Read Marrying Off Mother Online
Authors: Gerald Durrell
I decided I was cold and lonely, so I would go back to the hotel and write until it was time for lunch. I sat in the cocktail bar, all glitter and chrome, and had another Guinness. I wrote assiduously for a while, then I read the paragraph I had written. It leered evilly at me in the way first paragraphs do, when all the words have got together and are telling you that no matter
what
you do they are going to make sure you don't like them; nor are you going to be any more successful with the next paragraph. Mentally I ran through my fairly extensive repertoire of bad language in English, Greek, Spanish and French â my only claim to being quadrilingual. Then I ordered a double brandy. It was a mistake. Lager, Guinness and brandy are uplifting things on their own but consumed, as it were, in an omelette, they have a depressant effect. The handsome Italian barman, Luigi (whom I was to get to know better later on), took one look at my gloomy face and moved tactfully down to the other end of the bar and polished glasses assiduously. He had known the brandy was a mistake. I was just wondering which form of suicide was the least painful when Ludwig materialized at my elbow.
âDid you have a pleasant morning, sir?' he asked, looking at me anxiously.
I laid down my pen and drained my brandy.
âIf,' I said carefully, âyou mean did I enjoy revisiting the scenes of my youth and being made to feel approximately eighty years old, the answer is no.'
âYou are not eighty years old?' he queried in astonishment. âYou look much younger.'
âThank you,' I said. âAs a matter of fact, if I avoid mirrors, I can pretend I am a handsome and well-preserved forty, whereas honesty compels me to admit that I am in a much older and more decrepit condition.'
âWell,' said Ludwig, determined to repair any damage he might have done to my morale, âyou do not look it.'
âThank you,' I said. âHave a drink.'
âThank you,' he said. âI will have a gin.'
I ordered a gin and, in a spirit of bonhomie, another brandy. We toasted each other.
âGin,' I observed, âis very bad for you. Why do you risk certain death by drinking it?'
A worried look spread over Ludwig's face.
âGin? Is bad?' he asked anxiously. âWhy?'
âDon't you read the
Lancet?'
I asked in simulated astonishment.
âWhat is lancet?' he asked.
âThe greatest medical journal in the world,' I said. âTells you everything . . . every new discovery . . . gives instructions to doctors. You know, how to pour boiling pitch over an amputated leg stump . . . that sort of thing. All the doctors read it.'
âSo,' said Ludwig, âit is a sort of doctors' magazine?'
âYou could call it that,' I said, wondering what the BMA would think of this description. âBut of course, it only has pictures of arteries and glands and leprosy and so forth. No nudes or pornographic stuff, really, except that some of the text goes pretty close to the knuckle, if you'll pardon the anatomical allusion.'
âWhat does the magazine say about gin?' asked Ludwig, regarding his glass with suspicion.
âWell,' I said, âit tends to make you bald, for one thing.'
His hand fluttered nervously up to stroke his carefully cultivated widow's peak.
âAnd then it gives you bad breath, it rots your teeth, and you get severe attacks of housemaid's knee,' I concluded.
âWhat is housemaid's knee?' he asked.
âWell, housemaids would get that,' I said. âYou would probably get under-manager's knee, which is the same but more painful.'
âWhen did you discover this?' asked Ludwig.
âQuite recently. Have another drink.'
âThank you. I will have a lager,' he said. âLager is good, no?'
I sighed. My German had not a sense of humour or, if he had, it was lying dormant. Perhaps I could, by careful dowsing, uncover the bubbling springs of merriment.
âDon't take any notice of me,' I said. âI like to joke a lot.'
âJoke,' said Ludwig seriously, as if it was a word that he was unfamiliar with. âAh, yes, it is good to joke; one cannot be serious all the time. Joking makes one laugh.'
I sipped my brandy and contemplated my new acquaintance. He was not unattractive looking, with wide, soft, earnest blue eyes but with the faint air of a nervous rabbit. He gave me the impression that, without actually doing so, he was constantly looking over his shoulder for an imaginary enemy, or, perhaps, a germ.
âMay I call you Ludwig?' I asked. âI am called Gerry.'
