Gerald Durrell - The Picnic and Suchlike Pandemonium

“How did I know, darling? You are silly . . . you haven’t changed a bit ,” she said untruthfully. “Besides, darling, I’ve seen you on television and your photos on the covers of your books, so naturally I would recognize you.”

“Well, it’s very nice to see you again,” I went on guardedly.

“Darling, it’s been simply an age ,” she said, “ far too long.”

She had, I noticed, divested herself of the bewildered-looking gentleman.

“Sit down and have a drink,” I suggested.

“Of course, sweetie, I’d love one.” She seated herself, willowy and elegant, at my table. I beckoned the waiter.

“What are you drinking?” she asked.

“Brandy and soda.”

“Ugh!” she cried, shuddering delicately. “How positively revolting . You shouldn’t drink it, darling, you’ll end up with halitosis of the liver.”

“Never mind my liver,” I said, long-sufferingly. “What do you want to drink?”

“I’ll have one of those Bonny Prince Charlie things.” The waiter stared at her blankly. He did not have the benefit of my early training with Ursula.

“Madam would like a Dubonnet,” I said, “and I’ll have another brandy.”

I sat down at the table and Ursula leant forward, gave me a ravishing, melting smile and seized my hand in both of hers.

“Darling, isn’t this romantic ?” she asked. “You and me meeting after all these years in Venice ? It’s the most romantic thing I’ve heard of, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” I said cautiously, “how’s your husband?”

“Oh, didn’t you know? I’m divorced.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” she explained. “It was better really. You see, poor dear, he was never the same after he got foot and mouth disease.”

Even my previous experience of Ursula had not prepared me for this.

“Toby got foot and mouth disease?” I asked.

“Yes . . . terribly ,” she said with a sigh, “and he was never really the same again.”

“I should think not. But surely cases of humans getting it must be very rare?”

“Humans?” she said, wide-eyed. “What d’you mean?”

“Well, you said that Toby . . .” I began, when Ursula gave a shriek of laughter.

“You are silly ,” she crowed. “I meant that all his cattle got it. His whole pedigree herd that had taken him years to breed. He had to kill the lot, and it seemed to affect him a lot, poor lamb. He started going about with the most curious women and getting drunk in night clubs and that sort of thing.”

“I never realized that foot and mouth disease could have such far-reaching effects,” I said. “I wonder if the Ministry of Agriculture knows?”

“D’you think they’d be interested ?” Ursula asked in astonishment. “I could write to them about it if you thought I ought to.”

“No, no,” I said, hastily, “I was only joking.”

“Well,” she said, “tell me about your marriage.”

“I’m divorced, too,” I confessed.

“You are ? Darling, I told you this meeting was romantic,” she said misty-eyed. “The two of us meeting in Venice with broken marriages. It’s just like a book , darling.”

“Well, I don’t think we ought to read too much into it.”

“What are you doing in Venice ?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said, unguardedly. “I’m just here for a holiday.”

“Oh, wonderful, darling, then you can help me,” she exclaimed.

“ No! ” I said hastily, “I won’t help you.”

“Darling, you don’t even know what I’m asking you to do ,” she said plaintively.

“I don’t care what it is, I’m not doing it.”

“Sweetie, this is the first time we’ve met in ages and you’re being horrid to me before we even start,” she said indignantly.

“I don’t care. I know all about your machinations from bitter experience and I do not intend to spend my holiday getting mixed up with whatever awful things you are doing.”

“You’re beastly ,” she said, her eyes brimming, blue as flax flowers, her red mouth quivering. “You’re perfectly beastly . . . here am I alone in Venice, without a husband, and you won’t lift a finger to help me in my distress. You’re revolting and unchivalrous . . . and . . . beastly .”

I groaned. “Oh, all right, all right, tell me about it. But I warn you I’m not getting involved. I came here for peace and quiet.”

“Well,” said Ursula, drying her eyes and taking a sip of her drink, “I’m here on what you might call an errand of mercy. The whole thing is fraught with difficulty and imprecations.”

“Imprecations?” I asked, fascinated in spite of myself.

Ursula looked around to make sure we were alone. As we were only surrounded by some five thousand junketing foreigners she felt it was safe to confide in me,

“Imprecations in high places,” she said, lowering her voice. “It’s something you must not let go any further.”

“Don’t you mean implications?” I asked, wanting to get the whole thing on to a more or less intelligible plane.

“I mean what I say,” said Ursula frostily. “I do wish you’d stop trying to correct me. It was one of your worst characteristics in the old days that you would go on and on correcting me. It’s very irritating, darling.”

“I’m sorry,” I said contritely, “do go on and tell me who in high places is imprecating whom.”

“Well,” she said, lowering her voice to such an extent that I could hardly hear her in the babble of noise that surrounded us, “it involves the Duke of Tolpuddle. That’s why I’ve had to come to Venice because I’m the only one Reggie and Marjorie will trust and Perry, too, for that matter, and of course the Duke who is an absolute sweetie and is naturally so cut up about the whole thing, what with the scandal and everything, and so naturally when I said I’d come they jumped at it. But you mustn’t say a word about it to anyone , darling, promise?”

“What am I not to say a word about?” I asked, dazedly, signalling the waiter for more drinks.

“But I’ve just told you,” said Ursula impatiently. “About Reggie and Marjorie and Perry. And, of course, the Duke.”

I took a deep breath: “But I don’t know Reggie and Marjorie and Perry or the Duke.”

“You don’t?” asked Ursula, amazed.

I remembered then that she was always astonished to find that you did not know everyone in her wide circle of incredibly dull acquaintances.

“No. So, as you will see, It is difficult for me to understand the problem. As far as I am aware, it may range from them all having developed leprosy to the Duke being caught operating an illicit still.”

“Don’t be silly, darling,” said Ursula, shocked. “There’s no insanity in the family.”

I sighed. “Look, just tell me who did what to whom, remembering that I don’t know any of them, and I have a feeling that I don’t want to.”

“Well,” said Ursula, “Peregrine is the Duke’s only son. He’s just eighteen and a really nice boy, in spite of it.”

“In spite of what?” I asked, muddled.

“Adulteration,” said Ursula, ominously and incomprehensibly.

I decided not to try to disentangle this one.

“Go on,” I said, hoping that things would become clearer.

“Well, Perry was at St Jonah’s . . . you know, that frightfully posh school that they say is better than Eton or Harrow ?”

“The one that costs ten thousand pounds a term without food? Yes, I’ve heard of it.”

“My dear, only the very best people’s children get sent there,” said Ursula, “it’s as exclusive as . . . as . . . as . . .”