Fauna and Family: More Durrell Family Adventures on Corfu

The Garden of the Gods

Behold! the heavens do ope,

The gods look down, and this unnatural scene

They laugh at.

SHAKESPEARE, Coriolanus

THE ISLAND LAY bent like a misshapen bow, its two tips nearly touching the Greek and Albanian coastlines, and the blue waters of the Ionian Sea were caught in its curve like a blue lake. Outside our villa was a wide flagstoned verandah roofed with an ancient vine from which the great green clusters of grapes hung like chandeliers; from here one looked out over the sunken garden full of tangerine trees and the silver-green olive groves to the sea, blue and smooth as a flower petal. In fine weather we always had our meals on the verandah at the rickety marble-topped table, and it was here that all the major family decisions were taken.

It was at breakfast time that there was liable to be the most acrimony and dissension, for it was then that letters, if any, were read and plans for the day were made, remade and discarded; it was during these early-morning sessions that the family fortunes were organized, albeit haphazardly, so that a simple request for an omelette might end in a three-month camping expedition to a remote beach, as had happened on one occasion. So when we assembled in the brittle morning light, one was never quite sure how the day was going to get on its feet. To begin with, one had to step warily, for tempers were fragile, but gradually, under the influence of tea, coffee, toast, homemade marmalade, eggs and bowls of fruit, a lessening of the early-morning tension would be felt and a more benign atmosphere would begin to permeate the verandah.

The morning that heralded the arrival of the count among us was no different from any other. We had all reached the final cup of coffee stage, and each was busy with his own thoughts; Margo, my sister, her blonde hair done up in a bandana, was musing over two pattern books, humming gaily but tunelessly to herself; Leslie had finished his coffee and produced a small automatic pistol from his pocket, dismantled it, and was absentmindedly cleaning it with his handkerchief; my mother was perusing the pages of a cookery book in pursuit of a recipe for lunch, her lips moving soundlessly, occasionally breaking off to stare into space while she tried to remember if she had the necessary ingredients for the recipe she was reading; Larry, my elder brother, clad in a multicolored dressing gown, was eating cherries with one hand and reading his mail with the other.

I was occupied feeding my latest acquisition, a young jackdaw, who was such a singularly slow eater I had christened him Gladstone, having been told that that statesman always chewed everything several hundred times. While waiting for him to digest each mouthful, I stared down the hill at the beckoning sea and planned my day. Should I make a trip to the high olive groves in the center of the island to try and catch the agamas that lived on the glittering gypsum cliffs, where they basked in the sun, tantalizing me by wagging their yellow heads at me and puffing out their orange throats? Or should I go down to the small lake in the valley behind the villa, where the dragonfly larvae should be hatching? Or should I perhaps – happiest thought of all – take my new boat on a major sea trip?

In spring the almost enclosed sheet of water that separated Corfu from the mainland would be a pale and delicate blue, and then as spring settled into hot, crackling summer, it seemed to stain the still sea a deeper and more unreal color, which in some lights seemed like the violet blue of a rainbow, a blue that faded to a rich jade green in the shallows. In the evening when the sun sank, it was as if it were drawing a brush across the sea’s surface, streaking and blurring it to purples smudged with gold, silver, tangerine and pale pink. To look at this placid, land-locked sea in summer when it seemed so mild-mannered, a blue meadow that breathed gently and evenly along the shoreline, it was difficult to believe that it could be fierce; but even on a still, summer’s day, somewhere in the eroded hills of the mainland, hot fierce wind would suddenly be born and leap, screaming, at the island, turning the sea so dark it was almost black, combing each wave crest into a sheaf of white froth and urging and harrying them like a herd of panic-stricken blue horses until they crashed exhausted on the shore and died in a hissing shroud of foam. And in winter, under an iron-grey sky, the sea would lift sullen muscles of almost colorless waves, ice-cold and unfriendly, veined here and there with mud and debris that the winter rains swept out of the valleys and into the bay. To me, this blue kingdom was a treasure house of strange beasts which I longed to collect and observe, and at first it was frustrating for I could only peck along the shoreline like some forlorn seabird, capturing the small fry in the shallows and occasionally being tantalized by something mysterious and wonderful cast up on the shore. But then I got my boat, the good ship Bootle Bumtrinket, and so the whole of this kingdom was opened up for me, from the golden red castles of rock and their deep pools and underwater caves in the north to the long, glittering white sand dunes lying like snowdrifts in the south.