âWith pleasure,' he said, and smiled at me beguilingly and gave a tiny bow. I decided to test him out.
âTell me, Ludwig,' I asked, âwho, in this hotel, do I complain to?'
A look of consternation spread over his face.
âComplain?' he asked. âYou want to complain?'
His fingers twitched round his glass as though his worst fears had been realized.
âI mean,' I explained, âif I want to complain, who do I complain to?'
âYou tell me your complaint,' he said eagerly. âI will do what you want.'
âLook,' I said patiently, âsuppose I don't like the colour of the carpet in my room, who would I complain to?'
âI can change the furniture,' he said, eagerly, pacifyingly. âBut the carpet is fixed to the floor. But I could move you to a room with a different coloured carpet tomorrow.'
âI don't want to change. I like the colour of my carpet.'
âBut you said . . .' he began.
âI was joking about the carpet,' I explained.
He had the look of someone who has just escaped from under the wheels of a fast-moving vehicle.
âJoking,' he said. âAh, yes, joking.' He laughed with nervous relief.
âHowever,' I said, âthere is the shower.'
His relief evaporated and his nervousness returned. âThe shower? What is wrong with the shower?' he asked anxiously.
âI am not insured against being blinded by a jet of scalding hot water every time I turn it on,' I explained. âAlso, it only points in one direction, and it is tedious to have to stand out in the hallway to get the full benefit of it.'
âThis is another joke?' he enquired hopefully.
âAlas, no,' I said, mournfully. âThis morning I was hit between the eyes with a jet of hot water of such ferocity and heat that I almost telephoned reception for a guide dog to get me down to breakfast.'
âI will have it fixed immediately,' he said and, gulping down his drink, he sped away like a tumbleweed of exposed nerve endings.
I did not see him again until late that evening. Unwisely, perhaps, I was celebrating the eve of my birthday with brandy, a liquid which can make your brain crystal clear, as though illuminated by some strange fire, but it can also make your tongue loquacious and unwise. I was sitting in the gigantic lounge, silent and deserted, endeavouring to write, when he suddenly materialized in an unnerving way in front of me, the thick, soft carpets having muffled his footsteps like snow.
âHello,' he said, gazing at me earnestly. âYou are sitting up late.'
âI can't sleep and so I am writing,' I said. âPress the bell and a strange night porter will appear like a genie out of a bottle, bearing brandy for me and whatever you want.'
He pressed the bell and sat down opposite me, regarding me with a slightly worried expression.
âYou write a lot,' he observed.
As I had been scowling at the one sentence I had written in the last half hour, while trying to think what to follow it with, I greeted this observation with exasperation. I slammed my notebook shut.
âYes,' I said, âI write a lot. Unfortunately, the number of foreigners in Bournemouth is affecting my style.'
âStyle? What is?' he enquired.
âMy writing.'
âIt is affected by foreigners?' he asked, puzzled.
âNaturally,' I said. âAny proper Englishman is affected by foreigners, don't you know that? Why the Almighty didn't make everyone an Englishman defeats me.'
âBut how foreigners affect you?' he asked enquiringly.
âJust because they're not English,' I said. âLook here, I go out into the streets, and what do I see? English men and women? No, a lot of Japs and Chinese, Iranians, Abyssinians and Basutolanders. Then I come back to the hotel and what do I discover? Englishmen? No. A filthy Italian barman named Luigi, who looks as though his great-great-grandfather was Machiavelli. A cohort of waiters who are all filthy Spaniards or filthy Italians or filthy Portuguese â and I have no doubt that there is a filthy French frog lurking somewhere, reeking of garlic.'
âBut I am a foreigner,' said Ludwig.
âJust what I mean,' I said. âYou're a filthy Hun. It's carrying this Common Market thing too far. Soon Britain will be so full of filthy foreigners that I'll be forced to go abroad to enjoy the English.'
He gazed at me for a long moment, and then laughed.
âFilthy Hun,' he repeated, smiling broadly. âNow I know you joke.'
I sighed.
âYes,' I admitted. âI am joking.'
âWhat kind of books do you write?' he asked.
âSexy novels,' I explained. âNovels about sex maniacs raping and plundering their way through hotels like this.'
