Goodbye Soldier (12 page)

GRAZ

GRAZ

N
ext morning, I’m still discharging both ends. Wrapped in a blanket, doused with Aspros, I board the Charabong.

“How you feel, Terree,” says Toni.

“Terrible.”

I semi-doze all the way to Graz, showing no interest in food or drink. When we arrive in Graz, I hurriedly book in and make for my room. It’s a lovely hotel with double glazing and double doors to the room, so it’s very quiet except for the noise of me going both ends. I take a hot bath and take to my sick bed. I get visits from everyone. Do I need a doctor? I say, no, a mortician. Will I be doing the show tomorrow? Not bloody likely. Bornheim will have to take my place on the squeeze box; I am delirious. Toni visits me and tells me she loves me. That’s no bloody good. I love her too, but I’ve still got the shits. Can she hurry and leave the room as something explosive is coming on. I fall into a deep sleep. I awake in the wee hours to do a wee. I’m dripping with sweat. What’s the time? 3 a.m. I take a swig at my half-bottle of whisky. When I awake in the morning, I seem to have broken the back of it – it feels as if I’ve also broken its legs and arms. Twenty-four hours had passed away but I hadn’t. In two days I’m back to my normal, healthy, skinny, self. How did the act go with Bornheim deputizing for me? It was great! Curses. So I rejoin the fold.

The show is at the Theatre Hapsburg, a wonderful, small intimate theatre – one mass of gilded carvings of cherubim. This night the trio get rapturous applause from a mixed audience of Austrians and soldiers. Hall is stunned.

“Bloody hell,” he said. “We weren’t
that
good.”

“Rubbish,” says Mulgrew. “‘
They
weren’t good enough!”

Dinner that night was a treat – first food for forty-eight hours. It’s Austrian Irish stew. Bill Hall tells the waitress that his meat is very tough. She calls the chef, a large Kraut. He asks what’s wrong.

“This meat is tough.”

“Oh,” says the Kraut. “You are zer only von complaining.”

“That’s ‘cause I got all the ‘ard bits, mate.”

“It’s zer luck of the draw,” says the Kraut, who takes it away.

The waitress returns with a second portion.

“Yes, this is better,” says Hall. The excitement is unbearable.

I’m convalescing, so I have an early-to-bed. I’m reading Elizabeth GaskelPs
The Life of Charlotte Bronte
. First, I’m delighted to find that the father was Irish. The interesting figure in the story is Branwell Bronte, the piss artist. He’s amazing. He writes reams of poetry, can paint and also write with both hands at once. How’s that for starters. Yet, he is
the failure
of the family. My eyelids are getting heavy. I lay the book aside and sleep peacefully until the morning when there’s a birdlike tapping at my door. It’s morning-fresh Toni. She kisses my eyes. “You very lazee, hurry up. Breakfast nearly finished!” She will see me after breakfast in the hall. “We go for nice walk.” It’s cold but sunny; we are quite high high up.

I have a quick shit, shave and shampoo. I
just
make breakfast. I ask the waiter if I can have a boiled egg and toast. He looks at his watch. Is he going to time it? With an expression on his face as though his balls are being crushed in a vice, he says OK. Toni is waiting in the foyer. She is wearing a tweed coat with a fur collar and looks very pretty. We start our walk by strolling along the banks of the River Mur. Mur? How did it get a name like that? Our walk is lined with silver birch trees. We cross the Mur Bridge and I wonder how it got that name, Mur; through large iron gates into a park built on the side of a hill, called Der Mur Garten, and I wonder how it got that name, Mur. We walk up a slight gradient flanked by rose beds. It was then we did what must be timeless in the calendar of lovers: we carved our names on a tree, inside a heart.

We carved our hearts

On a tree in Graz

And the hands of the clock stood still

Toni has found two heart-shaped leaves, stitched them together with a twig and scratched ‘I love you Terry’ on them. They still lie crumbling in the leaves of my diary. Ah, yesterday! Where did you go? I lean over and pick a rose only to get a shout, “Oi,
nicht gut
!” from a gardener. We climb higher to a lookout platform overlooking the Mur. How
did
it get that name? From here, we walk into the Feble Strasse, the Bond Street of Graz. As we cross the Mur Bridge, each of us tosses a coin into the river. “That mean we come back,” said Toni. We never did. We never will.

We window-gazed. Why are women transfixed by jewellers, handbag and shoe shops? The moment Toni stops at a jeweller’s, I feel that I should buy her a trinket.

