Fillets of Plaice, by Gerald Durrell (24 page)

However, even introducing Ursula to the wilds was not without its hazards. I showed her a tiny strip of woodland that I'd discovered which had, at that time, more birds' nests per square inch than any other place I knew. Ursula got wildly excited and peered into nests brim full of fat, open-mouthed baby birds or clutches of blue and brown eggs, and ooo'd over them delightedly. Nothing would content her but that I had to visit the place every day and phone her a long report on the progress of the various nests. A few weeks later I took her down to the place again and we discovered, to our horror, that it had been found, presumably by a group of schoolboys, and they had gone systematically through the whole of the woodland and destroyed every nest. The baby birds were lying dead on the ground and the eggs had all been taken. Ursula's anguish was intense. She sobbed uncontrollably with a mixture of rage and grief and it was a long time before I could comfort her.

She was still racked with occasional shuddering sobs when I ushered her into the spit and sawdust bar of the Square and Compass, one of my favourite pubs in that region. Here, in this tiny bar, all the old men of the district would gather every evening, great brown lumbering shire horses of men, their faces as wrinkled as walnuts, their drooping moustaches as crisp and white as summer grass with frost on it. They were wonderful old men and I thought to meet them would take Ursula's mind off the ravaged nests. I was also interested to see what sort of reaction her presence would create.

To begin with, they sat stiff, silent and suspicious, their hands carefully guarding their tankards, staring at us without expression. They knew me but now I had introduced an alien body into their tiny, smoke-blurred bar and, moreover, a very attractive and feminine body. This was heresy. The unwritten law was that no woman entered that bar. But Ursula was completely unaware of this or, if not unaware, undaunted by it. She powdered her nose, gulped down a very large gin in record time, and turned her brilliant melting blue eyes on the old men. Within a few minutes she had them relaxed and occasionally, half guiltily, chuckling with her. Then she spied the blackboard in the corner.

“Ooooh!” she squealed delightedly, “Tiddleywinks!”

The old men exchanged looks of horror. Then they all looked at the oldest member of the group, an eighty-four-year-old patriarch who was, I knew, the local champion of this much beloved game.

“No, Miss,” he said firmly, “that's shove ha'penny.”

“Do teach me to play it,” said Ursula, gazing at him so adoringly that his brown face went the colour of an over-ripe tomato.

“Yes, go on, George, teach the Miss,” the other old men chorused, delighted that George was colouring and shuffling like a schoolboy.

Reluctantly, he lumbered to his feet and he and Ursula moved over to the table where the shove ha'penny board lay in state.

As I watched him teaching her I realised, not for the first time, the deviousness of women in general and of Ursula in particular. It was perfectly obvious that she not only knew how to play shove ha'penny but probably could have beaten George at it. But her fumbling attempts to learn from him and the sight of him patting her shoulder with his enormous carunculated hand as gently as though he were patting a puppy was a delight to watch. Ursula lost gracefully to him and then insisted on buying drinks all round — for which I had to pay since she had no money.

By now, the old men, flushed and enthusiastic, were practically coming to blows over who should play her next. Ursula, armed with her indispensable evening newspaper, disappeared briefly into the Ladies before coming back to challenge all comers.

George, wiping the froth off his magnificent moustache, lowered himself onto the oak trestle beside me and accepted a cigarette.

“A fine young woman, sir,” he said, “a very fine young woman, even though she's a foreigner.”

The curious thing is that he did not use the term foreigner in the way that most villagers in England would use it to describe somebody who had not actually been born in the village. He was firmly convinced by Ursula's particular brand of English that she must indeed come from the Continent or some savage place like that. I did not disillusion him.

I had known Ursula for about a year when one day she phoned me and dropped a bombshell.

“Gerry!” The voice was so penetrating that I had to hold the receiver away from my ear. It could only he Ursula.

“Yes,” I said resignedly.

“Darling, it's
me
, Ursula.”

