Gerald Durrell: The Talking Parcel

Simon glanced over his shoulder. A few hundred yards away a long, low sandbank stuck out from the beach, forming a tiny bay. “How about there?” he suggested. “Let’s anchor there, by the sandbank.”

They rowed into the bay, anchored the dinghy in the still waters, and climbed out onto the sand. They put up the um­brella (which cast a patch of shade the size of a mushroom) and Penelope opened three bottles of lemonade. They lay there and drank the lemonade thirstily. Then, drugged by the heat and exhausted by their rowing, the two boys fell asleep, their heads pillowed on their arms.

Penelope finished her lemonade and dozed for a while, and then decided to climb to the top of the sand dune. The sand was almost too hot to walk on, but she reached the top of the dune. Ahead the beach stretched to the horizon, it seemed, but in the distance it was so shimmering with heat haze she couldn’t really make out anything. She was just about to return to the welcome shade of the umbrella when she noticed the thing in the water.

It was floating shoreward, propelled by tiny ripples created by a baby breeze that had sprung up. At first she thought it was a log of wood. Gradually, it was washed in onto the shore just below where Penelope stood, and she could see it was a large, brown paper parcel tied with purple cord. She was about to run down the sand dune to investigate, when the parcel spoke.

“What ho,” said the parcel, in a squeaky sort of voice. “What ho, land ho! By Jove, and about time too. All this upsy-downsy, upsy-downsy stuff is detrimental to my innards.”

Penelope stared down at the parcel disbelievingly. It looked like a large, perfectly ordinary parcel, standing about three feet high and measuring some two feet across. It was shaped rather like an old-fashioned beehive. “Seasickness is a scourge,” the parcel went on. “My great-grandmother suffered so much from it that she was frequently seasick while having a bath.”

“Who on earth is it talking to?” thought Penelope. “It can’t be talking to me.”

Just at that moment another voice came from the parcel. A faint, sweet, tinkling voice, like the echo of a sheep bell. “Oh, do shut up about your grandmother and seasickness,” it said ir­ritably. “I’m just as sick as you. What I want to know is, what we do now?”

“We have arrived,” said the squeaky first voice, “thanks to my brilliant navigation. Now we wait to be rescued.”

The parcel, Penelope had decided, was much too small to contain a human being, let alone two human beings, and yet there were undeniably two voices coming from it. The whole thing was very creepy. Penelope thought that she would feel happier if she had Peter and Simon to help solve this mystery with her, so, turning, she ran down the dune toward the um­brella where the boys were sleeping.

“Peter, Simon, wake up, wake up,” hissed Penelope, in a whisper, shaking them. “Wake up, it’s very important.”

“What’s the matter?” asked Simon, sitting up and yawning sleepily.

“Tell her to go away,” mumbled Peter. “Want to sleep, too hot for playing games.”

“I’m not playing games,” whispered Penelope indignantly. “You must wake up. I’ve found something most peculiar on the other side of the sandbank.”

“What have you found?” asked Simon, stretching himself.

“A parcel,” said Penelope. “A large parcel.”

“Good heavens,” groaned Peter. “Is that all you’ve woken us up for?”

“What’s so unusual about a parcel?” asked Simon.

“Have you ever found a parcel that talks?" asked Penelope. “It’s not the sort of thing that’s happened to me very often.”

“Talks?” spluttered Peter, wide awake now. “Talks? You must be imagining things. You’ve got sunstroke.”

“A talking parcel?” said Simon. “You must be joking.”

“I’m not joking, and I haven’t got sunstroke,” said Penelope angrily. “And what’s more, it talks in two voices.”

The boys stared at her. “I say, Penny,” said Simon uneasily, “are you sure you are not imagining things?”

Penelope stamped with vexation. “Of course I’m not,” she whispered vehemently. “You’re both so stupid. It’s a parcel with two voices and it’s talking to itself. If you don’t believe me, come and see.”

Rather reluctantly, for they still felt that Penelope might be pulling their legs, the boys followed her up the sand dune. When they reached the top, she put a finger to her lips and said, "Sh . . ." Then she got down and crawled the rest of the way.

Presently the three were peering over the top of the dune. At the base of the dune lay the parcel. Tiny wavelets were break­ing around it, and the boys stared in amazement, for the parcel had now started to sing to itself in two separate voices.

Moon-carrot pie, moon-carrot pie,

It’ll liven you up, bring a gleam to your eye.

Oh, a cow in a manger, a pig in a sty They all love their slices of Moon-carrot pie.

Moon-carrot tart, moon-carrot tart,

It’ll stir up your blood, and give strength to your heart. The donkey, the pony, the horse with its cart They all love to munch at their Moon-carrot tart.

Moon-carrot stew, moon-carrot stew,

There’s nothing quite like it, from all points of view.

The pigeon and turkey, to name but a few Just cannot get on without Moon-carrot stew.

“There you are,” whispered Penelope triumphantly. “What did I tell you?”

“It’s incredible,” said Peter. “What do you think it is? A couple of dwarfs?”

“They would have to be very small dwarfs to fit in that,” said Penelope.

“Well, we can’t tell what it is,” said Simon practically, “until we unwrap it.”

“How do you know it will like being unwrapped?” asked Peter thoughtfully.

“It did say something about being rescued,” said Penelope.

“Well, we’ll ask it,” said Simon. “At least it speaks English.” He strode down the sand dune, followed by the others, and approached the parcel, which sang on, oblivious of his pres­ence.

Moon-carrot jam, moon-carrot jam,

It’s really so good, it’s made me what I am.

The man of a hundred, the babe in its pram They can’t get along without Moon-carrot jam.

Simon cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but . . .”

Moon-carrot soup, moon-carrot soup,

It’s the stuff you must drink when you’re starting to droop. The duck in the duckpond, the hens in their coop They’re regular gluttons for Moon-carrot soup.

“Excuse me,” said Simon again, very much more loudly.

There was silence, as the parcel stopped singing.

“What was that?” asked the tinkly voice at last, in a faint, frightened whisper.

“A voice,” said the squeaky voice. “I’m almost certain it was a voice, unless, of course, it was a thunderstorm or a typhoon or a tidal wave, or maybe an earthquake, or . . .”

“EXCUSE ME!” said Simon, very loudly this time. “But do you want to be unwrapped?”

“There,” said the squeaky voice, “I told you it was a voice. A voice offering to unwrap us. How kind. Shall we say ‘Yes’?”

“Oh, yes,” said the tinkly voice. “We’ve been in the dark so long.”

“Very well,” said the squeaky voice. “We will allow you to unwrap us.”

The children gathered round the parcel. Simon pulled out his penknife and carefully cut the thick purple string that bound it, and then they started to pull off the paper. They found underneath what appeared to be a huge, quilted tea cozy, heavily embroidered with gold thread in a pattern of leaves and flowers.

“Um, do you want us to take off your—er, your—er . . . tea cozy?” asked Simon.