Gerald Durrell - The Picnic and Suchlike Pandemonium

“Oh, my God, it’s Reggie,” said Ursula. “How did he know they were in Venice ?”

“It’s all right, they’re not here ,” I pointed out.

“But they will be in a minute,” wailed Ursula. “I’ve arranged to meet them and the Duke here. What shall I do? Quick, darling, think of something.”

Whether I liked it or not it seemed inevitable that I was going to get embroiled in this whole ridiculous saga. I took a deep draught of wine to steady myself and rose to my feet as Reggie, more by good luck than good management, arrived at our table.

“Reggle, darling,” cried Ursula, “what a lovely surprise. What are you doing in Venice ?”

“ ’Lo, Ursula,” said Reggie, swaying gently and having difficulty in focusing his eyes and enunciating with clarity, “amin Ven . . . Vennish to kill a dirty rat . . . a dirty loushy little rat, thass what I’m in Vennish for . . . thass what, see?”

Not only was Reggie a large man, built on the lines of an all-in wrestler, but he had a large pithecanthropic face with a straggling beard and moustache. He was partly bald and wore his hair at shoulder length. To add to this singularly unattractive appearance he was wearing a bright ginger, ill-fitting tweed suit, a scarlet roll-top pullover and sandals. Nevertheless, he did look quite capable of killing young Perry if he could get hold of him, and I began to give serious thought to the problem of luring him out of the restaurant before the other protagonists arrived.

“Reggie, darling, this is a friend of mine, Gerry Durrell,” said Ursula, breathlessly.

“Pleeshtermeetyer,” said Reggie, holding out a hand like a Bayonne ham and wringing mine in a vice-like grip.

“Do join us for a drink?” I suggested and Ursula gave me a warning look. I winked at her.

“Drink,” said Reggie throatily, leaning heavily on the table. “Thash what I want . . . a drink . . . sheveral big drinks . . . all in a big glash . . . hunereds and hunereds of drinks . . . I’ll have a double whishky and water.”

I got him a chair and he sat down heavily. I beckoned the waiter and ordered whisky.

“Do you think you ought to drink any more?” asked Ursula, unwisely. “It seems to me you’ve had rather a lot already, darling.”

“Are you surghesting I’m drunk?” asked Reggie ominously.

“No, no,” said Ursula, hastily, realizing her error. “I just thought perhaps another drink wouldn’t be a very good idea.”

“I,” said Reggie, pointing a finger the size of a banana at his chest so that we should be in no doubt as to whom he was referring, “I’m as jober as a sudge.”

The waiter arrived with the drink and placed it in front of Reggie.

“Drink, thash what I want,” said Reggie, lifting the glass somewhat unsteadily. “Here’s death to all miser . . . miserubbubble creeping little arish . . . arishtocratic pimps.”

He drained the glass and sat bath with a look of satisfaction on his face. “Lesh have another one,” he suggested cheerfully.

“Why don’t we toddle along to the Piazza San Marco and have another drink there?” I suggested smoothly.

“Ooo, yes, what a good idea,” chimed in Ursula.

“I’m not narrow minded,” said Reggie earnestly. “I don’ mind where I drink.”

“Right, San Marco it is,” I decided, beckoning the waiter for the bill.

Before he could bring it, however, we were (as Ursula would, no doubt, have put it) hit by a bolt from the blue. I heard her give a despairing squeak of alarm, and turned to find a tall, thin, rather aristocratic gentleman at my elbow, who looked not unlike a grey praying mantis in a Savile Row suit and shoes that had obviously been made for him at Lobb’s. In addition he was wearing an old Etonian tie, and had a triangle of Irish linen handkerchief, the size of a rabbit’s scut, peeping out of his breast pocket. He had silver grey hair, a silver grey face and a silver grey monocle in one silver grey eye. This, I decided, could only be the Duke of Tolpuddle.

“Ursula, my dear child, I am so sorry to be late, but my wretched vaporetto broke down. I do apologize,” he said, beaming at Reggie and me, exuding well-bred charm, secure in the knowledge that, with the blue blood that flowed in his veins, he would always be sure of a welcome, however late he was.

“Oh, oh . . . er . . . oh, don’t mention it,” said Ursula faintly.

“And who are your friends?” asked the Duke, benignly, ready to treat Reggie and I as if we were members of the human race. I realized, with delicious satisfaction, that the Duke and Reggie did not know each other. I sat back and beamed at Ursula, who gave me a despairing look out of her huge, hunted blue eyes.

“Do introduce us, darling,” I said.

Ursula glared at me.

“Well,” she said at length, “this is an old friend of mine, Gerry Durrell and this is . . . and this is . . . er . . . this is Reggie Montrose.”

The Duke stiffened, and his benign expression slipped for a brief moment. Then he straightened up and screwed his monocle more firmly into his eyes, preparing himself to do the decent thing.

“Whoes thish?” enquired Reggie, focusing the Duke with difficulty.

Ursula looked at me desperately. I shrugged. There was, after all, nothing I could do to fend off the crisis.

“Whoes thish blighter?” asked Reggie, pointing a banana finger at the Duke.

“This is . . . a . . . this is . . . er . . . the Duke of Tolpuddle,” said Ursula in a small voice.

It took a moment or so for the news to sink into Reggie’s brain cells through the layers of alcohol, but it got there eventually.

“Tolpuzzle? Tolpuzzle?” he said. “D’you meantershay tnish ish the father of that little bashtard?”

“I say,” said the Duke, looking about the restaurant in the furtive fashion of an English gentleman, hating any sort of altercation in public. “I say, old man, steady on, what? No cause for that sort of language in front of ladies.”

Reggie rose slowly and unsteadily to his feet and waggled an enormous finger under the Duke’s aquiline nose.

“Don’ you tell me what language to use,” he said belligerently. “Don’ you go giving me advish! Why don’ you go and give advish to that little bashtard fart you shired, if indeed you did shire him, becaushe from where I’m shtanding, you don’ look ash if you could shire a mentally retarded Chihuahua.”

To my relief he sat down again, rather heavily, and for a moment I thought he was going to topple the chair over backwards. With an effort he managed to right it. The Duke had gone a dull red. It must have been irritating to know that Reggie, however badly behaved, was after all the plaintiff and that his son was the guilty party.

“I think,” said the Duke, bringing to bear the centuries of aristocratic breeding that was his birthright, “I think we ought to sit down and talk about this in a civilized manner, and not descend to vulgar abuse.”

“Frog’s ovaries,” said Reggie, loudly and clearly.

“Reggie, darling, please behave,” said Ursula.

“Who?” asked Reggie, as earnestly as one seeking knowledge from a sage, “who does this old fart think he ish, eh?”

“Do sit down and join us, sir,” I said heartily.

Ursula gave me a look that would — if I had not been enjoying myself so much — have withered me root and branch.

“Thank you,” said the Duke, icily, “but there does not seem to be a chair, and your friend is making it more than apparent that I am, to say the least, de trop .”

“I’ll get a chair for you,” I said hospitably, and beckoned the waiter. A chair being procured the Duke sat down rather gingerly, as if expecting it to give way under his weight.