Part 28 (2/2)

”Now, would you like a sweet?” said our Lady of the Food. ”We got lots of eggs 'ere and a barrel of Marsala in the cellar and, as a special treat, we could give you all a Zabiglione.”

There was the stunned silence of culinary illiterates. Tactfully she explained what it was, how it was made and how it tasted. ”It was made in honour of a General Zabiglione, I believe he was one of Garibaldi's Generals.” How could we refuse?

In great antic.i.p.ation we proceeded to destroy our taste-buds with State Express 555. Overwhelmed by my musical ego, I sat at the piano and played a very dodgy version of 'Body and Soul', leaving out the difficult key-change in the middle eight.

”That's a lovely tune,” said Carter.

”Yes it is,” I said.

”Then why play?”

”It's coming,” said Edgington cupping his ear in the direction of the kitchen, from whence came noises in the wake of which our Madonna of the seven Teeth came forth with a tray on which were six gla.s.ses of yellowish stuff. Slight apprehension, except Jam-Jar who is into it like Dracula into a throat. ”It's custard,” he said, ”That's it, zabiglione is Italian for custard.”

It was the turn of Lance-Bombardier Carter to play.

”They laughed when I sat down to play the piano,” he said. ”But when I played...they became hysterical.”

We all giggled and laughed, mind you, at this stage we would have all giggled and laughed if we'd been told we had a week to live. He played his own composition, called 'Candlelight'.* I still, to this day, sometimes find myself humming it.

*Strange, when I was writing about this particular incident, I phoned Ken and asked if he remembered the words. He said, ”Yes I've got them somewhere. I'll dig them out and let you have them.” That night Ken died in his sleep.

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The man on the right is Bombardier K, Carter and the man on the left isn't-but with promotion could be!

We were now introduced to an exotic Italian after-dinner drink, Sambuca, which is set alight.

”Christ,” said Edgington, ”how do you drink that without first-degree burns?”

Outside, night had fallen along the Amalfian coast. With Ken still playing those incredibly romantic tunes of the Forties, Harry and I went and looked at the view outside. It was a vast, velvety panorama. The moon lit the whole scene, the clarity was startling, like sunlight through a blue-tinted gla.s.s. I could hear distant singing drifting upwards from the sea. I noticed boats with tiny yellow lamps like fairy lanterns on the water, and a rhythmic beating, of course! it was the pescatores pescatores attracting the fish. It was like a magic canvas. attracting the fish. It was like a magic canvas.

I include Harry Edgington's recollection of that evening, written in 1977!!

But to the memories of the evening of that day, which as I've already said are not continuous or consecutive in their order. How we got to that establishment virtually on the brink of a 2,000-foot-high coastline, I haven't a clue. Whether it was a private house or a cafe I couldn't tell you. I can recall that we sat out on that stone-flagged terrace with disconcertingly thin wrought-iron railings; we were there for perhaps an hour while evening gave way to twilight and eventually to a fine calm night over which mistress moon queened it in spectacular fas.h.i.+on, cutting a ma.s.sive fan-shaped swathe across the millpond calmness of the Med., directly towards us so it seemed. But to the memories of the evening of that day, which as I've already said are not continuous or consecutive in their order. How we got to that establishment virtually on the brink of a 2,000-foot-high coastline, I haven't a clue. Whether it was a private house or a cafe I couldn't tell you. I can recall that we sat out on that stone-flagged terrace with disconcertingly thin wrought-iron railings; we were there for perhaps an hour while evening gave way to twilight and eventually to a fine calm night over which mistress moon queened it in spectacular fas.h.i.+on, cutting a ma.s.sive fan-shaped swathe across the millpond calmness of the Med., directly towards us so it seemed. We were too overawed by the scene to talk much. Far below the fishermen's boats were intriguing us, lanterns on the prow; the singing of the fishermen came wafting up the 2,000 feet as they banged on the sides of their boats with pieces of wood. The sounds and sights came to us perfectly focused, so clear was the moonlight, so we just drank in the scene, which I would say was starkly rather than restfully beautiful. We were too overawed by the scene to talk much. Far below the fishermen's boats were intriguing us, lanterns on the prow; the singing of the fishermen came wafting up the 2,000 feet as they banged on the sides of their boats with pieces of wood. The sounds and sights came to us perfectly focused, so clear was the moonlight, so we just drank in the scene, which I would say was starkly rather than restfully beautiful.

