Gerald Durrell - The Talking Parcel

“Ahoy,” roared Parrot. “Ahoy there, Desdemona, ahoy.” The singing ceased and there was silence.

“Ahoy,” roared Parrot again. “It’s me, Parrot.”

Still there was silence. Then, suddenly, right next to the dinghy, the weeds parted and an enormous Mermaid made her appearance, slightly out of breath.

She did not look at all like Penelope’s idea of a mermaid, for she must have weighed easily three hundred pounds. She had vast quantities of bright blond hair that fell in ringlets all over her shoulders and chest. Her eyes, which were large, circular, and bright periwinkle blue, had vast quantities of eye shadow on the lids and black false eyelashes, as thick as hedges. Her plump hands were beautifully manicured, the nails painted a bright cyclamen pink, and in one of them she held a golden sickle and in the other a large silver mirror.

“Did I hear a man calling for help?” she inquired in a deep, husky voice, fluttering her eyelashes so hard that Penelope thought they might fall off. “A man, no doubt, of blue blood and ancient lineage, calling upon me for succor?”

“No,” said Parrot, “it was me. How are you, Des?”

“Oh,” said Desdemona coldly. “Oh, it’s you , Parrot. How simply ripping it is to see you again. I do wish, by the way, that you would not refer to me in that coarse, vulgar way. My name is Desdemona and I’ll thank you to use it.”

“Righto,” said Parrot. “Let me introduce you—Penelope, Peter, Simon—Miss Desdemona Williamson Smythe-Smythe- Browne, Head Mermaid.”

The mermaid laid her massive arms on the side of the dinghy, causing it to tip up at a dangerous angle, and shook hands graciously with each of the children in turn.

“Charmed to meet you, I’m sure,” said Desdemona, flutter­ing her eyelids. “Such handsome boys and such a pretty girl. No tails of course, but don’t let that worry you, it’s not your fault. I expect you’re terribly well connected, with all sorts of dukes and duchesses and lords in your family? I can see it in your faces, aristocrats, that’s what.”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Penelope.

“Oh, I am sure they’re there if you search for them,” said Desdemona. “Take me, for example. Well, I mean to say, you can tell I am well connected, can’t you? One doesn’t like to mention those things for fear of being thought a snob. No, just one’s natural, aristocratic bearing tells people you’re—well, you know, a cut above them.”

“Exactly,” said Penelope, trying not to smile.

“My whole family is well connected,” said Desdemona, “on both sides. Do you know, one of my aunts by marriage was waved at by Christopher Columbus? My father’s uncle’s sister’s cousin, for many years—I am told—received letters from no less a person than Lord Nelson hisself, letters of the most lov­ing nature.”

“Look, Des,” said Parrot impatiently. “Can’t we leave your family history alone until some other time?”

“My dear Parrot,” said Desdemona with dignity. “I am sorry, I’m sure, if I’m boring you. It’s very seldom I get the chance to talk to people of culture and refinement, and I am sure that they are interested, and even if they weren’t they’re far too well bred to say so, unlike you, what’s behaving as common as dirt.”

“Why, I don’t mind hearing about your family,” said Parrot cheerfully. “It’s just that we’re in an awful hurry and this weed’s slowing us down. Could you get some of your wenches to cut us a path and give us a push? It’s a matter of life and death, old girl, otherwise we wouldn’t worry you.”

“Well,” said Desdemona, “seeing as how it’s an emergency, I will certainly ask my young ladies if they would assist you in your predicament. However, I would be glad if you would call me by my correct name and not ‘old girl’ in that disgustingly familiar fashion. We Mermaids of good connection can’t be too careful about our good names, and the use of that expression might lead people to suppose that you and I were on more friendly terms than what we are.”

“All right, Miss Williamson Smythe-Smythe-Browne,” said Parrot in exasperation. “Anything you like, but just get a res­cue party.”

“Common as common, some of them round here,” said Des­demona in a low voice to Penelope. “Not like you and me.” She gave Peter and Simon a sparkling smile, waved a fat hand, and sank back into the weed bed and disappeared with scarcely a ripple.

“Drat this delay,” said Parrot irritably, pulling his watch out from under his wing and looking at it. “We’re hours behind. That means we’ll really have to get a move on when we get out of this weed.”

Quite soon Desdemona resurfaced and with her emerged eight Mermaids of much the same age and shape. Some had yellow hair like Desdemona’s, others had scarlet hair, and the hair of some was dyed an electric blue.

“Young ladies,” said Desdemona in her rich husky voice, “I know you will agree that it is a very great honor to have here with us people what are as well connected as what we are. I’m sure I speak for you all when I say welcome to the cultured and aristocratic company of Lady Penelope and her cousins what are lords and such in their own right.”

“ ’Ere,” said Ethelred suddenly, “wot about me, then?”

“You, what about you?” asked Desdemona.

“Well, I’m a Polish Count, I am,” said Ethelred, “and come from a long and distinguished line of Counts, I do.”

“You?” said Desdemona in astonishment. “You don’t look like a Count.”

“ ’Course I don’t,” said Ethelred. “I was changed in me cradle, wasn’t I, see?”

“Fascinating, quite fascinating,” said Desdemona doubtfully. “You must tell me all about it. But first, young ladies, let us rescue our noble cargo. Now, all together: heave-o, and away we go.”

Displaying much more agility than one would have expected from Mermaids of such ample figures, Desdemona’s eight young ladies started scything a path through the weeds. Des­demona herself swam to the stern, leant her fat arms on it, while propelling the dinghy with her tail, and settled down for a good gossip.

“When I was a gal,” she confided to Penelope, “before we came and settled in Mythologia, I used to spend a lot of my time in the sea off Brighton.”

“Brighton?” said Peter. “Simon and I spent our summer hol­idays there last year.”

“Did you?” said Desdemona. “Lovely place. Always got such a nice class of person there, if you know what I mean. You know, my aunt, on my father’s side that is, she was swimming there one day, and you’ll never guess who came out of one of those bathing machines.”

“Who?” asked Simon.

“King George the Fourth,” said Desdemona. “Oh yes, His Royal Highness hisself. All dressed up in a lovely striped bathing suit he was, my aunt said, and wearing a woolly hat to keep his royal head dry, bless him; and he was wearing beach shoes on his royal feet, so that they wouldn’t get cut on the stones. Well, he’d hardly got up to his waist in water when he lost one of his shoes. Such goings-on as you’d never believe, my aunt said. King George shouting and roaring, and all the courtiers and equerries in their land clothes diving like mad things to find the shoe.”

“And what happened?” asked Penelope, fascinated.

“They didn’t find it,” said Desdemona. “But when they’d all gone, my aunt went and had a look, and she found it. Yes, and she’s got it to this very day in a little glass case—the very beach shoe what was on his Royal Highness’s foot. What do you think of that ?”