“That’s a funny way to spell vitamins,” I said.
Marisa is coming out of the water saying, “Aiuto! Aiuto!” She’s been stung on her bum by a jellyfish, who seemed to know what he was doing. From then on no one would venture into the water. Toni and I walked along the beach about a mile, stopping at any rock pools and looking for fish trapped by the tide. Sometimes, we’d splash our feet in the shallows. It was like being a child again.
The sun is getting the sea on fire as it lowers itself into the Adriatic. Dancing waves catch the deflected light and semaphore in silver gold flashes. It’s been a wonderful day. The beach café wants to know do we want dinner. If so, they can make us sardines and rice. We ask the all-in price and Lieutenant Priest thinks it reasonable – so, OK. We sit eating it as a new moon like a lemon slice appears in the eastern night sky and, blow me, there’s the sound of Bill Hall’s violin. Soon the Italians are singing.
Vicino Mare
Vicino Amore
In the half-light, I lean over and kiss Toni on the shoulder. As I do so, she places a kiss in my hair – that hair that had lived with washing with Sunlight soap, Lifebuoy, Pears, Carbolic (never had a shampoo) and Brylcreem and Anzora hair-goo. Yes, she kissed all that. We quaff white wine. Some of the boys collect driftwood and make a fire. We sit in a circle watching our dreams burn into embers. The tide rises and washes away our footprints in the sand. Sand from a shore that neither of us would see again. Already that sand was running out.
It was eleven when we drove back to the hotel, all pleasantly tired. Tomorrow? Who cared about tomorrow?
A FORCED LABOUR CAMP IN SIBERIA.
HITLER IS SHOVELLING SHIT AND SALT.
HITLER:
I care about tomorrow. You see. Von Rundstedt and the Tenth Panzer Army will break through and rescue me.
I kiss Toni goodnight, buona nolle a domani.
So passed the week in Trieste. This morning, we all embark for Austria. Austria, land of Strauss and the naughty waltz – men and women dancing face to face! Land of Franz Josef, the Hussars, the woods and the liver sausage! I massage my clothes into my suitcase, I sit on it and finally lock it. It looks pregnant. I’ve got half an hour to get breakfast. I dash down to the dining-room. Toni and the girls are at a table laughing and giggling. “Oh, Terr-ee, you late. You must hurry.” I wolf down marmalade and toast and a cup of lemon tea.
KRUMPENDORF
KRUMPENDORF
“Oh Terr-ee,” says Toni. “You choke yourself.” What a headline:
Man Strangled by Marmalade
Lieutenant Priest is rounding up the latecomers. “Come on, we haven’t got all day,” he fusses.
Aboard the Charabong, everyone is excited at the thought of Austria, especially Greta Weingarten. “Now I vill be able to speak mein own language,” she says with an air of superiority.
Toni is in her drab khaki clothes, her hair in a bandana. She looks shapeless, but ah ha! I know what lies underneath, heh, heh, heh! She asks, “In Vienna, we see Russian soldiers?”
“Yes, my dear.” But what’s this Lieutenant Priest is saying? “Before Vienna, we have to play Krumpendorf.” Krum-pendorf? Isn’t that a disease of the groin? He goes on, “Then we play Graz and then Vienna.”
“You been in Austria before, Terr-ee?” No, I had travelled extensively in Catford, Lewisham and Brockley SE 26, but somehow never Austria. The trams didn’t go that far.
Oh, no! The coach engine is faltering. We pull over and Luigi raises the bonnet. He is joined by Ricky Trowler who is a whizz kid at engines. He tells Lieutenant Priest, “It’s the distributor.”
“Wait until I see the bastard,” says Priest.
Trowler does some minor adjustments and we are on our way again. It’s another sunny day with a few mare’s-tails in the sky, where do they get such a name for clouds? Like mackerel – what was that poem?
Mackerel sky, mackerel sky,
Not long wet, not long dry.
To pass the time, we play noughts and crosses. I show Toni how to play noughts and crosses for idiots.
