Memoires: Peace Work (1986)

by Spike Milligan

  “Theese is lovelee, Terr-ee,” says Toni, beaming with happiness.

  We have an entire fish meal: fresh mussels and scampi. The wine was one of my favourites: Est Est Est. All this and tomorrow, Capri; walking on clouds wasn’t in it. What a view! At the end of a pier, on the right, the ancient Castello del Ovo, where I believe Cicero once had a villa; then, the broad sweep of the bay circling to our left, its winking lights following the curve to distant Sorrento; out in the crepuscular night, a ghostly image of Capri; above us all, the giant shape of Vesuvius, now black and silent but always threatening.

  “How you find theese place?” she says. Well, before Barbary Coast one night we asked a taxi driver for a good restaurant and he brought us here. “How lucky,” she said. “Che romantico.”

  Yes, how romantic, and the wine fortifies that feeling.

  Midnight: the singer and the duo are visiting the tables. He reaches us; I ask him for ‘Vicino Mare’. We sit back sipping wine as the silvery voice floats on the balmy night air. After this, I call for the bill. When it arrives I flourish the 72,000 lire, peeling off the notes in time to the music. A very impressive performance enjoyed by the waiter. I give him a handsome tip and turn a normal human being into a subservient, grovelling hulk.

  On the way home, I tell Toni about the arrangements for the morrow. I’ll pick her up at ten and we’ll catch the eleven o’clock ferry. “I don’t think I sleep tonight,” she said as she kissed me goodnight, causing more trouser steam. It’s one o’clock by the time I turn my light out. I close my eyes, undress Toni and fall asleep.

  CAPRI

  CAPRI

  Lovely! It’s a sunny day, nice and warm with a cool breeze. I pack my suitcase, only taking the bare essentials – like me. I’m too excited to eat breakfast, so I have a cup of tea. I buzz the porter and ask him to get me a taxi. When it arrives, he buzzes me: “Taxipronto, signore!” Toni is waiting in the foyer of her hotel; she is all beaming and giggles. She lights up when she sees me; she must know that I’m carrying what was 72,000 lire. Our taxi turns into numerous buzzing backstreets on the way to the Porto Grande. There, waiting for us, is our dream boat – Spirito del Mare.

  At the quayside ticket office, I buy our two returns and we board. We go into the airy saloon bar: we are early, the saloon is empty save for the barman. Can we have two coffees? “Si accomodino.” We sit at a window overlooking the deck; we hear’the engines start up. There are only a few passengers carrying bundles. All of them appear to be peasants who have come to Naples to shop or collect something. They are all much more sunburnt than the mainland Italians.

  We hear the bell on the ship’s telegraph; there are shouts as the hawsers are slipped and the donkey engine takes them in. Expertly we move away from the quay; Tony and I finish the coffee and go to the ship’s rail. We turn slowly; clear of the harbour wall, we increase speed and the ship vibrates to the engines. There is that gorgeous sound of a ship slicing through warm waters. We leave the brown waters behind and soon are into the clear blue waters of the Bay of Naples. The city starts to recede, is gradually obscured by the heat haze. Capri lies about twenty-five kilometres ahead.

  A few vest-clad crewmen are moving about the ship, all looking rough and unshaved. They shout their conversations even when face to face. I always thought it made you go blind; apparently, it makes you go deaf.

  “What did you say, Toni?”

  “I feel sick.”

  Oh, my God, she’s allergic to sea travel. She runs to the ladies and is in and out of there for the whole trip. What bloody luck. I breathe a sigh of relief as we pull up to the Marina Grande. We disembark, with me carrying Toni’s case and mine and Toni holding a handkerchief over her mouth. I ask a tourist guide for the nearest hotel; he points to one five minutes away.

  “Albergo Grotta Azzurra, signore.”

  “Grazie, grazie.”

  We walk uphill to the hotel. Up a few steps in reception, a smiling old Italian greeted us. Are there any vacancies? 0, si, si, mollo. Would we like “una camera matrimonia?” No no no, I say; we would like separate rooms with adjoining doors. “Ah, si, si.” We register in our own names, killing any breath of scandal. They are modest, old-fashioned, unpretentious rooms with a view of the sea. We didn’t know it, were totally ignorant, that this was the ‘poor’ part of the island. Further up on the far side, was where it was all happening, which we would in time find out – only, too late.

