“But if Muzzer has a birzday, ye have no present to give her,” said Max.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” said Mother, “I really shouldn’t be having birthdays at my age.”
“Damned bad form to come to a birthday party without bringing a present,” said Donald. “Damned bad form.”
“Oh, now, do stop fussing,” said Mother, “you make me quite embarrassed.”
“I shall play to you endlessly throughout the day, my dear Mrs Durrell,” said Sven. “I shall give you a birthday gift of music.”
Although Sven could play such things as “There is a Tavern in the Town”, his real favourite was Bach, and I could see Mother wince visibly at the thought of a whole day spent with Sven playing Bach to her.
“No, no,” she said hurriedly, “you mustn’t make a fuss.”
“Vell, ye vill have a tremendous celebration tomorrow,” said Max. “Ve vill find a special place and ye vill celebrate Muzzer’s birzday in true Continental style.”
Presently the mattresses that we had brought with us were unrolled and gradually we all drifted into sleep as a moon as red as a robin’s breast edged its way up over the mountains above us and gradually turned to lemon yellow and then silver.
The following morning at dawn we were all startled — and, in consequence, irritated — by Sven waking us playing “Happy Birthday to You” on his accordion. He was crouched on his knees, gazing raptly into Mother’s face to see the effect it would have. Mother, not being used to having an accordion played six inches away from her ear, woke with a squeak of alarm.
“What’s the matter? What’s the matter? Are we sinking?” she gasped.
“Sven, for God’s sake,” said Larry, “it’s five o’clock.”
“Ah,” said Max drowsily, “but it’s Muzzer’s birzday. Ve must now start to celebrate, Now, come, ye all sing togezzer.”
He leapt to his feet, banged his head on the mast, and then waved his long arms and said,
“Now, Sven, play it again. All togezzer now.”
Sleepily, reluctantly, we all had to sing “Happy Birthday to You” while Mother sat there making desperate attempts not to fall asleep again.
“Shalls I makes some teas, Mrs Durrells?” said Spiro.
“I think that would be a very good idea,” said Mother. Our various presents were brought out and given to her, and she expressed delight at each one, including the pearl-handled revolver, though she did say that she felt that Leslie ought to keep it in his room as it would be safer there. If, as he had suggested, she kept it under her pillow, it might suddenly go off in the night and do her a serious injury.
The application of tea and a quick swim revived us all. The sun was now coming up and the night mist was being drawn up from the water in pale skeins. It was as though the sea were a great blue sheep that the sun was delicately shearing. After a breakfast consisting mainly of fruit and hard-boiled eggs, the engine was started and we chugged off down the coast.
“Ve must find de most superb spot for Muzzer’s lunch,” said Max. “It must be a Garden of Eden.”
“By Jove, yes,” said Donald, “we must find a really superb spot.”
“Then I can play to you, my dear Mrs Durrell,” said Sven. Presently we chugged our way round a headland that looked as though it had been constructed out of immense bricks of red, gold and white rock, with a huge umbrella pine perched on top of it, clinging precariously to the edge and leaning dangerously seaward. As we rounded it, we saw that it guarded a small bay where there was a tiny village, and on the slopes of the mountain behind the village were the remains of an old Venetian fort.
“That looks interesting,” said Larry. “Let’s pop in here and have a look at it.”
“I wouldn’ts goes theres, Master Larrys,” said Spiro, scowling.
“Why ever not?” asked Larry. “It looks a charming little village and that fort looks interesting.”
“They’s practically Turks,” said Spiro.
“What d’you mean, ‘practically’?” said Larry. “Either you’re a Turk or you’re not a Turk.”
“Wells, theys acts like Turks,” said Spiro, “not likes Greeks, so reallys they’s Turks.”
Everybody was a bit confused by this piece of logic.
“But even if they are Turks,” said Larry, “what does it matter?”
“Some of these, um..., um..., remoter villages have a very strong Turkish influence since the Turkish invasion of Greece,” said Theodore knowledgeably. They have adopted many of the Turkish customs and so in some of these out-of-the-way places, as Spiro quite rightly points out, they are really more Turkish than Greek.”
“But what the hell does it matter?” said Larry in exasperation.
“They sometimes don’t particularly care for foreigners,” said Theodore.
“Well, they can’t object to our stopping and looking at the fort,” said Larry, “and in any case, the village is so small I should think we outnumber them by about three to one. Besides, if they look belligerent we can always send Mother ahead with her pearl-handled revolver. That’s bound to quell them.”
“Yous really wants to goes?” asked Spiro.
“Yes,” said Larry. “Are you afraid of a few Turks?”
Spiro’s face became suffused with blood to a point where I thought he was liable to have a stroke.
“You shouldn’ts says things like thats, Master Larrys,” he said. “I’m not afraids of any son-of-a-bitch Turks.”
He turned and stomped off to the end of the boat and gave Taki instructions to head for the little jetty.
“Larry dear, you shouldn’t say things like that,” said Mother. “You’ve hurt his feelings. You know how strongly they feel about the Turks.”
“But they’re not bloody Turks,” said Larry, “they’re Greeks.”
“Technically speaking, I suppose you could call them Greeks,” said Theodore, “but in these remoter places they have become so like Turks as to be almost indistinguishable. It’s a curious amalgam, as it were.”
As we nosed our way in to the jetty a small boy who had been sitting there fishing picked up his rod and line and ran off into the village.
“You don’t think that he’s gone to alert them, do you?” asked Leonora nervously. “I mean, so that they can come out with guns and things?”
“Oh, don’t be so damned silly,” said Larry.
“Let me go first,” said Mactavish. “I’m used to this sort of situation. Frequently met it among the outlying Indian tribes in Canada while I was tracking a man down. I have a knack for getting on with primitive people.”
Larry groaned and was about to make a sarcastic remark but was quelled by a vicious look from Mother.
“Now,” said Mactavish, taking charge of operations, “the best thing to do is to get onto the jetty and stroll about a bit admiring things as though, er..., as though..., er...”
“As though we were tourists?” Larry suggested innocently.
“I was about to say,” said Mactavish, “as though we had no evil intentions.”
“Dear God,” said Larry, “one would think this were Darkest Africa.”
“Larry dear, do be quiet,” said Mother. “I’m sure Mr Mactavish knows best. After all, it is my birthday.”
So we all trooped out onto the jetty and stood for some moments pointing in different directions and carrying on ridiculous conversations with each other.
“Now,” said Mactavish, “forward into the village.”
Leaving Spiro and Taki in charge of the boat, we trooped off The village consisted of some thirty or forty houses, all tiny, all whitewashed and gleaming, some of them with trellises of green vine, some shrouded in great cloaks of purple bougainvillea.
With a brisk, military walk Mactavish led the way, looking like an intrepid member of the French Foreign Legion about to take over an unruly Arab settlement, and we all ambled after him.
There was only one main street in the village, if it could be dignified with that term, and off it ran several tiny alleyways, between the houses. As we passed one of these alleyways, a woman wearing a yashmak rushed out of a house, gave us a horrified glance and disappeared down one of the alleyways at a hurried pace. I had never seen a yashmak before so I was vastly intrigued.