“Isn’t that beautiful?” she says, pointing to something like the Crown Jewels, priced thousands of schillings.

“Yes,” I said weakly, knowing that as I stood my entire worldly value, including ragged underwear, was ninety pounds.

The torture doesn’t stop there. She points, “Oh, look, Teree” – a fur coat valued at millions of schillings.

“Yes,” I say weakly, feeling like Scrooge.

“What lovely handbag,” she enthuses.

“Yes,” I say. Don’t weaken, Milligan. As long as you can say yes, you’re safe from bankruptcy. “Look, Toni, isn’t that beautiful?” I say, pointing to a small bar of chocolate for fifty groschen. Mur, how did it get that name? So, nibbling fifty-groschen chocolate, we walk back to the hotel.

During that night’s show, Fulvio Pazzaglia and Tiola Silenzi have a row. Trained singers, their voices projecting can be heard on the stage. She empties a jug of red wine over Fulvio and his nice white jacket. Hurriedly, he borrows one that is miles too big. When he appears on stage, he looks like an amputee. On the way back in the Charabong, the row continues. She does all the shouting, he sits meekly in silence. It’s something to do with money. She spends it and he objects when he can get a word in. We all sit in silence listening to the tirade. It is very entertaining and when she finally finishes, Bill Hall starts up a round of applause, shouting, “Bravo! Encore!” She is beside herself with anger.

∗

It was one unforgettable night in Graz that Toni and I consummated our love. When it was over, we lay quite still in the dark. Neither of us spoke. I could hear her breathing, then she started to cry.

“What’s the matter, Toni?”

“I am different now. I am not girl any more.”

“Are you sorry?”

“No.”

With one act, everything was changed. We had made an invisible bond. Only time would test its strength. I lay watching her dress in the half-light – every move was etched in my mind. I can still see it quite clearly.

Next morning, when we met at breakfast, everything seemed different. Yet, it was only us. We seemed speechless, but our hearts beat faster. It was as though we were caught in an invisible net, each a prisoner of the other. Primitive emotions held us in their timeless grasp.

That afternoon, the Trio met in Hall’s room for a practice of some new numbers.

“You’re bloody quiet these days,” he says.

“I’m in love, Bill. That’s why.”

“Love, me arse. All you want is a good shag and you’ll be right as rain.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Are you thinking of marryin’ this bird?”

“It crossed my mind and body, yes.”

“You’ll see, she’ll be fat as a pig at forty.”

“Don’t listen to him,” says Mulgrew. “He should talk, with all those old boilers he goes out with.”

“They’re not old boilers,” says Hall. “They are mature, experienced women, who know all the tricks of love.”

“Tricks,” guffaws Mulgrew, “like cracking walnuts in the cheeks of their arse.”

The session over, I rose to leave the room. “You’ll see,” says Hall, who is now playing the Trout Quintet. “At forty, you’ll be able to roll her home.”

I am writing home asking my folks for more razor blades and pile ointment – at the same time, telling them that I’m considering marrying Toni. My mother’s reply is full of advice. I musn’t marry till I have a decent job and have ‘settled down’, whatever that means. Two
can’t
live as cheaply as one. My ninety pounds’ savings won’t go far. I don’t know, though; it’s got as far as the Post Office in Lewisham. My mother should talk! In the days of the British Raj, her father was dead set against her marrying my father. He chased my father through the Poona Cantonments on a bicycle, my father escaping in a
tonga
.

Like all long-running shows, we are getting sloppy again. Lieutenant Priest assembles us all in the lounge. “Look,” he says. “It’s getting to be like a private joke. It may be funny to us, but not the audience. We’re going to have a full dress rehearsal tomorrow morning.” He is right, of course; we are all taking liberties. For instance, when Ricky Trowler is singing ‘Let the Rest of the World Go By’, he is barracked from the wings with raspberries and shouts of “drink up!” In the ‘Close the Shutters, Willy’s Dead’ number, numerous ping-pong balls are bounced on the stage from each side. I think it’s funny; Priest doesn’t. Bill Hall plays disturbing obligatos behind the curtain during the singers’ spot, causing them to corpse.

