally reacted as though Larry had jabbed her with a red-hot skewer. She wrenched her hoof out of his hands and as he straightened up and turned in astonishment, she did a pretty pirouette and kicked him neatly in the pit of the stomach with both hind legs. Larry sat down heavily, his face went white, and he doubled up, clasping his stomach and making strange rattling noises. The alarm I felt was not for Larry but for Sally, for I was quite sure that he would extract the most terrible retribution when he recovered. Hastily I undid Sally’s rope and flicked her on the rump with the stick and watched her canter off into the olives. Then I ran into the house and informed Mother that Larry had had an accident. The entire family, including Spiro, who had just arrived, came running out into the olive grove where Larry was still writhing about uttering great sobbing, wheezing noises.