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tučně vyznačené části textu.
The
Migration
July had
been blown out like a candle by a biting wind that ushered in a leaden August
sky. A
sharp, stinging drizzle fell, billowing into opaque grey sheets when the wind
caught it.
Along the Bournemouth sea-front the beach-huts turned blank wooden faces
towards a
greeny-grey, froth-chained sea that leapt eagerly at the cement bulwark of the
shore. The
gulls had been tumbled inland over the town, and they now drifted above the
house-tops
on taut wings, whining peevishly. It was the sort of weather calculated to try
anyone's
endurance.
Considered
as a group my family was not a very prepossessing sight that afternoon, for
the weather
had brought with it the usual selection of ills to which we were prone. For
me, lying
on the floor, labelling my collection of shells, it had brought catarrh,
pouring it
into my
skull like cement, so that I was forced to breath stertorously through open
mouth. For
my brother Leslie, hunched dark and glowering by the fire, it had inflamed the
convolutions
of his ears so that they bled delicately but persistently. To my sister Margo
it
had
delivered a fresh dappling of acne spots to a face that was already blotched
like a red
veil. For
my mother there was a rich, bubbling cold, and a twinge of rheumatism to season
it. Only my
eldest brother, Larry, was untouched, but it was sufficient that he was
irritated
by our
failings.
It was
Larry, of course, who started it. The rest of us felt too apathetic to think of
anything
except our own ills, but Larry was designed by Providence to go through life
like a
small, blond firework, exploding ideas in other people's minds, and then
curling
up with
cat-like unctuousness and refusing to take any blame for the consequences. He
had become
increasingly irritable as the afternoon wore on. At length, glancing moodily
round the
room, he decided to attack Mother, as being the obvious cause of the
trouble.
'Why do we
stand this bloody climate ?' he asked suddenly, making a gesture towards
the
rain-distorted window. 'Look at it I And, if it comes to that, look at us....
Margo
swollen up
like a plate of scarlet porridge . . . Leslie wandering around with fourteen
fathoms of
cotton wool in each ear . . . Gerry sounds as though he's had a cleft palate
from
birth... . And look at you: you're looking more decrepit and hag-ridden every
day.'
Mother
peered over the top of a large volume entitled Easy Recipes from Rajputana.
'Indeed I'm
not,' she said indignantly.
'You are,'
Larry insisted; 'you're beginning to look like an Irish washerwoman... and your
family
looks like a series of illustrations from a medical encyclopedia.'
Mother
could think of no really crushing reply to this, so she contented herself with
a
glare
before retreating once more behind her book.
'What we
need is sunshine,' Larry continued; 'don't you agree, Les ?... Les... Les!'
Leslie
unravelled a large quantity of cotton-wool from one ear.
'What d'you
say?' he asked.
"There
you are I' said Larry, turning triumphantly to Mother, 'it's become a major
operation
to hold a conversation with him. I ask you, what a position to be in I One
brother
can't hear what you say, and the other one can't be understood. Really, it's
time
something
was done. I can't be expected to produce deathless prose in an atmosphere
of gloom
and eucalyptus.'
'Yes,
dear,' said Mother vaguely.
'What we
all need,' said Larry, getting into his stride again, 'is sunshine... a country
where we
can grow.'
'Yes, dear,
that would be nice,' agreed Mother, not really listening.
'I had a
letter from George this morning - he says Corfu's wonderful. Why don't we
pack up and
go to Greece ?'
‘Very well,
dear, if you like,' said Mother unguardedly.
Where Larry
was concerned she was generally very careful not to commit herself.
'When ?'
asked Larry, rather surprised at this cooperation.
Mother,
perceiving that she had made a tactical error, cautiously lowered Easy
Recipes
from Rajputana.
'Well, I
think it would be a sensible idea if you were to go on ahead, dear, and arrange
things.
Then you can write and tell me if it's nice, and we all can follow,' she said
cleverly.
Larry gave
her a withering look.
