Dear Mr Durrell,
I am ten years old and in my opinion you are the best zoologist in the British Isles (except Peter Scott).
Would you please send me your autograph?
The following year things looked much brighter and we had something concrete to show for our work. Catha worked like a beaver in order to keep the Trust and zoo accounts in order, and to control our overdraft, and also to control me, for I have a habit of overspending without thinking. ‘Wouldn’t flamingoes be nice,’ I would exclaim enthusiastically.
‘Oh, yes, beautiful,’ Catha would say. ‘How much do they cost?’
‘Oh, not very expensive,’ I’d say. ‘Somewhere in the neighbourhood of a hundred and twenty pounds each, I suppose.’
The happy smile would fade from Catha’s face and a steely glint would come into her green eyes.
‘Mr Durrell,’ she would purr, ‘do you know the size of our overdraft?’
‘Oh, yes, yes,’ I’d say hastily. ‘It was only a suggestion.’
However, in spite of Catha’s disinclination to part with any cash, we did make progress.
Added by Jeremy and John Mallet we had completely re-organised the zoo. We worked out a card index of every animal in the place. Each animal had three cards: one pink, one blue, and one white. The white card was the history card and contained such details as where the specimen was obtained, its condition on arrival, and so on. The second card, the pink one, was the medical card and contained a full record of the animal’s health and any veterinary treatment it had received. The blue card was the behaviour card, and probably the most important, for on it were noted such things as courtship displays, gestation periods, territory markings and a host of other things. We also instituted a large Day Book in Jeremy’s office; a sort of diary to which every member of the staff had access so that they could note down anything of interest among their charges. These were then transferred to the appropriate cards. By this means we managed to start amassing some fascinating material. It is really astonishing how little is known about the average animal. I have a fairly comprehensive library of about a thousand books but you consult it for something quite simple, like, let us say, the courtship display of the creature in question, and you will find absolutely no mention of it anywhere.
The second thing we did was to adopt a new feeding system. I had read that Basle zoo had worked out a special formula which they fed, in addition to the normal food, to their animals, and which not only improved their condition but also their breeding potential. It had apparently been discovered that, however well you fed your animals – and we always gave ours the best that was obtainable – there were traces of minerals and various other substances which they did not obtain in their food and which were essential for their well-being. This form of ‘cake’ supplemented it. So I wrote to Dr Ernst Lang at Basle zoo and he very kindly sent me full details, and then we had a conference with Mr Le Marquand, the zoo’s miller, and he made up the cake for us. It looked like a rather unattractive brown dough when it was finally completed, and we viewed it with some suspicion. However, I told Jeremy to give it a week’s trial and see what would happen. At that time, Jeremy was frequently a visitor to the flat to consult me about various matters. There would be a knock on the front door, it would open, Jeremy’s head would poke round, and he would say,
‘Er, just Jeremy.’
And he would then come into the drawing room where I would be working, to discuss whatever the problem of the day might be.
After a week of trying the new food, there came the familiar rap on the front door and a voice said, ‘Er, just Jeremy.’ ‘Come in, Jeremy,’ I called.
He came and stood, wearing his worried expression, in the doorway of the drawing room. Jeremy is tall, with hair the colour of ripe corn, a nose like the Duke of Wellington’s, and very blue eyes which, when he is worried, are inclined to squint slightly. Now he was squinting, so there was obviously something the matter.
‘What’s the problem?’ I inquired.
‘Well, it’s this new cake mixture,’ he said. ‘The – um – animals don’t seem to like it. Some of the monkeys have eaten a little of it, I think more out of curiosity than anything else, but none of the other things is taking it.’
‘How about the apes?’ I inquired.
‘No, they won’t touch it at all,’ said Jeremy gloomily. ‘I’ve tried every way – even putting it in their milk – and they won’t take it.’
‘Have you tried starving them?’ I inquired.
‘No,’ said Jeremy, looking a little guilty. ‘I haven’t, as a matter of fact.’
‘Well, try it,’ I suggested. ‘Cut out all their food tomorrow, except their milk, and only give them the cake. See whether that will have any effect.’
The following day there came the familiar knock on the front door and the familiar, ‘Er, just Jeremy.’ Jeremy appeared once more at the drawing room door.
