Peace Work (17 page)

The sandwiches are cut in small triangles, ten of them make one sandwich. I wolf down what I think is the requisite amount to stall hunger.

“Terr-ee, you eat lot of food but you always thin.”

“Yes, I am thin.”

“You must have some, how you say,
tonica?
”

Tonic, yes, I’ve tried it. I drank Horlicks and Sanatogen but nothing happened except the price of their shares went up. She feels my arm and shakes her head as if the sleeve is empty, which it nearly is. After tea I try to – but, no, no, Toni has more mending to do. I must leave without it.

It’s not long to departure for the show-time. I seek out Bornheim, who has been trying to massage his shoes into a more pliable state. Sitting there on a magnificent four-poster bed with tapestry swags, massaging dubbin into his shoes is a culture shock. Have I heard? Lieutenant Priest has bought a radio! Great, must borrow it, I’m desperate to hear some jazz. I dash up to his room: yes, I can borrow it, but not just now – he’s listening in for football results from the BBC General Forces programme. General Forces? Never heard of him. Priest says I can borrow it tonight. Great, I know from the
Union Jack
that there’s Duke Ellington at half-ten tonight – just about the time we get back, goody! The thought of hearing Ellington was so exciting. In those days, was I that simple?

∗

The last night, full house again – show goes extremely well. There is an after-the-show drink on stage with Lieutenant Priest. Chalky White and his helpers are starting to dismantle the set and load it on to lorries. Back to the hotel. It’s half-past ten, I borrow Priest’s little radio and take it to my room. Bornheim and Mulgrew join me. We sit and smoke as the programme is announced. “A Date with the Duke,” says the announcer to the strains of ‘The ‘A’ Train’. I can’t remember now the tunes he played after that, but it went on till eleven-thirty when the station closed down. I have missed dinner; I go down and inquire if there’s anything to eat. Ahgggggggggggg, Cold Collation!

PADUA YET AGAIN

PADUA YET AGAIN

T
he long journey back starts. We all board the Charabong at nine o’clock. Our destination is Rome, nearly nine hundred miles away. We will be staging tonight at Padua. It’s going to be a long haul; none of us are looking forward to it. When we arrive in Rome, we are to do another week of the show at the Argentina Theatre. Toni says if I like, I can stay part of the time at her home in the Via Appennini.

∗

We are now watching all the ground we travelled in reverse. There are occasional reminders of the war – the burnt-out tank or an abandoned artillery piece, fading military signs, DUST MEANS DEATH.

We journey throughout the day. As we travel south to a lower altitude, the weather gets warmer. Spirits are kept up by Hall and myself playing some jazz. Our Italians sing native songs and in between we talk in bursts, then sit silent. Some doze. By one o’clock, we are on the outskirts of Trieste. We pull over to the verge near a ruined castle. The sandwiches are distributed. Made back at the hotel, they are still these tiny triangular things. The lunch over, I and Toni explore the castle. Built of monumental stone blocks it is very haunting. Near the keep is a hole in the ground that I recognize as the oubliette. “What is oubliette, Terr-ee?” I explain it means forget in French. This is where they dropped prisoners that were to be forgotten. Nasty! I wonder when archers last stood at these cruciform slits in the wall. All life would have been here: feasting, romance, battles, intrigue. What happened? Who was the last person to leave this place, and why? So many questions and no answers.

“Oi,” Priest is calling us from below. “You two lovebirds come on down. We’re leaving.”

We scramble back into the Charabong and take our customary seats.

“Wot you two been doin’ up the castle, eh?” says Bill Hall, full of innuendo, and I think ‘shit!’

We drive off into the city of Trieste. It’s still got partisans walking round the streets. We see one or two agitators addressing a crowd. They are red in the face and gesticulating wildly.

“I don’t know what they see in Communism,” says Hall. “After all those bloody long-faced Russians we saw in Vienna, ‘oo wants to be a Commie?”

“Ah,” says Mulgrew, “they did laugh at our act.”

“Oh, yes,” said Hall, “but they were generals. They can bloody well afford to laugh.”

Off they go on the merits of Communism. Both retire unbowed with Communism still safe in Russia.

