Peace Work (26 page)

“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!

After an hour and three sets of dancers alternating, the show is over. We all applaud wildly. With their departure, the tavern is quiet, save for the buzz of conversation. We drink a little more wine and then to our donkeys! They are waiting faithfully outside, eating a grass verge. I’m relieved to see that the huge erection has gone. Thank God Toni hadn’t noticed it, it would have made me feel so inadequate. Back along the dark path with cypress trees looming like portents of doom; under this sky they look like Van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night Over Aries’. The dragoman starts to sing. All Italians have a natural aptitude for singing; ours doesn’t. He has what jazz musicians call a ‘cloth ear’. It wasn’t helped by my donkey starting to bray. Behind me, I can hear Toni laughing.

We arrive back at the piazza, still alive with people. I pay the donkey man from my diminishing 72,000 lire. A drink before we retire, Toni?
Si
. We get the same waiter as last night. How are we enjoying the holiday? Very much. Would Toni like a Sambucco? No, she found out what that leads to last night. No, a lemonade please. And me? A half-bottle of Asti Spumante, my good man. I watch it being poured and frothing up in my glass. Can Toni have just a sip? Yes, a little sippy-poos then. Oh! She likes it! Another glass, please, waiter, and take this silly lemonade away.

I love watching people and here there were plenty to see, creatures that only emerge at night – they have a certain feline aura and use lots of brilliantine on their hair. At a table opposite is a man in a white suit, a heavy tan and patent leather hair. You can tell that he’s spent all day getting ready, the crease in his trousers says he doesn’t wear them for long periods. He drinks very slowly to conserve money. The woman with him looks like she’s been sprayed in varnish. She, too, has a powerful tan – hours spent slobbed out in the sun to show off at night. I feel that they are both skint but they keep up a front. Toni and I pick everybody to pieces. It’s great fun fantasizing over people. Are they doing it to us? They don’t appear to.

A church steeple clock strikes midnight; Toni and I drink up, and make our way on to the funicular down to the Marina Grande. Fisherfolk are sitting outside their houses chatting, some are preparing for night fishing, putting pressure lights on the prow to attract fish. The night porter lets us in. “Thank you for nice day,” says Toni. Never mind that. I grab her, weld our bodies together and kiss her. If I’d had glass eyes, they’d have steamed up. Despite the steam, she is going to bed alone, understand? Me and my steaming trousers bid her goodnight. I’m soon locked in the great empty space called sleep.

∗

I awake on the third morning of our holiday. Through the window, I can see that it’s another day with a clear blue sky. I yawn, stretch and make all those morning noises that men make. In the bathroom I can hear Toni’s bath running. I tap on the wall, she taps back. What a pity she doesn’t read morse code. I could tell her I love her:

. . . . . – .– – – . . . – . . – – – . . –!

I soap myself all over, giving the wedding tackle an extra soap for pleasure. Then I try the rickety shower; it just about works. I sing, Boo Boo ‘twas on the Isle of Capri that I found her. Toni gives a furious tapping on her wall. Ah! why aren’t we bathing and wall tapping together…I wonder which part she is washing. Ohhh helppppp. A brisk towelling down, then into my English gentleman’s ‘I’m-on-holiday’ kit. Grey flannels, white shirt and brown sensible lace-up shoes. There’s no doubting it, I look like a young nobleman on holiday. I collect Toni and we breakfast on the terrace. This morning it’s fresh orange juice. I give Toni’s upper thigh a squeeze – yes, it’s fresh Milligan as well. Toni smacks my hand. “You naughty, naughty, naughty boy,” she smacks in tempo to the words. A few rounds of hot toast and jam, a lemon tea and we are ready for the day.

I have consulted my Baedeker and have decided on a nice long walk to the Faraglioni. We board the funicular, empty save a peasant mother and her little girl. The child’s eyes are like a doe’s, giant brown things that tear your heart out. Like all children, though dressed poorly, she is scrubbed clean with her hair in a careful pigtail. Out of the box car and into the piazza where the cafés are setting up their tables and chairs for the day, and a few colourful sunshades. A street cleaner is sweeping the square. “
Buon giorno
,” he says as we pass. How nice, how different from those glum bastards on the workmen’s tram to Woolwich Arsenal.

Spike, Capri.

Off the piazza, we enter a vaulted tunnel. Then there’s a small sign with an arrow, ‘Faraglioni’. We hold hands and wander the flower-strewn path with this incredible light in the warmth of the morning sun. Flowers! Flowers! Flowers! Wild nasturtiums are going insane among the grasses. Columbine, campanula, yellow green arum, tall asters, little alkanet blue flowers, myrtle – the list was endless. There is the occasional villa staring out at that enticing sea. We pass a few explainable ruins – no doubt from the masonry that they are Roman. We don’t talk much, nature is talking for us. A few words to point something out, that is all. Along the path, at intervals, are stone seats. We sit and enjoy the magic silence of a place with no motor cars. The path zigzags lazily on. One thing I notice is the total absence of birds due, I presume, to the islanders killing them either for sport or to eat – both an abomination. We reach a point with a railed lookout. Here we stop and take a photo of each other.

