Gerald Durrell - The Corfu Trilogy

‘Really, this is a frightful country,’ he said, turning on us belligerently, as though we were all directly responsible for the climatic conditions prevailing. ‘You set foot on shore at Dover and you’re met by a positive barrage of cold germs… D’you realize that this is the first cold I’ve had in twelve years? Simply because I had the sense to keep away from Pudding Island. Everyone I’ve met so far has a cold. The entire population of the British Isles seems to do absolutely nothing from one year’s end to another except shuffle round in small circles sneezing voluptuously into each other’s faces… a sort of merry-go-round of reinfection. What chance of survival has one got?’

‘Just because you’ve got a cold you carry on as though the world was coming to an end,’ said Margo. ‘I can’t understand why men always make such a fuss.’

Larry gave her a withering look from watering eyes. ‘The trouble with you all is that you like being martyrs. No one free from masochistic tendencies would stay in this – this virus’s paradise. You’ve all stagnated; you like wallowing here in a sea of infection. One excuses people who have never known anything else, but you all had a taste of the sun in Greece; you should know better.’

‘Yes, dear,’ said Mother soothingly, ‘but you’ve just come at a bad time. It can be very nice, you know. In the spring, for example.’

Larry glared at her. ‘I hate to jolt you out of your Rip Van Winkle-like trance,’ he said, ‘but this is supposed to be the spring… and look at it! You need a team of huskies to go down to post a letter.’

‘Half an inch of snow,’ snorted Margo. ‘You do exaggerate.’

‘I agree with Larry,’ Leslie said, appearing from behind his book suddenly. ‘It’s bloody cold out. Makes you feel you don’t want to do anything. You can’t even get any decent shooting.’

‘Exactly,’ said Larry triumphantly, ‘while in a sensible country like Greece one would be having breakfast outside and then going down to the sea for a morning bathe. Here my teeth chatter so much it’s only with difficulty that I can eat any breakfast.’

‘I do wish you’d stop harping on Greece,’ said Leslie. ‘It reminds me of that bloody book of Gerry’s. It took me ages to live that down.’

‘Took you ages?’ said Larry caustically. ‘What about me? You’ve no idea what damage that Dickens-like caricature did to my literary image.’

‘But the way he wrote about me, you would think I never thought about anything but guns and boats,’ said Leslie.

‘Well, you never do think about anything but guns and boats.’

‘I was the one that suffered most,’ said Margo. ‘He did nothing but talk about my acne.’

‘I thought it was quite an accurate picture of you all,’ said Mother, ‘but he made me out to be a positive imbecile .’

‘I wouldn’t mind being lampooned in decent prose,’ Larry pointed out, blowing his nose vigorously, ‘but to be lampooned in bad English is unbearable.’

‘The title alone is insulting,’ said Margo. ‘ My Family and Other Animals ! I get sick of people saying, “And which other animal are you?” ’

‘I thought the title was rather funny, dear,’ said Mother. ‘The only thing I thought was that he hadn’t used all the best stories.’

‘Yes, I agree,’ said Leslie.

‘What best stories?’ Larry demanded suspiciously.

‘Well, what about the time you sailed Max’s yacht round the island? That was damned funny.’

‘If that story had appeared in print I would have sued him.’

‘I don’t see why, it was very funny,’ said Margo.

‘And what about the time you took up spiritualism – supposing he’d written about that? I suppose you’d enjoy that? ’ inquired Larry caustically.

‘No, I would not – he couldn’t write that,’ said Margo in horror.

‘Well, there you are,’ said Larry in triumph. ‘And what about Leslie’s court case?’

‘I don’t see why you have to bring me into it,’ said Leslie.

‘You were the one who was going on about him not using the best incidents,’ Larry pointed out.

‘Yes, I’d forgotten about those stories,’ said Mother, chuckling. ‘I think they were funnier than the ones you used, Gerry.’

‘I’m glad you think that,’ I said thoughtfully.

‘Why?’ asked Larry, glaring at me.

‘Because I’ve decided to write another book on Corfu and use all those stories,’ I explained innocently.

The uproar was immediate.

‘I forbid it,’ roared Larry, sneezing violently. ‘I absolutely forbid it.’

‘You’re not to write about my spiritualism,’ Margo cried out. ‘Mother, tell him he’s not to write about that.’

‘Nor my court case,’ snarled Leslie. ‘I won’t have it.’

‘And if you so much as mention yachts…’ Larry began.

‘Larry dear, do keep your voice down,’ said Mother.

‘Well, forbid him to write a sequel then,’ shouted Larry.

‘Don’t be silly, dear, I can’t stop him,’ said Mother.

‘Do you want it all to happen again?’ demanded Larry hoarsely. ‘The bank writing to ask if you will kindly remove your overdraft, the tradesmen looking at you askance, anonymous parcels full of strait-jackets being left on the doorstep, being cut dead by all the relatives. You are supposed to be head of the family – stop him writing it.’

‘You do exaggerate, Larry dear,’ said Mother. ‘Anyway, I can’t stop him if he wants to write it. I don’t think it will do any harm and those stories are the best ones, I think. I don’t see why he shouldn’t write a sequel.’

The family rose in a body and told her loudly and vociferously why I should not write a sequel. I waited for the noise to die down.

‘And apart from those stories, there are quite a number of others,’ I said.

‘Which ones, dear?’ inquired Mother.

The family, red-faced, bristling, glowered at me in an expectant silence.

‘Well,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘I want to give a description of your love affair with Captain Creech, Mother.’

‘What?’ squeaked Mother. ‘You’ll do no such thing… love affair with that disgusting old creature, indeed. I won’t have you writing about that .’

‘Well, I think that’s the best story of the lot,’ said Larry unctuously, ‘the vibrant passion of the romance, the sweet, archaic charm of the leading man… the way you led the poor old chap on…’

‘Oh, do be quiet, Larry,’ said Mother crossly. ‘You do make me angry when you talk like that. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to write this book, Gerry.’

‘I second that,’ said Larry. ‘If you publish we’ll sue you in a body.’

Faced with such a firm and united family, bristling in their resolve to prevent me at all costs, there was only one thing I could do. I sat down and wrote this book.

Writing something of this sort presents many pitfalls for the author. His new readers do not want to be constantly irritated by references to a previous book that they have not read, and the ones who have read the previous book do not want to be irritated by constant repetition of events with which they are familiar. I hope that I have managed to steer a fairly steady course between the two.