The Corfu Trilogy (38 page)

Theodore paused, rasped his beard with his thumb, and took a sip of wine.

‘They had hardly got things organized before they had their first fire. Fortunately I happened to be in the vicinity and could watch the whole thing. The place was a garage, and the flames had got a pretty good hold before the owner had managed to run to the fire station and break the glass on the fire alarm. Then there were angry words exchanged, it seems, because the chief
was annoyed at having his fire alarm broken so
soon
. He told the man that he should have knocked on the door; the fire alarm was brand new, and it would take weeks to replace the glass. Eventually the fire engine was wheeled out into the street and the firemen assembled. The chief made a short speech, urging each man to do his… um… duty. Then they took their places. There was a bit of a fuss about who should have the honour of ringing the bell, but eventually the chief did the job himself. I must say that when the engine
did
arrive it looked very impressive. They all leaped off and bustled about, and looked very efficient. They uncoiled a very large hose, and then a fresh hitch became apparent. No one could find the key which was needed to unlock the back of the engine so that the hose could be attached. The chief said he had given it to Yani, but it was Yani’s night off, it seems. After a lot of argument someone was sent running to Yani’s house, which was… er…
fortunately
, not too far away. While they were waiting, the firemen admired the blaze, which by now was quite considerable. The man came back and said that Yani was not at his house, but his wife said he had gone to the fire. A search through the crowd was made and to the chief ’s indignation they found Yani among the onlookers, the key in his pocket. The chief was very angry, and pointed out that it was
this
sort of thing that created a bad impression. They got the back of the engine open, attached the hose, and turned on the water. By that time, of course, there was hardly any garage left to… er…
put out
.’

Lunch over, the guests were too bloated with food to do anything except siesta on the veranda, and Kralefsky’s attempts to organize a cricket match were greeted with complete lack of enthusiasm. A few of the more energetic of us got Spiro to drive us down for a swim, and we lolled in the sea until it was time to return for tea, another of Mother’s gastronomic triumphs. Tottering mounds of hot scones; crisp, paper-thin biscuits; cakes like snowdrifts, oozing jam; cakes dark, rich, and moist, crammed
with fruit; brandy snaps brittle as coral and overflowing with honey. Conversation was almost at a standstill; all that could be heard was the gentle tinkle of cups, and the heartfelt sigh of some guest, already stuffed to capacity, accepting another slice of cake. Afterwards we lay about on the veranda in little groups, talking in a desultory, dreamy fashion as the tide of green twilight washed through the olive groves and deepened the shade beneath the vine so that faces became obscured in the shadow.

Presently Spiro, who had been off in the car on some mysterious expedition of his own, came driving through the trees, his horn blaring to warn everything and everyone of his arrival.

‘Why
does
Spiro have to shatter the evening calm with that ghastly noise?’ inquired Larry in a pained voice.

‘I agree, I agree,’ murmured Kralefsky sleepily; ‘one should have nightingales at this time of day, not motor-car horns.’

‘I remember being very puzzled,’ remarked Theodore’s voice out of the shadows, with an undertone of amusement, ‘on the first occasion when I drove with Spiro. I can’t recall exactly what the conversation was about, but he suddenly remarked to me, “Yes, Doctors, peoples are scarce when I drive through a village.” I had a… um… curious mental picture of villages quite empty of people, and huge piles of corpses by the side of the road. Then Spiro went on, “Yes, when I goes through a village I blows my horns like hells and scares them all to death.” ’

The car swept round to the front of the house, and the headlight raked along the veranda briefly, showing up the frilly ceiling of misty green vine leaves, the scattered groups of guests talking and laughing, the two peasant girls with their scarlet headscarves, padding softly to and fro, their bare feet scuffing on the flags, laying the table. The car stopped, the sound of the engine died away, and Spiro came waddling up the path, clutching an enormous and apparently heavy brown-paper parcel to his chest.

‘Good God! Look!’ exclaimed Larry dramatically, pointing a
trembling finger. ‘The publishers have returned my manuscript again.’

Spiro, on his way into the house, stopped and scowled over his shoulder.

‘Golly, nos, Master Lorrys,’ he explained seriously, ‘this is thems three turkeys my wifes cooked for your mothers.’

‘Ah, then there is still hope,’ sighed Larry in exaggerated relief; ‘the shock has made me feel quite faint. Let’s all go inside and have a drink.’

