Now, dear reader, to try and describe the treasures on view would fill six volumes. I’m not going to put you to that expense – no, suffice it to say that there were so many masterpieces they made you giddy. I was moved by one particular piece: that was th’e Pieta by Michelangelo. It was like a song in stone. Toni and I wander round the great Basilica of St Peter’s, totally overawed. All I can think of is that God is very, very rich. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a concentration of creative art. Toni keeps saying, “Che fantastico, Terr-ee.”
The morning passes and by lunchtime we’ve had enough. Outside, I decide to buy a rosary in a small container embossed with the image of Pope Pius. My mother will love it as it has apparently been blessed by the Pope. “Benedetto dallo papa,” says the lying vendor. What shall we do now, Toni? She would like to sit down. We walk back across the great square and just outside find a small coffee house where we order two small coffees. We sit outside. Tides of the faithful are going back and forth to the Vatican with a mixture of nuns and clerics in black hats and schoolchildren buzzing with excitement – it’s THE VATICAN SHOW! Toni laments that we haven’t seen the Pope.
“Mi displace,” she says, pulling a wry face.
Don’t worry, dear, he didn’t see us either and when you’ve seen one pope you’ve seen ‘em all.
We discuss what to do when the show finally finishes on Saturday. Toni will, of course, stay at home; her mother can’t understand why her daughter stays at a hotel when her home is in Rome. What will I do? Can I stay on? No, I have a better idea. We go back with the company, go to the Isle of Capri, spend a week there, then come back to Rome and stay until my ship sails. She agrees. There are a few problems, like how do I get my wages when I come back to Rome, but I’ll try and fix that with the CSE cashier – that, or a bank robbery should suffice. I can always sell the rosary. I light up an after-tea cigarette. “What it taste like?” says Toni. “I like to try.” She takes a puff, starts coughing with eyes watering. “How can you smoke like that thing? Sono Urribili” she splutters. Serves her right; cigarettes are man’s work.
It’s a very hot day and we decide to go back to the hotel. Again, we take a taxi. It’s but a twenty-minute journey to the hotel. Once there, Toni wants to wash her hair. I retire to my bed and read Mrs Gaskell’s book on the Brontes. What a family! All the children literally burn with creative talent. Oh, for just a day in their company. I have a siesta (that means sleeping in Italian) until tea-time when I am awakened by Scotland’s gift to the world, Johnny Mulgrew, bass player extraordinary to the House of Johnnie Walker. He’s been to the pictures: “Saw a bloody awful film.” Oh? You interest me Mulgrew, what was this bloody awful film? Betty Grable and her legs in The Dolly Sisters. “The dialogue was an insult to the intelligence,” he said, flopping on his bed. Insult to the intelligence, eh? I didn’t know he’d taken that with him. Never, never take your intelligence to a Betty Grable movie. It’s best viewed from the waist down. Had he been paid yet? Yes.
“Two thousand lire, please,” I said.
That hurts him, his Scottish soul is on the rack. He pulls the amount from his padlocked wallet and, with a look of anguish, hands me the money.
I buzz room service and order tea for myself and my Scottish banking friend. A blue-chinned waiter with a slight stoop brings it in. I give him a tip.
“How much you tip him?” says Mulgrew.
“Ten lire.”
Mulgrew groans. “What a waste. That’s five cigarettes.”
I pour him a tea and drink my Russian one.
“What’s that taste like?” he says.
I tell him I never knew the real taste of tea until Toni got me on to lemon tea. Would he like a sip? No, he wouldn’t. I like a man who knows his own mind.
I take some of my clothes to the washing lady and ask her to ‘stirare’ (iron) them. She’ll have them by tomorrow morning. She’s a big, fat, voluble Italian lady who, you feel, would do anything for anybody. She smiles and nods her head – such dexterity! Coming up the stairs with his suit is one of our chorus boys, Teddy Grant. “Ah, ha! Teddy, how’s the romance with Greta Weingarten?” It’s platonic; they’re just good friends. As Teddy is gay, that makes sense – not much though. To me, it’s an enigma.
Back in the room, I have a little practice on my guitar, trying to remember Eddy Lang’s* solo ‘April Kisses’.
≡ Popular jazz guitarist of the twenties and thirties.
