Memoirs 06 - Peace Work Page 15

  Oh, dear, this wind is too much for the ladies, their hair is becoming windblown. So we take a taxi back to the hotel. En route, Johnny suggests we go to the ENS A Supercinema. Yes, yes, yes. We redirect the taxi to the Via Depretis, which means passing the great Quirinal Palace. It seems that Roma is an unending vista of historical buildings.

  “All king of Italy live here sometime,” says Toni.

  “Very nice,” says Mulgrew of the magnificent edifice.

  The cinema is showing Hanover Square with Laird Cregar. It’s basically the story of murder on Guy Fawkes night when Cregar, the murderer, dumps the body on a great bonfire. All through, Mulgrew makes remarks like ‘You’ll never get away with it, Jimmy’, “Fools! It’s a body not a dummy.” It is a film with unending background music. Nobody can move without musical accompaniment, giving a vision of a great orchestra just off screen following the actors wherever they go. It’s all monumentally boring. Cregar sweats profusely through the film and spends most of his time flattened against walls, avoiding the police. Hollywood films – when I think that all my emotional development was based on them! For me, the real world didn’t exist, so I grew up emotionally deformed. As I rode on those early workmen’s trams to Woolwich, filled with hunched people in workmen’s caps, I was still wrapped up in the aura of the last film I had seen at the Wasdale Road Astoria. Forest Hill. The tram, the fog-ridden cold morning outside were all imaginary. They would all disappear when I saw my next Bing Crosby film. Most of my middle life would be spent trying to escape from their cloying influence. The final nail in the coffin was a book by Bing Crosby’s son, Gary, in which Bing was anything but like what his films were. That’s when my past life sank without trace. Hollywood of the thirties and forties has a lot to answer for. It wasn’t until I saw The Grapes of Wrath that I saw a real film. Then, I thought it rotten because it didn’t have a happy ending. But now, I’m in Rome, taking a taxi back to the hotel. Unlike films, the first taxi you flag down doesn’t stop. They stop for Bing Crosby!

  “God, we’re spending a fortune on taxis,” moans Mulgrew.

  Correction. “I am spending a fortune on taxis.”

  “True,” he says, “you are living beyond my means,” and makes like Groucho Marx, eyebrows wiggling, inane grin.

  Toni wants to know why I’m laughing. To explain, I would have to describe again what the Marx Brothers are like. It’s rather like trying to teach the theory of relativity to a Chinese peasant – not that Miss Fontana has the mind of a Chinese peasant, but in this case she might as well have. I just say that they are American comedians. “Worse,” says the evil Mulgrew, “they’re Jewish.”

  At the hotel, there is little sign of anybody so the girls withdraw to their room to do whatever girls do in rooms. Mulgrew heads for the wine bar next door. In the absence of any other interesting direction I follow him, sheeplike. I have a brandy and coffee to stiffen the sinews and vibrate the Swonnicles.

  “I think I’ve had enough of this tour,” ventures Mulgrew; then, with great feeling, “I want to go home.” Though his body was in Rome, his eyes were in Glasgow – but! His gullet was in a wine bar. He downs wine like a thirsty camel at an oasis. After one I’ve had enough. “Deserting a sinking alcoholic, eh?” he says.

  In my room, I write a long overdue letter to my pal in the Battery, Harry Edgington. I tell him of my new-found fame and ten pounds a week wages. I take great pride in the last-mentioned because I think I am in the top wage-earning bracket. I miss the boys in the Battery and especially playing the trumpet with the Battery dance band, the Boys of Battery D, as we were called. That, too, would never happen again – another stepping stone in life that I would never tread again. What was it like being stationed in Holland? Had he married Peg, his childhood sweetheart? Perhaps, when we were both back in England, we’d play together again; perhaps…I write to Mother, acknowledging the parcel she sent, and pose the question as to why she labelled a parcel containing suppositories and cigarettes ‘socks’. I presume it was a ploy to deter thieves. Why not mark the parcel ‘Live Snakes’ or ‘Rancid Meat’? I write to my dear, romantic father, urging him to start on his autobiography. He has a title, Saddle, Sabre and Spur, that’s been on his typewriter for ten years. It was still on it when he died.

