Where Have All the Bullets Gone? (22 page)

“‘ello son, you bin in trouble?”

Yes, I said, and her father’s after me.

Back at number thirty, I pull the string on the key.

“Is that you Spike?” Mrs Edgington in her nightie, calls from the top of the stairs.

“Yes, would you like some fish and chips?” No, they’ve had their supper. Remember to bolt the door, but not the food. I say OK.

“If you want a cup of tea it’s all there.” Ta. It’s 8 o’clock. They go to bed early to save electricity and heating. It’s not been an easy war for the working classes. I lie in bed eating fish and chips and sipping tea. The fire glows on to the walls. Geraldo and his band are sparkling on the radio, and Dorothy Carless is Thanking her dear for that lovely weekend, reminding me I myself have a very weak end.

Hitler is dead, and I am alive. I cannot understand it. He had so much going for him. Like the Red Army. I fall asleep to the glow of the dying fire, or am I dying to fire by the glow of sleep? It all depends on the size.

Leave: Day 1

I
awake to the sound of buses. I can tell by the tyres on wet streets. It’s raining. I am wearing my new pyjamas, made from sheets by a Maddaloni tailor and dyed by the local laundry. I thought they would match my eyes.

“You awake, Spike?” Mrs Edgington at the door. “Cup of tea.” She screams! “What’s the matter with your face, Spike?”

I say “Everything. Why?”

“You’ve got blue all over it.” Does it match my eyes? Yes. It’s off my bloody pyjamas. It’s all over my body, now my body matches my eyes, and my eyes match the sheets. I spend the morning washing Mrs E’s sheets, and finally get it off my body with a loofah. I boil the pyjamas in the copper and now they look like an old Variety backdrop for G. H. Elliot’s act.

Porridge? Yes, Mrs Edgington.

“Harry loves porridge. I always gave it to the boys before they went to work. It’s very good for you, gives you a good lining to your stomach.”

Mr Edgington had had his breakfast earlier. “I’m an early riser, as soon as my eyes are open I have to get up.” He’s so right, it’s silly to get up with your eyes closed.

Down in the basement I tidy up, and something that is never done, I tidy down and sideways — it’s silly to miss those areas. I polish my boots and my appalling brown bulging civvy shoes that weigh eighteen pounds each.

The doorbell. “It’s Betty,” said Mrs E.

“No it isn’t, it’s the door bell.”

There she is in her smart WAAF uniform, bright brass buttons, her WAAF mascara and WAAF lipstick. Has she brought her knickers and boobs? From the right, number one! two! We all sit round the Edgingtons’ kitchen table and have ‘a nice cup of tea’. Mrs E tells of the bombin’, the doodle bugs, the incendries, and that married woman over the road. I’ll take Betty up to the West End. There’s Variety at the Met Edgware Road. Max Miller and the wonderful Wilson, Keppel and Betty. No words can describe the atmosphere of that bygone age that started in 1850 and died in the 1950s. Betty and I are in the front row. Max spots me. “‘Ello son, we got a soldier ‘ere back from the war? That the wife? On leave are you? Wot are you doin’ ‘ere then?” It’s Lyons Corner House beans on toast.

Back home. “That you Spike?” Yes. “Don’t forget to bolt the door.” Betty and I go down to the basement. Max Miller was right…what were we doing there?

I awake at Mrs Edgington bringing me in tea. “Bet is in the kitchen. Did you have a nice time in London?” Yes.

Betty has to return to duty; her knickers and knockers are leaving at midday. I see her to the tube, we’ll meet for further things later. She is swallowed up by the descending stairs.

The Great Amnesia

I
have a diary. It says: Stayed Edgingtons. Stayed Beryl. Stayed Folks. But I can’t remember — so I searched for Beryl — Success — I found Beryl — she remembered, but won’t charge me.

Gunner Milligan Traces Beryl Southby Now Mrs Smith!

Y
es! 40 years on! I managed to get her on the phone. Did she remember me? Yes, I’d never stopped molesting her.