Mulgrew listens, then says it’s one of the most mediocre renderings he’s ever heard. I keep practising. At the end of an hour he says, “It’s the most mediocre rendering I’ve ever heard.” Never mind, I had it over him – he couldn’t tell what key forks were in when they hit the ground.
∗
The show that night is held up; the electric front curtain has fused. The stagehands try the manual lift, but that doesn’t work either. However, suddenly, when the electrician is tinkering with the mechanism, it shoots up revealing the set and several stagehands who run off as though being seen on a stage meant instant death. Otherwise, the show runs as per usual. In the dressing-room, the three of us discuss when we should be getting together in the UK to start our fabulous stage career. I tell them I won’t be home until late October; Johnny isn’t discharged until December, so we decide to start afresh in the New Year.
Jimmy Molloy comes round with a book of raffle tickets. It’s for two bottles of scotch, ten lire a ticket. I take ten, Johnny takes one, Bill doesn’t drink whisky – he’s not interested. The draw is after the show in Molloy’s dressing-room. At the appointed hour we all cram into his room. Luciana draws the tickets from a top hat. Mulgrew, with one measly ticket, wins! He is very generous. That night, after dinner, we gather in the lounge and he gives us all a measure – the toast is ‘Scotland for ever’!! Toni wants to try some; she sips mine, has a coughing fit with watering eyes. Serves her right! Whisky is man’s work.
It’s my lucky night: Luciana is staying with her parents, so Toni is alone. We spend a lovely night together and the devil take the hindmost. Awake, for morning in a bowl of light has put the stars to flight! So I awake, with Toni still sleeping soundly. I dress quickly so she doesn’t have to see my skinny body at such close range. Don’t willies look silly in the morning light? I tippy-toe out, seeing no one sees me, and make my way back to my room.
“Good morning, little lover boy,” says Mulgrew in the middle of shaving; “naughty, naughty, naughty,” wagging a finger like some old crone at the guillotine.
Soon my night of bliss will be all round the company. He tells me that Jimmy Molloy is holding housey-housey in the lounge at eleven o’clock. Right, I’ll try me luck. After breakfast we all settle down with our little cards. It’s twenty lire a go and there’s about fifteen of us. Jimmy starts calling, “Clickety click, sixty-six, Doctor’s Orders, number nine, Legs Eleven, number eleven and another little dip.” I played until lunchtime and didn’t win a bloody thing. Mulgrew comes down for the last round and wins five hundred lire! And, lo, he falleth in the shit and cometh up smelling of roses.
Toni missed breakfast and I missed Toni. She makes an appearance at lunchtime. There’s a knowing look between us that echoes last night. “I sleep so longgg,” she says; then, in a quieter voice, “Oh, you terrible man, tsu, tsu tsu.” And then a wicked smile. She holds out her tiny hand and leads me like a lost sheep to the lunch table.
“You win money?” she says.
“No, I’m not lucky; I’m never lucky.”
I remembered that the last time I won anything was in Poona in the mid-twenties: I had drawn a horse called Brienz in a Derby sweepstake and won seventy-five rupees. I never forget the wondrousjoy of having enough money to go and buy several boxes of lead soldiers in the Poona bazaar. What golden days they were, bursting with sun and quietude. Do I have any idea as to what to do this afternoon? Yes, Toni. I’m going to have a good night’s sleep! After my night as Casanova, I was knackered. She gives me an impish smile then holds her hand
over it, a peculiarity of hers. OK, will I phone her when I wake up? If I’m strong enough. I doze through the long hot afternoon, interrupted once by Mulgrew.
“Shagged out, eh?”
“Yes, Mulgrew. Shagged out.”
“I bet it’s cleared all that custard off your chest,” he says.
Go away, Mulgrew, go a long, long way away. Go and play on a cliff edge. God, it was lovely last night – overlong, but lovely. Would it always be like this? If so, I must go on a course of vitamins. The sleep restores me to my normal febrile self; in future, I must do it less.
Enter a Bill Hall rampant on a field of khaki. “You seen Mulgrew?”
“Yes.”
“Well, tell us where he is for Christ’s sake.”
OK, for His sake, I think Mulgrew is in the wine bar next door, spending my hard-earned money. Hall lingers, then says, “Can I borrow some fags?” How many? “Have you got a packet?” I tell him no, the last time I caught a packet was in North Africa. Hall doesn’t laugh at joke. I lend him a packet of twenty Passing Cloud. He’s never seen this brand before and turns the packet round and round. “Where you get these?” he says, taking one from the packet. My parents send them. “I never see ‘em before’ and I’ll never see them again. He takes one out and starts patting his pockets.”