I decided on the sea trip, and so intent was I on planning it that I had quite forgotten Gladstone, who was wheezing at me with the breathless indignation of an asthmatic in a fog.

"If you must keep that harmonium covered with feathers, said Larry, glancing up irritably, you might at least teach it to sing properly."

He was obviously not in the mood to receive a lecture on the jackdaw’s singing abilities, so I kept quiet and shut Gladstone up with a mammoth mouthful of food.

Marco’s sending Count Rossignol for a couple of days, Larry said casually to Mother.

Who’s he? asked Mother.

I don’t know, said Larry.

Mother straightened her glasses and looked at him.

What do you mean, you don’t know? she asked.

What I say, said Larry. I don’t know; I’ve never met him.

Well, who’s Marco?

I don’t know; I’ve never met him either. He’s a good artist though.

Larry, dear, you can’t start inviting people you don’t know to stay, said Mother. "It’s bad enough entertaining the ones you do know without starting on the ones you don’t know."

What’s knowing them got to do with it? asked Larry, puzzled.

Well, if you know them, at least they know what to expect, Mother pointed out.

Expect? said Larry coldly. You’d think I was inviting them to stay in a ghetto or something, the way you go on.

"No, no, dear, I don’t mean that," said Mother, but it’s just that this house so seldom seems normal. I do try, but we don’t seem able to live like other people somehow.

Well, if they come to stay here, they must put up with us, said Larry. "And anyway, you can’t blame me; I didn’t invite him. Marco’s sending him."

But that’s what I mean, said Mother. Complete strangers sending complete strangers to us, as if we were a hotel or something.

Trouble with you is you’re antisocial, said Larry.

And so would you be if you had to do the cooking, said Mother indignantly. It’s enough to make one want to be a hermit.

Well, as soon as the count’s been, you can be a hermit if you want to, said Larry. No one’s stopping you.

"A lot of chance I get to be a hermit, with you inviting streams of people to stay."

Of course you can, if you organize yourself, said Larry. Leslie will build you a cave down in the olive groves; you can get Margo to stitch a few of Gerry’s less smelly animal skins together to wear, a pot of blackberries, and there you are. I can bring people down to see you. ‘This is my mother,’ I shall say. ‘She has deserted us to become a hermit.’

Mother glared at him.

Really, Larry, you do make me cross sometimes, she said.

I’m going down to see Leonora’s baby, said Margo. Is there anything you want from the village?

Oh, yes, said Larry, that reminds me. Leonora’s asked me to be a godparent to the brat.

Leonora was our maid Lugaretzia’s daughter, who used to come up to the house and help us when we had a party and who, because of her sparkling good looks, was a great favorite of Larry’s.

You? A godfather? said Margo in astonishment. I thought godfathers were supposed to be pure and religious and things.

How nice of her, said Mother doubtfully. But it’s a bit odd, isn’t it?

Not half so odd as it would be if she asked him to be father, said Leslie.

Leslie, dear, don’t say things like that in front of Gerry, even in fun, said Mother. Are you going to accept, Larry?

Yes, said Larry. Why shouldn’t the poor little thing have the benefit of my guidance?

Ha! said Margo derisively. Well, I shall tell Leonora that if she thinks you’re going to be pure and religious, she’s trying to make a pig’s poke out of a sow’s ear.

