Chapter 9 Opening Day

So, the day of 7 July 2007 dawned, and we were going toopen to the public at 10 AM. And, amazingly, for the firsttime in about six weeks, it was sunny. It was actually hot.
The sky was cloudless, even the park itself was cloudless,for a change. Down in the car park a small crowd wascollecting from half past nine onward, and a ribbon hadbeen strung across the entrance, ready to be cut as the zoowas officially reopened for business for the first time infifteen months.
Mum, Duncan, and several of the smartly dressed staffwere already down at the bottom when I arrived, but wewere far out numbered by the expectant crowd of mumswith buggies, family groups, and the odd OAP (old-agepensioner). The day before, the weather would have madethis highly unlikely, but this sudden gap in the clouds waslike the curtains unexpectedly opening on the cast of a play,long in rehearsals with the opening date constantlythreatened with delay. Suddenly we were on. These werereal customers, all genuinely wanting to visit a real zoo.
Some would even be wanting to buy a toy, have a meal,and go to the toilet; so, for the next eight hours (for the firsttime in our lives), this was our job: to see that this randomlyselected cross-section of the public got what they wanted,and left content with their experience.
Mum made a short speech thanking everyone for comingand the staff for all their hard work, then declared the parkopen and cut the ribbon. Watching her cut her firstceremonial ribbon in seventy-six years, I thought she mighthave been thinking a little about the house where she wasborn, which was not even a two-rooms-up, two-down inSheffield, but a one-up, one-down plus a small attic on top,with tin baths in front of the fire in the living/dining/kitchen/bathroom. But in fact that was just me beingsentimental, and Mum was thinking along much morepractical lines of, “Thank God there’s finally some moneycoming in” and “How can I get up to the top of the drivebefore all these people?”
As it happened we were carried up the drive at the headof the surge on a huge wave of positive energy andoptimism. Apart from me worrying about the steep gullieson the side of the drive which, it had been helpfully pointedout to me many times over the last few months, could easilysnap an ankle if someone went over one the wrong way(though in forty years they never had). Everyone in myimmediate vicinity somehow made it up the drive safely, butsoon they would be at the top, and the first complaintsabout the restaurant would start to come in, then about thekiosk, the pathways, the toilets, and the rubbish bins. Andthen, of course, there would be the Code Red. Animalrightsactivists cutting some wire, or an excited keepermaking a mistake, and suddenly Solomon is runningacross the picnic area with a baby in his mouth. Thescreaming crowd disperses never to return, and the sale ofthe zoo doesn’t cover the claims because we only had ￡5million public liability insurance.
Everywhere I looked, there was something that could gowrong. I constantly fiddled with my radio, checking that itcould scan both frequencies simultaneously, so that I couldpick up customer services catastrophes as well as animaldepartment disasters. I wasn’t actively expecting thesethings to happen in a pessimistic way, but I wouldn’t havebeen in the least bit surprised at this stage if any of themdid. The emergency mode had been going on for so long, itwas hard to stand back and see this day for what it was. Anenormous, unqualified success.
People were coming—pouring—up the drive, wanderingaround, enjoying the facilities. They were buying ice cream,cups of tea, lunch, and toys in the shop and smiling.
Furthermore, they were saying nice things to us and thekeepers. How well everything looked, what a refreshingchange it was, how happy the animals seemed, how hardwe must have worked. None of us were used to this. Upuntil now, most visitors from the outside world had beenofficials, bankers, inspectors, lawyers, or creditors of onesort or another, stressing the extreme seriousness of ourposition, the enormous amount of work ahead, and thedisastrous consequences if anything at all went wrong. Buthere we were, having finally got it right and being praised,continually all day, by a smiling and even grateful public.
Toward lunchtime I made my way up to the picnic area, andSolomon was nowhere to be seen, safely behind the wire,entertaining rather than eating his public. And the publicwere eating at the kiosk. Every picnic table was full; peoplewere sitting on the grass, relaxing and sipping tea—teathey had bought from the kiosk—while small children insocks burned off energy on the bouncy castles. I couldn’tresist a head count, and that first one revealed forty-twoadults visible from the bottom corner, which, times ￡8entrance fee, translated into ￡336. Right in front of me wehad raised enough money to more than pay for thatincredibly expensive power drill we’d had to buy threemonths before. Plus coffees and teas, plus all the otherpeople milling on the site and in the restaurant. Maybe itwas going to work after all.
Then I received my first complaint. “Why have you gotthese bouncy castles here?” demanded a mildly iratemother. “I brought my child here to see the animals, but hewon’t come off. They’re just a distraction.” I didn’t knowquite what to say, so I tried out my new customer servicesmode, apologized, but pointed out that many people usedthe bouncy castles as a chance for a break so their childrencould go back to looking at the animals when they’d burnedoff a bit of excess energy. This platitude seemed to work.
