The Picnic and Suchlike Pandemonium

by Gerald Malcolm Durrell

  Now that the plot had started to unfold, I found myself starting to take an interest in it, in spite of myself.

  “Go on,” I said, “what happened next?”

  “This is the worst part of the whole thing,” said Ursula, in her penetrating whisper. She took a sip of her drink and glanced around to make sure that the whole of Venice, now assembled around us for a pre-lunchtime drink, was not eavesdropping. She leant forward and pulled me towards her by my hand. I leant across the table and she whispered in my ear. “They eloped,” she hissed, and sat back to see the effect of her words.

  “You mean Reggie and Perry eloped?” I asked, in well-simulated astonishment.

  “Idiot,” said Ursula angrily, “you know perfectly well what I mean, Perry and Marjorie eloped. I do wish you would stop making fun of this, it’s very serious.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “do go on.”

  “Well,” said Ursula, slightly mollified by my apology, “of course this really put a cat among the pigeons. Reggie was simply furious because Marjorie had not only eloped but had taken the baby and the nannie with her.”

  “It certainly sounds like a very overcrowded elopement.”

  “And naturally,” Ursula continued, “Perry’s father took it very hard. As you can imagine it’s difficult for a Duke to condone his only son’s adulteration.”

  “But adultery is when the husband is at fault, as a rule,” I protested.

  “I don’t care who’s at fault,” said Ursula firmly, “it’s still adulteration.”

  I sighed. The problem itself seemed complex enough without the additional difficulty of having Ursula’s interpretation of it.

  “In any case,” she went on, “As I told Marjorie it was as good as incest.”

  “Incest? ”

  “Yes,” said Ursula, “after all the boy was under age and in any case, as she well knew, adulteration has to be done by adults.”

  I took a deep drink of my brandy to steady myself. It was obvious that Ursula had grown worse over the years.

  “I think I had better take you to lunch while you tell me the rest of this.”

  “Oh, darling, will you? How wonderful. But I mustn’t be late because I’ve got to go to Marjorie’s, because I don’t know where Reggie is and the Duke’s arriving.”

  “You mean,” I said slowly and carefully, “that all these people you have been talking about are here, in Venice ?”

  “But of course, sweetie,” she said, wide-eyed. “That’s why I want you to help me. Didn’t you understand?”

  “No,” I said, “I didn’t understand. But just remember that I have not the slightest intention of getting muddled up in this affair. Let’s go and have lunch . . . where would you like to go?”

  “I’d like to go to the ‘Laughing Cat’,” said Ursula.

  “Where the hell’s that?”

  “I don’t know, but I was told it was very good,” she said, powdering her nose.

  “All right, I’ll find out,” I said. I called the waiter over, paid for the drinks and asked the way to the ‘Laughing Cat’. It turned out to be within easy walking distance of the Piazza San Marco, a small but well-appointed little restaurant which, judging by the fact that most of its clientele were Venetians, was going to provide us with pretty substantial fare. We found a pleasant table out on the pavement under an awning, and I ordered mussels simmered in cream and parsley, followed by stuffed shoulder of kid with a chestnut purée the way they serve it in Corsica . We were — fortunately — just demolishing the kid (which melted in your mouth), and were thinking in terms of some Dolcelatte cheese to be followed, perhaps, by some fresh fruit, when Ursula, looking over my shoulder, gave a gasp of horror. I looked round to see a very powerful, and exceedingly drunk gentleman approaching our table, tacking from side to side like a yacht.

  “Oh, my God, it’s Reggie,” said Ursula. “How did he know they were in Venice ?”

  “It’s all right, they’re not here,” I pointed out.

  “But they will be in a minute,” wailed Ursula. “I’ve arranged to meet them and the Duke here. What shall I do? Quick, darling, think of something.”

  Whether I liked it or not it seemed inevitable that I was going to get embroiled in this whole ridiculous saga. I took a deep draught of wine to steady myself and rose to my feet as Reggie, more by good luck than good management, arrived at our table.

  “Reggle, darling,” cried Ursula, “what a lovely surprise. What are you doing in Venice ?”