If you can translate that into Greek, you’re welcome to tell her, said Larry.

My Greek’s just as good as yours, said Margo belligerently.

Now, now, dears, don’t quarrel, said Mother. I do wish you wouldn’t clean your guns with your handkerchief, Leslie; the oil is impossible to get out.

"Well, I’ve got to clean them with something," said Leslie aggrievedly.

At this point I told Mother I was going to spend the day exploring the coast and could I have a picnic?

Yes, dear, she said absently, tell Lugaretzia to organize something for you. But do be careful, dear, and don’t go into very deep water. Don’t catch a chill and … watch out for sharks.

To Mother, every sea, no matter how shallow or benign, was an evil and tumultuous body of water, full of tidal waves, waterspouts, typhoons, whirlpools, inhabited entirely by giant octopus and squids and savage, sabre-toothed sharks, all of whom had the killing and eating of one or other of her progeny as their main objective in life. Assuring her that I would take great care, I hurried off to the kitchen and collected the food for myself and my animals, assembled my collecting equipment, whistled the dogs, and set off down the hill to the jetty where my boat was moored.

The Bootle Bumtrinket, being Leslie’s first effort in boat building, was almost circular and flat-bottomed, so that, with her attractive color scheme of orange and white stripes, she looked not unlike an ornate celluloid duck. She was a friendly, stalwart craft, but owing to her shape and her lack of keel she became very flustered in anything like a heavy sea and would threaten to turn upside down and proceed that way, a thing she was very prone to do in moments of stress, so when I went on any long expeditions in her, I always took plenty of food and water in case we were blown off course and shipwrecked, and I hugged the coastline as much as possible so that I could make a dash for safety should the Bootle Bumtrinket be assaulted by a sudden sirocco. Owing to my boat’s shape, she could not wear a tall mast without turning over and so her pocket-handkerchief-sized sail could only garner and harvest the tiniest cupfuls of wind; thus, for the most part, she was propelled from point to point with oars, and when we had a full crew on board – three dogs, an owl, and sometimes a pigeon – and were carrying a full cargo – some two dozen containers full of seawater and specimens – she was a back-aching load to push through the water.

Roger was a fine dog to take to sea, and he thoroughly enjoyed it; he also took a deep and intelligent interest in marine life and would lie for hours, with ears pricked, watching the strange convolutions of the brittle starfish in a collecting bottle. Widdle and Puke, on the other hand, were not sea dogs and were really most at home tracking down some not too fierce quarry in the myrtle groves; when they came to sea they tried to be helpful but rarely succeeded and in a crisis would start howling or jumping overboard, or, if thirsty, drinking seawater and then vomiting over your feet just as you were doing a tricky bit of navigation. I could never really tell if Ulysses, my scops owl, liked sea trips; he would sit dutifully wherever I placed him, his eyes half closed, wings pulled in, looking like one of the more malevolent carvings of Oriental deities. My pigeon, Quilp – he was the son of my original pigeon, Quasimodo – adored boating; he would take over the Bootle Bumtrinket’s minute foredeck and carry on as though it were the promenade deck of the Queen Mary. He would pace up and down, pausing to do a quick waltz occasionally, and with pouting chest would give a quick contralto concert, looking strangely like a large opera singer on a sea voyage. Only if the weather became inclement would he get nervous and would then fly down and nestle in the captain’s lap for solace.

