Peace Work (27 page)

In the piazza, I hire a horse and landau to take us to Anacapri, the other village on the island. It’s a half-hour gentle drive through undulating landscape on one of the few made-up roads on the island. Even in the dark, the visibility is good. The night flowers are giving off the end of day wafts of scent, lovely. The lights of Anacapri grow closer and closer till we drive into a delightful little square dominated by a church, Saint Sofia. In the corner of the square, I spot a very nice little restaurant, the Cafle Bitter – sounds German. (Listen, darling, can you hear a German-sounding café?) A young waiter with a fierce expression and an immaculate white jacket attends us. He smiles, the menu?
Si, si
, a drink while we’re waiting? Two white wines.

The piazza is slightly larger than the Capri one, but a bit more down-market. At a table, some old men are playing dominoes. Here and there, sticking out like sore thumbs, are a few tourists rubbernecking. None of your
haute couture
Cap-rians here, this is more like the Scunthorpe-end of the island. Nevertheless, the menu promises a feast: they specialize in fish, and so do I. Was I not this very day bitten by one? Is there jellyfish on the menu? We both plump for Zuppa di Mare and Spaghetti Marinara. The latter they cook by the table with a great display of bunsen burner and flames leaping up, hoisting it from the pan with pincers and setting it down on the plates like an overhead crane. Ah! Music has started. A guitar and a mandolin tour the tables round the square.

“Toni, do you have any work when you go back to Rome?”

“I not know, we wait for work if start again Royal Ballet Company.”

“You want to dance again?”

“Oh, yes, I like. If you not dance, you soon lose practice.”

Yes, that’s what ruined my ballet career; I never practised. A lady flower seller comes to our table and I buy Toni a posy of small red roses. It’s our turn for the music. No, they don’t know ‘Valzer di Candele’, but they know ‘Lae That Piss Tub Dawn Bab’. No thanks, not that
or
the ‘Warsaw Concerto’. We get ‘Torna Sorrento’. Under the table, I press my foot on to Toni’s just to let her know the fire hasn’t gone out. She looks at me like a fireman.

I finally push my plate away, bloated. “Oh, I eat too much,” says Toni, dabbing her lips with a napkin. Oh, lucky, lucky napkin. I’ve drunk too much wine and I’m lusting after her. Please, God, explain what sex is all about! Waiter, waiter, there’s a fly in my ointment! Paying the bill, we catch a horse and landau back to Capri; we snog on the way. By the time we arrive at the piazza we need stabilizing. Any moment now someone will chuck a bucket of water over us. Who do we meet in the funicular but Lieutenant and Mrs Foster, who have had a “jolly good dinner’ and ‘bai jove it’s cheap here,” he says.

“Yes,” says Mrs Foster, “we think it’s cheaper here than in Naples,” and he agrees with her.

I want to ask them why they are persecuting us like this. Would we like to join them for a drink on the terrace? Why not, says Toni. The four of us sit on the terrace. The night porter asks us, in a surprised voice, what we want. Would he settle for a bottle of wine? He’s not very happy as it’s gone midnight and he should be fast asleep, guarding the hotel. He goes away mumbling. “I don’t think we’re very popular,” said Lieutenant Foster. Well, if he must know, he’s not very popular with me. But for this, I’d be safely tucked up in bed with Toni. The porter returns with a bottle and four glasses. He can’t get the cork out of the bottle. “Here, let me try, old chap,” says Lieutenant Foster, a man of action. He pulls the cork with a self-satisfied grin as though he’d captured an enemy machine-gun nest.

“Where do you live in London?” he asks.

I tell him I live in Deptford. Oh, well, he lives in Chelsea. The excitement is unbearable.

“We used to live in Esher,” says Mrs Foster.

Dare I tell her that
I
used to live in Brockley SE26? I put on a few false yawns – get the message, Toni? Toni doesn’t get the message. Thank God,
they
are going to bed. Can I come with them? “We’ve got an early start in the morning,” says Lieutenant Foster. One o’clock, soon
I’ll
be trying to make an early start.

