Gerald Durrell - Fillets of Plaice

“Hasn’t he any spirit of fun?” I inquired.

“He hasn’t any spirit of fun about anything,” said Martin vehemently. “And anyway, I don’t blame him. Anyone falling into that load of muck couldn’t possibly treat it with merriment.”

“I do see your point,” I said. “Have some more beer.”

“The trouble is,” said Martin, “that this was not the first time that I’d made mistakes of that sort. There are several things I did when I was an A.D.O. which I prefer not to tell you about, and that’s why it took me so long to work up from being an A.D.O. to a D.O. After this awful lavatory thing my next posting was to Umchichi, and you know what that’s like.”

“Dear God,” I said, “I’ve never been there but I’ve heard about it.”

Umchichi was the sort of Devil’s Island to which all naughty D.O.’s and A.D.O.’s were sent when they were in disgrace. It consisted of a lot of leprous Africans and more mosquitoes than anywhere else on the whole west coast of Africa.

“Fascinating though these revelations are,” I said, “I don’t really see what this is all about.”

“But that’s what I was telling you as I was coming down the hill?” explained Martin. “He’s coming through on a tour of inspection. He arrives in three days’ time so I must have your help.”

“Martin,” I said, “much as I love you, I am not a social hostess.”

“No, no, old boy, I know,” he said, “but if you could just back me up a bit.”

This cri de coeur was impossible to refuse. All the white population of Mamfe and ninety-nine per cent of the African population loved Martin dearly.

“I must give this some thought,” I said.

We sat in silence while Martin twitched and perspired.

Presently I shouted, “Pious, pass more beer for the D.O. please.”

When the beer had been served I leaned forward and fixed Martin with a piercing eye.

“This,” I said, “is your only salvation. We have a woman in our midst.”

“A woman?” said Martin, puzzled, “What woman?”

“Mary,” I said, “your A.D.O.’s wife, in case you hadn’t remembered. Now women are good at this sort of thing. We also have McGrade (he was the Public Works Department man in charge of mending bridges, building roads and similar uninteresting things). We have Girton (he was the United Africa Company man, who spent his time selling Manchester cloth to the Africans and beer and tinned goods to the white population). Now, surely between all of us we can get something done.”

“Dear boy,” said Martin solemnly, “I shall be for ever, in your debt. What a brilliant suggestion.”

“Now, the first thing to do,” I said, “is to have a look at your house.”

“But you’ve been there often,” said Martin in surprise. “You’ve been up several times for chop and any number of times for drinks.”

“Yes,” I said, “but I’ve never seen anything other than your main living-room and your veranda.”

“Oh, I see what you mean,” he said. “Yes, of course. Well, you’d better come up and see it now.”

“I’ll bring Pious,” I said, “because I’ll lend you him for the evening. He’s far better than that stupid lout you’ve got and he can really put on Government House type service. That steward of yours is liable to drop the soup in the D.C.’s lap.”

“Oh, God!” said Martin in an agonised tone of voice, “don’t even suggest such a thing.”

So taking Pious with us, we went up to the D.O.’s house, which was perched high on a bluff overlooking the river. It was a very handsome house, with thick walls and huge rooms, for it had been built in the time when the Cameroons had been a German colony. The Germans knew how to build for the heat so what little breeze there was the house received, and the massive walls made its interior as cool as it was possible to be in a place like Mamfe. On the way up the hill I explained to Pious what the problem was.

“Now,” I said, “this is very important and we all go help the D.O. as well as we can.”

“Yes, sah,” said Pious grinning happily, for he always felt I spent far too much time looking after my animals and not nearly enough letting him show off his prowess as a steward.

When we got there I examined the living-room and the veranda with great attention. They were spacious and quite pleasantly furnished by bachelor D.O. standards.

“I think you ought to take that calendar off the wall,” I said to Martin, “for a start.”

“Why?” he said, “I thought she was awfully pretty.”

“Martin,” I said, “if the D.C. sees nude women hanging all over your living-room, he is going to get some very peculiar ideas about you, so take it down.”

Pious, who had been following this with close attention, took down the calendar of a woman in a voluptuous pose who was so obviously a mammal that it almost embarrassed me.

“Now, his bedroom,” I said.

The bedroom, again, was large and contained a big double bed with a mosquito net.

“Pious,” I said, “you go look the bed to make sure it no go break.” Giggling happily to himself, Pious crawled round the bed on hands and knees examining every nut and bolt.

“Now,” I said to Martin, “we’ll both bounce up and down on top of it.”

We did and the bed responded well.

“Well, that’s alright,” I said. “I don’t think there’s anything in here that will do him any damage. Now, where are you going to feed him?”

“Feed him?” said Martin, puzzled.

“Yes, feed him,” I said impatiently. “You’re going to feed him while he’s here, aren’t you?”

“Well, on the veranda,” Martin said.

“But haven’t you got anything else?” I asked.

“Well, there’s the dining-room.”

“Well, if you’ve got a dining-room for God’s sake use it. After all, you want to give him the best treatment possible. Where is this dining-room?”

He took me to the living-room, threw open two massive wooden doors and there was a splendid dining-room with a table long enough to seat at least ten people. It was beautifully polished but, naturally, as Martin had never used the dining-room, the whole thing was covered in dust, as were the rather handsome but heavy wooden chairs. From the ceiling, down the whole length of this eight-foot table hung what in India is called a “punka”. It is, in fact, a giant fan. The backbone of this one, as it were, was made out of a long length of bamboo some four or five inches in diameter and from it hung down a long fringe of dried palm fronds some four feet in length. From the centre of the bamboo ran a string through a series of little pulleys across the ceiling and out through a hole in the wall which led to the kitchen quarters. The idea was that you engaged a small boy to pull the string so that the whole fan waved to and fro over the table, thus at least occasionally allowing you a gust of warm air in the midst of your meal.

“But this is absolutely splendid,” I said to Martin. “He’ll be most impressed with this.”

“I suppose he might,” said Martin. “I’d never have thought about it. I never use the damn’ thing. You see, I would feel so lonely sitting here.”

“What you want is a wife, my boy,” I said in a fatherly tone.

“Well, I do try,” said Martin, “every time I go on leave. But as soon as they hear where I am, they break off the engagement. In fact, there was an awfully nice girl called Molly whom I met on my last leave but, unfortunately, one of her uncles had been to Mamfe and the damned old fool told her about it in the worst possible terms and so it came to nothing.”

“Never mind,” I said. “Persevere. You might find a woman stupid enough to marry you in the first place and live here one day.”