Part 28 (1/2)
More howling laughter. There was nothing so funny as a disorientated Jam-Jar. He realised he was on a losing wicket so joined in the laughter.
”Wot do I care,” he roared. ”You can't help if it you're a lot of ignorant b.u.g.g.e.rs.”
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Soldier pouring sweat out of his boots.
We made it by mid-afternoon. Ravello was magic. It had called the great from many countries, Mozart, Wagner, Greta Garbo, the Duke of Windsor, and Lance-Bombardier Milligan. Ravello was the seat of the Princes of Rufulo. In the centre of the town was the Piazza, with its Cinquecento Chieasa. Inside, one is overwhelmed at the artistry, from the chased silver keyholes in the doors to the magnificent marble-sculptured pulpit turned into lace by the artisan, with the images of the Rufolo family entwined in the facade. A beautiful bust of the Matriarch of the Rufolos (blast! I can't remember her name, was it Rita?, it must be in the Yellow Pages).
The peace inside was shattering. George s.h.i.+pman, to our amazement, played three Purcell pieces on the organ, we had no idea he could play! Neither did he. The music soared as only an organ can. I sat in what had been the Ducal Pew, and gazed at the complex of marble that made up the altar. Like all worked marble of its day it was a masterpiece. The vaulted ceilings, however, were free of decoration, just plain whitewash which caught the light and gave the interior the effect of suns.h.i.+ne through gauze.
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Duomo interior, Ravello.[image]
Work it out yourself.
We felt like a cup of tea. In the Piazza we entered a little cafe. They made us a pot of brown water with some very nice Italian pastries.
The place is almost deserted save for a few waiters suffering touristic withdrawal symptoms.
”Beforrrrr warrr, come many a peoples, many, many peoples, English, plenty English, English very rich,” said our waiter looking at me.
I stood up and sang 'G.o.d Save the King', at the same time pulling out the empty linings of my trouser pockets. He understood, and soon he too displayed his empty pockets. We sat him down and he had tea and cakes with us. It was Ken Carter who was flush with money.
”As it appears that 19 Battery are skint, we of the 74 Mediums will pay.”
At these words Edgington and I took off our hats, prostrated ourselves on the pavement and kissed his boots. He tried to shoo us off, but we stuck to him like leeches, grovelling to him and shouting 'Thank 'ee young master' in a Suss.e.x brogue.
Now what? The place to see, apparently, was the Gardens of the Palace, listed as Belvedere del Cimbrone. Even though it wasn't the flowering season, the gardens were a sheer delight to the eye-shrubs, bushes, trees all placed with the utmost precision to create an atmosphere of relaxation and tranquility. A central ornate marble fountain played watery tunes from its moulded lead faucets, surmounted by stone Cherubim. It was so planned as to avoid any view of the sea until one arrived at the tiled terrace, which was reached through a small replica of a Roman Triumphal Arc, alas now stripped of its marble!
”See?, we're not the only ones who've lost our marbles,” said Edgington.
It was sunset. Standing on an abutment of the Villa Cimbrone, we were looking out on to a sea that lay like polished jade. Away to our left, about to be swallowed in an autumn mist, was the sweep of the Salerno coast running away into the distance like an unfinished song. I stood long, next to Harry Edgington. There was no noise, no trains, motor cars, motor bikes, barking dogs. It was a moment that was being indelibly etched in my mind for life. I felt part of past history. Wagner had stood on this spot, what went through his head? From what I hear it was ”Vitch Italian Bird can I make vid zer screw tonight?”
”We better get something to eat,” said the soft voice of Bombardier Ken Carter.
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Belvedere del Cimbrone ”Where?”
”Let's go back to the Piazza,” I said. ”There might be something there.”
”I don't remember seeing anything there,” said Edgington.
”You must remember seeing something something, Harry, if it's only the floor. I mean we were only there half an hour ago.”
”Your power to bend words,” he said, ”will one day end you in the nick, nuthouse or graveyard.”
We reached the Piazza as the twilight was touching the adjacent hills.
”You lads lookin' fer sumfink?” A wavery female c.o.c.kney voice! Standing by the gate of a whitewashed wall was a small, skinny lady of about fifty or a thousand.
”She's speakin' c.o.c.kney,” whispered Edgington from the corner of his mouth.
”Perhaps she's lost,” I said. ”We're lookin' for mangiare mangiare,” and I automatically did the sign of eating.
”No need to make signs fer me, darlin',” said the amazing c.o.c.kney voice. ”I lived in London forty years.”
With the Romans, I thought. She then told us the good news that was to lead to an unforgettable night.
”Come on in, we can fix you up wiv eggs and chips and some wine, that'll do yer, won't it?”, she said and gave that forced c.o.c.kney laughter of embarra.s.sment.
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Soldier buying a dress in hopes of an early release, apparently to Arabia.
We followed her on to a terrace that had a sensational view down a precipitous mountain that concluded with the sea. In a small, plain, wine-coloured walled room, adorned with a few religious pictures and a mixture of stern-faced Neapolitan grandfathers, grandmothers and children in communion white, we sat around a central table with a tablecloth that looked suspiciously like a sheet. I hoped I wasn't at the feet end. Chattering, she plonked down two large carafes of red wine. ”There, that'll keep yer goin' till din-dins,” and disappeared into the back room where she reverted to broad Neapolitan and shouting. She was answered by a male voice that appeared to have sandpaper lining his throat, that or his appliance had slipped.
To Edgington's joy, there was a piano against the wall. The first notes of 'Tangerine', and we all joined in, a memory of our North African Concert Party days. Outside, twilight was crepuscularly moving along the Amalfian coast. Ah ha, eggs and chips Italian-style, with spaghetti!
”Heavens alive!” exclaimed Edgington, a man brought up on roast beef and two. ”Spaghetti with eggs?” he chortled, ”that's what Catholicism does for you.”
I observed the faces of my comrades, the same expression I had observed a thousand times; it is when for a moment conversation stills at the sight of the food, the communal spirit is temporarily forgotten, and each man is only aware of himself, his stomach, and the pleasant preparatory taste of salivary juices in his mouth. A half-smile was on the face of them all except Jam-Jar. His face took on the appearance of a Cougar about to kill.
”There yer are, me darlins,” said our little lady, balancing four plates along one arm.
There followed that urgent rattling of cutlery knives and forks foraging like hungry wolves among the repast. There's the usual English insult to culinary art, snowstorms of salt and pepper. I saw her wince at the request for 'Tomato Sauce'. Her husband appeared, a replica of Henry Armetta,* short, fat, greasy, amicable; he grinned and made the little nodding gesture of the head peculiar to Italians.
Hollywood support star of the Thirties. Hollywood support star of the Thirties.
On reflection, it would look peculiar on anybody.
”Buona, eh?”
”Si, molto buona,” we chorused.
Pressing my linguistic abilities I said, ”Te voglio un becairi de vino'?”
By his facial reaction I could have been speaking Chinese; even worse, he said, ”Scusi, ma Io non parla Francese.”
They had a drink with us. ”'Ere's Victory for the Allies,” she said.
That got rid of all the wine. Two more carafes arrived, with them we drank a 'Salute Italia Viva Il Re' that got rid of two more. From the bread on the table Jam-Jar Griffin was wiping the last of the egg off the plates.
”Leave the pattern on, mate,” said Carter.