The Corfu Trilogy (15 page)

I found myself in an awkward position, for I dearly wanted one of the eggs to add to my collection; I did not like to take it while she was there, for fear that she might feel insulted and perhaps dig up the remaining eggs and eat them, or do something equally horrible. So I had to sit and wait patiently while she finished her snack, had a short doze, and then ambled off among the bushes. I followed her for some distance to make sure she did not turn back, and then hurried to the nest and carefully unearthed one of the eggs. It was about the size of a pigeon’s, oval in shape and with a rough, chalky shell. I patted the earth back over the nest so that she would never know it had been disturbed, and carried my trophy triumphantly back to the villa. I blew the sticky yolk out of it with great care, and enshrined the shell among my natural-history collection in a small glass-topped box of its own. The label, which was a nice blend of scientific and sentimental, read:
Egg of Greek Tortoise (Testudo græca). Laid by Madame Cyclops.

Throughout the spring and early summer, while I was studying the courtship of the tortoises, the villa was filled with an apparently endless stream of Larry’s friends. No sooner had we seen one lot off, and sighed with relief, than another steamer would arrive, and the line of taxis and horse-carriages would hoot and clatter their way up the drive, and the house would be filled once
more. Sometimes the fresh load of guests would turn up before we had got rid of the previous group, and the chaos was indescribable; the house and garden would be dotted with poets, authors, artists, and playwrights arguing, painting, drinking, typing, and composing. Far from being the ordinary, charming people that Larry had promised, they all turned out to be the most extraordinary eccentrics, who were so highbrow that they had difficulty in understanding one another.

One of the first to arrive was Zatopec, an Armenian poet, a short, stocky individual with a swooping eagle nose, a shoulder-length mane of silvery hair, and hands bulbous and twisted by arthritis. He arrived wearing an immense, swirling black cloak and a broad-brimmed black hat, riding in a carriage piled high with wine. His voice shook the house like a sirocco as he swept into it, his cloak rippling, his arms full of bottles. He scarcely stopped talking the whole time he stayed. He talked from morning till night, drinking prodigious quantities of wine, snatching forty winks wherever he happened to be, and rarely going to bed at all. In spite of his advanced years he had lost none of his enthusiasm for the opposite sex, and, while he treated Mother and Margo with a sort of creaking, antique courtesy, no peasant girl for miles was free from his attentions. He would hobble through the olive groves after them, roaring with laughter, shouting endearments, his cloak flapping behind him, his pocket bulging with a bottle of wine. Even Lugaretzia was not safe, and had her bottom pinched while she was sweeping under the sofa. This proved something of a blessing, as it made her forget her ailments for a few days, and blush and giggle kittenishly whenever Zatopec appeared. Eventually Zatopec departed as he had arrived, lying back regally in a cab, his cloak wrapped round him, shouting endearments to us as it clopped off down the drive, promising to return soon from Bosnia and bring some more wine for us.

The next invasion consisted of three artists, Jonquil, Durant,
and Michael. Jonquil looked, and sounded, like a cockney owl with a fringe; Durant was lank and mournful and so nervous that he would almost jump out of his skin if you spoke to him suddenly; by contrast, Michael was a short, fat, somnambulistic little man who looked like a well-boiled prawn with a mop of dark, curly hair. These three had only one thing in common, and that was a desire to get some work done. Jonquil, on striding into the house for the first time, made this quite clear to a startled Mother.

‘I didn’t come for no bleeding ’oliday,’ she said severely; ‘I came to get some work done, so I’m not interested in picnics and such, see?’

‘Oh… er… no, no, of course not,’ said Mother guiltily, as though she had been planning vast banquets among the myrtle bushes for Jonquil’s benefit.

‘Jus’ so long as you know,’ said Jonquil. ‘I didn’t want to upset nothing, see? I jus’ want to get some work done.’

So she promptly retired to the garden, clad in a bathing costume, and slept peacefully in the sun throughout her stay.