It’s a night with a hunter’s moon. After dinner Toni and I go for a stroll down by the Mur. How
did
it get that name? We talked, the scenery drifted past unnoticed. We were now willing prisoners of each other. It had taken us by surprise; we were still in a state of amazement. Everything came through a rainbow-filtered haze. Toni was so childlike, I had a burning desire to look after her, to protect her. From what? God knows. Elephants? “This is lak a storybook,” she said. “We make it up as we go along.” Yes, one day the show would stop but we would go on for ever. This is how the story would go: the Bill Hall Trio would go back to the UK and become rich, then I would send for Toni! I would welcome her to England with a white Rolls-Royce, a glass of champagne and a complete explanation as to why the river was called the Mur!

We are finished in Graz and now to the dream city of Vienna sausage!

Call, call Vienna mine

Sing night and day with your songs divine.

VIENNA

VIENNA

A
h yes, Vienna. ‘Tales From the Vienna Woods’, were they true or was it gossip? The Blue Danube, now called the Brown, the Emperor Franz Josef, Freud.

It’s a crisp, misty, sunny morning as we board the Chara-bong in a state of excitement. Luigi crosses himself and starts the engine and crosses himself again when it starts. Bill Hall is on form and plays a terrible version of ‘The Blue Danube’ waltz. If only tape recorders had been invented! It was a masterpiece of bad intonation. I borrow Bornheim’s
Union Jack
to see what’s going on in the outside world.

Where is the Mufti of Jerusalem?

—says the headline. What is a Mufti? Another headline:

Princess Nadija Braganca has thrown herself from the third floor of a London hospital

Well, it’s cheaper than paying the bill. What else? General Milhailovitch is on trial for war crimes; his lawyer is claiming that his client is ‘Ill and Mad’. Milhailovitch says he isn’t which, says his lawyer, proves that he is.

The mist is lifting, giving way to sunshine. We are passing strange names. Knutcracken (it must be agony), Gloggnitz, Splatsputz and Pottyend. The Austrian countryside is neater than the Italian; the precise Teutonic mind had everything neat and tidy. Just after the village of Mürzzuschlag (How did it get that name?), we pull up alongside a daisy-spattled field complete with fat cows. We sit in the long grass dotted with scarlet poppies lusting for the sun. We are overlooking a valley that looks like a set for Walt Disney’s
Snow White
.

“‘
Che carino
,” said Toni.

“This wet grass gives you piles,” said Chalky White, killing the ambience of the moment stone dead.

Bornheim is going to prove a theory. “If you lie down in a field, cows will come up and lick you.”

“That’s a lot of balls,” said the learned White.

So, Bornheim duly lies down. Gradually, the animals’ curiosity makes them all approach Bornheim and, my God, they start licking him. “All right, Clever Dick,” he says to White.

“Ow did you know that?” says White.

“I read it in a book.”

We are all munching our way through cheese and tomato sandwiches, and Lieutenant Priest wanders among us to see if we are all satisfied with the rations. It’s very peaceful; very little traffic on the road save the occasional military vehicle.

“Watch, Toni,” I say.

I pluck a dandelion that has gone to seed. I blow the seed and like little parachutes they float away.

“You have to make a wish,” said Toni.

I make a secret wish that I’ll become rich. It must have been a faulty dandelion. This is forty years on and I’m still not rich.

Lunch over, I lie back and light up a cigarette and watch the smoke curl heavenwards. What
is
up there in that blue vault? I’m looking into infinity and it’s empty. What is it all about? What are we all about? Well, I was about twenty-nine. Chalky White has gone to the middle of the field to repeat Bornheim’s experiment. It works except White has unwittingly lain in a cowpat, most of which has stuck to his back.

“That’s lucky,” says Bornheim.

“What’s lucky about cow shit?” moans White.

“It’s lucky I didn’t get it.”

“All right, let’s be having you,” says Priest, mustering us back into the Charabong. We give off our customary bleating and mooing, only to be answered by the cows.

“I wonder,” says loony Bornheim. “Do they moo in Austrian?”

A SIBERIAN SALT MINE.

HITLER IS SHOVELLING SHIT AND SALT.

HITLER:

Of course zey moo in Austrian. Do you think zey would be unfaithful to der Führer?

The journey passes uneventfully. Hall and I occasionally break the monotony by playing some jazz and lead a few sing-songs. Towards late evening, we reach the outskirts of Vienna.

It’s rush hour in Vienna; the streets are crammed with commuters all hurrying home. The city is unfolding itself. It is a bounty of grand and stately buildings, palaces and fountains. We pass in the shadow of St Stephen’s. I tell Toni this is where Bach played the organ. She doesn’t like Bach too much. “He, too, how you say, mathmetica.” She likes
dolce
music like Puccini. “You like Bach?” she said. I don’t know, I’ve never met him.