‘It’s about the apes,’ he said. ‘We did starve them and gave them only the cake and milk. But they wouldn’t eat the cake. So where do we go from here?’
I was as nonplussed as he was. This cake was fed to all the animals in Basle zoo and they ate it with every evidence of enjoyment. There was obviously something lacking in our cake to make it palatable. We phoned up Mr Le Marquand for his advice.
‘What do you think we could put in it, to make it more attractive?’ we asked.
He thought about the problem for some minutes, and then came up with a brilliant suggestion.
‘What about aniseed?’ he said. ‘It’s completely harmless, and it’s a flavour that most animals seem to like.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘it can’t do any harm. Will you make us up some with aniseed in?’
‘Yes,’ he said, and forthwith produced a cake that had a strong smell of aniseed.
The moment this was introduced into the cages all the animals went wild about it. In fact, today, they take their cake in preference even to their favourite foods. In consequence, their condition has improved tremendously, and so have our breeding results. Within a year after the introduction of the cake into the diet, we had bred twelve species of mammals and ten species of bird and were feeling exceedingly proud of ourselves.
I think the birth that was of the greatest importance that year, and also caused us the most anxiety, was that of our South American tapir. Claudius, his father, I had collected while I was in Argentina, and he had, in his time, caused a considerable amount of trouble by escaping from the zoo grounds, eating up a friend’s garden, ploughing through all the cloches in our nearest neighbour’s farm, and many similar escapades. But now, since we’d found him a wife whom we called Claudette, he had settled down to be a staid and portly animal. Tapirs look not unlike brown, elongated, Shetland ponies, with long wiffly noses vaguely reminiscent of an elephant’s trunk. They are benign and friendly beasts on the whole. As soon as Claudette had become old enough, mating had taken place and the various matings had been carefully noted on their behaviour card. It was then that we discovered how invaluable these cards were going to be, for as soon as Claudette showed signs of being pregnant, we could work back to the date of the last mating and thus judge reasonably accurately when she would be due to have her youngster.
One day there came the familiar tap on the front door, a voice said, ‘Er, just Jeremy,’ and Jeremy came in, wearing his worried look.
‘It’s about Claudette, Mr Durrell,’ he began. ‘I think she’s due to give birth about September, according to the cards, and, er, I was wondering whether you thought it advisable to move her into the other paddock, away from Claudius?’
We discussed this at some length, and decided that perhaps it might be a wise manoeuvre to separate them, as we did not know what Claudius’s reactions to a baby would be. In any case he was inclined to be short-sighted and might well trample on it accidentally. So Claudette was moved into the other paddock where she could still smell and rub noses with Claudius through the wire, but could give birth in safety. It was towards the time when we thought she should be almost ready that she started to cause us considerable anxiety. True, her girth had increased, but absolutely no movement could be felt from the baby and there was no sign of any milk in her udders. Jeremy, Tommy Begg, our veterinary surgeon, and I had a long conference.
‘She’s got such a damned thick skin,’ said Tommy gloomily, ‘and she’s so tough otherwise, that I can’t press my fingers in far enough to feel any movement from the baby at all.’
‘Well, according to the cards,’ said Jeremy, who by now was treating them as a sort of oracle, ‘she should be having it any day now.’
‘What worries me,’ I said, ‘is that she’s got no milk. Surely she should have some milk by now?’
We all leant on the rail of the paddock and stared at Claudette, who gave the minute and ridiculous little squeak that tapirs give, and continued chewing meditatively on a hawthorn branch, completely oblivious of our worried faces.
‘Well, if she does give birth,’ said Tommy, ‘and she’s got no milk, you’ll have to hand-rear the baby. What’s the composition of tapir’s milk?’
‘I haven’t a clue,’ I said, ‘but I can look it up in the library.’
We all trooped down to my study, but in not a single book could we find the composition of tapir’s milk.
‘Well,’ said Tommy, after the forty-seventh book had been read and found wanting, ‘We’ll just have to take a risk on it and make up a composition as near to mare’s milk as possible. I should think that would do.’
Feeding bottles and teats were got ready and sterilised, and all the ingredients for making up something similar to mare’s milk put ready to hand. We waited and waited, and Claudette showed not the slightest sign of giving birth. Then, one day, her hut was cleaned out as normal at about ten-thirty in the morning. There was still no sign of the baby, but at three o’clock that afternoon Geoff, who was looking after her, came tearing down the back drive, his face glowing with excitement.