On this particular day I had decided to pay a visit to a small bay one side of which was formed by a tiny island surrounded by reefs in which there dwelt a host of fascinating creatures. My particular quarry was a peacock blenny, which I knew lived in profusion in that shallow water. Blennies are curious-looking fish with elongated bodies, some four inches long, shaped rather like an eel, and with their pop eyes and thick lips they are vaguely reminiscent of a hippopotamus. In the breeding season the males become most colorful, with a dark spot behind the eyes edged with sky blue, a dull orange humplike crest on the head and a darkish body covered with ultramarine or violet spots. The throat was pale sea green with darkish stripes on it. In contrast, the females were a light olive green with pale blue spots and leaf-green fins. I was anxious to capture some of these colorful little fish, since it was their breeding season and I was hoping to try and establish a colony of them in one of my aquariums so that I could watch their courtship. After half an hour’s stiff rowing we reached the bay, which was rimmed with silvery olive groves and great golden tangles of broom that sent its heavy musky scent out over the still, clear waters. I anchored the Bootle Bumtrinket in two feet of water near the reef, and then taking off my clothes, and armed with my butterfly net and a wide-mouthed jar, I stepped into the gin-clear sea, which was as warm as a bath.

Everywhere there was such a profusion of life that it required stern concentration not to be diverted from one’s task. Here the sea slugs, like huge warty brown sausages, lay in battalions among the multicolored weeds. On the rocks were the dark purple and black pincushions of the sea urchins, their spines turning to and fro like compass needles. Here and there, stuck to the rocks like enlarged wood lice, were the chitons and the brightly freckled top shells, moving about, each containing either its rightful owner or else a usurper in the shape of a red-faced, scarlet-clawed hermit crab. Here and there a small weed-covered rock would suddenly walk away from under your foot, revealing itself as a spider crab, with his back a neatly planted garden of weeds, to camouflage him from his enemies.

Soon I came to the area of the bay that I knew the blennies favored. It was not long before I spotted a fine male, brilliant and almost iridescent in his courting outfit of many colors. Cautiously I edged my net towards him, and he retreated suspiciously, gulping at me with his pouting lips. I made a sudden sweep with the net, but he was too wary and avoided it with ease. Several times I tried and failed, and after each attempt he retreated a little further. Finally, tiring of my attentions, he flipped off and took refuge in his home, which was the broken half of a terra-cotta pot of the sort that fishermen put down to trap unwary octopuses in. Although he was under the impression he had reached safety, it was in fact his undoing, for I simply scooped him up, pot and all, in my net and then transferred him and his home to one of my bigger containers in the boat.

Flushed with success, I continued my hunting, and by lunchtime I had caught two green wives for my blenny, as well as a baby cuttlefish and an interesting species of starfish, which I had not seen previously. The sun was now blistering hot, and most of the sea life had disappeared under rocks to lurk in the shade. I went on shore then, to sit under the olive trees to eat my lunch. The air was heavy with broom scent and full of the zinging cries of the cicadas.

As I ate, I watched a huge dragon-green lizard with bright blue eye markings along his body carefully stalk and catch a black-and-white-striped swallowtail butterfly. No mean feat, since the swallowtail rarely sits still for long and their flight is erratic and unpredictable. Moreover the lizard caught the butterfly on the wing, leaping some sixteen inches off the ground to do so. Presently, having finished my lunch, I loaded up the boat and, getting my canine crew on board, commenced to row home so that I could settle my blennies in their aquarium. Reaching the villa, I placed the male blenny, together with his pot, in the center of the larger of my aquariums and then carefully introduced the two females. Although I watched them for the rest of the afternoon, they did nothing spectacular. The male merely lay, gulping and pouting, in the entrance of his pot, and the females lay, gulping and pouting, at either end of the aquarium.

The following morning when I got up, I found, to my intense annoyance, that the blennies must have been active at dawn, for a number of eggs had been laid on the roof of the pot. Which female was responsible for this I did not know, but the male was a very protective and resolute father, attacking my finger ferociously when I picked up the pot to look at the eggs.

Determined not to miss any of the drama, I rushed and got my breakfast and ate it squatting in front of the aquarium, my gaze fixed on the blennies. The family, who had hitherto regarded my fish as the least of potential troublemakers among my pets, began to have doubts about the blennies, for as the morning wore on I would importune each passing member of the household to bring me an orange, or a drink of water, or to sharpen my pencil for me, for I was whiling away the time drawing the blennies