Gerald Durrell - The Picnic and Suchlike Pandemonium

“Larry, dear, I do wish you wouldn’t shout like that,” complained Mother, mopping up the wine in her lap with her handkerchief. “It’s quite possible to say things in a calm way.”

“No, it isn’t!” said Larry, violently. “No one can keep calm in the face of this… this olfactory outrage!”

“What outrage, dear?” asked Mother.

“Do you know what you’re leaning against?” he asked. “Do you know what that back-rest is, that was chosen for you by your son?”

“What?” replied Mother, glancing nervously over her shoulder. “It’s a rock, dear.”

“It’s not a rock,” said Larry, with dangerous calm, “nor is it a pile of sand, a boulder, or a fossilized dinosaur’s pelvis. It is nothing remotely geological. Do you know what you and I have been leaning against the last half hour?”

“What, dear?” asked Mother, now considerably alarmed.

“A horse,” replied Larry. “The mortal remains of a ruddy great horse.”

“Rubbish!” said Leslie, incredulously. “It’s a rock.”

“Do rocks have teeth?” enquired Larry, sarcastically. “Do they have eye sockets? Do they have the remains of ears and manes? I tell you — owing either to your malevolence or stupidity, your mother and I will probably be stricken with some fatal disease.”

Leslie got up and went to have a look, and I joined him. Sure enough, from one end of the rug protruded a head which undeniably had once belonged to a horse. All the fur had fallen off and the skin, through a motion in the sea water, had become dark brown and leathery. The fish and gulls had emptied the eye sockets, and the skin of the lips was drawn back in a snarl displaying the tombstone-like teeth, a discoloured yellow.

“How damned odd,” said Leslie, “I could have sworn it was a rock.”

“It would save us all a considerable amount of trouble if you invested in some glasses,” remarked Larry with asperity.

“Well, how was I to know?” asked Leslie, belligerently. “You don’t expect a bloody, great, dead horse to be lying about on a beach, do you?”

“Fortunately, my knowledge of the habits of horses is limited,” answered Larry. “For all I know, it may have suffered a heart attack while bathing. This in no way excuses your crass stupidity in turning its rotten corpse into a chaise-longue for me and Mother.”

“Bloody nonsense!” said Leslie. “The thing looked like a rock. If it’s a dead horse, it should look like one, not like a damn great rock. It’s not my fault.”

“It not only looks like a dead horse, but it smells like one,” went on Larry. “If your nasal membranes hadn’t been, like your intellect, stunted from birth, you would have noticed the fact. The rich, ambrosial smell alone would have told you it was a horse.”

“Now, now, dears, don’t quarrel over the horse,” pleaded Mother, who had retreated up-wind and was standing with a handkerchief over her nose.

“Look,” said Leslie angrily, “I’ll bloody well show you.” He flung the cushions aside and whipped away the blanket to reveal the horse’s blackened and semi-mummified body. Margo screamed. Of course, when you knew it was a horse, it was difficult to see it as anything else, but to do Leslie justice, with its legs half-buried in the shingle and only its blackened, leathery torso showing, it could be mistaken for a rock.

“There you are!” exclaimed Leslie triumphantly. “It looks just like a rock.”

“It doesn’t remotely resemble a rock,” said Larry coldly. “It looks what it is — an extremely dead horse. If you mistook it for anything, one could only think it was one of the more senile members of the Jockey Club.”

“Are you going to spend all afternoon arguing over a dead horse?” asked Margo. “Really! You men make me sick.”

“Yes, Larry, dear,” said Mother, “let’s move away from it and find another spot to finish lunch.”

“Let’s send Leslie on ahead,” suggested Larry. “Maybe this time he could rustle up a cow or a couple of sheep. Who knows what other odoriferous farmyard trophies await us? A drowned pig would be a tasty addition to our menu.”

“Larry, do stop it,” said Mother firmly. “It’s quite bad enough having that smell, without you talking like that.”

“It’s not my fault,” answered Larry irritably, as we moved along the beach. “It’s Leslie’s. He’s the one who found that delicious, disintegrating Derby winner. He’s the Burke and Hare of Lulworth Cove. Why don’t you attack him?”

We moved further down the beach, and now, our appetites stimulated by the sea air, the lack of smell, and the quarrels that had grown out of the discovery of the dead horse, we attacked our victuals once again with relish. Presently, nicely sated with food, and having, perhaps, drunk a shade too much wine, we all fell asleep and slept long and soundly. It was owing to this that, none of us noticed the change in the weather. I was the first to awaken. At first I thought we had slept so long that it was late evening, for the whole of the bay was dark and gloomy, but a glance at my watch showed that it was only five o’clock. A quick look upwards and I saw why it appeared to be later. When we had gone to sleep, the sky had been a pale but bright blue, and the sea was sparkling, but now the sky was almost slate-coloured and the sea had turned a dark indigo in sympathy with it, and moved sullenly under sudden gusts and eddies of wind. Looking in the direction which the clouds were coming, I could see the horizon was as black as pitch, with shreds of lightning running through it, and to my ears came the not-too-distant rumble of thunder. Hastily, I gave the alarm, and the family sat up, bleary-eyed and half asleep. It took them a moment or so to assimilate the meteorological volte face that had taken place.

“Oh, dear,” said Mother, “and the Air Ministry roof did promise…”

“This is an awful country,” complained Larry. “Only a full-blooded masochist would enjoy living here. Everything in the place is a mortification of the flesh, from the cooking to the licensing laws, from the women to the weather.”

“We’d better get back to the car quickly. It’s going to teem down in a minute,” said Leslie.

Hastily, we bundled up our goods and chattels and boxes and bags, and made our way along the beach. Arguing about the dead horse had distracted us, and we had moved further round the bay than we had meant to. Now we had quite a long walk back to the car. Before we were half-way there, the rain started. A few fat drops hit us at intervals and then, as if the rain had been getting the range, the clouds above us seemed simply to open like a trap door and the rain fell in what can only be described as a solid blanket. Within seconds, we were all drenched to the skin. The rain was icy. With chattering teeth, we ran up the hill to the Rolls, where the next of our misfortunes became apparent. Jack, beguiled by the sunlight, had left the hood back so that the inside of the Rolls was awash.

“God damn it!” bellowed Larry, raising his voice above the roar of the rain, “does nobody use any intelligence around here?”

“How was I supposed to know it was going to rain?” asked Jack, aggrievedly.

“Because it always bloody does in this sponge of an island,” answered Larry.

Leslie and Jack were trying to get the hood up, but it soon became apparent that for some reason it was refusing to function.

“It’s no good,” panted Leslie at last, “we can’t shift it. We’ll just have to sit in the car and drive like hell to the nearest shelter.”

“Splendid!” said Larry. “I’ve always wanted to be driven in an open car through a monsoon.”

“Oh, stop moaning, for heaven’s sake,” snapped Leslie. We’re all going to get equally wet.”