Durant, he informed us, wanted to work too, but first he had to get his nerve back. He was shattered, he told us, quite shattered by his recent experience. Apparently, while in Italy he had suddenly been seized with the desire to paint a masterpiece. After much thought he decided that an almond orchard in full bloom should give a certain scope to his brush. He spent considerable time and money driving about the countryside in search of the right orchard. At long last he found the perfect one; the setting was magnificent and the blooms were full and thick. Feverishly he set to work, and by the end of the first day he had got the basis down on canvas. Tired, but satisfied, he packed up his things and returned to the village. After a good night’s sleep he awoke refreshed and invigorated, and rushed back to the orchard to complete his picture. On arrival there he was struck dumb with horror and amazement, for every tree was gaunt and bare, while
the ground was thickly carpeted with pink and white petals. Apparently during the night a spring storm had playfully stripped all the orchards in the vicinity of their blossom, including Durant’s special one.

‘I vas stricken,’ he told us, his voice quivering, his eyes filled with tears. ‘I swore I vould never paint again… never! But slowly I am recovering my nerves… I am feeling less shattered… Sometime I vill start to paint again.’

On inquiry, it turned out that this unfortunate experience had taken place two years previously, and he had still not recovered.

Michael got off to a bad start. He was captivated by the colouring of the island, and told us enthusiastically that he would begin work on an immense canvas that would capture the very essence of Corfu. He could hardly wait to start. It was most unfortunate that he happened to be a prey to asthma. It was equally unfortunate that Lugaretzia had placed on a chair in his room a blanket which I used for horse-riding, there being no saddles available. In the middle of the night we were awakened by a noise that sounded like a troop of bloodhounds being slowly strangled. Assembling sleepily in Michael’s room we found him wheezing and gasping, the sweat running down his face. While Margo rushed to make some tea and Larry to get some brandy, Leslie opened the windows and Mother put Michael back to bed, and, since he was now clammy with sweat, tenderly covered him with the horse-blanket. To our surprise, in spite of all remedies, he got worse. While he could still speak, we questioned him interestedly about his complaint and its cause.

‘Psychological, purely psychological,’ said Larry. ‘What does the wheezing sound remind you of ?’

Michael shook his head mutely.

‘I think he ought to sniff something up… something like ammonia or something,’ said Margo. ‘It’s wonderful if you’re going to faint.’

‘Well, he’s not going to faint,’ said Leslie tersely, ‘but he probably would if he sniffed ammonia.’

‘Yes, dear, it is a bit strong,’ said Mother. ‘I wonder what could have brought it on… Are you allergic to something, Michael?’

Between gasps Michael informed us that he was only allergic to three things: the pollen of the lilac flowers, cats, and horses. We all peered out of the window, but there was not a lilac tree for miles. We searched the room, but there was no cat hidden anywhere. I indignantly denied Larry’s accusation that I had smuggled a horse into the house. It was only when Michael seemed on the verge of death that we noticed the horse-rug, which Mother had tucked carefully under his chin. This incident had such a bad effect on the poor man that he was quite unable to put a brush to canvas during his stay; he and and Durant lay side by side in deck-chairs, recovering their nerve together.

While we were still coping with these three, another guest arrived in the shape of Melanie, Countess de Torro. She was tall, thin, with a face like an ancient horse, crow-black eyebrows and an enormous cushion of scarlet hair on her head. She had hardly been in the house five minutes before she complained of the heat, and to Mother’s consternation and my delight, she caught hold of her scarlet hair and removed it, revealing a head as bald as a mushroom top. Seeing Mother’s startled gaze, the Countess explained in her harsh, croaking voice. ‘I’ve just recovered from erysipelas,’ she said; ‘lost all my hair… couldn’t find eyebrows and wig to match in Milan… might get something in Athens.’

It was unfortunate that, owing to a slight impediment due to ill-fitting false teeth, the Countess was inclined to mumble, so Mother was under the impression that the disease she had just recovered from was of a much more unlady-like character. At the first available opportunity she got Larry into a corner.

‘Disgusting!’ she said in a vibrant whisper. ‘Did you
hear
what she’s had? And you call her a friend.’

‘Friend?’ said Larry in surprise. ‘Why, I hardly know her… can’t stand the woman; but she’s an interesting character and I wanted to study her at close hand.’

‘I like that,’ said Mother indignantly. ‘So you invite that
creature
here and we all catch some revolting disease while you take notes. No, I’m sorry, Larry, but she’ll have to go.’

‘Don’t be silly, Mother,’ said Larry irritably; ‘you can’t catch it… not unless you intend to share a bed with her.’