We get back to our rooms. No, Toni doesn’t want to make love. She’s very tired. Love locked out! Tomorrow’s headlines could read;

English lieutenant found murdered on Capri!

So to bed, heavily steamed up with condensation on the Swonnicles. I take time out now to address the reader. You will be aware of the paucity of any lovey-dovey talk between us. Occasionally, I would tell her I loved her and she would call me her ‘
tesoro
’, that is all. It seemed we did not need an effusion of romantic communication. We loved each other and that was it. It felt strong and perfect. We never had a row or a cross word, there was no need for romantic outpourings – that all came out in our being. It was a beautiful, invisible bond stronger than words. Meantime, back on Capri steaming Milligan is trying to sleep off his red-hot, revolving Swonnicles and desire.

∗

Morning number four – three to go! Hurry, Milligan, don’t waste the golden hour lolling in the pit scratching your cobblers. I had brought my watercolours with me and decided today I would do some outdoor painting. Toni could join me if she wished, or she could take some of my fortune and go shopping in the piazza. Yes, she would like to be rid of me for a day. After breakfast we ascend on the funicular; at the piazza, we split. I take a path wandering off the square. After a quarter of a walk through the paradise garden, I come to a small corner with a huge garden pot sprouting little white and red flowers – an ideal subject, and simple. I set up my easel and the result you see overleaf. Alas, poverty-stricken Penguin can only afford black and white.

Watercolour I did on Capri.

As I sketch, small bees are buzzing and taking their share of the nectar of life. The colours before me blaze out; there is no subtlety on Capri, each colour stands out in the all-pervading light. I get lost in the brush strokes – disaster! I kick over my bottle of water. Just up the path is a villa. I knock on the door and a pretty young girl answers. She eyes me suspiciously. I ask, can I have “Una po de aqua.” Let’s face it, you don’t often have people knocking on doors for water. She takes the bottle and I hear someone ask her what it is. She shouts that a man wants water; the mother is inquisitive, and comes to stare at me. I explain I am ‘Una artista aquarello’. She nods her head understandingly. The daughter appears with the full bottle and I thank them both and return to the easel.

It’s a hot day with a breeze, so the colours dry quickly. I finish one painting, then move along the path and find the ruins of a Roman tomb. Super. I set up the easel and soon get lost. I get the background of the sea and sky just right, with the creamy stones of the tomb in the foreground. It’s my best effort. I stand back a little to admire it, at which moment the wind catches it and I watch it float away down the cliffs and land on the sea. Bloody luck, did Van Gogh have this trouble? Shall I chop an ear oft? So, with one solitary painting I make my way back to the piazza.

No signs of Toni, no sign with an arrow saying ‘Toni 3 chilometri’. I sit me down at a café, making sure people see my painting equipment. Today I want people to know I am a great artist. Tomorrow I’d be Bing Crosby again and, who knows, the day after Jimmy Cagney. For a few moments I’m Billy Bunter and order an ice-cream, then back to Van Gogh again. I’m taking my first spoonful when a pair of small, cool hands from behind me clasp over my eyes. It’s Toni, she is smiling effusively. Ah, Toni, love of my life, see this masterpiece! She looks at my painting. “Very pretty,” she says and I reward her with an ice-cream. What has she bought? She delves into her shopping bag and shows me two silk scarves, “One for my mother, one for Lily and this,” she takes out a little velvet heart-shaped pincushion, “this for Gioia.” Nothing for me? Not even a silk headscarf?

“You only do one painting?” she says.

“No, I’ve done two.”

Oh, can she see it? Yes, if she dives off the three-hundred-foot cliffs.

After the ice-cream, neither of us feels like lunch. Shall we take out customary swim and I’ll show her once again my aquatic trick? She’ll love my standing-on-head-legs-out-of water bit. Crossing the piazza, we meet the Fosters. They’ve been to the Blue Grotto.

“It was a jolly nice trip,” says Mrs Foster.

“And so cheap,” he added.

Yes, I agreed; things were cheaper here than on the mainland, but a man of my wealth wouldn’t notice that.