  Mulgrew returns. Either they’ve run out of drink, or he’s run out of money. He flops on his bed and lights a cigarette. He doesn’t speak; he is gazing at the ceiling and blowing the smoke heavenwards. He still doesn’t speak.

  “Let me guess,” I say. “You have taken the vow of silence and are on your way to a monastery.”

  He smiles. “No, Jimmy, I’m a bit low today.”

  “You’re low every day; it’s the curse of duck’s disease.” He doesn’t answer but continues staring at the ceiling. In case there’s anything up there I’m missing I have a look. No, there’s nothing up there. I wonder what he sees in it. We all have our quirks; perhaps ceilings are a turn-on for him. I finish off the letter to my father, reminding him that I am on ten pounds a week. Despite this, I am still his loving son.

  On my way downstairs to the postbox, I meet Bornheim coming up. “Halt, who goes there?” he says. Why has he got his hat on? Let me guess, he’s been out or he’s Jewish. Yes, he, too, has been to see bloody awful Laird Cregar in Hanover Square. He laughs as he recalls the huge overweight Cregar humping the dead body over his shoulder to sling it on the bonfire, when it was painfully obvious that the stiff was a badly made dummy. “Did you see it start to slide off the bonfire when they cut?” he laughed. Glad he enjoyed it, but then Bornheim would laugh if his grandmother was run over by a steamroller. I think, with his name, there was a touch of the Hun.

  Do I want to come to his room? He’s written a new tune. Right away, massa boss. Letters posted, I hie me to his room. He gets out his ‘squeeze box’ and plays his composition. It’s very Tchaikovsky – yes, he admits to that influence, do I like it? Yes, it’s a splendid tune; it’s the best one I’ve heard this afternoon. Has it any words? No. Does he mind if I have a try? It’s a long time ago, but I remember the opening lines:

  Wonderful night on Capri

  We threw a kiss to the sea

  Her lips met mine

  That were wet with the wine

  Of that wonderful night on Capri

  As I have pointed out, all Hollywood slurp. Today I would write:

  Wonderful night on Capri

  I felt a pain in the knee

  I counted till nine

  Then cried rotten swine!

  Hi diddle Hi diddle Hi dee

  Bill Hall has heard the music and comes in with his fiddle. What the hell, I go and get my guitar and we all try out Bornheim’s new number. It develops into a jam session.

  Lieutenant Priest pops his head round the door. “Guess what,” he says.

  “It’s time to go,” we all chorus.

  Two more shows and this life style will be over. All chattering like monkeys we board the Charabong for the penultimate show.

  “Listen, everybody. Attention!” says Priest. “Tomorrow night, after the show, there will be a wine and cheese party on stage. Everyone allowed to bring one guest.”

  I stand up and in a twit voice say, “On behalf of me an’ my friends we would like to thank you for this generous offer, made possible by the money you bloody swindled us out of in the NAAFI.”

  Priest grins and waves me away.

  ∗

  Another good attendance. For a two thousand seater, we are getting the sort of audiences that London impresarios would like. “Mind you,” says Bill Hall, “compared with the box office takings, we get peanuts. Someone’s getting a good rake-off.” To this day, I often wonder if somebody was. It was so easy to fiddle during the war. Fortunes were made by soldiers who had sterling posted to them which they exchanged, at inflated rates, on the black market, then changed back into sterling at a profit. But I didn’t have to do that; I was on ten pounds a week!

  During tonight’s show, I take
time to watch Toni in her ‘Dance of the Hours’. She had been the start of my love affair with ballet. I love the grace, the posturing, the elegance. I see her spinning like a top around the stage, my ballerina. Aw, shucks.

  To boose our ego, we find a splendid write-up in the Rome Police News.

  “That’s bloody good for coppers,” says Mulgrew.

  “You see, they’re not all bastards,” says Hall.

  “Well, this lot aren’t,” concludes Mulgrew.

  “I say, I say, I say,” I said, “what do you do with bent coppers? Don’t know? I’ll tell you, send ‘em back to the Mint.”

  Neither of them wish to know that.

  Priest comes backstage to tell us that our favourite, Gracie Fields, is in tonight.

  “She’s in a box,” he says.

  “Well, screw the fucking lid on,” says Hall, who can’t stand her singing.

  “She wants to come backstage after the show,” says Priest.

