Gerald Durrell - The Picnic and Suchlike Pandemonium

The months of March and April of that year had been unprecedentedly dry and warm for England . The farmers, caught by surprise by the novelty of a situation which did not allow them to plead bankruptcy because of unusually late frost, rallied gamely and started talking about the horrors of drought. People who had, the previous autumn, informed us that the wonderful crop of berries and mushrooms were signs of a hard winter and an even harder summer to follow, now said that a surfeit of berries and mushrooms meant a fine spring the following year. To top it all, those paid Munchausens amongst us, the weather forecasters, predicted an extremely hot spell from April to August. The English, being gullible, got so overexcited at these predictions that many of them went to extreme lengths, like laying in suntan oil and deck chairs. In the whole length and breadth of Bournemouth, on the south coast, where we were living, there was not a pair of bathing trunks nor a sunshade to be had for love or money.

My family, all sun-worshippers, responded like buds to the warmth. They quarrelled more, they sang more, they argued more, they drank and ate more, because outside in the garden the spring flowers were in riotous sweet-scented bloom and the sun, though only butter-yellow, had real heat in it. But of all the family, it was my mother who was moved to a strange fervour by the meteorological forecasts that were being mooted about, principally, I think, because she heard these predictions from the radio.

To Mother, this made all the difference; the difference between reading your horoscope in a women’s magazine and having your future told by a genuine gypsy on the steps of his caravan. Throughout the war, the British government, including Churchill (when he was not otherwise engaged) lived inside our radio set for the express purpose of keeping Mother informed as to the progress of the war, and the imminence of the German invasion. They had never told her a lie and, more important, they had won the war. Now, of course, the war was over, but the integrity of the men who had lived in the radio was just as impeccable as it had been of yore. When she heard farmers talking of thousands of cattle dying of thirst or reservoirs drying up, anonymous doctors giving tips on how to avoid sun-stroke, and of beauty consultants advising on how to get a tan without withering away, Mother naturally concluded that we were in for a heat-wave that would make the West Indies seem like an extension of Alaska .

“I’ve thought of a wonderful way of welcoming Larry back,” she said one morning at breakfast.

Larry, who of his own volition had been absent from England for some ten years, was paying a flying visit in order to attend to the promotion of one of his books. In spite of a letter from him saying how the thought of returning to what he called Pudding Island revolted him, Mother was convinced that he was pining for the sights and sounds of “Merry England” after so many years as an exile.

“Who wants to welcome him?” asked Leslie, helping himself liberally to marmalade.

“Leslie, dear, you know you don’t mean that,” said Mother. “It will be so nice to have the family all together again after so long.”

“Larry always causes trouble,” said my sister Margo. “He’s so critical.”

“I wouldn’t say he was critical,” said Mother, untruthfully. “He just sees things a little differently.”

“you mean he wants everyone to agree with him,” said Leslie.

“Yes,” said Margo, “that’s right. He always thinks he knows best.”

“He’s entitled to his opinion, dear,” said Mother. “That’s what we fought the war for.”

“What? So that we’d all have to agree with Larry’s opinion?” asked Leslie.

“You know perfectly well what I mean, Leslie,” replied Mother, sternly. “So don’t try and muddle me up.”

“What’s your idea?” asked Margo.

“Well,” began Mother, “it’s going to be unbearably hot . . .”

“Who says so?” interrupted Leslie, disbelievingly.

“The wireless,” said Mother, crushingly, as though speaking of the Deiphic oracle. “The wireless says we are in for an unprecedented trough of high pressure.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Leslie gloomily.

“But it was on the wireless, dear,” explained Mother. “It’s not just a rumour — it came from the Air Ministry roof.”

“Well, I don’t trust the Air Ministry, either,” said Leslie.

“Neither do I,” agreed Margo. “Not since they let George Matchman become a pilot.”

“They didn’t?” said Leslie incredulously. “He’s as blind as a bat, and he drinks like a fish.”

“And he’s got B.O., too,” put in Margo, damningly.

“I really don’t see what George Matchman’s got to do with the weather on the Air Ministry roof,” protested Mother, who had never got used to the number of hares her family could start from a normal conversation.

“It’s probably George up there on the roof,” said Leslie. “And I wouldn’t trust him to tell me the time.”

“It’s not George,” said Mother firmly. “I know his voice.”

“Anyway, what’s your idea?” asked Margo again.

“Well,” continued Mother, “as the Air Ministry roof says we are going to have fine weather, I think we ought to take Larry out to see the English countryside at its best. He must have been missing it. I know when your father and I used to come home from India, we always liked a spin in the country. I suggest we ask Jack to take us out for a picnic in the Rolls.” There was a moment’s silence while the family digested the idea.

“Larry won’t agree,” said Leslie at last. “You know what he’s like. If he doesn’t like it, he’ll carry on terribly: you know him.”

“I’m sure he’ll be very pleased,” said Mother, but without total conviction. The vision of my elder brother “carrying on” had flashed across her mind.

“I know, let’s surprise him,” suggested Margo. “We’ll put all the food and stuff in the boot and just say we’re going for a short drive.”

“Where would we go?” asked Leslie.

“Lulworth Cove,” said Mother.

“That’s not a short drive,” complained Leslie.

“But if he doesn’t see the food, he won’t suspect,” said Margo triumphantly.

“After he’s been driving for an hour and a half; he’ll begin to,” Leslie pointed out. “Even Larry.”

“No, I think we’ll just have to tell him it’s a sort of a welcome home present,” said Mother. “After all, we haven’t seen him for ten years.”

“Ten peaceful years,” corrected Leslie.

“They weren’t at all peaceful,” said Mother. “We had the war.”

“I meant peaceful without Larry,” explained Leslie.

“Leslie, dear, you shouldn’t say things like that, even as a joke,” said Mother reprovingly.

“I’m not joking,” said Leslie.

“He can’t make a fuss if it’s a welcome home picnic,” put in Margo.

“Larry can make a fuss about everything,” replied Leslie with conviction.

“Don’t exaggerate,” said Mother. We’ll ask Jack about the Rolls when he comes in. What’s he doing?”

“Dismantling it, I expect,” said Leslie.

“Oh, he does annoy me!” complained Margo. “We’ve had that damn car for three months and it’s spent more time dismantled than mantled. He makes me sick. Every time I want to go out in it, he’s got the engine all over the garage.”