Gerald Durrell - The Picnic and Suchlike Pandemonium

“Now, now, dear,” said Mother soothingly. People sneeze without having colds, you know.”

“Not in England,” said Larry. “The sneeze in England is the harbinger of misery, even death. I sometimes think the only pleasure an Englishman has is in passing on his cold germs.”

“Larry, dear, you do exaggerate,” said Mother. “Jack only sneezed once.”

Jack sneezed again.

“There you are!” said Larry, excitedly. “That’s the second time. I tell you, he’s working up for an epidemic. Why don’t we leave him here; he can easily hitch a lift back into Bournemouth, and Leslie can drive.”

“You can’t just leave him on the roadside, Larry, don’t be silly,” said Mother.

“Why not?” asked Larry. “The Eskimos put their old people out on ice-floes to be eaten by polar bears.”

“I don’t see why Jack has to be eaten by a polar bear just because you’re frightened of a stupid little cold,” exclaimed Margo, indignantly.

“I was speaking figuratively,” said Larry. “In this area, he’d probably be pecked to death by cuckoos.”

“Well, I’m not having him left, anyway,” said Margo.

At that moment, Jack emerged from under the bonnet of the car. His ample nose seemed to have grown to twice its normal size, and to have assumed the colouring of an over-ripe persimmon. His eyes were half closed and watering copiously. He approached the car, sneezing violently.

“Go away!” shouted Larry. “Take your filthy germs into the fields!”

“Id’s nod germs,” said Jack, endeavouring to enunciate with clarity. “Id’s by hay feber.”

“I don’t want to know the scientific name for it — just take it away!” shouted Larry. “Who the hell do you think I am? Louis Pasteur? Bringing your bloody germs to me.”

“Id’s hay feber,” Jack repeated, sneezing violently. “Dere must be some damn flower or udder growing here.” He glanced about balefully through streaming eyes and spotted the willows. “Ah!” he snarled, though a flurry of sneezes, “dad’s id, der bloody things.”

“I can’t understand a word he’s saying,” said Larry. “This cold’s unhinged what passed for his mind.”

“It’s his hay fever,” explained Margo. “The willows have started it up.”

“But that’s worse than a cold,” said Larry in alarm. “I don’t want to catch hay fever.”

“You can’t catch it, dear,” said Mother. “It’s an allergy.”

“I don’t care if it’s an anagram,” said Larry. “I’m not having it breathed all over me.”

“But it’s not infectious,” insisted Margo.

“Are you sure?” asked Larry. “There’s always a first time. I expect the first leper said that to his wife, and before she knew what was happening, she’d founded a colony, all ringing their bells and shouting ‘unclean’.”

“You do complicate things, dear,” said Mother. “It’s perfectly ordinary hay fever.”

“We muzt ged away from deze trees,” said Jack. He entered the car and drove us off at such a furious pace that we just missed hitting a large wagon of manure pulled by two giant Shire horses, which was coming round the corner.

“I don’t remember entering into any suicide pact with him,” cried Larry, clinging to the door.

“Not so fast,” said Margo. “You’re going too fast.”

“Air!” groaned Jack. “God to have air to ged rid of de pollen.” After a few miles of furious driving, accompanied by squeaks of alarm from Mother and Margo and admonitory roars from Larry, Jack had taken sufficient air through his nose to ease his affliction somewhat. We settled down to a more sedate pace.

“I should never have set foot in England again. I knew it,” complained Larry. “First it’s cold genus, then it’s hay fever, then a death-defying ride like something out of Ben Hur. When you get to my age, you can’t stand this sort of pace without getting a coronary.”

Just before lunchtime, we discovered that we were enmeshed in the maze of little lanes that led all over the headlands and the cliffs. In our efforts to try to find Lulworth Cove, we got ourselves thoroughly lost, but at last we followed a road that led down to a circular bay guarded by tall cliffs. The bay looked blue and serene in the sunshine, so we decided to stop and have lunch there. Apart from an elderly couple exercising their dog, the beach was deserted.

“How fortunate,” said Mother. “We’ve got the beach to ourselves. I was afraid this fine weather might bring out a lot of people.”

“Let’s walk half-way round the bay,” suggested Leslie. “It’s not very far, and you get a better view.”

Having all agreed to this plan, we parked the Rolls and, staggering under the burden of food and drink and rugs to sit on, made our way across the shingle.

“I must have something to sit against,” said Mother. “Otherwise I get terrible back-ache.”

“Yes, you must recline in a civilized manner,” agreed Larry, “otherwise you’ll get your viscera in a knot. It leads to ulcers and all sorts of things. Your guts rot and your food falls through into the stomach cavity.”

“Larry, dear, not just before we eat,” said Mother.

“How about leaning against the cliff?” suggested Margo.

“That’s a brain-wave,” said Mother. “Over there, in that sort of little sheltered nook.”

As she started across the shingle towards it, a fairly large chunk of the cliff came away and fell to the beach with a crash, to be followed by a hissing waterfall of sand.

“Thank you,” said Larry. “If you sit there, you sit alone. I have no desire to be buried alive,”

“Look, there’s a big, black rock in the middle of the beach,” said Leslie, “perfect for leaning against.”

He hurried ahead and reached the rock. He threw down the things be was carrying, draped the rock with the rug, padded it with cushions, and had a suitable seat for Mother to sink on to when she had staggered across the shingle to his side. Larry sat down beside her, and the rest of us spread more rugs and sat down, unpacking the vast array of food.

“There’s a very curious smell around here,” Larry complained, his mouth full of curry-puff.

“It’s the seaweed,” explained Leslie. “It always pongs a bit.”

“It’s supposed to be very healthy for you,” said Margo. “Anywhere that smells of seaweed is supposed to be good for the lungs.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that this smell was good for the lungs,” complained Mother. “It’s a bit . . . well, it’s a bit strong.”

“It comes in waves,” said Larry. “I suppose the wind is carrying it.”

“Oh, yes, I can smell it,” said Margo, closing her eyes and Inhaling deeply. “You can almost feel it doing your lungs good.”

“Well, it’s not doing my lungs any good,” exclaimed Larry.

“The wind will probably change in a minute and blow it the other way,” put in Leslie cheerfully, cutting himself a large piece of game pie.

“I do hope so. It’s a bit over-powering,” said Mother. We ate for some time in silence, and then Larry sniffed. “It seems to be getting stronger,” he observed.

“No, it’s just the way the wind blows it,” answered Leslie. Larry got to his feet and peered about.

“I don’t see any seaweed,” he said, “except right over there at the water’s edge.”

He came over to where we were sifting and sniffed again. Well, no wonder you’re not complaining,” he commented bitterly, “there’s hardly any smell over here. It seems to be concentrated where Mother and I are sitting.”

He went back to where Mother was sipping her wine and enjoying a Cornish pasty, and prowled around. Suddenly he let out such a cry of anguish and rage that everybody jumped, and Mother dropped her glass of wine into her lap “Great God Almighty, look!” roared Larry. “Just took where that bloody fool Leslie’s put us! No wonder we’re being stunk out; we’ll probably die of typhoid!”