Gerald Durrell: The Donkey Rustlers

The exuberance with which the villagers greeted the arrival of the taxi in the main square of the village had to be seen to be believed. Even old Papa Yorgo, who (as everyone knew) was well past a hundred, had to be escorted out, tottering on two sticks, to shake hands. The Mayor, Niko Oizus, a circular man with a large walrus moustache who exuded sweat and cringing servility at the same time, was there to greet them on behalf of the village. Even Coocos, the so-called village idiot, with his round face wreathed in smiles, was there and was wearing (as it was a special occasion) the old bowler hat the General had brought. out from England the year previously. This hat was one of Coocos’s most treasured possessions, next to a goldfinch in a tiny cage which he carried everywhere with him and on which he lavished incredible love and devotion. Gifts were given by everybody. There were baskets of oranges and lemons, handkerchiefs full of eggs, almonds and walnuts and, of course, vast quantities of multi-coloured flowers of all shapes and descriptions.

Yani thought that, if anything, Amanda looked even more beautiful than she had the year before, and he followed her with a broad grin on his brown face as she ran excitedly through the village, her golden hair shining in the sun, her blue eyes brilliant with excitement as she kissed and hugged everybody. David followed her at a more sedate pace and solemnly shook hands.

“Do you like Kalanero?” said Yani teasingly, as the exuberance of the village died down, and the three children walked back towards the villa.

“Like it?” said Amanda, her eyes flashing sapphire in the sunlight. “Of course we like it. It’s our village.”

When they got to the big rusty wrought-iron gates that guarded the entrance to the villa, Yani’s mood of excited enthusiasm at their arrival appeared to have waned.

“What are you looking so miserable about?” asked Amanda. “Aren’t you pleased that we are back?”

“Of course I am,” said Yani. “It’s just that I’m worried.”

“What are you worried about?” asked Amanda in astonishment.

“I can’t tell you now,” he said. “I’ll meet you this evening down in the olive groves. I’ve got to go and do some work now’.

“Is it something nice?” inquired Amanda, excitedly.

“No,” said Yani. “It isn’t nice at all, and I want your advice.”

“Tell us now,” David demanded.

“No. Tonight in the olive groves where nobody can hear us,” said Yani, and he turned and ran back down to the village.

By the time the children re-entered the villa it had been happily and lovingly disorganised by Mrs Finchberry-White and Mama Agathi. In spite of the most desperate attempts, Mrs Finchberry-White had never succeeded in mastering more than four or five words of Greek and as Mama Agathi was no linguist either, a combination of the two was something that had to be heard to be believed. The General had unpacked — as far as he was concerned — the most vital portion of their luggage, his easel and paints, and had set them up on the terrace.

“Aren’t our villagers wonderful?” asked Amanda, spread-eagling herself on the flagstones in the sunshine.

“Very kind,” said the General, carefully drawing another cypress tree with great precision and complete inaccuracy.

“Father, you aren’t going to paint another one of those awful pictures, are you?” asked David. “Why don’t you paint it from some different angle? And you’re getting the trees all wrong too.”

“When my senility requires me to have an lessons from you, David, I shall not keep you unapprised of the fact,” said the General, painting away unconcernedly.

“I think you ought to do things like Picasso does,” said Amanda, “because then nobody would notice how badly you draw.”

“Why don’t you go and help your mother?” asked the General, “otherwise, with her command of the Greek tongue, I doubt whether we will ever get any breakfast.”

Amanda sighed a resigned sigh and wandered through the great echoing rooms to where her mother, in the kitchen, was endeavouring, without very much success, to explain what scrambled eggs were to Mama Agathi. As far as Mama Agathi was concerned, there were two kinds of eggs: one kind was raw and the other was hardboiled and dyed red for Easter.

“Mother, you are hopeless,” said Amanda, impatiently. “Even if you can’t learn to speak Greek, you might at least stop confusing her by asking for things she has never even heard of.”

“But my dear, everybody’s heard of scrambled eggs,” said Mrs Finchberry-White, startled. “But everybody . Why, when I was a gal, we had them every day for breakfast.”

“There are some interesting little pinky sort of flowers in the other room that Yani gave me,” said Amanda, “why don’t you go and put them in water and I’ll organise the breakfast.”

Happy to be released from the irksome burden of scrambled eggs, Mrs Finchberry-White drifted out of the kitchen to add the flowers to her collection, while Amanda with a few quick decisive phrases organised the sort of breakfast that the General desired.

Presently the table was laid on the terrace and the General, smelling strongly of turpentine, took his place at the head of it and devoured great mountains of sunset-gold scrambled eggs, huge’ brown pieces of toast dripping with butter and covered thickly with a layer of the special marmalade that he had brought out with him for the purpose.

“What are you children going to do to-day?” inquired Mrs Finchberry-White.

“I want to go out to Hesperides,” said Amanda.

“No,” David said firmly. “We can’t go to Hesperides without Yani and Yani is working to-day.”

“But I want to swim,” said Amanda.

“Well, you can swim, but we are not going to Hesperides without Yani.”

It was curious that, in most things. Amanda was the more domineering character of the two children, but on the very rare occasion when her younger brother adopted that tone of voice with her, Amanda would give in meekly.

“All right,” she said resignedly.

The children had discovered Hesperides their first summer there. It was a tiny island lying off the coast near the village, thick with cypress trees so that it protruded from the water like a little furry isosceles triangle. Right on the very top was a terraced area with a minute church, such as you so frequently find in Greece, which would comfortably accommodate a congregation of three, provided no priest was present. Next to it were two small white-washed rooms in which for many years had lived a very old monk. He had long since died and although the Archbishop of Melissa had written to Athens for a replacement, no reply had been forthcoming. So, as the Archbishop had not heard from Athens within two years, he had presumed his letter had gone astray. He had made a mental note to write again but had forgotten about it and so the tiny island was completely deserted. It was within easy swimming distance of the coast and the first time the children had swum out there and Amanda had hauled herself, brown and dripping, ashore, she had seen, at the bottom of the flight of steps that led up to the church, a tangerine tree, heavy with fruit.

“Look, David!” she had shouted, her blue eyes getting almost black with excitement, “just look! Golden apples!”

David had gravely inspected the tree. “They’re not apples, you clot,” he had said. “They’re tangerines.”

“Well, we can petend they’re apples,” she said conceding this point, “and we’ll call this place Hesperides.”