Gerald Durrell - Fillets of Plaice

THE day was one of those breathless, clear, blue days that only Greece, of all countries in the world, can provide. The cicadas were zithering in the olive trees and the sea was a deeper blue, moving reflection of the sky. We had just finished a large and leisurely lunch under the twisted, pitted olives that grew almost down to the edge of the sea on one of the most beautiful beaches in Corfu. The female members of the party had gone down to bathe and left Larry and myself alone. We slouched there indolently, ferrying a giant, wicker-covered bottle of turpentine-like retsina between us. We drank and mused in silence. Anyone who thinks that when authors meet they indulge in witty exchanges and saucy badinage is sadly mistaken.

“This is a nice retsina,” said Larry at last, thoughtfully filling his glass. “Where did you get it?”

“From a little man who has a shop in one of those alleyways leading off St Spiridion Square. It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Very,” said Larry, holding the glass up to the light so that it glowed a pale old gold. “The last bottle I got from town tasted and looked like a urine sample from a mule. It probably was.”

“I’m coming this way to-morrow,” I said. “I’ll bring you a flagon if you like.”

“Hmmm,” said Larry. “Bring me a couple.”

Exhausted by the intellectual exchange, we filled our glasses and lapsed into silence again. The ants were foraging over the remains of our food. Tiny, black, busy ones, large, leggy, red ones, with their behinds cocked up like anti-aircraft guns. On the bark of the olive against which I was leaning there were flocks of curious larvae moving. Minute, fluffy creatures that looked like misshapen and rather dirty polar bears.

“What are you working on now?” Larry inquired.

I looked at him in surprise. We had an unspoken and unwritten law that we never discussed what we called Our Art with each other, lest it lead to dissension and vulgar abuse.

“I’m not working on anything at the moment, but I’ve got a sort of vague idea of something. As a matter of fact, I got the idea from reading Spirit of Place .”

Larry snorted derisively. Spirit of Place was a compilation of his letters to his friends, painstakingly amassed and edited by our old friend Alan Thomas.

“I’m surprised that it gave you any ideas at all,” said Larry.

“Well, it did. I thought of doing a kind of compilation thing. I’ve got a lot of material that I haven’t been able to use in a book. I thought of putting it all together and making a book out of it.”

“Good idea,” said Larry, pouring himself out another glass of retsina. “Never waste good material.”

He held his glass up to the light and admired the colour. Then he looked at me and his eyes twinkled mischievously.

“I tell you what,” he said. “You could call it Fillets of Plaice .”

And that is exactly what I have done.

IT had been a very long, hot summer even by Corfu standards. For several months no rain had fallen and from sunrise to sunset the sun glowered down upon the island out of a madonna-blue sky. Everything was parched and desiccated and the heat was intense. It had been rather an exhausting summer from our point of view. Larry, with characteristic generosity, had invited a large number of his artistic friends to stay. They came, in fact, in such droves that Mother was forced to employ two extra maids and she spent most of her time in our vast, gloomy, subterranean kitchen rushing from stove to stove to cook enough food to keep this army of playwrights, poets, authors and artists well fed and happy. Now we had just seen the last of them off and the family were relaxing on the balcony, sipping iced tea and looking out over the still, blue sea.

“Well, thank goodness that’s over,” said Mother, sipping her tea and straightening her glasses. “Really, Larry dear, I do wish you wouldn’t invite all these people. It’s been terribly exhausting.”

“Well, it wouldn’t have been exhausting if you’d organised it properly,” said Larry. “After all, they all wanted to help.”

Mother glared at him.

“Can you imagine that crowd down in my kitchen helping?” she asked. “It was bad enough at mealtimes, let alone having them under my feet in the kitchen. No, I want to have a peaceful time for the rest of the summer. I don’t feel I want to do anything. I feel absolutely exhausted.”

“Well, nobody’s asking you to do anything,” said Larry.

Are you sure you haven’t invited anybody else?” asked Mother.

“Not that I can think of,” said Larry carelessly.

“Well, if they come, they can just jolly well stay in hotels,” said Mother. “I’ve had enough.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting so belligerent about,” said Larry in a pained tone of voice. “I thought they were an awfully nice crowd.”

“You didn’t have to cook for them,” said Mother. “I feel I just don’t want to see that kitchen again. I just feel I’d like to go somewhere and get away from it all.”

“That’s a jolly good idea,” said Larry.

“What?” Mother inquired.

“Getting away from it all.”

“Getting away where?” asked Mother suspiciously.

“Well, how about a boat trip to the mainland?” Larry suggested.

“By Jove, that’s an idea!” said Leslie.

“What a good idea!” said Margo. “Do let’s do that, Mother. Ooh, I know! We could go over there to celebrate your birthday.”

“Well,” said Mother uncertainly, “I don’t know about that. Whereabouts on the mainland?”

“Oh, we just hire a benzina,” said Larry airily, “and sort of float down the coast, stopping where we want to. We can take enough food for two or three days and just loll about, have fun, relax.”

“Well, it sounds very nice,” said Mother. “I suppose Spiro could arrange a boat?”

“Oh, yes,” said Leslie, “Spiro will do all that.”

“Well,” said Mother, “I must say it would make a change, wouldn’t it?”

“There’s nothing like sea air when you’re feeling a bit jaded,” said Larry. “Bucks you up no end. And we could perhaps take a few people along to sort of stimulate us, liven us up a bit.”

“Now, not more people,” said Mother.

“Well, I didn’t mean more people,” Larry explained. “I meant Theodore, for example.”

“Theodore wouldn’t come,” said Margo. “You know he’s prone to seasickness.”

“Well, he might,” said Larry. “And then there’s Donald and Max.”