We are heading north and gradually climbing. On looking, we can see Trieste spread out below us with the Yugoslav coast disappearing in the morning haze. On one side, we have a sheer drop; on the other, vine terraces looking like giant steps. It reminds me of Dore’s drawings from Milton’s Paradise Lost. But then anything made me think of Paradise Lost. I remember in Lewisham where I was paying some money into my Post Office savings account, I was served by an old dear of sixty with huge ill-fitting false teeth and I thought, “Paradise Lost.” Another time I saw a mongrel sniffing a lamppost and I thought of Paradise Lost. What a good headline:
PARADISE LOST! POLICE AND ARMY IN SEARCH
We cross the border at Thorl. There is no customs barrier, we just motor straight through. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” says Priest in mock German tones. “Ve are now in Austria,” and gives the Nazi salute. We all give a cheer and Bill Hall, as though on cue, launches into ‘The Blue Danube’ and a selection of cloying German tunes ending with ‘Grinzing’ – that’s another name I am baffled by. What or why is Grinzing?
MOTHER:
Where have you been at this time of night?
ME:
I’ve been out Grinzing, Mother dear.
∗
Mulgrew clips on a prop Hitler moustache, gives the Sieg Heil salute and says, “Ve are now in zer Fatherland. From now, all Jews will half their circumstances confiscated!”
Toni climbing a hill to join me and the view, Austria.
Outside Thorl, the Charabong stops for lunch. We are surrounded by fir-tree covered hills. I climb up a hillock and get a wonderful view. I call to Toni to come up, then do a few yodels à la the von Trapp family. Toni starts to clamber up and I take yet another photo.
∗
Mulgrew has heard me yodel, so he yodels back. Others join in and soon the hills are alive with the sound of yodels.
Wc are looking down on a valley with a torrent running through it. Anything done in this stream today will arrive in Italy tomorrow. It was very pretty, Toni and I stood enjoying the view. Helpppp! They are breaking out the lunch rations. If we don’t get down, the bloody lot will be gone. They see us running down the hill; they are eating as fast as they can. But wc manage to intercept some cheese and pickle sandwiches.
Lunch over, Lieutenant Priest herds us on to the Charabong – all bleating and mooing. The Charabong lurches off with a promise of further distributor trouble, but it doesn’t materialize and the engine settles down as Luigi crosses himself with relief. Now we are seeing Austrians: some die-hards are wearing lederhosen (leather shorts). Greta Weingarten points them out, saying, “Is gut, ja?”
“I bet they’re all bloody ex-Nazis,” says Bill Hall rolling a cigarette.
“Zey are not all bloody Nazis,” assures Greta. “Many people not like ser Nazis.”
A FORCED LABOUR CAMP IN SIBERIA.
HITLER IS SHOVELLING SHIT AND SALT.
HITLER:
All lies! Everybody love zer Nazis.
We are trying to work out who the most disliked person in the cast is. “It must be Chalky White,” said Hall.
“That’s so,” said Mulgrew. “Why do people take an instant dislike to him?”
“It saves time,” I said.
We are passing through Villach and see lots of British troops on route marches. We give them all a cheer. “Bloody hell,” says Hall. “Still marching. Don’t they know the bloody war’s over?” I tell him wars are never over. “Wot you sayin’,” said Hall.
Worther see.
“They only have intervals and this is one of them,” I said. “So take your partners for World War Three!”
“I tell you why we have wars,” said Bornheim, looking up from his Union Jack newspaper. “Because men like it.”
“Ah, look, Terr-ee,” says Toni and points to the beautiful Lake Worther with its bobbing boats and background of snowcapped mountains.
Priest is s
tanding at the front peering out the window. “Ah, this is it, folks,” he says as the Charabong pulls right off the road in front of a large guest house surrounded by chalets.
We troop into reception where a fierce German lady by the name of Frau Hitz welcomes us with penetrating blue eyes and a big nose. “Velcom to zer Krumpendorf Guest House,” she says. “Your rooms are all ready for you.”
“I wonder where the gas chamber is,” said Mulgrew, his shoulders heaving with silent mirth. “She’s a dead ringer for Bill Hall,” he said.
We all check in. Hall, Mulgrew and myself have a chalet to ourselves. We dash to it to get the best bed. Fleet-of-foot Milligan gets in first and bags the bed near the window which overlooks a rose garden. It’s very simple furnishing, but very comfortable. No show tonight, so we relax. Toni has a room in the main guest house (BLAST, there go my knee tremblers again). From now on it’s goodbye Italian cuisine and hello German. No more pasta, but meat and veg, dumplings and stodgy puddings. For dinner that night we had Wiener Schnitzel mit zer Sauerkraut, and it was delicious.