I daren’t ask her if I’d showed her my post-war reserve underwear. As Beryl spoke, it all came back. I remember the Corner House if only for the three-string orchestra, still lost in the 1900s, ploughing into Fritz Kreisler’s repertoire while I ate scrambled egg on toast. Beryl didn’t know what terrible danger she was in. We sat at night and listened to Harry Parry and the Radio Rhythm Club with Benny Lee. I also remember now that her mother made sensational roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for a Sunday lunch. I now know that I was, in my mind, living a dream life. I was floating on other people’s emotions, and only concerned with my own which were very childlike, naïve, and basically, deep down, there was a yearning for recognition. Recognition of what is not clear, but I know there was some goal in my life to be fulfilled. Sometimes I thought it might be as a painter, but mostly it was as a musician, maybe as a composer. None of these materialized, except in a minor capacity.

Beryl and I also made a flying visit to see my parents. She says my father answered the door and said “What do you want?”

I said, “Don’t you remember me? I’m your son.”

“Ah yes.” He called, “Kiddie,” (my mother) “come and see who it is.”

My mother came out, drying her hands and said, “Oh son, I had a premonition you were coming, I’ve just baked a nice ginger cake.”

I didn’t stay that night. Having found out where they lived and seen that they recognized me as their son and a ginger-cake eater, I returned for the last but one week.

And so to that occasion. A third-class from Charing Cross to Reigate. How nice was the buttoned upholstery of the compartments on the old Southern Railway. I’ve a carriage to myself and I settle back with the
Daily Herald
. It’s a sunny day; my eyes wander from the paper to the window. Lewisham Junction — and ‘the Government are to increase the sugar ration’ as we speed through Catford. By Sydenham, ‘Burnley have drawn with Queens Park Rangers after extra time’; as we pass the Crystal Palace Towers, ‘Mr Attlee is saying that demobilization is to be speeded up’ at Croydon. An old couple get on. They reek of Sanatogen. “Young man, does this train go to Reigate?” Yes it does, ‘and Mr Attlee went on to say that there will be jobs for all returning soldiers’ and ‘Tickets, please, all tickets please’ says an Inspector. I show him my rail warrant. “On leave son?” he says, cutting a V in the document. He has a son in France as Purley Junction flashes past. He’s in the Marine Commandos. Yes, madame, it definitely goes to Reigate. The Inspector leaves, his steel clippers mincing in his hand, hungry for tickets. The old couple sit close together. He is thin and bald, and when she takes her hat off, so is she. They are worried about Reigate. Does it go there? Yes it does! Yes, yes, I’m sure Mr Attlee is going to Reigate. “He says all war criminals will be sentenced to Reigate.” Reigate Grand Station, and we get off on to the deserted platform. “Is this Reigate, young man?” Yes, this is Reigate young man. With kitbag, pack and trumpet case I catch the Green Line bus that drops me at the bottom of the hill. I gasp and stagger upwards. Betty, oh Betty, what did you do to my manhood?

A car stops. “Want a lift, Sergeant?” A moustachioed Major with a face like a dismantled sink pump.

“Yes sir,” providing he doesn’t want to rattle me knackers.

“On leave?”

“Yes sir, from Italy.”

“Oh, you missed all the bombin’.”

“No, I’ve never missed the bombin’. Ha ha ha ha ha hooray Henry.” He drops me at the very gate. 40 Meadow Way, Woodhatch.

“Thank you very much sir,” and if I ever see you again, it’ll be two weeks too soon.

I turn to see my mother’s white face at the parlour window, looking for scandal. I see her mouth the words ‘Oh, it’s Terry’ and appear at the door. “My son…My son.” Good, she remembers me! “You came back, despite the ginger cake,” she says. “When are you going back?” Can I come in? Would I like some tea? “Oh my son, my son.” Good, she still remembers me. “Your telegram said today or tomorrow.” Yes, so I’ve come today, but yesterday, today
was
tomorrow, so what’s the problem? The 6x4 box room is all ready for you. A single bed with a pink eiderdown, a steel cream painted fireplace blocked with newspaper, a bedside table with barley twist legs, a po, a dressing-table with a cracked mirror, a cane chair painted silver, a standard lamp with an oil cloth shade with pirate ships on it. A ceiling light with a white globe. There are no windows. “It’s the best we could do, son.” She hugs me again. What a memory she has.

But wait, where is my father, Captain Leo A. Milligan RA RAOC Retired? Why wasn’t he standing at the gates with the Irish wolfhounds on a leash, his saffron kilt blowing in the Reigate winds, his piper at his elbow playing ‘Danny Boy’, and holding out the traditional bannock.