“Oh, Terr-ee, it takes so long,” complains Toni about the journey. It is hot and dusty and I’m bloody bored as well. I give her hand a squeeze and give her an understanding smile, which is a lot of bloody help.

Toni has fallen asleep on my shoulder. All the morning exuberance has gone. Window-gazing, I take in the Italian countryside. I wonder what happened to my battery. It is, I know, somewhere in Holland. I wonder if they think of me. Do Harry Edgington, Alf Fildes and Doug Kidgell still play together, I wonder. I miss them; I miss playing in the band, I miss my pre-war days. What a convulsion in my life Hitler has caused. Mind you, it seemed to be for the better. Only time would tell.

Oh, Christ, this is all we need. We are slowing down as the radiator is boiling. We stop. With a rag, Luigi gingerly removes the radiator cap and lets forth a great gusher of steam. It was something I wished I could do when I got steamed up about Toni. Priest assures us it’s not serious: “We’ll just have to wait till she cools down.” Meanwhile, Luigi has run across the road to some peasant’s house and borrowed a bucket of water which he proceeds to pour over the radiator. He is obliterated in clouds of steam.

“For his next trick,” says Bornheim, “he will appear as Ben Hur.”

We take the opportunity to get out and stretch our legs. It’s now evening and much cooler. A rough calculation tells us we have another four hours to Padua. Luigi continues to pour buckets of cold water over the radiator. After about half an hour, which seemed like eternity, we are off again.

“Keep yer fingers crossed,” says Lieutenant Priest as we start.

The long journey continues with a fresh burst of energy from the Italians, who give off with a few Italian marching songs, including the banned ‘Giovinezza’ a Fascist hymn; then a long silence; then, without warning, Bill Hall sings:

What is a dill doll, daddy,

Said my little daughter aged nine.

A dill doll, my chick,

Is a property prick

Six times the size of mine.

Your mother bought one for Christmas,

Straight off the Christmas tree.

She’s used it but twice,

She’s found it so nice,

She’s no bloody use for me.

All together! Those of us who knew it gave it another chorus. Not for a moment do the Italians know what we are on about (I was on about ten pounds a week).

“What this song?” says Toni. “Why you laugh?” I have not the courage to tell her. “Ah,” she suspects, “it is something
caltivo
, yes?” Yes, it’s
molto cattivo
.

This last effort, however, was the last effort during the trip. It’s dark now and we’ve lapsed into silence. A great full moon appears on the skyline, looking – at this level – very big and the colour of custard. Finally we pass the city sign ‘Padua 3 chilometri’. Thank God! We all give a cheer.

Toni wakes up, “What’s the cheering for?”

“It’s for Padua, they are cheering Padua.”

At eight of the clock, our Charabong lurches to a halt outside the Leone Bianco and we wearily de-bus. All I want is a bath, some dinner and bed – preferably with Toni. We are all allocated to our rooms. By coincidence, I have the same one as previously. The hotel is pretty empty so we all have a room on our own. Ahhhh! I exclaim, as I dip myself into a hot bath. I had taken many baths in my time and this was one of them. Ahhhh! The bath has a shower attachment. The shower rose is in the shape of a blossom. People say a shower is cleaner than a bath – wrong! I turn this one on. The shower rose falls off and hits me square on the head. A lump appears on my head. I had had many lumps in my time and this was one of them. Dressing at speed, I hasten down to the dining-room, where everyone is tucking in. I order a double portion of spaghetti Neapolitan. In no time I had caught up with the rest of them, passed them and gone into the lead.

Bornheim is ogling a waitress. “Cor, look at that,” he says, as a nubile waitress, all boobs and bum, passes the table, sending out coded sexual vibrations in all directions. I had seen many coded sexual vibrations in my time and these were some of them.

Everyone is travel-weary; most go up to their rooms. Toni and I finish off a coffee. “Oh good,” she says, “tomorrow Roma!
Grazie a Dio
.” Yes, I can, if I wish, stay with her at her mother’s flat. But I realize that Toni won’t be as available under Mother’s eagle eye, so I give her a loose yes. When we get desperate, we can retire to the hotel as a second line of defence. So it’s to bed. Ah, bed! It was not long before I was in the arms of the angel of sleep. Please don’t drop me, dear.