Inside, the rooms glowed with lamplight, and Margo’s brilliantly coloured murals moved gently on the walls as the evening breeze straightened them carefully. Glasses started to titter and chime, corks popped with a sound like stones dropping into a well, the siphons sighed like tired trains. The guests livened up; their eyes gleamed, the talk mounted into a crescendo.

Bored with the party, and being unable to attract Mother’s attention, Dodo decided to pay a short visit to the garden by herself. She waddled out into the moonlight and chose a suitable patch beneath the magnolia tree to commune with nature. Suddenly, to her dismay, she was confronted by a pack of bristling, belligerent, and rough-looking dogs who obviously had the worst possible designs on her. With a yell of fright she turned tail and fled back into the house as quickly as her short, fat little legs would permit. But the ardent suitors were not going to give up without a struggle. They had spent a hot and irritating afternoon trying to make Dodo’s acquaintance, and they were not going to waste this apparently Heaven-sent opportunity to try to get their relationship with her on a more intimate footing. Dodo galloped into the crowded drawing-room, screaming for help, and hot on her heels came the panting, snarling, barging wave of dogs. Roger, Puke, and Widdle, who had slipped off to the kitchen for a snack, returned with all speed and were horrified by the scene. If anyone was going to seduce Dodo, they felt, it was going to be one of them, not some scrawny village pariah. They hurled
themselves with gusto upon Dodo’s pursuers, and in a moment the room was a confused mass of fighting, snarling dogs and leaping hysterical guests trying to avoid being bitten.

‘It’s wolves!… It means we’re in for a hard winter,’ yelled Larry, leaping nimbly onto a chair.

‘Keep calm, keep calm!’ bellowed Leslie, as he seized a cushion and hurled it at the nearest knot of struggling dogs. The cushion landed and was immediately seized by five angry mouths and torn asunder. A great whirling cloud of feathers gushed up into the air and drifted over the scene.

‘Where’s Dodo?’ quivered Mother. ‘Find Dodo; they’ll hurt her.’

‘Stop them! Stop them! They’re killing each other,’ shrilled Margo, and seizing a soda siphon she proceeded to spray both guests and dogs with complete impartiality.

‘I believe
pepper
is a good thing for dog-fights,’ observed Theodore, the feathers settling on his beard like snow, ‘though of course I have never tried it
myself
.’

‘By Jove!’ yelped Kralefsky, ‘watch out… save the ladies!’

He followed this advice by helping the nearest female onto the sofa and climbing up beside her.

‘Water also is considered to be good,’ Theodore went on musingly, and as if to test this he poured his glass of wine with meticulous accuracy over a passing dog.

Acting on Theodore’s advice, Spiro surged out to the kitchen and returned with a kerosene tin of water clasped in his hamlike hands. He paused in the doorway and raised it above his head. ‘Watch outs,’ he roared; ‘I’ll fixes the bastards.’

The guests fled in all directions, but they were not quick enough. The polished, glittering mass of water curved through the air and hit the floor, to burst up again and then curve and break like a tidal wave over the room. It had the most disastrous results as far as the nearest guests were concerned, but it had the most startling and instantaneous effect on the dogs. Frightened
by the boom and swish of water, they let go of each other and fled out into the night, leaving behind them a scene of carnage that was breath-taking. The room looked like a hen-roost that had been hit by a cyclone; our friends milled about, damp and feather-encrusted; feathers had settled on the lamps and the acrid smell of burning filled the air.

Mother, clasping Dodo in her arms, surveyed the room. ‘Leslie, dear, go and get some towels so that we can dry ourselves. The room
is
in a mess. Never mind, let’s all go out onto the veranda, shall we?’ she said, and added sweetly, ‘I’m so sorry this happened. It’s Dodo, you see; she’s very
interesting
to the dogs at the moment.’

Eventually the party was dried, the feathers plucked off them, their glasses were filled, and they were installed on the veranda where the moon was stamping the flags with ink-black shadows of the vine leaves. Larry, his mouth full of food, strummed softly on his guitar and hummed indistinctly; through the French windows we could see Leslie and Spiro both scowling with concentration, skilfully dismembering the great brown turkeys; Mother drifted to and fro through the shadows, anxiously asking everyone ifthey were getting enough to eat;Kralef sky was perched on the veranda wall – his body crablike in silhouette, the moon peering over his hump – telling Margo a long and involved story; Theodore was giving a lecture on the stars to Dr Androuchelli, pointing out the constellations with a half-eaten turkey leg.