  “ ’Lo, Ursula,” said Reggie, swaying gently and having difficulty in focusing his eyes and enunciating with clarity, “amin Ven . . . Vennish to kill a dirty rat . . . a dirty loushy little rat, thass what I’m in Vennish for . . . thass what, see?”

  Not only was Reggie a large man, built on the lines of an all-in wrestler, but he had a large pithecanthropic face with a straggling beard and moustache. He was partly bald and wore his hair at shoulder length. To add to this singularly unattractive appearance he was wearing a bright ginger, ill-fitting tweed suit, a scarlet roll-top pullover and sandals. Nevertheless, he did look quite capable of killing young Perry if he could get hold of him, and I began to give serious thought to the problem of luring him out of the restaurant before the other protagonists arrived.

  “Reggie, darling, this is a friend of mine, Gerry Durrell,” said Ursula, breathlessly.

  “Pleeshtermeetyer,” said Reggie, holding out a hand like a Bayonne ham and wringing mine in a vice-like grip.

  “Do join us for a drink?” I suggested and Ursula gave me a warning look. I winked at her.

  “Drink,” said Reggie throatily, leaning heavily on the table. “Thash what I want . . . a drink . . . sheveral big drinks . . . all in a big glash . . . hunereds and hunereds of drinks . . . I’ll have a double whishky and water.”

  I got him a chair and he sat down heavily. I beckoned the waiter and ordered whisky.

  “Do you think you ought to drink any more?” asked Ursula, unwisely. “It seems to me you’ve had rather a lot already, darling.”

  “Are you surghesting I’m drunk?” asked Reggie ominously.

  “No, no,” said Ursula, hastily, realizing her error. “I just thought perhaps another drink wouldn’t be a very good idea.”

  “I,” said Reggie, pointing a finger the size of a banana at his chest so that we should be in no doubt as to whom he was referring, “I’m as jober as a sudge.”

  The waiter arrived with the drink and placed it in front of Reggie.

  “Drink, thash what I want,” said Reggie, lifting the glass somewhat unsteadily. “Here’s death to all miser . . . miserubbubble creeping little arish . . . arishtocratic pimps.”

  He drained the glass and sat bath with a look of satisfaction on his face. “Lesh have another one,” he suggested cheerfully.

  “Why don’t we toddle along to the Piazza San Marco and have another drink there?” I suggested smoothly.

  “Ooo, yes, what a good idea,” chimed in Ursula.

  “I’m not narrow minded,” said Reggie earnestly. “I don’ mind where I drink.”

  “Right, San Marco it is,” I decided, beckoning the waiter for the bill.

  Before he could bring it, however, we were (as Ursula would, no doubt, have put it) hit by a bolt from the blue. I heard her give a despairing squeak of alarm, and turned to find a tall, thin, rather aristocratic gentleman at my elbow, who looked not unlike a grey praying mantis in a Savile Row suit and shoes that had obviously been made for him at Lobb’s. In addition he was wearing an old Etonian tie, and had a triangle of Irish linen handkerchief, the size of a rabbit’s scut, peeping out of his breast pocket. He had silver grey hair, a silver grey face and a silver grey monocle in one silver grey eye. This, I decided, could only be the Duke of Tolpuddle.

  “Ursula, my dear child, I am so sorry to be late, but my wretched vaporetto broke down. I do apologize,” he said, beaming at Reggie and me, exuding well-bred charm, secure in the knowledge that, with the blue blood th
at flowed in his veins, he would always be sure of a welcome, however late he was.

  “Oh, oh . . . er . . . oh, don’t mention it,” said Ursula faintly.

  “And who are your friends?” asked the Duke, benignly, ready to treat Reggie and I as if we were members of the human race. I realized, with delicious satisfaction, that the Duke and Reggie did not know each other. I sat back and beamed at Ursula, who gave me a despairing look out of her huge, hunted blue eyes.

  “Do introduce us, darling,” I said.

  Ursula glared at me.

  “Well,” she said at length, “this is an old friend of mine, Gerry Durrell and this is . . . and this is . . . er . . . this is Reggie Montrose.”

  The Duke stiffened, and his benign expression slipped for a brief moment. Then he straightened up and screwed his monocle more firmly into his eyes, preparing himself to do the decent thing.