‘She’s had it! She’s had it!’ he shouted.
Jeremy and I, who had been standing there in grave discussion over some other matter, immediately rushed up the back slope and into Claudette’s paddock. She was outside, chewing on a large bowl of carrots and mixed fruit, and took absolutely no notice of our intrusion. We peered cautiously into the hut and there, in the straw, was one of the most adorable baby animals I’ve ever seen. It was about the size of a small dog and striped, as all baby tapirs are, with vivid white stripes that ran the length of its body on its chocolate brown fur, making it look like some sort of animated humbug. It seemed to me amazing that such a large baby could have been inside Claudette and yet we had been unable to feel any movement whatsoever. He must have been born within the hour for his fur was still damp in patches where Claudette had licked him. We helped him gingerly to his feet so that we could sex him, and he waddled about the hut for a few moments before lying down again. He looked, with his white stripes, extraordinarily conspicuous on the straw, but when you translated this pattern into terms of light filtering through the thick forest canopy overhead in the places where tapirs lived, you could see that it was the most perfect camouflage.
We immediately christened him Caesar, to carry on the Roman line, as it were, and then went to see whether Claudette had any milk. This was the most worrying thing of all, for hand-rearing baby animals at the best of times is not easy. To our immense surprise we found that, between ten o’clock in the morning and three o’clock in the afternoon, her udders had filled completely with milk and she had a plentiful supply. That was a great worry off our shoulders. She proved an exemplary mother and it wasn’t long before Caesar was trotting round the paddock at her heels. Another interesting thing we noticed was that she would feed him while lying down, and he would lie down beside her, sucking vigorously at her teats.
Now, as I have said before, my library is fairly extensive and tapirs have been bred in zoological gardens for a great number of years; yet nowhere had we found these three facts recorded. First, that it is almost impossible to tell whether the female is pregnant or not, that is to say that you cannot feel the baby kicking inside her. Second, that her teats only fill with milk when the baby has been born. Third, that she suckles the young while lying down. Also, since Claudette was a very amiable beast, it was easy for us to obtain a sample of milk from her and send it for a breakdown to the Public Analyst. This meant that if, in the future, we had a female tapir give birth to a youngster and she did not have any milk to feed it, we would know the exact composition necessary. All these items were duly noted on the cards, and eventually published in our Annual Report.
Another interesting birth that took place at roughly the same time was that of a Gelada baboon. The adult Gelada baboon is a handsome creature with a great shawl of chocolate-coloured fur, and an extraordinary, almost heart-shaped patch of bright red skin on the chest that makes it look as though the fur has been scraped away leaving only raw skin underneath. Algie was the male, and he was a great character. His hind legs were slightly too short and bowed, which gave him the most curious, pansy walk. He would always greet you, when you went to the cage, by waddling up to the wire, turning his upper lip right back so that you could see his gums and his huge teeth, and uttering little moaning cries of delight as you talked to him. He shared his quarters, to begin with, with a South African baboon, but it wasn’t long before we got him a mate, whom we decided to call Amber, for, as a member of the staff remarked, Algie was forever at Amber. Algie lived for his food and his womenfolk, so it was not unduly surprising that, in a very short space of time, Amber became pregnant. Baboons of all species in the wild state have an interesting social structure, so we left the South African baboon in with the two Geladas to see how this would work out when the baby was eventually born. Algie, who was the dominant animal in the cage, distributed his favours equally between his own mate and this totally unrelated African baboon. Next in line of authority was the baboon herself, and Amber, prior to the birth of the baby, was the most lowly member of the troop. The principal reason we left the African baboon in with them was that, if we had removed her, the chain of authority would have been altered and Algie and his mate would have started the usual bullying and bickering that goes on between any pair of primates. As it was, Algie bullied the South African baboon and she, in turn, bullied Amber, but in a much more gentle fashion than Algie would have done. There was a risk that if we left the South African baboon in the cage, since she was the dominant animal over Amber, she might damage or even eat the youngster when it was born. However, we decided to take the risk.
