Gerald Durrell - Fillets of Plaice

There was Clemystra, Modes for Ladies, with a rather extraordinary fur in their window as the piиce de résistance ; a fur which, with its glass eyes and its tail in its mouth, would have curdled the heart of any anti-vivisectionist should one pass that way. There was the Pixies’ Parlour, Light Luncheons, Teas and Snacks, and next door to it, once you had refreshed yourself, was A. Wallet, Tobacconist, whose window consisted entirely of cigarette and pipe advertisements, the predominant one being a rather Holman Hunt type of placard for Wills’ Wild Woodbines. I hurried past all these and past William Drover, Estate Agent, with its host of fascinating pale brown pictures of desirable residences, past the shrouded portal, decorated rather severely and somewhat surprisingly by one rose-pink lavatory pan, of Messrs M. & R. Drumlin, Plumbers, to the end of the row of shops where the faded notice above the door stated simply and unequivocally: Henry Bellow, Aviculturist. At last, I thought, I had the chance of getting inside the shop and solving, if nothing else, the mystery of the birds with the “SOLD” notices on their cages. But as I approached the shop something unprecedented happened. A tall, angular woman in tweeds, wearing a ridiculous Tyrolean hat with a feather, strode purposefully down the alley and, a brief second before me, grasped the handle of the door marked “Enter Please” and swept in, while the bell jangled melodiously. I was astonished. It was the first time I had ever seen a customer enter any of the shops in the alley. Then, anxious to see what happened once she had entered the shop, I rushed after her and caught the closing door on the last jangle.

In an almost lightless shop the woman with the Tyrolean hat and I were caught like moths in some dingy spider’s web. The melodious chimes of the door, one felt assured, would have someone running to attend the shop. Instead of which there was silence, except for the faint cheeping of the birds in the window and the sudden shuffling of feathers from a cockatoo in the corner, a sound like un-ironed washing being spread out. Having shuffled its feathers to its satisfaction, it put its head on one side and said, “Hello, hello, hello,” very softly and with complete lack of interest.

We waited what seemed a long time but was probably only a few seconds. My eyes gradually grew accustomed to the gloom. I saw that there was a small counter and behind it shelves of bird seed, cuttle-fish and other accoutrements of the aviculturist’s trade, and in front of it were a number of large sacks containing hemp and rape and millet seed. In one of these perched a white mouse eating the seeds with the frantic speed of a nervous person nibbling cheese straws at a cocktail party. I was beginning to wonder whether to open the door and make the bell jangle again when, suddenly, a very large and ancient retriever padded its way solemnly through the door at the back of the shop and came forward, wagging its tail. It was followed by a man I took to be Henry Bellow. He was a tall, stout man with a great mop of curly grey hair and a huge bristling moustache, like an untamed gorse bush, that looked as though it were a suitable nesting site for any number of birds. From under his shaggy eyebrows his tiny blue eyes stared out, brilliant as periwinkles, through his gold-rimmed spectacles. He moved with a sort of ponderous slowness rather like a lazy seal. He came forward and gave a little bow.

“Madam,” he said, and his voice had the rich accents of Somerset, “Madam, your servant.”

The Tyrolean hat looked rather alarmed at being addressed in this fashion.

“Oh, er..., good day,” she said.

“What may I get you?” inquired Mr Bellow.

“Well, actually, I came to get your advice,” she said. “Er..., it’s about my young nephew. He’s going to be fourteen soon and I want to buy him a bird for his birthday... He’s very keen on birds, you know.”

“A bird,” said Mr Bellow. “A bird. And what kind of bird, what particular species of birds, have you got in mind, madam?”

“Well, I, er..., I don’t really know,” said the lady in the Tyrolean hat. “What about a canary?”

“I wouldn’t touch canaries at this time of the year,” said Mr Bellow, shaking his head sorrowfully. “I wouldn’t touch them myself. And I would be a dishonest man if I sold you a canary, madam.”

“Why at this time of the year?” asked the lady, obviously impressed.

“It’s a very bad time of the year for canaries,” said Mr Bellow. “Bronchial trouble, you know.”

“Oh,” said the lady. “Well, what about a budgerigar?”

“Now, I wouldn’t advise those either, madam. There’s a lot of psittacosis around,” said Mr Bellow.

“A lot of what?” inquired the lady.

“Psittacosis, madam. You know, the parrot’s disease. Most of the budgerigars have got it at this time of the year. It’s fatal to human beings, you know. I had an inspector from the Ministry of Health only the other day, come to check on mine. He said they were sure to get it sooner or later, so I couldn’t possibly sell you one of mine.”

“Well, what bird would you suggest, then?” said die woman, getting rather desperate.

“Actually, madam, it’s a very, very bad time of the year to sell birds,” said Mr Bellow. “They’re all in moult, you see.”

“Then you wouldn’t advise me to get a bird?” she said. “How about something else, like a... like a white mouse, or something similar?”

“Ah, well, I’m afraid you’d have to go somewhere else, madam. I’m afraid I don’t deal in them,” said Mr Bellow.

“Ah,” she said. “Oh. Well, I suppose I can always go to Harrods.”

“A very fine emporium, madam,” said Mr Bellow. “A very fine emporium indeed. I am sure they will be able to satisfy your wants.”

“Well, thank you so much,” she said. “Most kind of you.” And she left the shop.

When the door closed Mr Bellow turned and looked at me.

“Good afternoon,” I said.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said. “And what can I have the pleasure of doing for you?”

“Well, actually, I came to see whether you had any tubifex,” I said. “I work at the Aquarium and we’ve run out of tubifex.”

“At the Aquarium, eh? With that fellow Romilly?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“Well, well,” said Mr Bellow. “And what makes you think that I would have tubifex? I deal in birds.”

“That’s what Mr Romilly said, but I thought there was just a chance that you might have some, for some reason or other, and so I thought I’d come and see.”

“Well, it so happens that you’re right,” said Mr Bellow. “Come with me.”

He led me through the door at the back of the shop and into the small and untidy but comfortable sitting-room. It was quite obvious, from the look of the chair and sofa covers, that the dog enjoyed them as much as Mr Bellow did. He led me through the back into a little paved yard where the plane trees from the churchyard hung over, and there was a small pond with a tap dribbling into it, and in the middle of it a plaster cupid standing on a mound of rocks. The pond was full of goldfish and at one end of it was a big jamjar in which was a large lump of tubifex. Mr Bellow fetched a jam jar and ladled some of the tubifex out into it. Then he handed it to me.

“That’s very kind of you,” I said. “How much do I owe you?”

“Oh, you don’t pay me for it,” said Mr Bellow. “Don’t pay me for it. Take it as a gift.”

“But... but it’s awfully expensive,” I said, taken aback.

“Take it as a gift, boy. Take it as a gift,” he said.

He led me back into the shop.

“Tell me, Mr Bellow,” I asked, “why are all the birds in your window labelled ‘SOLD’?”