  “Whoes thish?” enquired Reggie, focusing the Duke with difficulty.

  Ursula looked at me desperately. I shrugged. There was, after all, nothing I could do to fend off the crisis.

  “Whoes thish blighter?” asked Reggie, pointing a banana finger at the Duke.

  “This is . . . a . . . this is . . . er . . . the Duke of Tolpuddle,” said Ursula in a small voice.

  It took a moment or so for the news to sink into Reggie’s brain cells through the layers of alcohol, but it got there eventually.

  “Tolpuzzle? Tolpuzzle?” he said. “D’you meantershay tnish ish the father of that little bashtard?”

  “I say,” said the Duke, looking about the restaurant in the furtive fashion of an English gentleman, hating any sort of altercation in public. “I say, old man, steady on, what? No cause for that sort of language in front of ladies.”

  Reggie rose slowly and unsteadily to his feet and waggled an enormous finger under the Duke’s aquiline nose.

  “Don’ you tell me what language to use,” he said belligerently. “Don’ you go giving me advish! Why don’ you go and give advish to that little bashtard fart you shired, if indeed you did shire him, becaushe from where I’m shtanding, you don’ look ash if you could shire a mentally retarded Chihuahua.”

  To my relief he sat down again, rather heavily, and for a moment I thought he was going to topple the chair over backwards. With an effort he managed to right it. The Duke had gone a dull red. It must have been irritating to know that Reggie, however badly behaved, was after all the plaintiff and that his son was the guilty party.

  “I think,” said the Duke, bringing to bear the centuries of aristocratic breeding that was his birthright, “I think we ought to sit down and talk about this in a civilized manner, and not descend to vulgar abuse.”

  “Frog’s ovaries,” said Reggie, loudly and clearly.

  “Reggie, darling, please behave,” said Ursula.

  “Who?” asked Reggie, as earnestly as one seeking knowledge from a sage, “who does this old fart think he ish, eh?”

  “Do sit down and join us, sir,” I said heartily.

  Ursula gave me a look that would — if I had not been enjoying myself so much — have withered me root and branch.

  “Thank you,” said the Duke, icily, “but there does not seem to be a chair, and your friend is making it more than apparent that I am, to say the least, de trop .”

  “I’ll get a chair for you,” I said hospitably, and beckoned the waiter. A chair being procured the Duke sat down rather gingerly, as if expecting it to give way under his weight.

  “Would you care for a drink, sir?” I asked, playing the anxious host.

  “Drinks,” said Reggie with satisfaction, “lots of bloody great drinks . . . gallons and gallons of butts of malmsey . . . you can’t dink without trinking.”

  “Thank you, I will have a small, dry sherry, if I may,” said the Duke.

  “That little bashtard of yours doesn’t drink,” said Reggie, “all he takes is Coca-Cola and mother’s milk . . . he is an invert . . . an invert . . . an invertebrate if ever I shaw one . . . tototally and completely shpineless.”

  “Now look here, Mr Montrose,” said the Duke, tried beyond endurance, tapping his beautifully manicured fingers on the table, “I have no wish to quarrel with you. My reason for being in Venice should not strike you as inimical to your own affairs. If you will just allow me to explain, I think I can clarify the situation and, to some extent, put your mind at ease.”

  “The only way you can put my mind at eash is to get your bloody little son out of my wife’s bed,” said Reggie, loudly and belligerently.

  The Duke threw an embarrassed look round the restaurant. All the Italians, not being used to such uninhibited displays from Anglo-Saxons (particularly the British) were watching us with lively curiosity.

  “I have come to Venice to try to do precisely that,” said the Duke.

  “What you gonna do?” asked Reggie. “Get him shom one elshes wife?”

  “I propose to deal with him very firmly,” said the Duke. “I dislike this liaison as much, if not more, than you do and it must end.”

  “Don’ you refer to my wife as a lia . . . lia. . . liaison,” said Reggie, going a shade of angry purple that threatened imminence of cardiac arrest. “Who t’hell d’you think you are, referring to my wife as a liaison, eh?”