In the wild state the majority of baboons have worked out a very complex social system which has only recently been investigated to any great extent. It has been observed that, when a female baboon gives birth to a baby, there is great excitement amongst all the females of the troop, particularly the elderly females who are past childbearing. To begin with they gather round the mother and examine the baby with great interest, although not being allowed to touch it. Gradually, the mother ceases to guard it quite so jealously and then the older females vie with each other in taking turns to hold the baby, grooming it and carrying it about with them. In this particular instance, if all three animals had been of the same species, one could have assumed that the same process would have been observed. However there was some doubt as to whether the older South African baboon would react in this way to the baby of a completely different species.
The great day came. The baby was born sometime during the night in the baboons’ bedroom. It was observed at eight o’clock the following morning, perfectly clean and dry. It was clinging tenaciously to its mother and there was no sign of an umbilical cord or afterbirth. When they were let out into their outside cage it became immediately obvious that the South African baboon was as excited and, one might almost say, delighted with the birth of the baby as the mother. She sat as close to Amber as possible, generally facing her and occasionally putting her arms round her protectively, so that the baby, who was clinging on to the front of its mother, was wedged between the two of them. Algie, who, as I said, had hitherto been the dominant animal in the cage, was intrigued by the infant and obviously wanted to examine it, but whenever he approached Amber she would round on him, turning back her upper lips, chattering her teeth and uttering a ‘yahhrring’ noise which we had not previously heard in her vocabulary. This had the effect of making him retreat, so that all he could do was circle the pair of females and the baby, keeping about two yards away, and peering hopefully to see if he could catch a glimpse of it.
This state of affairs lasted about twenty-four hours, then he was allowed closer so that he could groom his mate and the South African baboon. Five days after the birth they had reverted more or less to their normal behaviour. The South African baboon still acted in a protective way to both mother and baby but Algie was allowed to embrace and groom his wife. He was not, as far as was observed, allowed to touch the baby at all. The baby was extremely strong and healthy and, in contrast with most other baby baboons, had only a slightly wrinkled face. Within twenty-four hours its eyes could see and focus with great accuracy, and it would follow the movement of your hand or body some six feet away outside the cage. On the fifth day the mother allowed it to climb down and walk a little way on the floor, though she kept it within arms’ reach the whole time. After seven days, however, this happy state of affairs came to an end, for the South African baboon, who was now allowed to hold the baby, became too possessive and would hold on to it even when it was obvious that the baby wanted to go back to its mother to be fed. We were forced to remove the South African baboon and Algie into a separate cage so that the youngster could thrive.
The Trust was now coming up to its first birthday, and we felt we ought to have some sort of celebration. We decided to have a Members’ Day, vulgarly known to us as ‘The Bun Fight’. We would close the zoo for the day except to members, invite various celebrities over and have a lunch which we hoped would be attended by the Governor of the island and the Bailiff. In the evening there would be a fundraising dinner at which we hoped our celebrities would give speeches pleading our cause. The amount of work which went into this was considerable. There were hotels to be booked, menus to be worked out, seating plans which drove us nearly mad, and various other things. It was also the time of the year when fog is prevalent in Jersey, and if there was any fog anywhere near Jersey it inevitably settled with unerring accuracy on the airport. It was therefore imperative that we should get all our celebrities over at least a day before, otherwise we might find ourselves with nobody to entertain. Ninety per cent of this work was done by Catha and she did it magnificently, but I could see that it would be necessary in the future not only to have a Council but also several subcommittees to take care of such projects.
One of the committees I decided to form was a fundraising committee, and I was brooding on this one day when I went down to meet Jacquie at the airport. As I entered the arrivals hall, my mind occupied with other matters, I suddenly found myself face to face with one of the loveliest girls I had seen in my life. She had black hair, very large hazel-green eyes, and was wearing an expression of such melting love and kindness that I felt sure it could not be directed at me. However, she came closer and I discovered that it was. My spirits rose. Perhaps, after all, the slight pot I was developing and the bags under my eyes were not as noticeable as I had thought, or maybe there were even some girls that liked them. Then my spirits fell again, for I saw she was carrying a collection box.
‘Would you,’ she said, in tones like melting honey, ‘would you like to contribute?’
‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘How could I resist eyes like that, anyway?’ I fumbled in my pocket and quite by mistake pushed a ten shilling note into her box instead of the half-crown I had intended.
‘I bet with a face like yours you are doing a roaring trade,’ I said.
She smiled sweetly.
‘Oh, I’m not doing too badly,’ she said.
‘Well, you should try collecting for us sometime.’
‘Why don’t you ask me?’
‘Maybe I will,’ I said, and then the Tannoy announced the arrival of Jacquie’s plane and I went to the entrance doors. It was while I was standing there that a brilliant thought occurred to me. There was the very girl, and she had actually offered her services. She would be perfect for fundraising. Nobody could resist those eyes, I felt sure. I waited impatiently for Jacquie to arrive, grabbed her by the arm and unceremoniously dragged her back into the arrivals hall.
‘Hurry up. Hurry up,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for a girl.’
‘Not again,’ said Jacquie.
‘No, no. This is a very special, very beautiful girl. She was here a minute ago, collecting something for something.’
‘What on earth do you want her for?’ asked Jacquie, suspiciously.
‘Well, she’s perfect for the fundraising committee,’ I said. ‘And she actually offered, and like a fool I didn’t get her name.’
I looked frantically round the hall, but it was completely devoid of anything except elderly dowager duchesses and retired colonels.
‘Damn!’ I said. ‘I’ve missed the opportunity of a lifetime.’
‘Well, surely you can find out who she is? She must be somebody local,’ said Jacquie.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I suppose I could ask Hope.’ As soon as we got home I phoned up Hope.
‘Hope,’ I said, ‘who is a very beautiful girl, with hazel-green eyes and dark hair, who was collecting for something or other at the airport today?’
‘Really, Gerry!’ said Hope. ‘You do ask the most impossible questions. How do you expect me to know? And, if it comes to that, what do you want to know for?’
‘I want to start a fundraising committee,’ I said, ‘and she seemed to me to be an absolutely ideal person to have on it.’
Hope chuckled.
‘Well, I can’t think of anybody off-hand,’ she said. ‘You might, of course, try Lady Calthorpe. She’s supposed to be very good at fundraising.’
I groaned. I could just imagine what Lady Calthorpe was like. Long yellow teeth, cropped iron-grey hair, tweeds smelling of spaniels, and spaniels smelling of tweeds.
‘Well, I’ll think about it,’ I said.
So the day of the bun fight dawned and, needless to say, there was fog at the airport. Pandemonium reigned about getting Peter Scott and his wife over, and we only did it in the nick of time, with the aid of somebody’s private plane. However, everything went off smoothly. In the morning I took Peter and his wife round the zoo, introduced them to members of the staff, and explained the work that we were trying to do. Peter, to my delight, seemed very impressed.
The lunch was a very pleasant occasion; principally, I think, because nobody made any speeches. Then, in the afternoon, we all went round the zoo once more. There was just time for a bath and change before setting out for the real event of the day, which was the fundraising dinner. To this we had invited a small, but select, gathering of people, some of whom we hoped might be able to help us in other ways. Lord Jersey was the first speaker and he then introduced Peter Scott, who gave a marvellous speech on various aspects of conservation and the importance of the work that we were trying to do. I was supposed to be the next speaker, and was shuffling my notes in a desultory fashion in preparation, when my gaze was suddenly riveted on a girl sitting some distance away at another part of the table. It was the one that I had seen at the airport. What on earth, I thought, was she doing here? The problem so intrigued me that I almost forgot my speech. However, I struggled through it and sat down. I was determined, at the first available opportunity, to make my way across the room and capture the girl before she could escape for the second time.
Soon there came a general shuffling of chairs and people started to leave the tables. I made my way, with all the speed that politeness would permit, through the mass of distinguished friends, and managed to catch the girl just as she was going out of the door. I laid my hand upon her shoulder, rather in the manner of a store detective who is arresting a shoplifter. She turned and raised disdainful eyebrows at me.
‘You’re the girl I met at the airport,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘Well, at the airport,’ I continued, ‘you said that you would be willing to help us raise money. Was that just a joke, or do you still mean it?’
‘Of course I mean it.’
For once in my life I had a piece of paper and a pen in my pocket.
‘Could I have your name and telephone number, and could I get in touch with you and discuss this further?’ I asked.
