walk down to the dining-room, hand in hand. As we enter there is a great ‘Awwwwwwwwwwwww’ from the cast. It was nice to get these unsolicited testimonials. An enterprising photographer has left his card on every table, a Signor Filippo Nenni. He can take photos during or after the show. Great! He can do my Robert Taylor profile and a couple of Humphrey Bogart with the cigarette in the mouth pose.
Today is Sunday. Back in England my mother will be on her knees before the altar of the Madonna praying that her son won’t catch anything in Italy and save his money, that her son Desmond will get a commission and that my father will stop swearing.
After tea, Toni, Mulgrew, Marisa (one of the ballet girls) and I take a walk down the Via d’Annunzio. It’s crowded with people in their best clothes on a ‘monkey walk’. Down the centre of the Via is a wide pavement with chairs and tables. We choose a table and are immediately pounced on by an energetic young waiter. Holding his tray above his head, he threads his way through the crowds. As we sip chilled Orvieto, Toni is studying a map. Is she lost? The sun is setting on the heights above the town, oblique rays are shafting through the plane trees causing dappled dancing shadows. There is much fist waving and shouting as cars try to weave their way through the crowds. It’s amazing how the Italians shriek at each other – one wouldn’t be surprised if one exploded. Toni points to the heights. “See Roman theatre.” There, silhouetted against the sun were the imposing ruins.
“Didn’t they pick beautiful positions?” says Mulgrew, emptying his glass. Do we want another round? If so, can he borrow a hundred lire from muggins Milligan.
Lots of pretty girls are passing by, chaperoned by what look like Mafia bouncers. Mulgrew concludes that if you had an out of marriage shag in this town, you’d never see the next day. We indulge a few more wines and then wend our way home through the milling throng. At the hotel we discover Bornheim and some of the cast playing pontoon in the lounge.
“Winning?” I asked.
“At the moment, yes,” says Bornheim. “Pontoons only,” he says and scoops the kitty.
By the earnest expression on their faces, I knew the stakes were high. Then I discover it’s two lire a go. Mulgrew wants to play, can he borrow another hundred? I say no, but he goes on his knees. “It’s only a wee hundred,” he says. “I mean all your money is doing at the moment is resting in your wallet.” OK. He is shit lucky, he wins five hundred, pays me back my two hundred.
Jimmy Molloy comes in. “Ah Spike,” he shuffles through some mail and gives me a letter from home. It’s Mother, she’s still on about disease and says when I go to the toilet I must put paper on the seat; also, that Dad is finding the journey from Reigate to Fleet Street too wearing, so they are moving to Deptford. Dad and her are really proud that I am now a NAAFI star!
“How come you never get any mail, Bill?” I said to Hall.
“It’s simple – the buggers don’t bother to write.”
“Are they illiterate?”
“No, it’s just that they have nuffink to say.”
“Do they know you’re alive?”
“Think so, I mean they ‘avent ‘ad any notification from the War Office that I’m dead.”
I have dinner with Toni. What did my mother say about her in the letter? I told her not a word about her, but a warning about lavatory seats. “You think that if I write that would be good?”
“Yes, I think so. Most important is you say you are a Roman Catholic.”
Dinner over, Toni says she is tired, she is going to bed. I accompany her in the lift and kiss her goodnight at the door. “Can I come in?” She says, “No.” Blast. I return to my room. “Boo boo dum de dum de dum.” Yes, definitely as good as Bing Crosby.
∗
There is a general cast call at eleven o’clock, so into the Charabong. En route Italians keep banging angrily on the side. By looking out the
Today is Sunday. Back in England my mother will be on her knees before the altar of the Madonna praying that her son won’t catch anything in Italy and save his money, that her son Desmond will get a commission and that my father will stop swearing.
After tea, Toni, Mulgrew, Marisa (one of the ballet girls) and I take a walk down the Via d’Annunzio. It’s crowded with people in their best clothes on a ‘monkey walk’. Down the centre of the Via is a wide pavement with chairs and tables. We choose a table and are immediately pounced on by an energetic young waiter. Holding his tray above his head, he threads his way through the crowds. As we sip chilled Orvieto, Toni is studying a map. Is she lost? The sun is setting on the heights above the town, oblique rays are shafting through the plane trees causing dappled dancing shadows. There is much fist waving and shouting as cars try to weave their way through the crowds. It’s amazing how the Italians shriek at each other – one wouldn’t be surprised if one exploded. Toni points to the heights. “See Roman theatre.” There, silhouetted against the sun were the imposing ruins.
“Didn’t they pick beautiful positions?” says Mulgrew, emptying his glass. Do we want another round? If so, can he borrow a hundred lire from muggins Milligan.
Lots of pretty girls are passing by, chaperoned by what look like Mafia bouncers. Mulgrew concludes that if you had an out of marriage shag in this town, you’d never see the next day. We indulge a few more wines and then wend our way home through the milling throng. At the hotel we discover Bornheim and some of the cast playing pontoon in the lounge.
“Winning?” I asked.
“At the moment, yes,” says Bornheim. “Pontoons only,” he says and scoops the kitty.
By the earnest expression on their faces, I knew the stakes were high. Then I discover it’s two lire a go. Mulgrew wants to play, can he borrow another hundred? I say no, but he goes on his knees. “It’s only a wee hundred,” he says. “I mean all your money is doing at the moment is resting in your wallet.” OK. He is shit lucky, he wins five hundred, pays me back my two hundred.
Jimmy Molloy comes in. “Ah Spike,” he shuffles through some mail and gives me a letter from home. It’s Mother, she’s still on about disease and says when I go to the toilet I must put paper on the seat; also, that Dad is finding the journey from Reigate to Fleet Street too wearing, so they are moving to Deptford. Dad and her are really proud that I am now a NAAFI star!
“How come you never get any mail, Bill?” I said to Hall.
“It’s simple – the buggers don’t bother to write.”
“Are they illiterate?”
“No, it’s just that they have nuffink to say.”
“Do they know you’re alive?”
“Think so, I mean they ‘avent ‘ad any notification from the War Office that I’m dead.”
I have dinner with Toni. What did my mother say about her in the letter? I told her not a word about her, but a warning about lavatory seats. “You think that if I write that would be good?”
“Yes, I think so. Most important is you say you are a Roman Catholic.”
Dinner over, Toni says she is tired, she is going to bed. I accompany her in the lift and kiss her goodnight at the door. “Can I come in?” She says, “No.” Blast. I return to my room. “Boo boo dum de dum de dum.” Yes, definitely as good as Bing Crosby.
∗
There is a general cast call at eleven o’clock, so into the Charabong. En route Italians keep banging angrily on the side. By looking out the
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