Street lights are coming on. It’s fun to see trams again. There’s evidence of the quadrilateral occupation. American jeeps and the green-grey of Russian lorries with po-faced Russian soldiers. We pass the giant Ferris wheel that has survived the war – there had been a move to dismantle it as it was a focal point for bombers.

On we trundle through busy streets. We get lost several times, but no one notices the difference. We stop and Lieutenant Priest flags down a British Military Police patrol, which turns out to be lost itself. We are looking for the Franz Josef Hotel in Gustav Strasse.

“We’re bloody lost,” moans Hall.

“No, we’re not,” says Priest. “I know exactly where we are.”

“Where,” says Hall.

“Here,” says Priest with a chuckle.

More by luck than judgement, we finally arrive, at which there is a dull cheer. But wait! Uniformed porters are coming out to
carry
our luggage. There’s Bill Hall’s bulging cardboard suitcase tied with knotted string. We trail behind them and are shown into a wood-panelled reception hall, all very, very chic. The receptionists are super-polite. There’s lots of heel-clicking and ‘
jawohl
‘s’. They are all wearing gold-trimmed uniforms. “I bet they’re all ex-Nazis,” says Hall. It’s a culture shock to see the smart porter carrying Hall’s grotty luggage, followed by an even grottier Hall.

Toni is excited by the magnificence of the place. “How beautiful, Terr-ee.
Che eleganza
.”’ My room looks like Madame du Barry’s. It has a four-poster bed with velvet swags, a gold-plated chandelier, a burgundy carpet with fleur-de-lis motif. There must be some mistake. My phone is buzzing. It’s Toni. She is in raptures over her room. She also says she loves me ‘and you beautiful eyes’.

Bornheim visits me. He, too, is stunned by the opalescence of his room and has to tell someone. “Well, enjoy it, Bornheim, because the day is not far off when you’ll be back in Naples in a bare barrack room.” He says it’s ‘all a plot to lift you up and, wallop, bring you down’. We sit and smoke a cigarette and talk of the strange existence we are experiencing. Everyone is working for a living. In England, Mr Attlee is exhorting the nation to work harder, while we are in cloud-cuckoo-land, without a care in the world. “We’ll never have it as easy as this again.” It was a prophecy that came true. Bornheim departs saying, “It’s all a dream,” his hands clawing the air.

I bathe in my rose-coloured marble bath with gold-plated taps. I was disappointed when only water came out. The bath is twice normal size; should I dive in? I’m so thin, when I get in the bath it looks like someone’s thrown a pair of braces in. My father always said, “Don’t worry, son. You’ll fill out one day.” Did he think I was hollow? “And there’s nothing wrong with being thin. Look at Gandhi.” I didn’t want to look at Gandhi; he reminded me of me. No! I wanted to look like Johnny Weissmuller and sing like Crosby. The combination would be infallible. I mean, swinging from tree to tree singing ‘Love In Bloom’ must be a winner. Who’s that at the door? It’s Lieutenant Priest with two letters, one from my father, one from my brother. The latter is now stationed in Cyprus.

Dear Hairy,

I’m in the land of Aphrodite, after Germany it’s paradise, it’s mostly guard duties. I’m a sergeant now stationed at Dekelhia, we are all under canvas and under a poofy OC. We’re just outside Larnaca, the girls are heavily chaperoned. It’s easier to lay eggs than lay one of them, some of them are beautiful, if things get worse the men will start to look beautiful. Dad seems settled back in Fleet Street and Mum is still boiling all his food to death. On my nights off we go to Larnaca, pulsating with twelve forty watt bulbs, a few smoky dens sell eggs and chips, a couple of Greek cinemas with sub-titles help to alleviate the monotony. They want me to put in for a commission, I’ll see. Hope your new career goes well. What’s this about you marrying an Italian bird?

Loving Brother Des.

So the news of Toni and me has reached as far as Cyprus. Well, well. Whereas my mother baulks at any reports of me marrying, my father is the reverse (there are not many reversed fathers). He says it’s fine, and why don’t we get married by the Pope!