We bid them adieu and after collecting our costumes, we swim from our little beach. It’s deserted again. Toni has bought a small bottle of olive oil. God, I wanted to top up my suntan. I rub it all over and smell like a mixed salad. Toni wants some rubbed on her back. Nowhere else? I fall asleep in the sun, wondering what the poor people are doing. My poor father is possibly at work and my poor mother doing laundry, that’s what the poor were doing. Toni is talking: can I see if there are any jellyfish around? Can I go in and see if they are stinging? I swim under water and announce from the sea that it is free of jellyfish but, ah ha, there’s me in it now – watch out for the groper fish, dear. I display my speed at the crawl and I’m Johnny Weismuller for a while. Remember the drill: three foot kicks with every one arm stroke. Little does the world know that I represented Chislehurst Laundry, Lewisham in the All-Laundry Swimming Championships of 1936, and won! And back I was again on the Monday, washing all the shitty sheets from Lewisham Hospital.

Toni gives a shriek and in a froth of water swims for the shore. Something touched her, she looks a bit touched. She thinks it was a jellyfish. I do more underwater scouting – all I can see are bits of seaweed. No, she won’t go in again. We dry ofT, make for the hotel and an afternoon siesta. It’s very warm now. I doze with nothing on save a sheet over me. Reflected in the mirror, I look like a corpse. Was there
nothing
in the world that would fill me out? I’d tried Horlicks and Sanatogen, Phosperine, cod liver oil and malt, queen bee jelly, arrowroot, Virol, Dr Collins’ Enervate Mixture – with the list becoming endless, I fall into a ziz.

When I awake, it’s dark. I’ve missed tea. I rush around, shower, dress and contact Miss Fontana. “I come your room at tea-time, but you sleep so I no wake you,” she says. Has
she
had tea? Yes, it was very nice, thank you. She had it with Lieutenant Foster and his wife who had told her things were cheaper on Capri than the mainland.

“Where shall we have dinner tonight?” I ask her.

She smiles and shrugs her shoulders. I wonder where she means.

“Where
you
like to go,” she says.

I shrug my shoulders and that doesn’t get either of us anywhere. Shrugging shoulders rarely does. After a few minutes of mutual shrugging we decide to eat in our hotel. Again the dining-room is empty, the poor waiters standing like gloomy sentinels. At our appearance, they breathe a sigh of relief. With a fixed-menu smile, Mario takes our orders. Yes, tonight’s speciality is spaghetti Neapolitan.
My
night’s speciality will be Toni Fontana. She can eat spaghetti so neatly, while I have great strings of it hanging out of my mouth that need cutting with scissors. In come the ‘Jolly Decent’ Fosters who, no doubt, are eating here tonight as it’s cheaper than Naples. They have been on a boat trip to Sorrento and it was, as he said, “absolutely spiffing.” What had we been doing? I said we’d been for a ‘jolly good’ swim. It’s remarkably quiet, the only sound is the clanking of our forks and spoons touching the plates. This is amplified when the Fosters start to eat. I start to laugh at how strange it sounds, like Siamese music. Toni wants to know why I am laughing. How can I answer? We hear the chef shouting in the kitchen, the food must be deaf.

After dinner Lieutenant Foster and his wife want us to have a drink with them. What a ‘jolly good’ idea. We join them at their table. Why not go outside on the terrace? Yes, it’s a warm night. The Fosters are very ‘nice’ people. You can tell by his demeanour that he banks at Cox & Kings, she shops at Fortnum & Mason’s and he rides to hounds. He’s definitely on the defensive when I say I think foxhunting is cruel.

“Well, someone’s got to keep them down, old boy.”

“Are you a farmer?”

“No, I was a stockbroker.”

“I’m baffled as to how stockbrokers are worried by foxes.”

“No, no, it’s the farmers. That’s why they let us hunt on their land.”

“But you personally aren’t bothered by them?”

“No.”

“Why doesn’t the farmer do the hunting?”

“Because we do.”

“Supposing you weren’t there?”

“Oh, well, we are.”

“But supposing you weren’t?”

“But we are, ha ha ha.”

Yes, we are, ha ha ha – no bloody use appealing to his conscience.

“They eat an awful lot of chickens,” she says.

“So do we,” I say.