A SIBERIAN SALT MINE.
HITLER IS SHOVELLING SHIT AND SALT.
HITLER:
You see, you Russian fools! Zey are already starting to like back us Germans! Soon zey will come begging to me for zer recipe!!
Our Italian cast don’t like the food. Toni says it’s all too heavy. She says no wonder they lost the war with food like this; you could lose everything, especially your appetite. She comforts herself with lots of German cheeses. We find the Austrian wines delicious and light.
After dinner we take our wine and sit overlooking what had been a lovely garden, now a little overgrown. It’s just twilight time; small things are bumbling and buzzing in the late evening light. Wallop! Next to me Bornheim has flattened a midge on his arm. What did he do that for? It wasn’t doing any harm. “Another second an’ it would have bit,” he says and Wallop! he exterminates another.
“Why not have pity and shoo them off?”
“Oh, no. It’s not as much fun as flattening them,” he said with a grin. “They’ve got a grand piano in the lounge,” he said. Wallop! Another midge dies. “It’s a Bechstein. Like to hear it?”
We follow him into the lounge, which is deserted. We sit on the couch and listen to him playing ‘I Got It Bad and That Ain’t Good’, ‘Summertime’, ‘Sophisticated Lady’, ‘Have You Met Miss Jones’ and more – all songs that will remain fresh over the years.
“Do you know Ketelby’s ‘Bells Across the Meadow’?”
“Yes,” he says. “Good,” I say. “Bring it in, it’s getting rusty.”
Toni is tired and wants an early night. No, I can’t come in – blast! We say goodnight and I retire to the chalet where I find Mulgrew in bed reading, with a bottle of wine to hand. I undress and ease myself between the sheets. Ah, bed! Soon I’m in the Land of Nod. I am awakened at about 1 a.m. by Hall tiptoeing into the room. I sit up.
“Oh,” he says. “You still awake?”
“No, I always sleep sitting up.”
“I bin to the Garrison Cinema. Saw a Charles Boyer film where he drives his wife mad.”
“Oh, Gaslight.”
“Yes, Gaslight and Coke – something like that.”
“Well, goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
From Mulgrew comes a low ‘Thank Fuck’.
I had one of the strangest dreams. It’s Oxford Circus in the rush hour and a man with Knicker Warden on his shoulders is holding a long stick with a mirror on it. He is looking up women’s skirts and only lets those cross who are wearing knickers. I suppose Freud would have said something like it meant I wasn’t getting enough carrots.
∗
Next day is another fine one – a cloudless sky. After breakfast, Toni and I take a walk to the Worthersee. I climb a tree to take a photo of the landscape and another of Toni. I’m not saying that you have to climb trees to take photographs, but it does make you look taller. The lake is heavily overgrown with bulrushes and it is difficult to get access to the water. “Ahoy there young lovers!” It’s Mulgrew and Angove and this should be fun – they have a fishing rod. We all stroll along looking for a break in the rushes. We finally find an old boat.
Mulgrew and Angove fishing from the leaky boat.
“Ah,” says Mulgrew. “The gods are smiling on us.” I point out that the boat looks as though it’s about to expire. They heed the warning not. With caution, Angove and Mulgrew get into the boat. With a plank of wood, Mulgrew propels the boat to the edge of the rushes and throws out their line. It remained thrown out for an hour while Toni and I sat on the verge.
“Caught anything yet?” I called.
“Sweet FA,” says Mulgrew.
“Here, let me try,” says Angove.
Very wobbly, they stand and change places. There is a shout and Mulgrew goes through the bottom of the boat. It sinks immediately and Angove joins Mulgrew up to their waists in water. They issue forth from the water with a mixture of swearing and laughter, with mud up to their knees and great cakes of mud on their feet.
“The gods have stopped smiling,” I said.
“Christ,” says Mulgrew. “We better go back and get this lot off,” he added.
Toni clowning, Krumpendorf.
∗
Alone again, Toni wants to sunbathe. She strips down to her bathing costume; I get her to do a camp pose against the skyline.
“You no sunbathe?” said Toni.