  “Oh, Christ,” says Hall, “she’s not going to sing, is she?”

  Priest laughs: no, she wants to say hello to the cast.

  During our act, I can see Gracie who laughs and applauds with enthusiasm. She’s not a bad old stick, if only she didn’t sing. After the show we dutifully await her visit. Finally it comes to us.

  “Ow do, lads,” she says.

  “Aven’t seen you since the CMF Arts Festival.”

  She then introduces us to an old dear, a Mrs Biddick of ENS A Welfare, who is ‘frightfully pleased to meet us’. She is very interested in Bill Hall. “I say, you play your fiddle frightfully well.” Hall mumbles something like ‘Ta’. A few more boring pleasantries and Miss Fields and Mrs Biddick leave our sphere of influence.

  Our chorus girls liked her. “She speak little Italian,” said Toni, who herself is a little Italian. “She says if we go Capri, she like to see us.”

  With that threat hanging over us, we board the returning Charabong. Luigi, our driver, is very happy. He has heard from his wife who has, this day, given birth to his seventh child. “Una ragazza.” At dinner, we open a bottle of Asti Spumante and wet the baby’s head. Mulgrew goes on to wet the arms, the body and the legs.

  “Christ,” says Hall, “they don’t ‘arf have big families.”

  “It’s very simple,” says Mulgrew. “They do it more often.”

  Hall shakes his head, but no noise comes from it. Toni is telling her friend Luciana about our proposed Capri holiday. Of course, she won’t tell anyone else – except the entire company.

  The javelin-throwing champion, lesbian manageress of the hotel asks Mulgrew and me to have a goodbye drink in her flat. She doesn’t invite Hall as she freely admits she thinks he’s got leprosy. I can vouchsafe that his underwear has. We take the lift to the top floor and press the buzzer. A very tall, willowy blonde answers the door. She’s the sister, Claudia. She leads us down the hall into the lounge, beautifully furnished with modern furniture – very Mussolini-modern.

  “Si accomodino,” says lesbian manageress. We settle for wine. Yes, she had enjoyed our show and loved our ‘jizz’. She gives us little nibbly snacks. Her radio is tuned into the American Forces Network with unending big bands playing. Right now, it’s Ray Ventura. It was all so accessible those days. Nowadays, I have to journey to Ronnie Scott’s to hear any.

  We don’t stay long. She won’t be here on Sunday morning when we leave, so she’ll say goodbye now. So we all say, “Goodbye now.”

  As we go down in the lift, Mulgrew makes a certain sign. “Oh, her sister, ‘ow!”

  “Ah, more’s the pity, Johnny,” I said. “I know you could have given her four inches. The trouble is she could give you six.”

  On that note, we ended the evening.

  SATURDAY

  I slept late and missed breakfast. Never mind, folks; across the road from the hotel is a splendid coffee bar, where I order caffelatte and a rum baba which I dunk in the coffee – all delicious, gooey, decadent. When in Rome…! It’s a scorching hot day. It would be a wonderful day for a swim, but where? Back at the hotel, the porter tells me there is a bagno municipale, Via Catania. I don’t want to go alone; I’m so thin people won’t know I’m there. Where is Toni? Gone to Mother’s. Ah, here comes innocent, whistling-the-while Bornheim. Does he want to swim? OK, the easiest way is a taxi. We arrive at the baths: it’s a huge complex, a multi-sports place. We pay our admission fee, are given a ticket and a key – N°56 Downstairs, to the changing area: my God, the crowds. The cubicle is minuscule. If we both change together, we’ll have to get into the same bathing suit. Bornheim waits while I change and vice versa.

  It’s a covered pool; the echo of the noise is deafening. Worse the pool is crowded to the point of combustion: you can jump in when you see a space, and then you only have room to jump up and down. There are no other variations, so we dry off and leave.

  “What a bloody waste of time,” said Bornheim.

  “I’m sorry, I had no idea it was like this,” I said.

  So that our legs don’t totally atrophy from taxi travel, we decide to walk away. We walk about a mile and Bornheim says “Enough is enough. Taxi!” We arrive back at the hotel, I’ll see him later. To my room, phone room service: can I have an iced lemonade? Si, signor, pronto. A smiling doe-eyed, bewitchingly dark-haired waitress brings it in. Help, Toni; hurry back, darling! The temptation left the room, I felt, with a certain amount of reluctance. It was a hot afternoon; it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. I was reminded of a Military Police case, of a soldier and a girl caught in flagrante in a Bradford doorway. At the trial, the magistrate gave the man three months. Had he anything to say? “Yes,” he said, “you’ll never stop fucking in Bradford.”