“I never would have guessed it,” I said. “You're so much quieter, so much more dulcet. That soft voice, like the cooing of a sucking dove.

“Don't be
silly
, darling. I phoned you up because I've the most
wonderful
news and I wanted you to be the first to know,” she said breathlessly.

What now, I wondered? Which one of her numerous friends had achieved sonic awful success due to her Machiavellian plottings?

“Tell me all,” I said, resigning myself to at least half an hour of telephone conversation.

“Darling, I'm
engaged
,” said Ursula.

I confess that my heart felt a sudden pang and a loneliness spread over me. It was not that I was in love with Ursula; it was not that I wanted to marry her — God forbid! — but suddenly I realised that I was being deprived of a charming companion. I was being deprived of somebody who could always lighten my gloom, and who had given me so many hours of pleasure. And now she was engaged, doubtless to some hulking idiot, and all this, our lovely friendship, would change.

“Darling?” said Ursula. “Darling? Are you still there?”

“Yes,” I said. “I'm still here.”

“But, darling, you sound so glum. Is anything the matter? I thought you'd be
pleased
!” Her voice sounded plaintive, uncertain.

“I am pleased,” I said, trying to cast away selfishness, trying to cast away the remembrance of Ursula telling me of a friend who'd gone to Venice and who'd had a gondolier every night. “Really, my love, I'm as pleased as Punch. Who is the unlucky man?”

“It's Toby,” she said. “You know Toby.”

“But I thought he was an incoherent?” I said.

“No, no, Silly. Not that Toby, a completely
different
one.”

“I'm glad of that. I thought that if he was an incoherent he would have had difficulty in proposing.”

“Darling, you don't sound a bit like you,” she said, her voice worried and subdued. “Are you angry with me for getting engaged?”

“Not at all,” I said acidly. “I'm delighted to know that you've found somebody who can stop you talking long enough to propose. I never could.”

“Oooo!” said Ursula. “You're jealous! Darling, how wonderful! I never knew you wanted to propose to me. When was it?”

“Frequently,” I said, tersely, “but fortunately I managed to stamp the desire underfoot.”

“Oh, darling, I am sorry. Are you going to go all silent and. withdrawn and morass?”

“I've not the slightest intention of turning myself into a bog for your benefit,” I said with some asperity.

“Oh, darling, don't be so
silly
. I thought you'd be
pleased
. As a matter of fact I was hoping we could meet…” Her voice trailed away.

What a cad I was being, I reflected. What a monstrous, inhuman cad. Here was the girl virtually asking me to set the seal on her nuptials and here was I behaving like a fifteen-year-old. I was contrite.

“Of course we can meet, my sweet,” I said. “I'm sorry I was rude. It's just that I can't get used to the idea of you being engaged. Where do you want to meet?”

“Oh, darling,
that's
better. Why don't we dance away the evening? Let's go to the Tropicana…
Do
let's, darling!”

Dance away the evening until ten o'clock, I thought to myself The Tropicana was a particularly revolting nightclub of the sort that blossom suddenly like puffballs, have their brief moment of contributing to human misery and then mercifully disappear into obscurity. Of all the places she could have suggested Ursula could not have picked one that I disliked more.

“Right,” I said with enthusiasm, “but can we have dinner first?”

“Oh darling,
yes
. Where?”

“How about the Grill Room? I'll book a table.”

“
Daarling
!” breathed Ursula. “The
first
place we had lunch together. Darling, you
are
romantic.”

“Not particularly. It's just the only place that serves good food,” I said austerely.

“Darling, I
love
you… Even if you
are
oppressive. Lovely food, and then dancing. Oh, I'll meet you at the Grill at eight, darling, I can't
tell
you how pleased I am that you're pleased. I love you and
love
you for ever.”

I put the phone back and realised what I'd lost.