  “I meant no disrespect,” said the Duke coldly, “but I am sure you will agree that the whole thing is most unsuitable. I will say nothing about the disparity of their ages. That in itself is appalling. But looking beyond that you must realize that the boy is after all, heir to the title and so it behoves him to be careful about whom he associates with.”

  Reggie stared at him for a long moment.

  “You are without doubt the biggest piesch of per . . . perambulating horse shit it has ever been my misfortune to encounter,” he said at length.

  “Reggie, darling, you can’t say things like that to the Duke,” put in Ursula, shocked.

  “Why not?” asked Reggie reasonably. “If he thinks my wife’s unshutable for that puke of a son of his then I shay he is indub . . . indub . . . undoubtably the biggest and smelliest piece of perambulating horse shit this side of Ascot .”

  Reggie and the Duke glared at each other. It was at that precise moment that Ursula uttered another piercing squeak and we were hit by the second bolt from the blue. Perry and Marjorie, hand in hand, entered the restaurant. Marjorie was a handsome lady who did look a little like a Gauguin maiden, and Perry was a willowy, delicate, and rather beautiful young man in the Byronic style. I had just time to register this before Reggie, uttering a noise like a dyspeptic lion with a thorn in its paw, rose to his feet and pointed a quivering finger at the happy couple, who had become rooted to the spot with horror at being so suddenly confronted.

  “There’s the little puke and his liaison,” shouted Reggie. “Well, I tell you what I’m going to do . . .”

  Unwisely, as it turned out, I got to my feet and laid a restraining hand on Reggie’s shoulder.

  “Now hang on, Reggie,” I said soothingly. “You’re three times his size and . . .”

  I got no further. Gathering my coat into a bunch in one enormous hand, Reggie picked me up as though I had been a piece of thistledown and deposited me with care and accuracy on a sweet trolley that a waiter happened to be conveniently wheeling past. My contact with it did irreparable damage to several pкches melba, a very fine strawberry tart, a delicious. looking trifle of singularly clinging consistency, and a great number of different species of ice cream. Perry, at the sight of this display of violence, came out of his trance. Letting go of Marjorie’s hand, he turned and fled with the utmost speed. Uttering another lion-like roar Reggie, showing agility astonishing in one of his build, ran after him. He, in turn, was pursued by Marjorie shouting, “Murderer, don’t you dare touch him,” and by the Duke, who was calling, “Harm a hair of his head and I’ll sue you!” Dripping ice cream, trifle and strawberries in equal quantities, I did the only thing possible: I flung a huge handful of notes on to the tabl
e and, seizing Ursula’s hand, ran after everyone.

  As it turned out Perry had, rather unwisely, taken the little alleyway that led to the Piazza San Marco. If he had stuck to the alleyways he would have stood a chance of shaking off the pursuit but as it was, once he was out and running through flocks of frightened pigeons in the vast square, Reggie’s superior turn of speed proved his undoing. Just as he reached the far side of the square, along which runs the Grand Canal, Reggie caught him by the scruff of the neck. The rest of us arrived in a panting mass, to find Reggie shaking Perry to and fro like a puppet, and shouting incoherently at him. I felt that I should intervene in some way but having already had proof that Reggie did not take kindly to interference, and with the Grand Canal at his elbow, I felt I owed it to myself to be a coward.

  “Leave him alone, you gross bully,” shouted the Duke, between gasps for breath.

  “Leave him alone, leave him alone, he’s not strong,” shrilled Marjorie, beating the flat of her hands futilely on her husband’s broad back.

  “Darling, this is all your fault,” said Ursula, turning on me like a tigress. “You do something.”

  Before I could protest at her perfidy, however, Reggie pulled Perry up close to him and glowered into his face.

  “I’m shick of your bloody puke of a father and I’m shick of you,” he roared. “So your bloody father doesn’t think my wife’s good enough for you, eh? eh? eh? Well, I’ll show you! I’ll divorce and then you can bloody well marry her.”

  The Piazza San Marco is always a place of interest to tourists visiting Venice and so, not unnaturally, we now had a crowd of some five thousand people, of different colours and creeds, gathered around us expectant and interested.

  “What did you s-s-s-say . . . ?” asked Perry, white-faced, still being shaken to and fro in Reggie’s massive grasp.