Gerald Durrell - Fillets of Plaice

“But can’t the people who own the property change the leases?” I asked.

“No,” said Mr Bellow, “that’s the beauty of it. I found out that by the terms of Mr Potts’s will these conditions have to stand.”

“But they must have been furious when they found out that you were only paying them a pound a month?”

“They were indeed,” said Mr Bellow. “They did their very best to evict me, but it was impossible. I got a good lawyer. Again, not one of the wishy-washy sort that thinks more of the law than he does of his customers. He soon put them in their place. They met with an equally united front from all the other shops in the lane, so there was really nothing they could do.”

I did not like to say anything because I did not want to hurt Mr Bellow’s feelings, but I felt sure that this story was a complete make-up. I had once had a tutor who lived a sort of schizophrenic existence and who used to tell me long and complicated stories about adventures that had never happened to him but which he wished had. So I was quite used to this form of prevarication.

“Well, I think it’s fascinating,” I said. “I think it was awfully clever of you to find it out.”

“One should always read the small print,” said Mr Bellow, wagging a finger at me. “Excuse me, but I must go and get Mabel.”

He went off into the shop and reappeared with the cockatoo on his wrist. He sat down and, taking the bird in his hands, laid it on its back. It lay there as though carved out of ivory, quite still, its eyes closed, saying “Hello, hello, hello”. He smoothed its feathers gently and then placed it on his lap where he tickled the feathers over its tummy. It lay there drowsing in ecstasy.

“She gets a bit lonely if I keep her out in the shop too long,” he explained. “Have another crumpet, my dear boy?”

So we sat and ate crumpets and chatted. Mr Bellow I found a fascinating companion. In his youth he had travelled widely round the world and knew intimately a lot of places that I longed to visit. After that I used to go and have tea with him about once a fortnight, and they were always very happy afternoons for me.

I was still disbelieving about his story of Potts Lane, so I thought I would conduct an experiment. Over a period of days I visited in turn each shop in the lane. When I went to Clemysira’s, for example, I went to buy a hat for my mother’s birthday. They were terribly sorry, said the two dear old ladies who ran it, terribly sorry indeed; I couldn’t have come at a worse time. They had just run out of hats. Well, had they got anything else, I inquired? A fur, or something? Well, no, as a matter of fact, they said, all the stuff they had in the shop was bespoken at the moment. They were waiting for a new consignment to come in.

When was my mother’s birthday? Friday week, I said. Oh, we think it will be in by then, they said; yes, we’re sure it will be in by then. Do come again.

Mr Wallet, the tobacconist, told me that he did not stock the brand of cigarettes I wanted. He also did not stock any cigars, nor did he stock any pipes. Reluctantly, he let me buy a box of matches.

I next went to the plumbers. I had called, I said, on behalf of my mother because there was something wrong with our cistern and could they send a man round to look at it?

“Well, now,” said Mr Drumlin, “how urgent is it?”

“Oh, it’s quite urgent,” I said. “We’re not getting any water into the lavatories or anything.”

“Well, you see, we’ve only got one man here,” he said. “Only one man and he’s out on a job... quite a big job. Don’t know how long it will take him... Maybe a day or two.”

“Couldn’t he come round and do a bit of overtime?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t think he’d like to do that,” said Mr Drumlin. “There’s a very good plumber in the High Street, though. You could go to them. They might have a man free. But I’m afraid I couldn’t guarantee anything, not for... oh, two or three days — at the earliest , that is, at the earliest .”

Thanking him, I left. I next went to William Drover, the estate agent. He was a seedy little man with glasses and wispy hair like thistledown. I explained that my aunt was thinking of moving to this part of London and had asked me, since I lived in the vicinity, if I would go to an estate agent and find out about flats for her.

“Flats? Flats?” said Mr Drover, pursing his lips. He took off his glasses and polished them, replaced them and peered round the shop as though expecting to find a flat hidden there.

“It’s an awkward time for flats,” he said, “a very awkward time. Lots of people moving into the district, you know. Most of them are snapped up before you have a chance.

“So you’ve got nothing on your books? No details that I could show to my aunt?” I said.

“No,” he said, “nothing at all. Nothing at all, I’m afraid. Nothing at all.”

“Well, how about a small house, then?” I asked.

“Ah, they’re just as bad. Just as bad,” he said. “I don’t think I have a single small house on my books that would suit you. I’ve got a ten-bedroomed house in Hampstead, if that’s any use?”

“No, I think that would be a bit big,” I said. “In any case, she wants to live in this area.”

“They all do. They all do. We’re getting crowded out. We’ll be standing shoulder to shoulder,” he said.

“Surely that’s good for business?” I inquired.

“Well, it is and it isn’t,” he said. “You get overcrowded and the tone of the neighbourhood goes down, you know.”

“Well, thank you very much for your help, anyway,” I said.

“Not at all. Not at all. Sorry I couldn’t help you more,” he said. I next went to the Pixies’ Parlour. They had quite an extensive menu but all they could offer me was a cup of tea. Most unfortunately — and they were terribly apologetic about it — their van, carrying all their supplies for the day, had broken down somewhere in North London and they were bereft of food of any description.

After this I believed Mr Bellow’s story about Potts Lane.

It was at about this time that another rather strange character appeared in my life. I had been working for some time with Mr Romilly and he trusted me implicitly. Periodically he would send me down to the East End of London to collect fresh supplies of reptiles, amphibians and tropical fish. These we got from the wholesalers, whereas, as I have explained, the farm (which really ran the shop) sent us all the freshwater stuff that we needed. I enjoyed these jaunts where, in gloomy, cavernous stores in back streets I would find great crates of lizards, basketfuls of tortoises and dripping tanks green with algae full of newts and frogs and salamanders. It was on one of these forays into the East End that I met Colonel Anstruther.

I had been sent down to Van den Goths, a big wholesaler who specialised in importing North American reptiles and amphibians, and I had been given instructions by Mr Romilly to bring back 150 baby painted terrapins — those enchanting little freshwater tortoises with green shells and yellow and red markings on their skins. They were each about the size of a half crown. We did quite a brisk trade in these for they were a good and simple pet to give a child in a flat. So I made my way down to Van den Goths and saw Mr Van den Goth himself, a great heavily-built man who looked like an orang-utan carved out of tallow. He placed my terrapins in a cardboard box with moss, and then I asked him if he would mind if I looked round.

“Help yourself,” he said. “Help yourself” And he lumbered back to his chair and picked up a Dutch newspaper which he was reading, stuck a cigar in his face and ignored me. I pottered round for some time examining some of the beautiful snakes that he had and became breathless with admiration over a crate full of iguanas, bright green and frilled and dewlapped like any fairytale dragon. Presently I glanced at my watch and saw to my alarm that I had over-stayed my time by at least half an hour. So, grabbing my box of terrapins, I said a hurried good-bye to Mr Van den Goth and left to catch the bus.