Outside, the island was striped and patched in black and silver by moonlight. Far down in the dark cypress trees the owls called to each other comfortingly. The sky looked as black and soft as a mole-skin covered with a delicate dew of stars. The magnolia tree loomed vast over the house, its branches full of white blooms, like a hundred miniature reflections of the moon, and their thick, sweet scent hung over the veranda languorously, the scent that was an enchantment luring you out into the mysterious, moonlit countryside.

With a gentlemanly honesty which I found hard to forgive, Mr Kralefsky had informed Mother that he had taught me as much as he was able; the time had come, he thought, for me to go to somewhere like England or Switzerland to finish my education. In desperation I argued against any such idea; I said I
liked
being half-educated; you were so much more
surprised
at everything when you were ignorant. But Mother was adamant. We were to return to England and spend a month or so there consolidating our position (which meant arguing with the bank) and then we would decide where I was to continue my studies. In order to quell the angry mutterings of rebellion in the family she told us that we should look upon it merely as a holiday, a pleasant trip. We should soon be back again in Corfu.

So our boxes, bags, and trunks were packed, cages were made for birds and tortoises, and the dogs looked uncomfortable and slightly guilty in their new collars. The last walks were taken among the olives, the last tearful good-byes exchanged with our numerous peasant friends, and then the cars, piled high with our possessions, moved slowly down the drive in procession, looking, as Larry pointed out, rather like the funeral of a successful rag-and-bone merchant.

Our mountain of possessions was arranged in the customs shed, and Mother stood by it jangling an enormous bunch of keys. Outside in the brilliant white sunlight the rest of the family talked with Theodore and Kralefsky, who had come to see us off. The customs officer made his appearance and wilted slightly at the sight of our mound of baggage, crowned with a cage from which the Magenpies peered malevolently. Mother smiled
nervously and shook her keys, looking as guilty as a diamond smuggler.

The customs man surveyed Mother and the luggage, tightened his belt, and frowned. ‘Theese your?’ he inquired, making quite sure.

‘Yes, yes, all mine,’ twittered Mother, playing a rapid solo on her keys. ‘Did you want me to open anything?’

The customs man considered, pursing his lips thoughtfully. ‘Hoff yew any noo clooes?’ he asked.

‘I’m sorry?’ said Mother.

‘Hoff yew any noo clooes?’

Mother cast a desperate glance round for Spiro. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t quite catch…’

‘Hoff yew any noo clooes…
any noo clooes?
’

Mother smiled with desperate charm. ‘I’m sorry I can’t quite…’

The customs man fixed her with an angry eye.

‘Madame,’ he said ominously, leaning over the counter, ‘do yew spik English?’

‘Oh, yes,’ exclaimed Mother, delighted at having understood him, ‘yes, a
little
.’

She was saved from the wrath of the man by the timely arrival of Spiro. He lumbered in, sweating profusely, soothed Mother, calmed the customs man, explained that we had not had any new clothes for years, and had the luggage shifted outside onto the quay almost before anyone could draw breath. Then he borrowed the customs man’s piece of chalk and marked all the baggage himself, so there would be no further confusion.

‘Well, I won’t say good-bye but only
au revoir
,’ mumbled Theodore, shaking hands precisely with each of us. ‘I hope we shall have you back with us… um…
very soon
.’

‘Good-bye, good-bye,’ fluted Kralefsky, bobbing from one person to the other. ‘We shall so look forward to your return. By Jove, yes! And have a good time, make the most of your
stay in old England. Make it a
real
holiday, eh? That’s the ticket!’

Spiro shook each of us silently by the hand, and then stood staring at us, his face screwed up into the familiar scowl, twisting his cap in his huge hands.

‘Wells, I’ll says good-byes,’ he began and his voice wavered and broke, great fat tears squeezing themselves from his eyes and running down his furrowed cheeks. ‘Honest to Gods, I didn’t means to cry,’ he sobbed, his vast stomach heaving, ‘but it’s just likes saying goods-bye to my own peoples. I feels you belongs to me.’