Fillets of Plaice, by Gerald Durrell by Fillets of Plaice Page A

knew intimately a lot of places that I longed to visit. After that I used to go and have tea with him about once a fortnight, and they were always very happy afternoons for me.
    I was still disbelieving about his story of Potts Lane, so I thought I would conduct an experiment. Over a period of days I visited in turn each shop in the lane. When I went to Clemysira's, for example, I went to buy a hat for my mother's birthday. They were terribly sorry, said the two dear old ladies who ran it, terribly sorry indeed; I couldn't have come at a worse time, They had just run out of hats. Well, had they got anything else, I inquired? A fur, or something? Well, no, as a matter of fact, they said, all the stuff they had in the shop was bespoken at the moment. They were waiting for a new consignment to come in.
    When was my mother's birthday? Friday week, I said. Oh, we think it will be in by then, they said; yes, we're sure it will be in by then. Do come again.
    Mr Wallet, the tobacconist, told me that he did not stock the brand of cigarettes I wanted. He also did not stock any cigars, nor did he stock any pipes. Reluctantly, he let me buy a box of matches.
    I next went to the plumbers. I had called, I said, on behalf of my mother because there was something wrong with our cistern and could they send a man round to look at it?
    “Well, now,” said Mr Drumlin, “how urgent is it?”
    “Oh, it's quite urgent,” I said. “We're not getting any water into the lavatories or anything.”
    “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