∗

The magic walk continues. There seems to be nobody else in the world. I remember well how we stopped every now and then to embrace. It was nice to be able to do it outdoors without the neighbours looking on. “I never forget this walk,” said Toni, “I always, always remember.” We turn a corner and a new vista opens up to us, we can see to the top of the point where the remains of the villa of Tiberius are. Two white butterflies volute above us and dance on the wind. “Ah,” says Toni, “
farfalle
.” Oh! So they are
farfallas
. I thought they were butterflies.

We have been ambling along for half an hour when we turn another sharp corner and there is the majestic view of the Faraglioni, this great rock ejecting from the cobalt blue water. We both oo and ahh. This is photograph country, partner! I take one of Toni and she one of me. What a pity we can’t have one together! But wait, the superb brain of the young Milligan burns with inventive creativity. All I really need to do is place the camera on the wall, then with a long stick press the release button. As you can see below, it worked perfectly. Toni is totally bemused by her lover’s audacity. “You so clever,” she says and by God, I am
and
I’m still worth 68,000 lire.

DIY photo of Toni and me.

The ascent becomes fairly steep – a mixture of steps and paths and we reach what has been the villa of Tiberius, now down to a few bits of masonry. Who in their right mind would vandalize a magnificent Roman villa built for an emperor and leave nothing to show for their efforts? From the point, we see a sheer drop into the Tyrrhenian Sea. I let a stone fall; it seems an eternity till it hits the water. You felt that you could leap off into space and, like a bird, swoop over the waters. Looking down is hypnotic. “It make me giddy,” says Toni, shaking her head.

We’ve been away a couple of hours and would dearly like tea or coffee, so we return to the piazza. It’s a hot afternoon, so along with lemon tea we order two ice-creams. When they arrive, we are overwhelmed by the size. They are in tall champagne glasses, each layer a different garish colour, topped by a mountain of cream that ascends in a conical spiral. “Oh,” says Toni with a child’s delight. They look so beautiful, it’s a shame to eat them. So we eat them with shame. I do everything except lick the glass – how I’d love to do it! We wander over to a low-key souvenir shop; we are looking for postcards. I want to send them off to all those poor buggers I know in England and wish I could be there when they see the Capri postmark! I’d make ‘em suffer. This done we decide to return to the hotel and fill them in.

We sit on the hotel terrace. I send my parents a postcard telling them I’m here on Capri to stop me ruining my health. If my mother knew the truth, she would be having a mass said for my redemption and the death of Toni. We drop them all into the hotel postbox where we meet Signor Brinati. He is happy because he has some new arrivals. They turn out to be an English officer and his wife, whom we would meet later. Right now it’s very hot and it’s time to immerse ourselves in the Bay of Naples. To our little beach then and that amazing display of Milligan’s water-sport tricks, a male Esther Williams. It all come to an inglorious end when a jellyfish stings me on the back of my thigh; it stings like mad. Toni says to put vinegar on it. Very good, Miss Fontana, now where is my usual supply of vinegar? What? I never carry any? You fool, no swimmer is complete without vinegar. So, no vinegar and not a vinegar shop in sight. I have to lump it and the bite just happens to turn into a red lump. Now Toni won’t enter the water – it’s silly when you haven’t any vinegar. We sunbathe and talk a little. Only four more days; it’s going so quickly, what a pity time hasn’t got a brake on it. I’m getting a very fine tan that I hope will last till I get to my parents’ new home in Dismal Deptford. I am going to keep the date of my return secret from them; I want to surprise them. Little did I know they would surprise me. More of that later.

Toni thinks it’s time we went for tea. Thinks! It’s time for tea! To the hotel, where I did sport under the shower and admire my appendages. We take tea on the terrace where we meet the young English officer and his wife, Lieutenant and Mrs Foster. I nod a good evening to them and they are pleased to hear their native tongue. We talk across to them; they are here for a week prior to posting back to the UK. He was in the Buffs regiment and she wasn’t. Yes, he was in Tunisia. I’m quick to let him know that he was not alone – I was there, too. He says which part and I say all of me.

He laughs. “Do you know Longstop?”

“Personally,” I say.

It terminates there, as they leave. They are going to have an evening swim. I warn them about the jellyfish and vinegar; they are grateful.

Toni wants a little lie-down. We retire to our rooms. Is she sure she wants to lie down alone? “Yes, go away, Terr-ee.” I continue the
Life of Charlotte Bronte
. Oh, hurry and die, Charlotte. I want to finish with the book. The sun, sea and air have their effect – I fall asleep with Charlotte far from dead, she’ll have to wait. It’s a nice little doze, ended by Toni leaning over me and kissing my eyes. “You sleep looong time,” she says, “nearly eight o’clock!” I’ll be ready in a flash and we’ll dine out tonight. I put on a cardigan to keep the chill of the night from my emaciated body.