Gerald Durrell: Rosy Is My Relative

“I am Mr. A. Rookwhistle,” quavered Adrian. “What . . .?”

“Ah!” said the man, giving him a malevolent look, “so you’re Mr. Rookwhistle, are you? Well, the sooner you collect your property, the sooner I’ll be ’appy.”

He stamped off round the back of the dray and Adrian, following him, found him struggling with the massive doors.

“But what have you got?” asked Adrian desperately.

By way of an answer the man threw back the great double doors and revealed to Adrian’s incredulous and horrified gaze a large, wrinkled and exceptionally benign-looking elephant.

“There she is,” said the carter, with satisfaction, “and she’s all yours.”

“It can’t be,” said Adrian faintly, “it can’t be mine . . . I don’t want an elephant.”

“Now look ’ere,” said the carter with some asperity, “I’ve travelled all night, see, to bring this ruddy animal to you. You’re Mr. A. Rookwhistle, therefore she’s your animal.”

Adrian began to wonder if the shocks he had already received that morning had unhinged his mind. It was bad enough having to cope with an acrobat, without finding himself suddenly saddled with, of all things, an elephant. Then, suddenly, he had an awful suspicion.

“What’s its name?” he asked hoarsely.

“Rosy,” said the carter, “leastways, that’s what they told me.”

At the sound of her name the elephant swayed to and fro gently and uttered a small squeak, like the mating cry of a very tiny clarinet. She was shackled inside the dray by two chains padlocked round her front legs, and they made a musical clanking noise when she moved. She stretched out her trunk seductively towards Adrian and blew a small puff of air at him. Oh God, thought Adrian, I’d much rather it was a drunken acrobat.

“Look here,” he said to the carter, “what am I going to do with her?”

“That,” said the carter with ill concealed satisfaction, “is your problem, mate. I was merely engaged to deliver ’er and deliver ’er I ’ave. So now, as I ’aven’t ’ad any breakfast, if you’ll kindly remove ’er from me van, I’ll be on me way.”

“But you can’t just leave me in the street with an elephant,” Adrian protested.

“Why not?” enquired the carter simply.

“But I can’t take her in there,” said Adrian wildly, gesturing at Mrs. Dredge’s six foot square front garden. “She won’t fit, for one thing . . . and she’d tread all the plants down.”

“Ar, you should ’ave thought of that before you ordered ’er,” said the carter.

“But I didn’t order her. She was left to me by my uncle,” said Adrian, reflecting as he said it how very unlikely the whole thing sounded.

“’E couldn’t ’ave liked you very much,” said the carter.

“Look, do be sensible,” Adrian pleaded. “You can’t just stick an elephant down in front of me and then go off and leave me.”

“Now you look ’ere,” said the carter in a shaking voice, his face growing purple, “I was engaged to transport an elephant. It was foolish of me, I know, but there we are. I’ve been on the go all night. Every pub we passed she nearly ’ad the dray over. It’s the worst ruddy journey I’ve ever ’ad in twenty-four years’ experience as a carter. And now all I want to do is to get rid of ’er as quickly as possible. So if you’ll kindly remove ’er, I’ll be on me way.”

Even if he succeeded in getting Rosy into Mrs. Dredge’s front or back garden, Adrian though; how was he to explain the sudden appearance of an elephant? It was too much to hope that Mrs. Dredge would not notice her. But something had to be done, for the carter was adamant and growing more and more purple and restive with each passing moment. Then Adrian had an idea Pucklehammer, he thought, Pucklehammer’s yard. That would be the place to take her.

“Look,” said Adrian desperately to the carter, “can you take her down the mad a bit? I’ve got a friend who’s got a yard. We can put her in there.”

The carter sighed deeply. “See ’ere,” he said, “I’ve delivered your elephant to you. I was not asked to deliver it anywhere else but ’ere.”

“But it’s only just down the road, and it’ll be worth a sovereign to you,” said Adrian.

“Well, that’s different,” said the carter and he slammed the doors of the dray, shutting off the sight of Rosy, who had picked up a small wisp of straw in her trunk and was daintily fanning herself with it. The carter shouted to his horses, they strained forward, and the massive dray rumbled down the road, with Adrian pacing feverishly beside it, endeavouring to persuade himself that there was nothing Mr. Pucklehammer would like better than an elephant in his yard. He left the carter in the street and went into the yard. Mr. Pucklehammer was still sitting on the coffin, consuming yet another pint of beer.

“Hello, boy,” he said jovially, “got your acrobat?”

“Mr. Pucklehammer,” said Adrian in a low, controlled voice, “you’ve got to help me. You are, indeed, the only person I can turn to in what is rapidly becoming a nightmare.”

“Why, what’s happened, boy?”

“She . . . it . . . has arrived,” said Adrian.

“What’s she like?” enquired Mr. Pucklehammer with interest.

“She . . . Rosy,” said Adrian, “is an elephant.”

“An elephant?” said Mr. Pucklehammer, and whistled. “That’s a bit of a problem for you.”

“You could put it that way,” said Adrian coldly.

“An elephant,” repeated Mr. Pucklehammer thoughtfully. “Well, well. That is a bit of a facer.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you,” said Adrian. “What I’m to do with her I just don’t know, but all I do know is that the wretched man who brought her, not unnaturally wants to get rid of her. She won’t fit in Mrs. Dredge’s garden, so I’ve had to bring her here. Will you let me keep her in your yard for a bit, until I decide what to do?”

“Yes, yes, boy, of course,” said Mr. Pucklehammer readily, “plenty of room here. Never had an elephant here, come to think of it. It’ll make a bit of a change.”

“Thank God,” said Adrian fervently, “I’m most grateful to you.” He went back into the road where the carter appeared to be melting steadily into his handkerchief.

“It’s all right,” said Adrian, “she can come in here.”

The carter threw open the doors of the dray, and Rosy uttered a pleased squeal at the sight of her friends.

“’ere’s the keys,” said the carter, handing them to Adrian. “one for each padlock.”

“Is she tame?” asked Adrian nervously, realising that up until that moment he had had no experience with elephants.

“I think so,” said the carter. “You’ll soon find out though, won’t you?”

“Perhaps I ought to get it something to eat,” said Adrian. “keep it occupied. What do they eat?”

“Buns,” said Mr. Pucklehammer, who was peering at Rosy with interest.

“Do be sensible,” said Adrian irritably. “Where am I going to find a bun at this time of the day?”

“Ow about oats?” suggested the carter.

“No, no, it’s buns they eat,” said Mr. Pucklehammer.

“I do wish you’d stop gassing on about buns,” said Adrian in exasperation, “we haven’t got any buns.”

“How about a cheese sandwich?” said Mr. Pucklehammer. “I’ll go and get one and we’ll try.”

He returned presently with a large cheese sandwich, which he handed to Adrian. Very cautiously, holding the sandwich in front of him as though it were a weapon, Adrian approached Rosy’s vast grey bulk.

“Here you are then, Rosy,” he said hoarsely. “Nice cheese sandwich . . . good girl.”