Gerald Durrell: Rosy Is My Relative

Rosy stopped swaying and watched his approach with twinkling eyes. When he was within range she stretched out her trunk and, with the utmost speed and delicacy, removed Adrian’s bowler bat and placed it on her own massive domed head. Alarmed, Adrian jumped back, dropped the sandwich and trod heavily on the carter’s foot. This did not improve the carter’s already frayed temper. Picking up the sandwich Adrian approached Rosy again.

“Here you are, Rosy,” he said in a trembling voice, “nice sandwich.” Languidly Rosy reached out her trunk again, took the sandwich from Adrian’s shaking fingers, and inserted it into her mouth which looked—to Adrian’s startled gaze—the size of a large barrel. Faint grinding and slushing noises indicated that the elephant did eat cheese sandwiches. Hastily, while her mouth was full, Adrian went down on his knees, undid the padlocks and removed the shackles from Rosy’s legs.

“There we are,” he said, backing out of the dray. “Come along then . . . good girl.”

Rosy sighed deeply, took off the bowler hat and fanned herself with it, but apart from this gave no indication that she intended to vacate the dray.

“I’m normally a patient man,” said the carter untruthfully, “but I would like to point out, while you’re stamping about all over me feet and stuffing that elephant on sandwiches, that I ’aven’t ’ad so much as a bite to eat this morning.”

“Well, I’m trying to get her out,” said Adrian aggrievedly, “you can’t force a thing that size.”

“Would you care for a sandwich and a pint of beer?” Mr. Pucklehammer asked the carter.

“That’s very obliging of you,” said the carter, brightening perceptibly, “very obliging indeed.”

While the carter and Adrian stood there staring at Rosy, who was now swaying to and fro and uttering heart-rending sighs, Mr. Pucklehammer went into the house and soon reappeared carrying a sandwich with a brimming pint of beer. The carter’s delight at seeing these victuals was nothing compared to Rosy’s enthusiasm when she saw the tankard. She uttered a loud and prolonged trumpeting that made Adrian jump, and lumbered out of the dray into the road. Mr. Pucklehammer stood rooted to the spot while Rosy, still trumpeting, seized the tankard in her trunk and proceeded to pour the contents into her cavernous mouth.

“Well, that’s solved one problem,” said the carter, “but what about me beer?”

“At least we know she’ll eat sandwiches and drink beer,” said Adrian, “though I can’t see her existing for ever on that.”

“I wouldn’t want you to think me unfeeling,” said the carter, breathing through his nose, “but I’m more concerned with me own stomach than with ’em.”

Rosy handed the empty tankard back to Mr. Pucklehammer and followed him hopefully as he retreated into the yard. Having found an intelligent human being who appeared to recognise her needs, she was not going to let him out of her sight. She had a slow, stately, if slightly inebriated walk, and her ears flapped and cracked against the sides of her head as she moved. She uttered pleased little squeals, and as she entered the yard hot on Mr. Pucklehammer’s heels, Adrian slammed the great double doors behind her, leant against them and mopped his face. That was the first step.

Although Rosy was intrigued by the drifts of curly white wood shavings, the piles of wood and the serried ranks of newly completed coffins, she still kept an eye on Mr. Pucklehammer, for he was obviously the dowser who was going to lead her to the master spring of beer. But at last they managed to creep into the house without her noticing. Once in the house Mr. Pucklehammer produced more beer and cheese sandwiches, and under the soothing influence of food and drink even the carter became almost benign.

“Funny sort of thing for your uncle to leave you,” he said to Adrian.

“I wouldn’t describe it as funny,” said Adrian bitterly. “What I’m supposed to do with her, the Lord only knows.”

“Sell ’er,” advised the carter, pouring out more beer, “sell ’er to a circus. That’s what I’d do.”

“I can’t,” explained Adrian, “that’s the awful part. I’ve been left five hundred pounds to look after her.”

“I wonder ’ow many buns that’ll buy,” said the carter with interest.

“They must eat something else besides buns,” said Adrian plaintively. “You know, cabbages and things. Anyway, we’ll just have to experiment later.”

“Don’t you go fretting yourself, boy,” said Mr. Pucklehammer. “She can stay here for two or three days until you decide what’s best to be done. I’ll look after her.”

It was at this juncture that Rosy decided that the coffins—though fascinating in their way—were not sustaining enough. She approached the house and peered through the window. To her delight she discovered her friends gathered together in the room, consuming some of her favourite beverage. There was an air of relaxed conviviality, an air of good fellowship about the group, that Rosy found irresistible. It stimulated her. She was sure that they would want her to join them so she tapped delicately on the window with the tip of her trunk. It was a dainty, lady-like hint that she, too, would like to join in whatever celebrations were afoot. But her friends were so engrossed in their conversation that they did not notice. This, Rosy felt, was unfair. After all, she had had a long and tiring journey with only one pint of beer to sustain her, and there they were, guzzling away in the room without inviting her in. Normally, Rosy was an extremely patient elephant, but the sight of the carter pouring himself out yet another pint was too much for her. She inserted the tip of her trunk under the sash of the window and pulled. The entire window came away with a splendid crackling and tinkling noises and Rosy, delighted with the success of her experiment, put her trunk through the window and trumpeted loudly.

“For God’s sake,” exclaimed Adrian, his nerves completely shattered, “give her some more beer, Mr. Pucklehammer, and shut her up.”

“At this rate,” said the carter helpfully, “you’ll be spending most of your five ’undred quid on beer and repairs.’’

Mr. Pucklehammer went into the kitchen and found a large tin basin which he filled to the brim with beer. This he carried out into the yard, and Rosy’s piercing squeals of delight were positively deafening. She dipped her trunk into the lovely brown liquid, sucked it up and then shot it into her mouth with a noise like a miniature waterfall. Very soon the basin was empty and Rosy, uttering small, self-satisfied belches to herself, wandered over to the shady side of the yard and lay down for a rest.

“Well, I must be on me way,” said the carter “Thanks very much for your ’ospitality.”

“Not at all,” said Mr. Pucklehammer.

“And you, sir,” said the carter, turning to Adrian, “I wishes you the very best of luck I ’ave a feeling with that little bundle of joy you’re going to need it.”

Mr Pucklehammer saw the carter safely out of the yard and came back into the house, where he found Adrian, his head in his hands, contemplating an empty beer mug gloomily.

“I simply can’t think straight,” said Adrian miserably, “I just can’t think what to do.”

“Have some more beer,” suggested Mr. Pucklehammer, whose philosophy in life was simple and direct. “Stop fretting yourself . . . we’ll think of something.”

“It’s all very well for you to keep soothing me,” said Adrian irritably, “but I’m the one that’s got the elephant. We don’t even know what she eats yet.”

“Buns,” said Mr. Pucklehammer, clinging to his original premise. “You mark my words, she’ll do well on buns.”