Gerald Durrell - Fillets of Plaice

His sharp little blue eyes fastened on me.

“Because they are sold,” he said.

“But they’ve been sold for ages. Ever since I’ve been coming down this alley. And that’s a good two months. Doesn’t anybody ever come and claim them?”

“No, I just... keep them, well, for them, until they’re able to have them. Some of them are building their aviaries, constructing cages, and so forth and so forth,” said Mr Bellow.

“Did you sell them when it was the right time of year?” I asked. A faint flicker of a smile passed over Mr Bellow’s face.

“Yes, indeed I did,” he said.

“Have you got other birds?” I asked.

“Yes, upstairs,” he said. “Upstairs.”

“If I come back another day when I’ve got more time, can I see them?”

Mr Bellow gazed at me thoughtfully and stroked the side of his chin.

“I think that might be arranged,” he said. “When would you like to come?”

“Well, Saturday’s my half day,” I said. “Could I come then? Saturday afternoon?”

“I’m normally closed on a Saturday,” said Mr Bellow. “However, if you’ll ring the bell three times, I’ll let you in.”

“Thank you very much,” I said. “And thank you for the tubifex. Mr Romilly will be very grateful.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Mr Bellow. “Good day to you.”

And I went out and made my way down the alley and back to the shop.

For the next couple of days I thought very deeply on the subject of Mr Bellow. I did not believe for one moment that the birds in his window were sold, but I could not see the point of having them labelled as such. Also, I was more than a little puzzled by his obvious reluctance to sell a bird to the woman in the Tyrolean hat. I determined that on Saturday I would do my best to prise the answer to these secrets from Mr Bellow himself.

When Saturday came I made my way down the alleyway and arrived at Mr Bellow’s shop sharp at two o’clock. The notice on the door said “We regret that we are closed”. Nevertheless, I pressed the bell three times and waited hopefully. Presently Mr Bellow opened the door.

“Ah,” he said. “Good afternoon to you.”

“Good afternoon, Mr Bellow,” I said.

“Do come in,” he said hospitably.

I went in and he locked the shop door carefully after me.

“Now,” he said, “you wanted to see some birds?”

“Yes, please,” I said.

He took me out through his living-room and up a very tiny rickety staircase. The top part of the shop consisted of, as far as I could see, a minute bathroom, a bedroom and another room which Mr Bellow ushered me into. It was lined from floor to ceiling with cages and they were full of birds of all shapes, sizes, colours and descriptions. There were groups of tiny vivid little seed-eaters from Africa and Asia. There were even one or two of the gorgeous Australian finches. There were parakeets, green as leaves, and Red Cardinals that were as crimson as royal robes. I was fascinated. Mr Bellow proved to be much abler at his job than Mr Romilly, for he knew the name of each and every bird and its scientific name as well, where it came from, what its food preferences were, and how many eggs it laid. He was a mine of information.

“Are all these birds for sale?” I asked, fixing my eyes greedily on a Red Cardinal.

“Of course,” said Mr Bellow, and then added, “But only at the right time of year.”

“What’s all this about the right time of year?” I asked, puzzled. “Surely if you’re selling birds you can sell them at any time of the year?”

“Well, some people do,” said Mr Bellow. “But I have always made it a rule never to sell at the wrong time of the year.”

I looked at him and I saw that his eyes were twinkling.

“Then when is the right time of the year?” I asked.

“There is never a right time of year as far as I am concerned,” said Mr Bellow.

“You mean you don’t sell them at all?” I asked.

“Very rarely, said Mr Bellow. Only occasionally, perhaps to a friend.”

“Is that why you wouldn’t let that woman have a bird the other day?”

“Yes,” he said.

“And all those birds in the window marked ‘SOLD’, they aren’t really sold, are they?”

Mr Bellow gazed at me, judging whether or not I could keep a secret.

“Actually, between you and me, they are not sold,” he admitted.

“Well, then how do you make a profit?” I asked.

“Ah,” said Mr Bellow, “that’s the point. I don’t.”

I must have looked utterly bewildered by this news for Mr Bellow gave a throaty chuckle and said,

“Let’s go downstairs and have some tea, shall we? And I’ll explain it to you. But you must promise that it will go no further. You promise, now?”

He held up a fat finger and waved it at me.

“Oh, I promise!” I said. “I promise.”

“Right,” he said. “Do you like crumpets?”

“Er..., yes, I do,” I said, slightly bewildered by this change of subject.

“So do I,” said Mr Bellow. “Hot buttered crumpets and tea. Come... Come downstairs.”

And so we went down to the little living-room where Mr Bellow’s retriever, whose name, I discovered, was Aldrich, lay stretched, sublimely comfortable, across the sofa. Mr Bellow lit a little gas ring and toasted crumpets over it and then buttered them quickly, and when he had made a tottering, oozing pile of them, he placed them on a little table between us. By this time the kettle was boiling and he made the tea and set out thin and delicate china cups for us to drink it out of.

“Do you like milk?” he inquired.

“Yes, please,” I said.

“Sugar?”

“No, thank you,” I said.

We sipped our tea and then he handed me a crumpet, took one himself and sank his teeth into it with a sigh of satisfaction.

“What... what were you going to tell me about not making a profit?” I asked.

“Well,” he said, wiping his hands and his mouth and his moustache fastidiously with his handkerchief, “it’s rather a long and complicated story. The whole of this lane — it’s called Potts Lane, by the way — once belonged to an eccentric millionaire called Potts. He was what would be known nowadays, I suppose, as a socialist. When he built this line of shops he laid down special rules and regulations governing them. The people who wanted the shops could have them on an indefinite lease and every four years their rent would come up for revision. If they were doing well, their rent was raised accordingly; if they were not doing so well, their rent was adjusted the opposite way. Now, I moved into this shop in 1921. Since then I have been paying five shillings a week rent.”

I stared at Mr Bellow disbelievingly.

“Five shillings a week?” I said. “But that’s ridiculous for a shop like this. Why, you’re only a stone’s throw away from Kensington High Street.”

“Exactly,” said Mr Bellow. “That is exactly the point. I pay five shillings a week, that is to say one pound a month rent.”

“But why is the rent so ridiculously small?” I asked.

“Because,” he said, “I make no profit. As soon as I discovered this section in the lease I immediately saw that it would provide me with a convenient loop-hole. I had a little money put by — not very much, but enough to get along on. And what I really wanted was a place to live where I could keep my birds. Well, this provided me with the ideal opportunity. I went round to see all the other people in Potts Lane and explained about this clause to them, and I found that most of them were in a similar predicament as myself; that they had small amounts of money to live on, but what they really wanted was a cheap abode. So we formed the Potts Lane Association and we clubbed together and we got ourselves a very good accountant. When I say ‘good’ I don’t mean one of these wishy-washy fellows who are always on the side of the law; those are no good to man nor beast. No, this is a very sharp, bright young man. And so we meet once every six months or so and he examines our books and tells us how to run at a loss. We run at a loss, and then when our rents come up for revision they either remain static or are slightly lowered.”