  Befogged photo of Toni outside the Albergo Grotta Azzurra

  Toni is still feeling queasy, so she’ll have a lie-down. OK. I repair to my room, unpack my few belongings and read Mrs Gaskell’s Life of Charlotte Bronte. Will I never finish? I’m taking longer to read it than she lived. From my window I can see down to the Marina Grande, which is primarily a fisherman’s port. Little boats are beached on a laticlave of sand; painted on each prow is an eye to ward off evil. They all appear to be looking at me. At about four o’clock Toni comes into my room; she’s feeling a lot better. What would she like to do? Why not a swim? OK, we change into our costumes and walk down to a small beach this side of the Marina. No one else is in the water. We have a good hour’s swimming.

  Milligan the human skeleton escaping from jellyfish, Capri + Toni swimming in sewage-ridden water, Capri.

  Then a little sunbathe. It’s so peaceful; in the distance, we can hear the chatter of the fishermen’s wives and their children. We decide that we will have dinner at our hotel and really start exploring the island tomorrow. Toni says she is feeling much better now; I am feeling much better now. We both feel so much better that we get back into bed, which is even better than better. We watch the twilight approach.

  “I think I’ll have a bath, Toni – wash all the salt water off.”

  She laughs a little. What is it?

  She says, “I think you wash you self away.”

  She’s referring, I think, to my thinness.

  I return to my room and turn the light on. It is a very low voltage bulb that just about illuminates the room. The same bulb in the bathroom. I have a lovely long hot bath in braille. I get out before I pull out the plug, just in case. All together, now:

  SING:

  Your baby has gone down the plug ‘ole

  Your baby has gone down the plug

  The poor little mite

  Was so thin and so slight

  He should have been washed in a jug.

  ∗

  Toni and I are the only couple in the dining-room. The waiter says the season is passato. It’s a fixed menu, under celluloid: potato soup, vermicelli, then fish and the wine of the island, Vino Capri Scala, Grotta Azzurra – a light white, very fruity. We eat in silence with three unemployed waiters and a waitress standing in attendance. “Food very nice,” says Toni. When we’ve finished, we are bowed out of the room. We decide to lake the funicular up to the piazza. We wait as the little box car descends and climb in. It’s a slow ascent to the top. The view is a night setting: in the distance, we can see the lights of Naples and the bay winking in the dark. It’s a clear night, cool with a starry sky; the air is like velvet. We reach the top and usher out into the piazza. All is brightness with the shops around still open. We sit ourselves at a table outside the Caffe al Vermouth di Torino. A few American officers and their wives⁄birds are in evidence. It’s two coffees and two Sambuccas, that daring drink that they set on fire. Our waiter speaks English.

  “You here on holiday?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, good time – not many people on the island.”

  In the square, a few landaus with sorry-looking horses wait for customers. Around us, at other cafés, people are partaking of the night. Among them are the elite of Capri, well-dressed, haughty, never looking left or right as though the rest of the world doesn’t exist, and on Capri, it doesn’t. The waiter puts a match to our Sambuccas, a blue flame appears. We watch it whisper on the surface as they burn the coffee beans. It’s the first time Toni has had one. We blow out the fla
mes, wait for the glasses to cool; we clink them together.

  “To us, Toni.”

  “Yes,” she says and clinks again. “To us,” which she pronounces ‘to hus’. (I’d better explain that Toni spoke with a pronounced accent, which I have straightened out for the benefit of the reader.)

  She sips it rather like a food taster at the court of the Borgias.

  “Ummm!” she says, closing her eyes. “Very good. What they make it with?”

  I tell her it’s Strega, a drink that can revive dead horses and cause Brongles to rise earlier than normal. “I no understand.”

  “What a pity. I was hoping you’d tell me.”

  She knows I’m out of my mind and it’s showing.

  We don’t want to go to bed; the air is so invigorating. Let’s have another two Sambuccas. Yes, why not? The night is young even if I’m not. Again the two flames burn in the night; shall we blow them out or call the fire brigade? Toni says, “You mad, Terr-ee!” As an inspired guess that was pretty accurate. After the second Sambucca, Toni says she feels really fine and I say that I am really fine. So we go back to the hotel, get into bed and have a fine time, bearing in mind that my mother would say, “You are ruining your health.”

  ∗

  The morning breaks fine and clear. It’s going to be another hot day. I peer out the window; it’s quite early and the fishing boats are coming in from their dawn excursions. The sky is a clear light blue. Bath, shower, shave, teeth, hair, clothes. I tap on Toni’s door.