I hurry down to the dining-hall, I hear the strains of a Strauss waltz. Wow, there’s a quintet playing in the dining-hall, which is as sumptuous as the rest of the hotel – great chandeliers. It’s very large and very busy. Toni, sitting small and petite at a distant table, waves to draw my attention. “Oh, Terr-ee,” she says. “What you think of this place?” I tell her it’s marvellous. I’m as overwhelmed as she is. There’s a menu a mile long. Mulgrew and Bornheim join our table. We enjoy a splendid repast of wienerbackhendl (chicken) and, after, we retire to the lounge where a pianist is playing Chopin. The waiter brings us coffee. We are all feeling rather splendid; I even order a cigar.

“Don’t go mad, Milligan,” says Bornheim. “We’re all going to suffer withdrawal symptoms when we leave here.”

“We’re only here four nights,” said Mulgrew, “so make the best of it.”

We were doing just that.

∗

The State Opera House is a two-thousand seater. When I think of all those bums making contact. The dressing-rooms? Well, you could have lived in them. “This is better than the house my folks live in,” said an amazed Hall; but reflected that
anything
was better than the house his folks lived in. In London, Hall lived in a room with a gas ring that served as (a) stove (b) heater (c) decoration.

Our first night had a very mixed audience: Americans, Russians, British, Austrians. The Russians are in a box and we are chuffed when they laugh uproariously at the Trio.

“If nothing else,” says Mulgrew, “they’ve got a sense of humour.”

“Sense of humour?” said Hall. “Have you read what they did to the women when they captured Berlin? Very funny.”

“They weren’t the only ones,” said Mulgrew. “I’ve seen some of our squaddies and GI’s behaving pretty abominable.”

“You sayin’ we’re as bad as the Russians?”

“Given the opportunity, yes.”

“Listen, they raped everything from schoolgirls to grandmothers.”

“Listen, mate. Some of the grandmothers were very grateful,” said Mulgrew with a sadistic chuckle.

These Hall vs. Mulgrew arguments never got anywhere; both were implacable. Their arguments ranged from who should turn out the light when neither bed was more than three paces from the switch, to why the Conservatives had lost the post-war election.

“Churchill was going gaga, that’s why,” insisted Hall.

“Rubbish,” retorts Mulgrew. “He’s in his prime. Attlee has the personality of an overlaundered vest.”

∗

Next day, Toni and I set out to see the sights. Toni has a small booklet in Italian telling what to see. Under her guidance, we visit Kartnerstrasse. Helpppppppp!!! It’s the most expensive shopping centre in Austria, and me down to my last few schillings! Helpppppppp!!

She stops at a window with a magnificent tulle white wedding dress. “Oh, Terr-ee – look, how beautiful!”

“I couldn’t wear it,” I said. “It’s the wrong colour.” It was another one of my jokes that didn’t register. If there was a graveyard for failed jokes, it would be overflowing with mine.

A JOKE MORTICIAN’S SHOP.

ME:

I’ve come to bury a joke.

MORTICIAN:

I’m sorry, sir, the graveyard is full. It’s been a good year.

ME:

What do you suggest?

MORTICIAN:

Cremation, sir. You can have the ashes of your favourite joke in an urn. In moments of depression, you can take the lid off and have a good laugh.

After miles of shops, we repair to a coffee house. “Schwi tass Kaffee, bitte,” I say in badly spelt German.

The place is crowded with people leaning forward and speaking in hushed tones, looking like trainee Balkan assassins. “I like very much Vienna,” says Toni. “I very hapee.” (I’m trying to spell like she talks.) The coffee arrives along with a cake only the Austrians can make, called Sachertorte – light as a feather, full of pure cream and caster sugar, topped with milk chocolate. With a balletic thumb and forefinger, Toni eats one with mincing mouth movements. I’ve crammed two, three into my mouth.

“You like Vienna, Terr-ee?”

“Yes, anytime is dancing time with you. But for drongles on the knees, we’d be waltzing now.”

“I no understand.”

MORTICIAN:

I’m sorry, sir. I told you, the graveyard is full.

Next stop, the Spanish Riding School. I’ve always wanted to see Spaniards riding – something that’s very hard to come by in Brockley SE26. In a moment of transportation madness, I decide we should take a horse-drawn landau. I tell the driver, “Mein Herr, Spanish riding school verstain?” He is not verstaining. I demonstrate and mime several well-known dressage movements. I prance back and forth. He still doesn’t verstain. A small crowd gathers, thinking it is street entertainment. Then I remember – like Paul on the way to Damascus, I see the light. I remember the breed of the white horse.

“Lippizaner, verstain?”

A smile of recognition lights up a face that is nearly falling off. “Ja,
verstehe
,” he says, and we are on our clip-clop way.