“Well, you see, we’ve only got one man here,” he said. “Only one man and he’s out on a job... quite a big job. Don’t know how long it will take him... Maybe a day or two.”
“Couldn’t he come round and do a bit of overtime?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t think he’d like to do that,” said Mr Drumlin. “There’s a very good plumber in the High Street, though. You could go to them. They might have a man free. But I’m afraid I couldn’t guarantee anything, not for... oh, two or three days — at the earliest, that is, at the earliest.”
Thanking him, I left. I next went to William Drover, the estate agent. He was a seedy little man with glasses and wispy hair like thistledown. I explained that my aunt was thinking of moving to this part of London and had asked me, since I lived in the vicinity, if I would go to an estate agent and find out about flats for her.
“Flats? Flats?” said Mr Drover, pursing his lips. He took off his glasses and polished them, replaced them and peered round the shop as though expecting to find a flat hidden there.
“It’s an awkward time for flats,” he said, “a very awkward time. Lots of people moving into the district, you know. Most of them are snapped up before you have a chance.
“So you’ve got nothing on your books? No details that I could show to my aunt?” I said.
“No,” he said, “nothing at all. Nothing at all, I’m afraid. Nothing at all.”
“Well, how about a small house, then?” I asked.
“Ah, they’re just as bad. Just as bad,” he said. “I don’t think I have a single small house on my books that would suit you. I’ve got a ten-bedroomed house in Hampstead, if that’s any use?”
“No, I think that would be a bit big,” I said. “In any case, she wants to live in this area.”
“They all do. They all do. We’re getting crowded out. We’ll be standing shoulder to shoulder,” he said.
“Surely that’s good for business?” I inquired.
“Well, it is and it isn’t,” he said. “You get overcrowded and the tone of the neighbourhood goes down, you know.”
“Well, thank you very much for your help, anyway,” I said.
“Not at all. Not at all. Sorry I couldn’t help you more,” he said. I next went to the Pixies’ Parlour. They had quite an extensive menu but all they could offer me was a cup of tea. Most unfortunately — and they were terribly apologetic about it — their van, carrying all their supplies for the day, had broken down somewhere in North London and they were bereft of food of any description.
After this I believed Mr Bellow’s story about Potts Lane.
It was at about this time that another rather strange character appeared in my life. I had been working for some time with Mr Romilly and he trusted me implicitly. Periodically he would send me down to the East End of London to collect fresh supplies of reptiles, amphibians and tropical fish. These we got from the wholesalers, whereas, as I have explained, the farm (which really ran the shop) sent us all the freshwater stuff that we needed. I enjoyed these jaunts where, in gloomy, cavernous stores in back streets I would find great crates of lizards, basketfuls of tortoises and dripping tanks green with algae full of newts and frogs and salamanders. It was on one of these forays into the East End that I met Colonel Anstruther.
I had been sent down to Van den Goths, a big wholesaler who specialised in importing North American reptiles and amphibians, and I had been given instructions by Mr Romilly to bring back 150 baby painted terrapins — those enchanting little freshwater tortoises with green shells and yellow and red markings on their skins. They were each about the size of a half crown. We did quite a brisk trade in these for they were a good and simple pet to give a child in a flat. So I made my way down to Van den Goths and saw Mr Van den Goth himself, a great heavily-built man who looked like an orang-utan carved out of tallow. He placed my terrapins in a cardboard box with moss, and then I asked him if he would mind if I looked round.
“Help yourself,” he said. “Help yourself” And he lumbered back to his chair and picked up a Dutch newspaper which he was reading, stuck a cigar in his face and ignored me. I pottered round for some time examining some of the beautiful snakes that he had and became breathless with admiration over a crate full of iguanas, bright green and frilled and dewlapped like any fairytale dragon. Presently I glanced at my watch and saw to my alarm that I had over-stayed my time by at least half an hour. So, grabbing my box of terrapins, I said a hurried good-bye to Mr Van den Goth and left to catch the bus.
What I had not noticed, and it was very remiss of me, was that both the terrapins and the moss which Mr Van den Goth had put in the box were excessively moist. During my wanderings round the shop this moisture had soaked through the bottom of the cardboard box with the not unnatural result that as I climbed up the stairs to the top of the bus and was just about to take my seat, the entire bottom of the box gave way and a cascade of baby terrapins fell on the floor.
It was fortunate for me that there was only one other occupant on the top of the bus and he was a slender, military-looking man, with a grey moustache and a monocle, wearing a very well-cut tweed suit and a pork-pie hat. He had a carnation in his buttonhole and a malacca cane with a silver knob. I scrabbled madly on the floor collecting the terrapins, but baby terrapins can move with extraordinary speed when they want to and I was heavily outnumbered. Suddenly, one of them rushed up the central alley of the bus and turned in by the military-looking man’s foot. Feeling it clawing at his well-polished shoe, he glanced down. God, I thought, now I’m for it! He screwed his monocle more firmly into his eye and surveyed the baby terrapin which was making a laborious effort to climb over the toe of his shoe.
“By George!” he said. “A painted terrapin! Chrysemys picta! Haven’t seen one for years!”
He looked round to see the source from which this little reptile had emanated and saw me crouched, red-faced, on the floor with baby terrapins running madly in all directions.
“Hah!” he said. “Is this little chap yours?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I’m sorry, but the bottom has fallen out of the box.”
“By George, you’re in a bit of a stew, what?” he shouted.
“Er..., yes..., I am, actually.”
He picked up the baby terrapin that had managed to get on the toe of his shoe and came down the bus towards me.
“Here,” he said, “let me help. I’ll head the bounders off.”
“It’s very kind of you,” I said.
He got down on his hands and knees in the same position that I was in, and we crawled together up and down the bus collecting baby terrapins.
“Tally-ho!” he would shout at intervals. “There’s one going under that seat there.”
Once, when a small terrapin approached him at a run, he pointed his malacca cane at it and said, “Bang! Bang! Back, sir, or I’ll have you on a charge.”
Eventually, after about quarter of an hour of this, we managed to get all the baby terrapins back into the box and I did a rough splinting job on it with my handkerchief.
“It was very kind of you, sir,” I said, “I’m afraid you’ve got your knees all dusty.”
“Well worth it,” he said. “Well worth it. Haven’t had sport like that for a long time.”
He screwed his monocle more firmly in his eyes and gazed at me.
“Tell me,” he said. “What are you doing with a great box full of terrapins?”
“I... I work in a pet shop and I’ve just been down to the wholesalers to get them.”
“Oh, I see,” he said. “Do you mind if I come and sit near you and have a chin-wag?”
“No, sir,” I said. “No.”
He came and planted himself firmly on the seat opposite mine, put his malacca cane between his knees, rested his chin on it and gazed at me thoughtfully.
“Pet shop, eh?” he said. “Hmmm. Do you like animals?”
“Yes, very much. They’re about the only thing I do like.”