“Ave you got a match?” he says. Get on my back, Hall, and I’ll carry you around. “Ave you heard about Chalky White?” he says. No, I can’t wait to hear. Chalky White has assaulted an Italian civilian and is in prison.
“That’s a splendid setting for him,” I said.
Apparently, Lieutenant Priest is at the prison now with the man from the British Consulate, trying to get him released. With that exciting news, Hall, rampant on a field of khaki, is gone. I phone Toni: what is she doing? She is doing some mending. Do I need anything mended or buttons sewn? No, but my underpants need a transplant. Joke. She doesn’t laugh at joke. No no no, I mustn’t come up. It will distract her. What am I doing? I tell her, recovering. She’ll see me in the Charabong. By Mulgrew’s bed are a few well-worn magazines – Titbits, Lilliput and Picture Post. I thumb through them all; particularly poignant is a German doctor’s description of conditions for war refugees in Europe. Even under Allied administration many are starving, people are still being moved around in cattle trucks. The doctor has attended the birth of a child to a starving woman. It made you realize the war wasn’t over; a war is never over, there is just an interval. In Lilliput, there’s a story referring to a death mask taken from a girl who committed suicide by drowning in the Seine. The amazing part of her death mask is that she is smiling. How do you do that when you are inhaling a river?
Towards show-time, I start to feel shivery. Am I sickening? Some people had said so. By the time the show was over that night I knew I had a temperature. I don’t have any dinner; I take to my bed and douse myself with the magic medicine, aspirins. I start to sweat. Toni brings me up a hot cup of tea which I lace with Mulgrew’s whisky.
“You wouldn’t deny a sick man a nip,” I said.
“Not too much,” he cautions, “it’s bad for me.”
My temperature stays up. That night I’m a bit delirious and I sweat like a pig. Lieutenant Priest visits me.
“How are we this morning?”
“Well, this part of ‘we’ feels bloody awful.”
“Have you got a temperature?”
“Yes.”
“Can you manage the show tonight?”
“No, but I can manage to stay in bed.”
“OK, we’ll get Bornheim to dep. for you. I’ll leave you to make a will,” he says grinning, and departs.
Through the day I doze and sweat. Toni ministers to me, bringing up hot soup and drinks.
“I hope to Christ it’s nothing catching,” says Mulgrew.
“So do I,” I say with a fit of sneezing.
“That’s it, spread it all round the bloody room.”
I was doing my best to.
That night my temperature goes up again and I feel like death. Alas, it’s not forthcoming. Next day Priest says I should be in hospital. Oh, no, not that – not a military hospital with bedpans and bottles. Toni says she will get her doctor to come. At midday he arrives and does all the ‘Say, ah’, the listening to the chest, the back tapping to see if you’re hollow. He presses his fingers into my stomach displacing my liver. Finally he gives me an injection in the bum. “It bring you fever down,” translates Toni. I explain that I don’t have fever in the bum. His fee is two thousand lire! I feel worse; I’m sickening for bankruptcy. I feel an overdraught coming under the door. I fall into a feverish sleep. When I awake, it’s night-time. The room is dark; Mulgrew is snoring. I switch my bedside light on; it’s 2 a.m. My temperature seems to be down. Has it gone to the bum? I get up to do a Jimmy, have a glass of water. Ridiculous, empty one end and fill up the other. Back to sleep.
By morning I am much improved. I get regular visitors; no, I’m not doing the show tonight, I am convalescing! Through the day my nurse Toni brings up drinks and snacks, which I nearly bring up, too. I’m still not cured. Do I want her doctor again? No, I say and am two thousand lire better off. Mulgrew tells me that when I was delirious, I was talking in my sleep. Did I say anything significant? “Yes, you kept saying we must get to the woods before the trees get there.” Yes, that sounds like me.