  I lay on the bed slurping iced lemonade, followed by a Passing Cloud that tasted of pile suppositories. I’d asked my mother so many times never to parcel them up together, to no avail. I buzz Toni’s room; she’s back. Why didn’t she tell me she was seeing her mother? I was asleep. That’s no excuse, you could have still told me. Shall she come down? Yes, yes. It’s not long before I bolt the door and we start snogging. We were both about to get there when, blast, someone’s trying to get in. Who is it? It’s Mulgrew. Can he wait a minute? Why? Toni and I hustle into our clothes and let Mulgrew in. In a flash he senses all. “Ah,” he says, “your clothes don’t fool me.” They’d fooled me: I had my Y-fronts on back to front and all my arrangements were screwed up. Toni is blushing, but then she’s new at this game! There is nothing so indicting as silence and Mulgrew gives us yards of it, laced with a knowing grin. How dare he think that we’ve had it away, even though it’s true? How dare he think it. I know that he personally fancies Toni, but well, poor fool, look at the competition he has. Glasgow fool, how can he compete with a Brockley SE 26 boy? Toni leaves the room in a state of confusion; I stay and face it out. Mulgrew says, “I can’t have my bedroom used for immoral purposes.” Immoral? This was true love, white as the driven snow. His shoulders are shaking with silent laughter. So ended a chapter in the love story of Toni and me.

  I lay back and took my ease on the bed. “Well,” I said, “last show tonight.”

  “Thank God,” he replies, “rather sad in a way, but I think we’ve had enough.”

  Would I like a cigarette? Is he out of his mind? Could he say that again! Yes, he is definitely offering me a cigarette. I remember it was a classy cigarette, Churchmans N°1. Ah, it’s all clear: he, too, has had a parcel from home.

  ∗

  Time for the last show. We gather chattering in the foyer, then board the Charabong through the Roman cacophony of motor horns. Toni has recovered her demeanour and I have put my Y-fronts back on the right way, and the Swonnicles are revolving normally. Tonight our strong man, Maxie, will try and break his own weightlifting record of umpteen pounds. We all watch from the wings as the dwarflike strong man strains to get the weights above his head. The silence is broken by his grunts and strains, the veins stand out on his head. Finally, with a gas
p, he gets them above his head. He takes the applause.

  “What a way to make a bloody living,” says Hall. “I bet one day ‘e’ll get a double rupture.”

  There’s a sense of sadness in the air. This company has been together every day for three months; it has become as familiar as a family. As the Trio are taking an ensore, I think well that’s it; the next time we play will be in England. Then what? I can still hear that applause on the last night…

  The stage party is very good. Chalky White and his helpers erect trestle tables which are loaded with cheese, wine and biscuits. We help ourselves. Johnny Bornheim plays the piano. The Italians have invited members of their families, big fat mommas and kids. It’s a very jolly affair. Before we finish, Lieutenant Priest thanks us for our efforts and says the show is the most successful one that Combined Services Entertainment have put on. We drink and eat our fill. We stand in circles, chatting and laughing, recalling moments that have highlighted our tour, and then the evening has run out. Time for home. Some of the Italian cast will be leaving us at Rome; there are tearful goodbyes, a lot of red eyes and red noses. Mulgrew’s nose is going red for an entirely different reason. In dribs and drabs we board the old Cha-rabong where patient Luigi waits. The engine is running, but no one else is. Finally, we set off for the hotel. We all start slightly inebriated singing: “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are grey” echoes along the now empty Roman streets. It’s nearly 2 a.m. by the time we get back; yawning, stretching and farting we climb wearily into bed. I can’t sleep, my mind starts to revolve around the things I have to do when we get back to naughty Napoli. I must collect all my kit from the CSE barracks, get a passport, an advance of money, presents to take home, fix the boat trip home – all this, and fix a week on Capri. Gradually I fall into fitful sleep to the sound of Mulgrew’s snoring in Scottish, plus a few postern blasts.