ROME AGAIN

ROME AGAIN

I
am awakened by the waitress and her morning tea trolley. “Ah gratzia, signorina,” I say, as she pours the steaming liquid into my cup.

“
Piacere
,” she coos. She and her Chivers jelly bottom exit.

I sit up, sipping my tea. It’s another bright day. Blast! My great gold obscene watch has stopped. I phone the porter. “
Scusi, che ora sono?
” It’s otto o’clock, one hour to departure. A quick wash and shave with a very blunt razor that gives me a very blunt face – the beard isn’t cut, it’s pulled out hair by hair. My skin is a series of sore blotches.

I meet Toni at breakfast. Yes, she slept well. That’s that out of the way. I eat my brioche and that’s that out of the way. Lieutenant Priest leans over our table, how are we, did we sleep well? Yes, we both slept well. He also slept well – God, this is exciting news! Does he know anybody else who has slept well? We’d like to congratulate them.

The Charabong awaits. We board the bus, saying Buon Giorno to Luigi. Faithful Luigi has been to early Mass at St Anthony’s and prayed for the success of the journey, and I wonder – as he didn’t invent them – does God know about charabongs? That’s the best part of the Catholic religion: you can pray for anything, your overdraft, the death of your mother-in-law, money. My prayers to be leader of a bit band had never materialized. I’d say God was deaf.

We have only travelled a kilometre outside Padua when there is a hold-up. Ahead, there has been an accident: two lorries have collided – one is a lorry containing chickens and now lies on its side, blocking the road. The two drivers are shouting at each other and gesticulating. Add to this a hundred chickens clucking. Some of their cages have broken open and chickens are running around, pecking by the road side or perching on the side of the lorry. A black mongrel dog has joined in and is chasing the chickens into the middle distance. It was chaos as a police patrol arrived and joined in the shouting.

Luigi backs up, turns round and finds another route.

“Why do Eyeties shout so bloody loud?” says Bill Hall.

“It’s because they’ve slept well,” I said.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about twenty words a minute, which is the going rate.”

“The nearer the equator you are, the more hot-blooded,” says Professor Bornheim. “In fact, people living
on
the equator actually explode.”

At the front of the coach, Tiola Silenzi and her husband Fulvio have been coaxed into singing a duet. They give us ‘La Paloma’. Lovely, pure
bel canto
singing. They are warmly applauded for their efforts and nobody exploded.

Toni and I sit holding hands. Every now and then, we look at each other and grin. This is called looking without exposing the teeth.

Time for a British response to the Italians. “Come on, Ricky,” says Lieutenant Priest, “lead the singing or get off.”

Soon we are all singing ‘You Are My Sunshine’, ‘We’ll Meet Again’, ‘Blue Birds Over the White Cliffs of Dover’. This is followed by a short concert of jazz by Milligan and Hall. The Italians are mad about La Jazz. So pass the morning hours.

We stage on the sea at Riccione. We sit on the beach and eat our sandwiches, but are plagued by horseflies. Bornheim takes a delight in killing them with a rolled-up copy of the
Union Jack
. “That’s five of the buggers so far,” he boasts. Our costumes are all in our luggage, so no swim; but trousers-rolled-up paddling is being indulged in by a few of the more daring spirits. The sun is gloriously warm as I lie back on the sand with my eyes closed. A pleasant breeze is blowing from the Adriatic, a horsefly gets me on the ear. I lash out, miss him but nearly render myself unconscious. Why bite me? I’m not a horse.

“Number eight,” says Bornheim, gleefully flicking a corpse off his hand.

Mulgrew is up to his shins in the sea, occasionally throwing a flat pebble which skims the shining surface. What is it about the sea? It calls us all. Is it a prehistoric instinct? Were we once creatures from the sea? If you put a baby on the beach, it will instinctively crawl towards the water. Strange, eh?

On, on to Rome. We heave ourselves free of the beach and board the now very dusty Charabong. As we drive, Hall, Mulgrew and Bornheim play a game. Each one in turn has to sleep with the next living thing they see on the road. Hall gets a pretty village girl, Mulgrew gets an old toothless dear and Bornheim gets a horse. They soon tire of this and Hall produces his violin and plays Italian melodies. The Italians join in. I know this all may sound repetitive, but that’s how it was. We were
all
very repetitive.