'You said
that when I suggested going to Spain,' he reminded her, 'and I sat for two
interminable
months in Seville, waiting for you to come out, while you did nothing except
write me
massive letters about drains and drinking-water, as though I was the Town
Clerk or
something. No, if we're going to Greece, let's all go together.'
'You do exaggerate,
Larry,' said Mother plaintively; 'anyway, I can't go just like that. I
have to
arrange something about this house.'
'Arrange ?
Arrange what, for heaven's sake ? Sell it.'
'I can't do
that, dear,' said Mother, shocked.
'Why not?'
'But I've
only just bought it.'
'Sell it
while it's still untarnished, then.'
'Don't be
ridiculous, dear,' said Mother firmly; 'that's quite out of the question. It
would
be
madness.'
So we sold
the house and fled from the gloom of the English summer, like a flock of
migrating
swallows.
We all
travelled light, taking with us only what we considered to be the bare
essentials of
life. When
we opened our luggage for Customs inspection, the contents of our bags
were a fair
indication of character and interests. Thus Margo's luggage contained a
multitude
of diaphanous garments, three books on slimming, and a regiment of small
bottles
each containing some elixir guaranteed to cure acne. Leslie's case held a
couple
of roll-top
pullovers and a pair of trousers which were wrapped round two revolvers, an
air-pistol,
a book called Be Your Own Gunsmith, and a large bottle of oil that leaked.
Larry
was
accompanied by two trunks of books and a brief-case containing his clothes.
Mother's
luggage was sensibly divided between clothes and various volumes on cooking
and
gardening. I travelled with only those items that I thought necessary to
relieve the
tedium of a
long journey: four books on natural history, a butterfly net, a dog, and a
jamjar
full of
caterpillars all in imminent danger of turning into chrysalids. Thus, by our
standards
fully equipped, we left the clammy shores of England.
France
rain-washed and sorrowful, Switzerland like a Christmas cake; Italy
exuberant,
noisy, and smelly, were passed, leaving only confused memories. The tiny
ship
throbbed away from the heel of Italy out into the twilit sea, and as we slept
in our
stuffy
cabins, somewhere in that tract of moon-polished water we passed the invisible
dividing-line
and entered the bright, looking-glass world of Greece. Slowly this sense of
change
seeped down to us, and so, at dawn, we awoke restless and went on deck.
The sea
lifted smooth blue muscles of wave as it stirred in the dawn-light, and the foam
of our wake
spread gently behind us like a white peacock's tail, glinting with bubbles.
The sky was
pale and stained with yellow on the eastern horizon. Ahead lay a
chocolate-brown
smudge of land, huddled in mist, with a frill of foam at its base. This
was Corfu,
and we strained our eyes to make out the exact shapes of the mountains, to
discover
valleys, peaks, ravines, and beaches, but it remained a silhouette. Then
suddenly
the sun shifted over the horizon, and the sky turned the smooth enamelled blue
of a jay's
eye. The endless, meticulous curves of the sea flamed for an instant and then
changed to
a deep royal purple flecked with green. The mist lifted in quick, lithe
ribbons,
and before us lay the island, the mountains as though sleeping beneath a
crumpled
blanket of brown, the folds stained with the green of olive-groves. Along the
shore
curved beaches as white as tusks among tottering cities of brilliant gold, red,
and
white
rocks. We rounded the northern cape, a smooth shoulder of rust-red cliff carved
into
a series of
giant caves. The dark waves lifted our wake and carried it gently towards
them, and
then, at their very mouths, it crumpled and hissed thirstily among the rocks.
Rounding
the cape, we left the mountains, and the island sloped gently down, blurred
with the
silver and green iridescence of olives, with here and there an admonishing
finger of
black cypress against the sky. The shallow sea in the bays was butterfly blue,
and
even above
the sound of the ship's engines we could hear, faintly ringing from the shore
like a
chorus of tiny voices, the shrill, triumphant cries of the cicadas.