‘But of course,’ she said, ‘any time you like.’
‘Um . . . your name?’
‘Saranne Calthorpe.’
I was flabbergasted. I stared at her for a moment.
‘But . . . but you can’t be Lady Calthorpe,’ I said, rather petulantly.
‘Well, I have been for quite a number of years.’
‘But . . . I mean . . . where’s the cropped hair, and the spaniels, and the look of an ancient mare?’ I asked in desperation.
‘Do I look like an ancient mare?’ she inquired with interest.
‘No, no!’ I said ‘. . . I didn’t mean that. What I meant was that I thought you’d look like an ancient mare. Are you sure there’re not two Lady Calthorpes on the island?’
‘As far as I know,’ she said, with supreme dignity, ‘I am the only one. You can phone me anytime you like,’ she added, and gave me her address and telephone number.
I went back to Jacquie, jubilant.
‘I’ve found the girl,’ I said.
‘Which particular one?’ inquired Jacquie.
‘The one I was telling you about,’ I said impatiently. ‘The one at the airport. She’s Lady Calthorpe.’
‘But I thought you said that Lady Calthorpe was surrounded by spaniels and tweeds and things,’ said Jacquie.
‘No, no, no! This is that . . . that . . . lovely creature in . . . in . . . a black sort of dress with white jobs on it,’ I said.
‘Oh, that one,’ said Jacquie. ‘Yes . . . well, I suppose she could raise money.’
‘I shall contact her instantly,’ I said, ‘tomorrow morning. But now, for God’s sake, let’s go home and go to bed.’ And so we did.
Taken all round the bun fight had been a great success. We’d had a chance to get advice from people like James Fisher, Walter van den Berg, the Director of Antwerp zoo, Richard Fitter of the Fauna Preservation Society, and many other people who had not only seen fit to praise the work we were doing, but gave constructive criticism. Not only that, but at last the amount of money raised would enable us to start work on our most urgent project, a series of new, large, outdoor cages for our apes. The plans for these had long been mouldering on the drawing-board, while Jeremy and I gloated over them. They were going to cost far more money than the Trust could afford. But after the bun fight we knew that we could start to build them and we were jubilant at the thought.
Now, it has always been my contention that the two most dangerous creatures to let loose unsupervised in a zoo are a veterinary surgeon and an architect. The vet will insist on treating wild animals as if they are domestic ones. A bush dog or a dingo may be of the dog family, but you cannot treat them as though they were pekinese or spaniels.
Generally, the vet, in despair, says: ‘Well, I should put it down, if I were you.’ We were fortunate in having two vets, Mr Blampied and Mr Begg, who took the opposite view. The last thing they ever wanted to do was to put any animal down at all.
Architects are a different kettle of fish. If left unsupervised, they will design you a cage that is a poem architecturally but useless from the point of view of the staff who have to use it or, more to the point, the animals who have to live in it. When it had come to the cages for the apes, Jeremy and I had watched the designs with great care to make sure that no mistakes were made. They were extremely difficult cages to design because they had to be built on sloping ground, facing south, along the wall of the mammal house. But the ground sloped in three different directions, which meant we had to build up a great staging of concrete upon which the cages could stand. The final design that Bill Davis, our architect, produced for us pleased me very much. Each cage was almost triangular so that the inmates of any cage could see what was going on in the other two. Apes are just as inquisitive about what their neighbours are doing as any human beings, so instead of muslin curtains from behind which they could peep, we gave them bars. The roof of this construction was sloping slightly backwards so that the apes could get the maximum amount of sunshine.
The firm which was to build the cages moved in and began to clear the site. The cages in which the apes were living at the time were inside the house but they each had a window from which they could see the construction work going on, and this fascinated them. Oscar the orang-utan, who is the most mechanically-minded of all the apes, would sit, almost literally all day, with his face pressed against the glass, watching the cement being mixed and laid, an absorbed expression on his rather Chinese face. I went down one morning to see how the work was progressing, and was talking to one of the men.
‘I see that Oscar is making sure you build the cages properly,’ I said, pointing to where the ape was sitting with his face pressed against the glass.
‘’im!’ said the man. ‘’onestly, ’e sits there all day long. It’s worse than ’aving a bloody foreman watching you!’
