Gerald Durrell - The Picnic and Suchlike Pandemonium

He made a hasty exit.

By now, I judged, the whole hotel would be throbbing, as a jungle throbs with talking drums, with the news of Havelock Ellis. I sipped my tea and waited expectantly. Within the hour, Gavin was back.

“Enjoy your tea?” he asked.

He’d never asked this before.

“Yes, thank you,” I said, and waited.

There was a pause while he juggled the tea tray dexterously on to one palm.

“Read any more, then?” he asked at last.

“A few pages.”

He blew out his cheeks and sighed.

“I suppose it’s a good book to read if you’ve got . . . well, problems?”

“Very soothing,” I said. “He treats everything sensibly, and doesn’t give you a guilt complex.”

“Yeah, well . . . that’s good. It’s bad to have a complex, isn’t it?”

“Detrimental. Very detrimental.”

Silence fell. He shifted the tray from his right hand to his left.

“Yeaa . . .” he said, thoughtfully. “I got a friend wot’s got a complex.”

“Really? What sort of complex?”

“Well, it’s sort of difficult to explain, like; he’s quite a good-looking fella, like . . . Well, Imeantersay, ’e’s not bad-looking, ya know. I mean, all the girls like ’im. In fact, to tell ya the truth, there’s, er, two of ’em wot’s come ta blows over ’im,” he said, with modest satisfaction. “Two of them Portuguese chambermaids . . . Yea, didn’t arf hurt each other. Pulled each other’s hair and punching each other. ’Ot tempered, these foreigners are, don’t ya think?”

“Very,” I said. “Is that your friend’s problem? Too many hot-blooded Portuguese girls to take to bed?”

“No, no! No . . . no . . . it’s not that. ’E don’t like ’em, see.”

“You mean, he’s got a girl-friend already?”

“No, no! Wot I’m saying . . . ’e don’t like girls, see?” he blurted out, desperately. “I mean ta say, ’e doesn’t like . . . well, you know . . . muckin’ about with ’em.”

“You mean he likes boys?” I asked.

He reddened.

“Well, no . . . I mean . . . well, ’e says ’e’s . . . you know, mucked about with a few boys and . . . well, ’e says . . .”

His voice trailed away uncertainly.

“He says he prefers them to girls?” I enquired.

“Well . . . yeah . . . sort of. That’s wot ’e says .”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. Does It worry him?”

“You mean, it’s all right being . . . sorta queer, like?” he asked.

“If you’re born like that, it’s no sin. You can’t help it, any more than you can help the colour of your eyes.”

“Oh,” he said, struck by this thought. “No . . . I suppose ya can’t really.”

“Would your friend like to borrow Havelock Ellis and see what he says about homosexuality?”

“I expect he would,” said Gavin, but slightly defensively. “I should think he probably would. I’ll . . . um, ask ’im, like, and let you know.”

“You wouldn’t like to take it now, just in case?”

“Well,” he said, his eyes fastened on the book I held out. “Well, I might just take it an’. . . if ’e doesn’t want to read it . . . well, I’ll . . . I’ll just bring it back. All right?”

“All right,” I said. “Tell him not to spill beer all over it.”

“Oh, no,” he said, as he made for the door with the book under his arm. “I won’t do that.”

The door closed behind my first patient.

On the fifth morning, Gavin brought my breakfast up to me. He entered the room jauntily.

“Well?” I asked. “Did your friend derive any comfort from the book?”

“My friend?” asked Gavin, blankly, “Yes. Your friend with the complex.”

“Oh, ’im . . . Yes, well . . . ’e said it was very interesting. I took a glance at it meself. Very interesting. Imeantersay, ’e writes about it . . . well, sensible. I mean, ’e doesn’t sorta say your a bloody poof, or anything.”

“As it should be,” I agreed, sipping my tea.

“Yeah,” said Gavin. “I’ll tell you wot, though — all of them receptionists aren’t arf worked up about that bit wot ’e says in there abaht lesbians.”

“You lent it to them?” I asked. “You realize that if the manager catches you, I shall be thrown out and you’ll lose your job for peddling pornographic literature.”

“Naw, ’e won’t catch me,” said Gavin, with fine scorn.

“Well, what did the receptionists say?” I enquired, wondering if it would ever be safe for me to venture downstairs again.

“Ya know Sandra? The blonde one? The one wot’s quite good looking? Well, she shares a flat with Mary . . . Mary, the one wot’s rather fat, with glasses. Well, after reading wot ’e says in that book, Sandra says she’s goin’ to get ’er own flat. She says she wondered why Mary always wanted to scrub ’er back in the bath, and now she knows, and she’s not ’aving none of that. Mary’s ever so cut up about it . . . crying all over the place and saying she’s not a lesbian. She says it’s very difficult for people to keep their own backs clean, and she’s only trying to be ’elpful; but Sandra says she’s got enough trouble with ’er boy-friends without ’aving Mary in the bath with ’er.”

“She’s got a point there,” I said, judiciously. “And what about the other two?”

“Aw, well, ol’ Miss ’Emps, she says she’d share a flat with Mary, cos she liked having ’er back scrubbed and didn’t see any ’arm in it. And Sandra said Miss ’Emps was tryin’ to seduce Mary, and so Miss ’Emps got ever so angry an’ said she’d rather have ’er back scrubbed by a girl than ’er front scrubbed by a man, which is wot Sandra seemed to like. So Sandra got livid and said she was just as much a virgin as Miss ’Emps, but she stayed that way ’cos she wanted to, while Miss ’Emps was virgin ’cos she ’ad to be. So none of ’em is speaking to each other now.”

“I’m not surprised,” I observed. “Don’t you think you ought to take them the volume on pure motherhood?”

“Naw, they’ll be all right,” said Gavin. “Does ’em good, a bit of a row; clears the air.”

“But it also deprives Mary of her one pleasurable activity,” I pointed out.

“She’ll be all right,” said Gavin. “They’re all going to a party tonight, so that’ll be OK for ’em.”

“Are you going to this party?” I asked, hoping for a firsthand report.

“Naw,” said Gavin, looking me in the eye with a certain pugnacity. “I’m goin’ out with me friend, Rupert.”

“Well, have a good time.”

“You bet I will,” said Gavin, as he swaggered from the room. Later that day, when I went to cash a cheque at the reception desk, they were all red-eyed and tight-lipped. I was treated with a frigid courtesy that would have intimidated a polar bear. However, Havelock had not yet completed the full cycle of havoc. Soon I had a steady flow of patients. There was the young porter, Dennis, a nice but regrettably unattractive Scots lad, made more so by two physical defects. He had a speech impediment and a fine and fiery relief-map of acne across his face, from which his round brown eyes peered shyly. He brought me a telegram and then stood fidgeting in the doorway.

“N-n-n-no reply, sir?” he asked.

“No thank you, Dennis.”

“Is there anything else I c-c-can g-g-get you, sir?”

“Not at the moment. Not unless you have an exceptionally pretty sister of loose morals.”

“N-n-n-no, sir. My sister’s m-m-married, sir.”

“Good for her,” I said, heartily. “It’s nice to know that the old institution’s still surviving. It’s as heart-warming as finding a dinosaur.”

“That b-b-b-book you lent Gavin, sir . . . Does it say much about m-m-marriage, sir?”