There was a moment's pause and then he smiled.
âYou are again joking, I can tell,' he said, with satisfaction.
The night porter appeared, and before Ludwig could say anything, I ordered two large brandies. He looked shocked and was about to protest, when I held up my hand.
âCelebration,' I said, glancing at the clock.
âCelebration?' he asked. âWhat for?'
âIn one minute, it will be midnight,' I said, âand then it will be my birthday. Jollity, gaiety, and all that sort of stuff. I should stand well back if I were you; in all probability, I shall turn into a pumpkin or a werewolf, or something.'
âYour birthday?' said Ludwig. âReally? You are not joking?'
âNo, in one minute's time I will have fifty-one glorious misspent years lying behind me.'
The porter brought the drinks. Ludwig and I raised our glasses, and as the hands of the clock reached the twelve, Ludwig rose to his feet and toasted me.
âCongratulations and many other times,' he said.
Thank you,' I said, âand the same to you.'
We drank.
âYou look worried,' he said, looking worried for me.
âWell, wouldn't you be?' I enquired.
âBut why?' he asked.
âWell, here I am, fifty-two and so far nothing has happened to me.'
âBut you have only just become fifty-two,' said Ludwig earnestly. âYou can't expect things to happen at once.'
âWhy not?' I asked. âWhy shouldn't a dark and voluptuous lady in a see-through nightie suddenly rush into the lounge and ask me to save her from a mad bull?'
âIn the hotel?' asked Ludwig. âHow would a bull get in?'
âBy the lift,' I said. âOr maybe it could sneak in, disguised as a chambermaid, and lurk in the lady's bedroom ready to attack her.'
âYou are joking again,' said Ludwig, with immense satisfaction, as though he had caught me out cheating at cards. I sighed.
âTell me, Ludwig,' I asked, âwhat made you leave all the bubble and gaiety in Germany to come to Bournemouth? Is the money better?'
âNo, no,' he said, âbut in Germany all they do is work, all day, and in the evening they are too tired to do anything. They have no fun.'
âNo joking?' I asked, amazed.
âNo,' said Ludwig, âthey are too tired.'
âSo you escaped to England?'
âYes, I like England very much,' said Ludwig.
We sat in silence for a bit while I thought moodily of the piece I was writing, which refused to come right.
âYou are looking worried again,' said Ludwig, anxiously.
âNo. Only my bloody writing won't come right,' I explained. âThat's all. It's called author's constipation. It will pass.'
He looked at me in a slightly embarrassed fashion.
âTomorrow is my day off,' he said. âI have a Mercedes car.'
I pondered this apparently disconnected statement and wondered which of us had drunk the most brandy.
âSo?' I asked, cautiously.
âI thought that perhaps, since it was your birthday and you are alone in the hotel, you might like a drive,' he explained, blushing slightly.
I sat up.
âWhat a splendid idea! Do you really mean it?' I asked, touched by his kindness.
âOf course,' he said, his eyes shining at my obvious enthusiasm.
âI tell you what,' I said. âYou come and have lunch with me and then we'll zoom off. Have you ever seen Corfe Castle or the Purbecks?'
âNo,' said Ludwig. âSince my girlfriend, Penny, left, I don't go out much.'
âGood,' I said, âit's a date. You come and pick me up at twelve and we'll go and have a drink and a good meal and then go and beat up the Purbecks.'
So, punctually at twelve, we met in the hall. Ludwig looked somehow undressed in an open-necked shirt without his bow tie, and a gay sports jacket instead of his formal black coat, but this flamboyant disguise made him no whit the less earnest. We walked down through the Pleasure Gardens to the hotel which, in my opinion, served the nearest approach to good French food in Bournemouth, the Royal Bath Buttery. En route, we went into a pub where the barman, an Irishman, with a bland face but whose dark eyes held the faintest glow in their depths, like a firefly in a velvety black night, had led me to believe that he had found the world a humorous place.
Ludwig took a long time to choose a drink. He wouldn't have gin, for as he explained to the barman, it gave one housemaid's knee. The barman's eyes flicked over me briefly, and I winked. The glow in his eyes deepened and he became appreciative.