“No, I’m still sunburnt from Grado.”
Apart from which, I was not wearing a bathing costume and the thought of stripping down to my underpants filled me with terror.
Toni wants to know more about England. I suppose it’s on the assumption that one day I might marry her. “Tell me, Terr-ee, you have what you call a Frog?”
“Frog? Ah, you mean fog. Yes.”
“All the time?”
“No, it just seems that way. No, we only get it in the winter.”
“Is it always cold?”
“No, in summer it’s very nice.”
The morning passes. We are totally alone, almost like the last people left on earth. We snog in the warm grass. Time is meaningless. In a passionate embrace, Toni suddenly says “It’s time for lunch.” I swore I’d never get that hungry! Toni dresses and we walk back to the guest house.
Chalky White is in the lounge holding a housey-housey game. I get a card and play a few games. Italians and Aus-trians alike are baffled by the language. “Number Nine, Doctors Orders, Legs Eleven, All the Sixes, Clickity Click, Kelly’s Eye.” I don’t win a thing so we go to lunch. A beaming, fat, bald Austrian in an ill-fitting suit greets us and shows us to our table. He introduces himself, “Hi ham Ludwig zer Herr Ober.” We order a couple of salads. “Tank you,” he says. He smells distantly of cod liver oil. He keeps checking the diners. “Allesgut?” he says and nods approval. After lunch, it’s weekly NAAFI ration.
In Jimmy Molloy’s room there’s a lot of bartering – swopping sweets and chocolate for cigarettes. There are also toothpaste and bootlaces for sale and I don’t see the connection. Why not toothpaste and potted shrimps? Or toothpaste and tinned carrots? Old debts are repaid but only after reminders.
“Come on Mulgrew, you owe me six cigarettes.”
“Six? I only borrowed five.”
“It’s with interest.”
“I have no interest,” he said and gave me five cigarettes.
We carry all our goodies back to the chalet, where lovely Bill Hall is washing socks in the sink. “NAAFI’s up,” I tell him. He drops the socks and hurries from the chalet. Mulgrew sits by the window and writes letters.
“How do you spell sophisticated?” he says.
“I don’t. I only say it.”
Mulgrew cleaning his teeth at an open window, Krumpendorf.
I spend the afternoon reading Edgar Allan Poe’s mystery stories, then have a doze. I awake at tea-time and meet Toni in the dining-room.
“Hello, T
err-ee. You like my hair?” She revolves to show a new hair style.
“Very nice,” I say. It’s a good thing to say to women.
Cream buns and tea. Lovely. “Theese make you fat, Terr-ee.” If only they would. Oh, for a few ounces of fat on my emaciated Belsen body.
That night, the show passed uneventfully except for a string on my guitar breaking in the middle of the act. Manfully, I played on the remaining five strings. After dinner, we sit in the lounge drinking coffee and listening to Bornheim play the piano. I am looking at Toni. Toni is looking at me. It’s like electricity.
“What you think?” she says.
“I think I love you,” I say. Love? I’m besotted with her!
Bornheim stops playing. “Get this,” he announces – to the tune of ‘The Girl That I Marry’, sings:
The child that I carry will have to be
Dumped on the steps of a nunnery
The man I call my own
Has turned into a poofta and smells of cologne
He polishes his fingernails, tints his hair
He’s known in the ‘dilly as Old Doris Hare
“Stead of flittin’, he sits knittin”
For a sailor who comes from Thames Ditton
I once had a lover, now he loves my brother, not me.
So much for Irving Berlin. Time for turning in. I accompany Toni to her chalet. A goodnight kiss in the shadows and I’m off to my own bed, bent double with erections. Down boy, down. Not tonight.
SUN, SNOW, SLEIGH
Next morning, I’m up first and it’s down boy again. Mulgrew and Hall are both still asleep, both sharing what sounds like the same snore. Hall’s laundered socks, now stiff as boards, swing gently in the breeze from the window. Ah, the poetry of an Austrian morning. I take a vigorous shower, singing boo boo boo da de dum dee dee. Ah, yes, as good as Crosby. “Spike,” it’s Mulgrew, “we’re trying to sleep.”
“What?” I said. “How dare you try and sleep when I’m singing.”
Memoires: Peace Work (1986) Page 7