  “Oo is eet?” she says.

  “It’s me, your tesoro.”

  She comes to the door in a dressing gown.

  “Oh, I sleep too long, Terr-ee.”

  Too long? How could she? She’s only five foot four. She has delusions of grandeur. Then she says she won’t be long, shall we have breakfast on the terrace? Splendid, I’ll see her there.

  The terrace is on the south side of the hotel. Alas, it doesn’t get the morning sun but it gets the flies. Mario, for that is the name of our waiter, attends me. “Signore, buon giorno. Che desidera?” Not yet, Mario! I’m awaiting the tiny love of my life. Would I like a tea while I’m waiting? Yes, Mario. Why not. I’m looking at an azure sea through pots of pink and scarlet geraniums. The colours are heady with vibrancy. It’s the light, the Capri light, clear like fine Venetian glass. Ah ah! Here comes Toni in her white dress showing ofT her lovely bronze limbs. She walks with the upright carriage of a true ballerina. I pull back her chair, she sits and gestures a small hand towards the sea. “Beautiful, eh?” she says. She looks so attractive I could eat her. Now, where would I start? Mario looms forth smiling. Holding his tray at head-height, he swings it down professionally and places my lemon tea before me.

  “Ecco,” he says.

  The menu: we’ll have hot bread rolls and conserva. What is that perfume? Ah! Behind us, growing up the wall is jasmine with small yellow and white flowers. Toni inhales the fragrance with her eyes closed, “What nice, how you say, pro-fumo?” Perfume, yes, that’s it. Where shall we go? says Toni.

  I’m for the Grotto Azzurra; she’ll get seasick. No no no, it’s very calm today and it’s only a quick boat ride. “Sicuro?” she says. Yes, I’m sicuro.

  After breakfast we walk down to the Marina Grande. The sun is hot but pleasantly so. We go to the place where the skiffs are waiting to ply their trade; we are besieged by boatmen offering their services. They all shout in Capri dialect. Standing back, I say to Toni, “Choose one.” She points to one with a peaked sailor’s cap; we fight our way to him and climb into the skiff. The shouting abates. We sit on a double seat in the back; the boat pulls away on the calm, delightful, champagne sea. The water here is clear though heavy with sea-stars and, to my horror, jellyfish. I point them out to Toni.

  “Ah, la medusa,” she says. We’ll have to watch it next time we swim.

  We loll back in our seats, my arm around Toni. She lets her hand trail in the sea. It was an image I was never to forget and forty years later I wrote this poem.

  White hand washing in a stream.

  What then does my lady dream?

  Down and down in cooling deep.

  Is your mind at ebb or neap?

  Fingers whisting in a pool.

  Are they pointing at a fool

  Drowning in the greening deep

  Of your blind and endless sleep?

  We are rowing along the base of the precipitous rocky shore. Flowers abound among the rocks. They were too far away for identification, but I think they were wild nasturtiums in their hundreds, yellow and red intermixed. Here and there, where purchase affords, stately cypress trees stand like green fingers against a powder-blue heaven.

  “I don’t believe this,” says Toni.

  I don’t believe it either. The only time I believe it is when the boatman says, “That will be a thousand lire,” thus eroding my fabulous wealth of lire. But that’s all to come’. Now it’s us approaching the tunnel that leads to the grotto. The boatman waits for the rise and fall of the surge, as it goes down he deftly gives a mighty pull on his oars that propels us through while we duck our heads. Then, miracle! we are inside a sea-girt cavern. The roof is about fifty foot high by about a hundred foot in width. What was blue sea is now translucent; we appear to be floating on air. The effect of the blue refraction of the light is indescribable and at first completely dazzles and disorientates the eyes. Toni is stunned. She gasps, “I don’t believe.” Inside, we see that there is a lad in a boat whose ploy is to dive in to show the effect. He wants fifty lire. Agreed. He dives in and his body turns to silver. He gives a few underwater turns and spins; he looks like some godlike child covered in gilt. He surfaces with a smile.

  “Buona? Si, buona. Fifty lire, please.”

  We are only allowed five minutes as other boatmen are shouting to come in. We exit with the surge of the sea and are out into the white-hot sunlight.

  Toni clasps her hands: “I never see like that before, Terree!”