Though I took the complaint very seriously, as it wasoffered, and it made me question the core idea of playfacilities momentarily, I was confident enough by now thatevery zoo and almost every leisure attraction has a playarea of some sort, after all, and this was all we could affordat the moment. Usually it’s seen as a form of public service.
But there really is no pleasing some people, as I havediscovered, though that was the only complaint of the day.
As the day wore on, nothing bad happened. The keeperswere smiling almost in disbelief at being showered withcompliments, praise, and positive feedback. It had been along haul for them too, the old and the new, in very tryingtimes and with a level of uncertainty about their future thatmost had not experienced before. What they hadexperienced before, however, was the public, and I wasstruck how at ease they all seemed in moving through thecrowds, giving impromptu talks, then getting on with theirroutines. It made sense, of course. None of them hadworked in an empty zoo before they came here; crowdswere normal.
The only zoo I had ever worked in, however, was this one,which had always been empty. Any member of the publicon the site was our responsibility and had to be escorted atall times. In between being granted the license andopening, less than two weeks before, the local school hadasked to visit. I had said yes, and though it was technicallyallowed as a private visit, it had not gone down well withSteve, Anna, and Peter Wearden. Under strict supervisionit had been a tense time, shepherding twenty-six vulnerableyoungsters and their six or so adult caretakers through theminefield of dangers that, I had been trained, the zoopresented. Now, suddenly, there were children everywhere,running and laughing, virtually unsupervised and oddlyunharmed. I loved seeing them, recognizing the glee ontheir faces that said they were having a special day out.
Here, in our zoo. It was hard to take in.
The restaurant was also a teeming success: cakes,coffee, tea, panini, hot meals prepared by Gordon, our newchef, all selling well, all being consumed happily,nonchalantly even, by a satisfied public who took forgranted that this should be the case. If they had only seenthe room where they were eating even a week before, noone would have thought this achievement possible.
Then something did hit me: Katherine. Throughout theday, amongst the stream of general well-wishers, severalpeople had come and shaken my hand to offer theircondolences about Katherine. News of her death hadreached the local paper, which had sent a reporter a coupleof weeks afterward to cover it. I hadn’t minded, as thequestions were suitably restrained, and the young reporterwas suitably uncomfortable asking them. Until thephotographer turned up. He was a talker, a spiel merchant,which probably served him well with uncertain old ladieswhose cats had been rescued by the fire brigade or surlylandowners with oversized marrows. It didn’t irritate memuch, until he asked for the photo of Katherine he hadwarned me in advance they wanted to reproduce. I didn’tmind this either, and handed over the only photograph I hadof her—one of my favorites, which, to me, could haveadorned the cover of Vogue. I asked him to take care of itand post it back afterward, but he said there was no needto take it away, he’d just take a close-up digital picture of itwith his vast Nikon, and that would be fine. Even better.
But when I handed it to him, he said, “Oh, great. She’sbeautiful. Yeah, lovely,” and by the time he had thephotograph of Katherine in his viewfinder, somethingclicked in his brain and the spiel came on again, as if hewas talking to a living person, in his tacky, squalidmonologue. “That’s it, lovely. Beautiful, looking goodthere”—click, click—”Yeah, that’s it, my lovely, come on,one more”—click, click, click. I can’t tell you everything thatwent through my mind; suffice to say that I realized thatkilling him would probably be counterproductive, so Iwandered off.
This article and this picture was produced over a fullpage in the local paper quite prominently, page three Ithink, and had been widely read by the local population, itseemed. On opening day, perhaps fifty people came up tome to offer congratulations, and maybe seven of themoffered their sympathy about Katherine; one or two really hita nerve I hadn’t known was there by saying, “I’m sure yourwife would have been proud,” or words like it. Obviously,with any comment from any member of the public, you areforced to trawl the validity of their observations, as with thecomplaint about the bouncy castles. And I had to concludethat perhaps Katherine would have been proud to someextent (though she’d have said something suitably sarcasticabout it all). But I wasn’t expecting to have to think aboutthat on this day, until other people brought it up. I wasexpecting a Code Red, but not one from inside my head.
To be fair, I had had some warning, though not really intime. The day before the formal opening we had held a VIPreception, where local councillors and various people wewere indebted to—or soon to become indebted to—wereinvited to experience the newly revamped facilities and eatand drink at our expense on one of those jollies I had sooften experienced—virtually lived on, in lean times—as ajournalist. This, again, was no problem and though a newexperience to be on the other side of the fence, it was adelight to be hosting, until people started pulling me asideand saying that same thing: your wife would have beenproud.