‘Don’t be
revolting
,’ said Mother, glaring. ‘I won’t stand that obscene person in this house.’

They argued in whispers for the rest of the day, but Mother was adamant. Eventually Larry suggested asking Theodore out and getting his opinion on the matter, and to this Mother agreed. So a note was dispatched, asking Theodore to come out and spend the day. His reply accepting the invitation was brought by a carriage in which reclined the cloak-swathed form of Zatopec, who, it turned out, had drunk a farewell of prodigious size to Corfu, got on the wrong boat, and ended up in Athens. As by then he had missed his appointment in Bosnia, he had philosophically boarded the next vessel back to Corfu, bringing with him several crates of wine. Theodore turned up the next day, wearing, as a concession to summer, a panama instead of his usual Homburg. Before Mother had a chance to warn him about our hairless guest, Larry had introduced them.

‘A doctor?’ said Melanie, Countess de Torro, her eyes gleaming. ‘How interesting. Perhaps you can advise me… I’ve just had erysipelas.’

‘Ah-ha! Really?’ said Theodore, eyeing her keenly. ‘Which… er… treatment did you have?’

They embarked on a long and technical discussion with enthusiasm, and it was only the most determined efforts on Mother’s part that got them away from what she still considered to be an indelicate subject.

‘Really, Theodore’s as bad as that woman,’ she said to Larry.
‘I do
try
and be broad-minded, but there is a limit, and I don’t think things like that should be discussed at tea.’

Later Mother got Theodore alone, and the subject of the Countess’s disease was explained. Mother was then stricken with a guilty conscience at having misjudged the woman, and was immensely affable to her for the rest of the day, even telling her to take her wig off if she felt the heat.

The dinner that night was colourful and extraordinary, and I was so fascinated by the assembly of characters and the various conversations that I did not know which one to listen to with undivided attention. The lamps smoked gently and cast a warm, honey-coloured light over the table, making the china and glass glitter, and setting fire to the red wine as it splashed into the glasses.

‘But, dear boy, you have missed the meaning of it… yes, yes, you have!’ Zatopec’s voice booming out, his nose curving over his wine glass. ‘You cannot discuss poetry as if it were house painting…’

‘… so I says to ’im, “I’m not doing a bleeding drawing for less than a tenner a time, and that’s dirt cheap,” I says…’

‘… and the next morning I vas paralysed… shocked beyond everything… thousands of blossoms, bruised and torn… I say I vill never paint again… my nerves had been shattered… the whole orchard gone… phuit! like that… and there vas I…’

‘… and then, of course, I had the sulphur baths.’

‘Ah, yes… um… though, mind you, I think the bath treatment is… er… a little… er… you know… a little
over-rated
. I believe that ninety-two per cent of sufferers…’

The plates of food, piled like volcanoes, steaming gently; the early fruit in a polished pile in the centre dish; Lugaretzia hobbling round the table, groaning gently to herself; Theodore’s beard twinkling in the lamplight; Leslie carefully manufacturing bread pellets to shoot at a moth that hovered round the lamps; Mother, ladling out the food, smiling vaguely at everyone and keeping a
watchful eye on Lugaretzia; under the table Roger’s cold nose pressed hard against my knee in mute appeal.

Margo and the still-wheezing Michael discussing art: ‘… but then I think that Lawrence does that sort of thing so much
better
. He has a certain rich bloom, as it were… don’t you agree? I mean, take Lady Chatterley, eh?’

‘Oh, yes, quite. And then, of course, he did wonderful things in the desert, didn’t he?… and writing that wonderful book… the… er…
The Seven Pillows of Wisdom
, or whatever it was called…’

Larry and the Countess discussing art: ‘… but you must have the straightforward simplicity, the clarity of a child’s eyes… Take the finest
fundamental
verse… take “Humpty Dumpty”.… Now, there’s poetry for you… the simplicity and freedom from clichés and outdated shibboleths…’

‘… but then it’s useless prating about the simple approach to poetry if you’re going to produce jingles which are about as straightforward and uncomplicated as a camel’s stomach…’

Mother and Durant: ‘… and you can imagine the effect it had on me… I vas shattered.’

‘Yes, you must have been. Such a shame, after all that trouble. Will you have a little more rice?’