Fillets of Plaice, by Gerald Durrell by Fillets of Plaice

Potts. He was what would be known nowadays, I suppose, as a socialist. When he built this line of shops he laid down special rules and regulations governing them. The people who wanted the shops could have them on an indefinite lease and every four years their rent would come up for revision. If they were doing well, their rent was raised accordingly; if they were not doing so well, their rent was adjusted the opposite way. Now, I moved into this shop in 1921. Since then I have been paying five shillings a week rent.”
    I stared at Mr Bellow disbelievingly.
    “Five shillings a week?” I said. “But that's ridiculous for a shop like this. Why, you're only a stone's throw away from Kensington High Street.”
    “Exactly,” said Mr Bellow. “That is exactly the point. I pay five shillings a week, that is to say one pound a month rent.”
    “But why is the rent so ridiculously small?” I asked.
    “Because,” he said, “I make no profit. As soon as I discovered this section in the lease I immediately saw that it would provide me with a convenient loop-hole. I had a little money put by — not very much, but enough to get along on. And what I really wanted was a place to live where I could keep my birds. Well, this provided me with the ideal opportunity. I went round to see all the other people in Potts Lane and explained about this clause to them, and I found that most of them were in a similar predicament as myself; that they had small amounts of money to live on, but what they really wanted was a cheap abode. So we formed the Potts Lane Association and we clubbed together and we got ourselves a very good accountant. When I say ‘good' I don't mean one of these wishy-washy fellows who are always on the side of the law; those are no good to man nor beast. No, this is a very sharp, bright young man. And so we meet once every six months or so and he examines our books and tells us how to run at a loss. We run at a loss, and then when our rents come up for revision they either remain static or are slightly lowered.”
    “But can't the people who own the property change the leases?” I asked.
    “No,” said Mr Bellow, “that's the beauty of it. I found out that by the terms of Mr Potts's will these conditions have to stand.”
    “But they must have been furious when they found out that you were only paying them a pound a month?”
    “They were indeed,” said Mr Bellow. “They did their very best to evict me, but it was impossible. I got a good lawyer. Again, not one of the wishy-washy sort that thinks more of the law than he does of his customers. He soon put them in their place. They met with an equally united front from all the other shops in the lane, so there was really nothing they could do.”
    I did not like to say anything because I did not want to hurt Mr Bellow's feelings, but I felt sure that this story was a complete make-up. I had once had a tutor who lived a sort of schizophrenic existence and who used to tell me long and complicated stories about adventures that had never happened to him but which he wished had. So I was quite used to this form of prevarication.
    “Well, I think it's fascinating,” I said. “I think it was awfully clever of you to find it out.”
    “One should always read the small print,” said Mr Bellow, wagging a finger at me. “Excuse me, but I must go and get Mabel.”
    He went off into the shop and reappeared with the cockatoo on his wrist. He sat down and, taking the bird in his hands, laid it on its back. It lay there as though carved out of ivory, quite still, its eyes closed, saying “Hello, hello, hello”. He smoothed its feathers gently and then placed it on his lap where he tickled the feathers over its tummy. It lay there drowsing in ecstasy.
    “She gets a bit lonely if I keep her out in the shop too long,” he explained. “Have another crumpet, my dear boy?”
    So we sat and ate crumpets and chatted. Mr Bellow I found a fascinating companion. In his youth he had travelled widely round the world and