Marrying Off Mother by Gerald Durrell Read Free Book Online Page B

enchanting, shy, tender little man that he was, strove each day to produce more and more amazing things for his ladies as a conjuror will produce more and more surprises out of his hat to amaze you.
    The Captain’s got an ‘art of gold,’ the large and forever perspiring Mrs Farthingale said to me over the morning’s beef tea, ‘just pure gold. If my husband had been more like that, perhaps our marriage would ‘ave lasted.’
    Not having known the redoubtable Mr Farthingale, I could pass no comment.
    The Captain’s the sweetest man I ever met, the very soul of courtesy and kindness and such good manners for a foreigner,’ said Miss Landlock, her eyes filling with tears that threatened to overflow into her second martini. ‘And happily married, so the Chief Officer tells me.’
    â€˜Yes,’ I said, ‘so I believe.’
    She sighed lugubriously.
    â€˜All nice ones are,’ she said.
    â€˜Yes,’ said Mrs Fortescue, well into her third gin, poured with a generous hand, ‘there are too few decent blokes around without wives. As soon as I saw the Captain, I said to myself, now there’s a good bloke, not one to go philandering even if he is a sailor.’
    The Captain would never philander,’ said Miss Woodbye, rather shocked. ‘He’s too much of a gentleman.’
    â€˜If his wife caught him philandering she’d be spitting chips she’d be that annoyed,’ said Miss Landlock.
    As there was little to do on the ship and the voyage was a long one, I was treated each day to endless speculation about the Captain’s habits, admiration for his many virtues and advice as to what they should buy him as a present when we got to our first (and only) port of call. They looked forward to this day with great eagerness — not, I think, because they wanted to go ashore, but in order to purchase their hero’s gift. After much argument, it was decided to buy him a sweater. As the price of such a garment was in doubt, it was decided that each lady was to give two pounds and I, nobly, said I would make up any difference. Having settled this thorny problem amicably, instant warfare broke out when we came to the problem of colour. White was impractical, red was too garish, brown was too sombre, green did not match his eyes and so on, interminably. In the end, before the ladies actually came to blows over this issue, I said that I, with the extraordinary cunning I used to entrap the wild denizens of the jungle, would extract from the Captain his favourite colour. When I eventually returned with the entirely spurious news that the Captain liked oatmeal, the ladies were disappointed but took it well. Another world war had been averted.
    Eventually the great day dawned and the ship put into port. The ladies had been up at dawn, as excited as children on Christmas morning. They had been flitting from cabin to cabin in their dressing gowns with shrill cries of ‘Marjorie, have you got a safety pin you could lend me?’, ‘Agatha, do you think these beads will go with my blue?’ or ‘You couldn’t lend me a bra, could you — this one’s gone and broken its strap.’ Eventually, clad in their best, straw hats ablaze with artificial flowers, so redolent with powder and perfume that they could be smelt a hundred yards upwind, their eyes shining, their faces wreathed in excited smiles, they were all packed like a flowerbed into the tender and set off for shore and their great adventure.
    In spite of their pleas and entreaties, I had decided not to go with them. It was a wise decision, for the idea — although I did not tell them this — of going shopping with eleven women, all hell bent on getting the best for their idol, filled me with alarm. Besides, I was in the middle of a book and so I thought I would work quietly in my cabin and order a drink and a sandwich for lunch. Unfortunately, it was not to be. I had barely