  Halfway back, the boatman points out the ruins of the Baths of Tiberius. Did he really have to come all this way for a bath? He must have been desperate. We are soaking up the sun; the only sounds are the dipping oars and the squeaking rowlocks. Not mine, the boatman’s. Toni has her head back; she’s letting the sun fall on her face with her eyes closed.

  “Ah! che bello,” she breathes and opens her eyes.

  I can’t help but say, “I love you very much, Toni!”

  Her reply is to smile and lay her small hand on mine. “Anche lu sei mi amore, you understand?” she says, inclining her head on one side.

  Could life be better? Yes, life becomes much better. I’ll tell you how. We arrive back at the Marina Grande, walk back to the hotel and get into bed with each other and, indeed, life becomes much, much better. But perhaps my mother is right. Am I ruining my health? Will I go blind?

  All this before lunch. I tell you what – by God, it gives you a good appetite.

  We have a huge pasta lunch in the inside dining-room. I feel stuffed. We decide to have an after-lunch nap; after that, we can go swimming again. We ziz for a couple of hours. I awake with Toni looking round the door. “You ready, Terr-ee?” Does she mean swimming or the other? Blast! It’s swimming. Killjoy! We make our way to our little beach and, keeping an eye out for jellyfish, enjoy a late-afternoon swim.

  “Look, Toni,” I say.

  I dive down and stand on my hands with legs poking out of the water, what a little Clever Dick I am. I then show her how I can dive underwater through her legs. Is there no end to my aquatic ingenuity? More to come: I show how I can dive between her legs, get her on my shoulders, then stand up and toss her into the sea. I then swim on my back with my legs doubled up so when my feet break the surface, I look like a midget. It’s all good clean fun and what a pain in the arse I am.

  The afternoon wears on and I wear out. I’ve really enjoyed my little self. How much better than the Lewisham Public Baths this was. We lie on the beach taking in the evening sun,
which is just right. Toni takes her bathing cap off, shaking her head to loosen her hair. She wants to know how the ‘Valzer di Candele’ goes. I sing “Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to light.” Ah yes, she remembers it and tra la las the rest of it. But no way could she compete with my Bing Crosby voice, oh no.

  From Signor Brinati, the hotel manager, we hear that tonight a team of Neapolitans will be giving a demonstration of tarantella dancing in the Taverna Salto di Tiberio. Where’s that? He tells us we can get a guide or take a donkey – it’s only ten minutes from the piazza, but you have to know the way. Good, that takes care of the evening’s entertainment. After dinner we ascend to the piazza. After a coffee at the Caffe al Vermouth di Torino we approach the donkey man: si, si, he knows the taverna. I climb aboard a donkey. Toni has one with side-saddle and, embarrassingly, a huge erection. With it swinging like a pendulum, we set off. “Aiiiiieeeee,” shouts the dragoman and off we clop through an archway drunk with clematis on to the old Corso di Tiberio. It is now dark and, as we leave the lights of the piazza, darker still.

  “You all right, Toni?” I shout.

  “Yes, Terr-ee,” she replies in a gleeful voice.

  We are ascending a slight slope, passing an old ruined light-house that went out of business when the keeper fitted blinds to the lights so the neighbours couldn’t see in; along a dark, winding path, past a whitewashed church and to our right is the sea, in this light purple-dark. We appear to be about seven hundred feet up. The tavern is near to the rock edge; it’s a long, low building, quite old, very simple. There’s one big room with wood tables and rush seats; it’s quite full. We pay the donkey driver. Do we want him to wait? If so, there’s a standing-waiting fee. Si, si, we’ll see him after the dance.

  A waitress shows us to a table. When are the dancers coming? Just starting, what good timing. On come a guitarist and a mandolinist and a violin player. They strike up a tarantella and from behind a curtain a pair of dancers in traditional seventeenth-century costume emerge. They go into an exhausting dance full of exuberance. With clapping and shouts, they stomp the flagged floor; they get an enthusiastic reception. An old man goes round with a bag to collect donations. Exhausted the dancers are replaced by a fresh pair who perform an even faster tarantella. The girl dancer’s red skirt is whirling and whirling like a dervish – the Moorish and Spanish influence in the dance is very, very strong. Toni and I are sipping a nameless local white wine and nibbling mozzarella cheese. It’s all a most enjoyable evening and a thousand miles away from my jazz-oriented life, but this is very Hollywood and I’m on top of the world – just wait till I fall off!