I borrow Priest’s radio and tune into the Allied Forces Network, Rome. What a treat! I lay back to a day’s listening. There was Debroy Summers and the world’s corniest band, ‘Organ Parade’ with Reginald Fort, ‘Forces Favourites’, ‘String Along with Sandy Powell’ (can you hear me, Mother?), then high notes and rupture with Richard Tauber, then cricket, Sussex vs. Essex, Joe Loss and his orchestra – he was the man who would give me my first stage break as a comic – then ITM A which, I am afraid, I didn’t find funny (my humour was more Marx Brothers and W.C. Fields) and ‘Parade for Swing’ with Harry Parry and his Quintet. Occasionally, I’d switch to the BBC General Forces programme which gave long boring news bulletins telling us that the price of butter had gone up and that food rationing would continue for the time being. Poor bloody Britain! Here, in Italy, eat as much as you like; but win the war, and you are rationed! I was still enjoying the radio by the time people were back from the show. They were all laughing – apparently, Eddy Garvey, the lead trumpet player, had had a disaster. He was washing his false teeth in his dressing-room when he dropped them and broke them. The result was a trumpet player who was a disaster. The whole evening was full of cracked notes and bad intonation which, though it baffled the audience, had the cast in fits. He is now walking around with his face folded, uttering gummy oaths.
Toni rushes up to see me. “Ow are you, my love?” she says. I tell her her love is better and will be up tomorrow night, knocking on her bedroom door. Is there anything I want? Yes, will she take her clothes off and get into bed for an hour’s sabbatical. “You much better,” she said with an impish grin.
So I was. Next morning I joined the human race again and was running last. I enjoyed my breakfast of boiled eggs. Two of them were being boiled and one said what a terrible life being boiled like this was. The other one said this is nothing, wait till you get out; they bash your bloody head in.
What shall we do this sunny but very windy day? We all settle to see the Colosseum. The four of us share a taxi – Mulgrew, Toni, Luciana and myself. The taxi drops us off in the shadow of the great edifice. We ascend the stairs to get to the top. It’s a bit hairy with the wind blowing up the girls’ skirts with constant double exposure of knickers. Other splendid views were the Great Arch of Constantine and the monument to the unknown soldier. He was possibly very well-known as a banker or a solicitor, but totally unknown as a soldier. The chambers beneath the floor of the Colosseum are exposed.
“It’s hard to believe,” said Mulgrew, “they actually threw living people to the lions here.”
“Yes,” I said, “it kept the food bills down.”
&n
bsp; The wind blows Mulgrew’s hat olf; he dashes after it.
“Che vento,” exclaims Toni.
Indeed, what a wind. If they thought this was bad they should have heard my father; he was jet-propelled.
Mulgrew’s hat has gone spiralling into the arena. He appears below, a minuscule figure climbing over crumbling walls where he finally finds his hat. I give him the Roman thumbs-up sign; he gives me the British up yours.
“Terr-ee, too much wind here. We go down,” says Toni, clasping her skirts around her.
We descend to meet Mulgrew coming up. “Oh, Christ,” he groans, “all this way up for nothing.”
A great gust of wind, more knickers. The girls give a mixture of screams and giggles. This is no day for sightseeing unless you are a voyeur. Despite the gales whistling up our trouserlegs, I still have time to take in the incredible durability of a place started in 72 AD and still standing. What it must have looked like before it was stripped of its marble.
On the way down, we come to the Royal Box where Caesars sat. Mulgrew sits on the seat. “It suits you, Johnny; a ruined colosseum suits you,” I said. We continue down the timeless steps of history to the ground level. Another great gust, more knickers on display. Across the road is a coffee house where we settle. We sit in the shadow of the great edifice. I can imagine a Roman holiday and the great crowds flocking to the games, the sweetmeat vendors, chariots bearing important personages, attendants shouting ‘Hurry along, please, take your seats’, the great roar as a favourite gladiator enters the arena. There’s no denying man has a bloody lust.
Toni is saying how could people watch such cruelty. “Och,” says Mulgrew, “it’s no worse than Celtic versus Rangers; you should see the punch-ups.”
This reminded me of a story of two ancient Picts being captured by the Romans and condemned to be thrown to the lions. As they await this, they are talking about the women they were allowed as a last request. “Och, she was great,” says the Pict, “she had huge boobs. I’ll tell you more later, here come the lions.” I tried to explain the joke to the girls, but speaking in Italian with a Scots accent had its limitations – plus the fact there was no Italian word for the word ‘boobs’. ‘Booso’ was the nearest I could get. But my mime succeeds.
Memoires: Peace Work (1986) Page 14