I was required to make a short speech, and to thankvarious people for their help, so I went to the office toprepare something, with the party audible a few roomsaway. Unfortunately, there was the article with Katherine’spicture, unearthed and left out by some well-meaningmember of staff for me to take over to the house. It was toomuch, and too unexpected on this day. I felt like I hadprepared for everything else, during which processes I hadmanaged to put Katherine to the back of my mind most ofthe time during the day. But here she was, smiling at me,looking so gorgeous and carefree, little knowing that in afew years she would be dead, under the ground in Jersey,about a mile from where the photograph was taken, leavingher two little children motherless. Such an undeserveddeath. Would she have been proud? She’d certainly havebeen pleased to be there, just to have been alive for onething, but she’d also have absolutely made the occasion,with her effortless, genuine charm. I couldn’t come out of theroom for at least an hour. When I finally emerged to makethe speech, which was indeed very short, I forgot to mentionby name one or two members of the staff, who promptlywent into a sulk. I tried to apologize later, but the sulkcontinued, and though I didn’t mind, my mum was vergingon apoplectic. She finally sought out the sulkers and gavethem a stiff dose of her plain northern speaking, which, takeit from me, you don’t want to be on the receiving end of. Acouple of days later, the sulk was at an end.
But we had other things to think about, like the next day,and the next, stretching into the distance as far as we couldsee. It had occurred to me while guiding the dumper truckthrough some of the narrow gateways of the park, whichhad taken a few weeks to learn how to do efficiently, that Icould be driving a dumper around this park for the nexttwenty-five years. I liked the idea. I’d once spent sevenyears as a contributing editor on a glossy magazine, andrealized that more than half a decade of my life wasmeasured by the yard or so of copies of this mag pressedtogether on my bookshelf. What was I doing in August1996? Researching and writing the pieces published undermy name in the September 1996 issue, and so on. I hadmany happy memories, I’d learned many skills, been sentall around the world and met many interesting and lovelypeople, but it still suddenly seemed like a bit of a treadmill,or a gilded prison. Okay, I’d been sent out on an icebreakerin northern Finland to meet a husky team and godogsledding for three days; I’d done several free-fallparachute jumps from 14,000 feet (the horror, the horror);I’d been paid to go snowboarding at Lake Tahoe,California, for ten days; I’d swum with dolphins in theFlorida Keys (those pesky dolphins were the ones whosnapped me out of it). And driving a dumper truck full ofmanure in the rain may seem less glamorous and moreagricultural, but it contained the seeds of something farmore important, far more worthwhile. The depth of potentialfor internal expansion and development on this site inpursuit of such a worthwhile cause was limited only by theimagination. It didn’t seem like a prison at all. As one goodfriend said to me, when we first started at the zoo, as I wasenthusing to her on the phone, “It’s like your whole life hasbeen a preparation for this moment.” And it does seem likethat. It feels like a vocation.
Milo and Ella were also thoroughly enjoying the exposureto these sorts of experiences—what child wouldn’t? At firstthey used to tell everyone they met that they lived in a zoo(usually met with total disbelief), and that Daddy climbedtrees in the lions’ den to feed them. Gradually they havedeveloped a deeper understanding of the animals and theirneeds, cross-referencing their daily exposure with aboundless appetite for natural-history documentaries.
They’ve watched so much of Monkey World on Skytelevision that they probably know more about chimpanzeegroup dynamics than I do. When we finally get our bonobos(or gorillas or orangs), I’ll probably have to employ them asconsultants. But it’s the hours at a time spent out in the parkactually watching the animals close up that is really givingthem such a thorough grounding in how the world works,and their place in it. Ella hasn’t decided yet, but Milo wantsto be a zoo director when he grows up. This zoo directorwouldn’t necessarily recommend the position, though itdoes have enormous benefits. Most of the time is spent onmore-or-less tedious matters of infrastructure worries, staffissues, and other concerns that come with running abusiness open to the public. But every now and then youare called on to spend quality time with, or make a decisiveintervention about, the animals. Which is what it’s all about.
I can’t imagine investing this much time or emotionalenergy in any other cause that repays it all so fully.
Mum, too, is delighted with her new and invigorating roleas a zoo director. Though still caught up in the daily runningof the place, she always makes time to walk around thepark, coo to the animals, and enjoy them—particularly thebig cats. Having stroked lions in Namibia instead of retiringto a life of memories in her late seventies, she is notchingup other exotic-animal petting conquests—bear, tiger,jaguar, and puma (all anaesthetized)—which leave herfulfilled and make her the envy of her contemporaries. Oneof these days, she’ll be out there as we planned, with hersketchbook, drawing from life her own tigers.
Without the animals, there is nothing I can envision thatwould have lured me from my life in France—and nothingthat could have helped us all so much to cope with theterrible loss of Katherine. With the animals, there is a clearmission, which everyone here feels part of.