Gerald Durrell - Fillets of Plaice

The conversation had come to a complete halt during this operation. It was quite obvious that the D.C. was holding the floor and that nobody else could speak until he did. I sipped my drink reflectively and wondered what on earth I could have in common with the D.C. and indeed whether I was going to survive the evening with my mental faculties intact.

“Chin, chin,” said the D.C. as I raised the glass to my lips.

“Your very good health, sir,” I said.

The D.C. settled himself more comfortably in his chair, adjusted his glass on the arm of it, glanced round to see that he had a rapt audience and then began.

“As I was saying, Durrell, just before your late arrival, I’m extremely pleased that Bugler here has got this place apparently in perfect order. As you know, we chaps have to potter out occasionally just to make sure that the various areas are kept in order.” Here he gave the most uncharming chuckle and drank deeply from his glass.

“Awfully good of you to say so, sir,” said Martin.

He then saw Mary turning imploring, anguished eyes upon him. “But, of course,” he added hastily, “I couldn’t have done it without the aid of a splendid A.D.O.”

“I think you’re being too modest, Bugler,” said the D.C. “After all, A.D.O.s can be a help or a hindrance.”

“Oh, but I assure you that Standish is absolutely marvellous,” said Martin, making one of his sweeping gestures and knocking the large bowl of roasted peanuts into the D.C.’s tap.

“Sorry, sah,” came a chorus from Pious, Amos and the two small boys, who were standing waiting in the shadows like hunting dogs. They converged upon the D.C. and while muttering “Sorry, sah,” “Sorry, sah’, they swept the greasy peanuts from his clean trousers back into the bowl and removed it to the kitchen.

“I’m terribly. terribly sorry, sir,” said Martin.

“Oh, it’s just an accident,” said the D.C., looking at the grease stains on his trousers, “ could happen to anyone. But I must say you do seem to go in for this sort of thing, what? Where was that place I visited you?”

“Yes, and I’m awfully sorry about that,” said Martin, interrupting hurriedly, “but it was a complete misunderstanding you understand, sir. I assure you the lavatory here works perfectly.”

McGrade, Robin and Mary looked completely and utterly mystified by this conversation.

“Yes, well, as I was saying,” said the D.C., glancing down again at the oil stains on his pants, “I think that Bugler has done a very good job.”

He paused and drank.

“And of course,” he said, as an afterthought, leaning forward and bowing sanctimoniously to Mary, “aided by you and your husband, Bugler seems to have done awfully well. The roads and bridges seem to be in remarkably fine fettle.” He glanced at McGrade.

“Thank you, sir,” said McGrade with mock civility.

“And I understand,” continued the D.C., addressing Robin, “although of course your chaps don’t come under us chaps, that you managed to provide this excellent caviar. Remarkable to find such a thing in Mamfe.”

Robin gave a little bow. “I deeply appreciate your appreciation,” he said, “for as you well know, sir, caviar comes from the virgin sturgeon.”

“I think the whole thing is absolutely splendid,” said the D.C. “As a matter of fact, it is one of the best tours I’ve had so far, but don’t let it go any further, for it might hurt certain people’s feelings. Ha ha!”

We all laughed dutifully. I was watching the level of the gin in the D.C.’s glass because I had planned things with Pious, knowing that this sort of conversation could not go on interminably without driving us all mad. So at the precise moment that the D.C. drained the last drops from his glass, Pious appeared, all polished buttons, and said to Martin,

“Jesus say chop ready, sah.”

“Ah, chop,” said the D.C., slapping his stomach, “just what we all need, don’t you agree, little lady?” He gave Mary a rather arch glance.

“Oh, yes,” said Mary, flustered, “I think chop is awfully important, especially in this climate.”

“Actually,” said Robin, as we all got to our feet and walked towards the dining-room, “I have always been under the biological impression that chop was important in any climate.”

Fortunately, the D.C. didn’t hear this remark.

Martin seized me by the shoulder and whispered frenziedly in my ear,

“What about seating?”

“Put Mary at one end of the table and the D.C. at the other.”

“Oh, good,” he said. “And I’ve done something rather clever.”

“Oh, God,” I said, “what have you done now?”

“No, no,” he said, “it’s perfectly all right. But while you all were being so helpful I felt I had to contribute in some sort of way. I’ve got the punka to work and Amos’s son is out there to pull on the cord so at least we’ll have some fresh air in the room.”

“We’re obviously having a good effect on you, Martin,” I said. “By the time we’ve finished with you, you’ll be able to socialise like mad. Now go on ahead and make sure that everybody sits where they’re supposed to sit. As long as we get Mary at one end of the table and the D.C. at the other, you can spread the rest of us to look like a crowd.”

I must say the dining-room looked extremely impressive. The table and chairs glowed in the candlelight like freshly-husked chestnuts. Three candelabras ran down the centre of the table and the fourth was on the massive sideboard. Pious had done his job well. The cutlery and the china gleamed in the candlelight. If the D.C. wasn’t impressed by this, I thought, nothing would impress him.

We sat down and Pious, who had obviously got Amos and the D.O.’s small boy under control, passed drinks of our choice.

“By Jove,” said the D.C., glancing at the shining candelabras, polished table and the gently swinging punka, “you’re very well placed here, Bugler, aren’t you? Positive Government House, what?”

“No, no, sir,” said Martin hastily, obviously under the impression the D.C. thought he was spending too much money. “We don’t always eat like this. Normally we eat sort of bush fashion, if you know what I mean. But we felt this was a special occasion.”

“Quite right,” said the D.C. “I understand perfectly.”

Pious, with all the deference and decorum of a head waiter from Claridge’s, served small square chunks of porcupine on pieces of crisp toast.

“By Jove,” said the D.C., “what’s this?”

Martin, who by this time was in an acute state of nerves, was just about to say “porcupine” when Mary, in her calm, placid voice, said,

“Once you’ve eaten it we want you to guess. It’s a surprise.”

The porcupine, as I knew it would be, was excellent. The D.C. engulfed it with obvious enjoyment.

“Ha!” he said as he swallowed the last mouthful, “you can’t catch me — venison! Eh, what?”

The look of relief on Martin’s face almost gave the whole thing away but again Mary stepped into the breach.

“But how clever of you,” she said, “we thought you’d never recognise it since it’s been smoked and prepared in a special way.”

“Can’t catch me out on things like that,” said the D.C., preening himself. “Don’t forget I was an A.D.O. once and had to live in the bush and live rough. We used to feed off all sorts of things. These local antelopes are unmistakable, but I must admit this has been wonderfully smoked.”

“As a matter of fact,” I said, “it’s a thing that we do have occasionally and Martin was clever enough to find a small man down the road who has a special recipe for smoking and does it extremely well. So on the very rare occasions when we manage to get the venison, Martin is kind enough to distribute some so we can all enjoy it.”