Back in the little dining-room the romantic mood had gone, and Jam-Jar Griffin was in the middle of a magnificent rending of 'Poor Blind Nell', who in thirty-two bars of music had more perversions committed on her than a victim of Caligula. Reg Bennett played ' 'Blue Moon', then ' 'Follow my heart my dancing feet', while I danced with the hat-stand, and Edgington a chair.

The denouement. Rosie says, ”'Ow about some Iti champagne?”

Champagne??? Gunners drinking Champagne? It was called Asti Spumanti, more like Proof Lemonade, but the sheer feeling of luxury made it even more heady.

”Cor. Champagne,” said Edgington, making it disappear at a great rate.

He was at the old piano again; we stood around and sang tunes that put an emotional seal on our generation. Along about two in the morning we paid the bill, bade noisy good-nights to Rosie and her husband, and started down the long winding road to Amalfi. It looked like a silver river. No one was drunk but we certainly weren't all that steady, there was a lot of sliding and slipping on a sharp gradient...It was a mile to the bottom, and I think our gyrations added another three. The seafront was quiet, a few c.h.i.n.ks of light showed through late windows. I slept to the sound of the sea and a tide of thunderous snoring from a Neolithic gunner in the next bed who was fully clothed and sick down the front of his battle dress, a perfect end to a memorable night.

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Jam-Jar Griffin and Reg Bennett appearing as extras in a picture featuring a horse and driver.

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 29, 1943.

MY DIARY: MY DIARY: NOTHING. NOTHING. FILDES': FILDES': Memorable because saw the remains of Pompeii Memorable because saw the remains of Pompeii.

This day was was memorable. All the lads left early for Pompeii; having seen it I opted to stay in bed. It's a cold sunny day on this delightful coast. I miss 'official' breakfast, so go to the little cafe by the Cathedral steps; inside I find Gunner White, and a drunken Scot from 64 Mediums. I joined them. memorable. All the lads left early for Pompeii; having seen it I opted to stay in bed. It's a cold sunny day on this delightful coast. I miss 'official' breakfast, so go to the little cafe by the Cathedral steps; inside I find Gunner White, and a drunken Scot from 64 Mediums. I joined them.

”Aren't you seeing Pompeii?” says White.

”Not from here-anyhows, I hate conducted tours.”

I order two eggs-a-cheeps from the Signorina.

”This place gets a bit boring after twenty-four hours,” says White.

For the first time the drunken Scot talks. ”Aye-f.o.o.kin toors-nae b.l.o.o.d.y gude-s'better here, ah f.u.c.k.”

Let me describe him. Short, stocky, black hair, red face and staring blue eyes in a sea of red veins, he had no mouth as such-it looked more like an incision. He reeked of alcohol. The front of his battle dress was a ma.s.s of red wine-stains-his teeth were Van Gogh yellow-he hadn't a penny, and sat with anyone who could stand the smell.

”I can't get rid of him,” said White.

I ate my eggs and yarned with White. The drunken Scot kept interjecting, with unintelligible Scots rubbish. ”Yerur-nae-narraer-getar-arrr-Glasgae arrhh-f.u.c.k.”

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Left to right: Edgington-Bennett-Iti Guide; behind them Ken Carter and Spike Deans. They are outside Pompeii Cathedral, where they belong Edgington-Bennett-Iti Guide; behind them Ken Carter and Spike Deans. They are outside Pompeii Cathedral, where they belong.

We get on to the beach and hire a boat. ”Yem-nae ach-aye, Glasgae-abl-f.u.c.k.” I took the oars and we pulled gently from the sh.o.r.e. Out loud I quote, ”All in the lazy golden afternoon-full leisurely we glide.”

”Yer nae sael ger-Glasgae-ah-f.u.c.k.”

A hundred yards offsh.o.r.e, I stack the oars and we just drifted-wonderful! peace! smoking, with our feet up. The sun is warm, the air balmy, the waters calm, the terrible Scot is sick-not in the sea, in the boat. We rowed back hurriedly, with him downwind. ”Arragh-wae gal-ferrr-Glasgae ah f.u.c.k,” he said.

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Left to right: Jam-Jar Griffin, Vic Nash, Spike Deans Jam-Jar Griffin, Vic Nash, Spike Deans.

We climbed the sea wall and ran away from the reeking Scot. The afternoon we walked along the coastal road towards Positano-the afternoon sun was like a warm caress, we slung our jackets over our shoulders.

To our right are granite cliffs-”What's caused that?” White points to a great cleavage in a hill.

”That's a fault.”

”Fault? Whose b.l.o.o.d.y fault?”

Carefully I explain its geological origins.

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