I realised what I'd lost even more when I met her, for she brought her fiancé with her. He was a handsome young man, quite obviously besotted by Ursula, with a very limited vocabulary. But he seemed nice enough. The Grill Room, as I rather suspected, was packed and so the three of us had to sit uncomfortably at a table designed for two. Toby didn't have much to say for himself but that scarcely mattered as Ursula talked quite enough for two of them. When we'd finished dinner we went on to the Tropicana where the band was blaring. Here, Toby and I solemnly took it in turns to propel Ursula, chattering madly, round and round the floor. It was a thoroughly miserable evening from my point of view. After that, I didn't see Ursula for a long time. I'd heard that she'd eventually got married and that she'd had a baby. I felt that now she was safely ensconced on her wedding bed that she would drift out of my life altogether. But again I was wrong. One day the phone rang, and it was Ursula.

“Darling! It's
me
, Ursula!” she said.

“Good heavens!” I said, surprised. “Where have you been all these years?”

“Darling, I got
married
,” she said. “I've had a baby.”

“So I heard,” I said. “Congratulations.”

“Darling, I've been stuck down in the country for so long. I've got to come into Bournemouth to-day to do some shopping. I wondered whether we could meet?”

“Are you bringing your husband with you?” I asked cautiously.

“No, darling, I'm just coming on my own,” she said.

“Well, in that case, by all means let us meet. I'll buy you lunch. But first I'll meet you in the Cadena for coffee.”

“Marvellous, darling. I'll be there at eleven o'clock,” she said.

At eleven o'clock promptly she appeared through the doors of the Cadena café and I could see instantly that she was well on the way to expecting her second child. Apart from the protuberance of her stomach she had a glowing air about her, like rose petals in sunshine.

“Darling!” she screamed. “Darling!
Darling
!”

She flung her arms round me and gave me a prolonged kiss of the variety that is generally cut out of French films by the English censor. She made humming noises as she kissed, like a hive of sex-mad bees. She thrust her body against mine to extract the full flavour of the embrace and to show me that she really cared, really and truly. Several elderly ladies, and what appeared to be a brigadier who had been preserved (like a plum in port) stared at us with fascinated repulsion. You could tell, from their expressions, that they expected me to rip her clothes off her and rape her there, on the sacred floor of the Cadena. I tore myself loose from her with an effort.

“I thought you were married,” I said.

“I
am
darling,” she said. “Don't you think my kissing's improved?”

“Yes,” I said. “Sit down and have some coffee.”

“Can I have an ice cream?” she asked.

“All right,” I said.

I ordered a coffee and an ice cream.

“Well, I must say, you're looking blooming,” I said.

“Do you think so?”

“I think you're looking wonderful. I see you're going to have another one.

She took a large mouthful of ice cream and spoke through it rather indistinctly.

“Children are absholutely marvelloush.”

“So I believe,” I said.

She swallowed her mouthful of ice cream, leant forward and tapped my wrist with her moist spoon to gain my full attention.

“Do you know what they say?” she inquired in her penetrating voice.

Every table in the restaurant suspended operations and waited expectantly. I felt I might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.

“No,” I said. “What do they say?”

“Why,” she said, waving her spoon happily, “contraception is a woman's work.”

We had coffee and then I took Ursula shopping, and later we went to lunch.

“Do you miss me, darling?” she enquired as she sipped at her wine.

“Of course I miss you,” I said. “You were always one of my favourite girlfriends.”

“Isn't it a pity that one can't have boyfriends
and
be married?” she said.

“Well, you can always try,” I suggested.

“Oh, no, I couldn't do that,” she said. “But you
are
sweet.”

“Think nothing of it,” I said.

“Anyway, I don't suppose you'd like me now,” she said, wistfully. “I've reformed. I've become very dull.”

“Do you think so?” I asked, thinking how vital and sweet she was still.

“Oh, yes,” she said, looking at me solemnly with her great blue eyes. “I'm afraid I'm now what they call one of the petty beaujolais.”

“Yes, but a vintage year,” I said, raising my glass.

* * * *