we, Terr-ee?” I told her Italy. We now have the sea on our right – a cobalt blue, looks very inviting. We pass the ill-fated Castello Miramar, where some aristocrat shot himself- his ghost is seen on the battlements. As we enter the precincts of Trieste, lots of signs ‘ Abbasso con Tito’, ‘ Trieste è Italiano ’. There are shrines to partisans murdered by Germans, faded bouquets hang on bullet-ridden walls, the partisans still strut the streets with great bandoliers of bullets and machine pistols. A Jon cartoon of the time sums it all up.
The town is shabby, the people shabby. There was the occasional non-shabby person; there were even the mildly shabby and those with just a touch of the shabbies. We are driven to the top of the town on a slight rise and stop at the Albergo Frederico, or Hotel Fred. It’s another 1930 s Mussolini modern, but turns out to be very comfortable. From my window the town is laid out like a carpet, with the tree-lined Via d’Annunzio stretching down to the waterfront.
“I say, old man, haven’t you heard that the jolly old guerra is finito.”
It’s good news, I have a room on my own! No Mulgrew or Hall coming in late and pissed. I strip for a bath. I look at myself in the full-length mirror and scream. My God, I’m thin. I look like a Belsen victim. God knows I had tried hard to develop myself. I’d done weightlifting until I hurt my back, so the least I could do was give it a bath. I’m interrupted by a tap on the door. It’s Mulgrew, he’s out of fags again and gasping. “You don’t know what real suffering is,” he says. I gave him one of my Passing Cloud cigarettes that came in a parcel from my mother. “My God, you’re thin,” he said. “Does it hurt?”
“If you mean I’m painfully thin.”
“Can’t you take something for it?”
“Like what?”
“Like food.”
“I’ve tried everything – Sanatogen, cod liver oil and malt, even Mellins Baby Food.”
Mulgrew giggles. “Let’s see your biceps.”
I flex my arms. He starts to laugh at two protruberances that look like golf balls. “Never mind,” I said. “A good tailor can do wonders for a body like mine. There’s padded shoulders for a start.”
“With your body, you need a padded suit.”
I repair to the bathroom, while Mulgrew lies on my bed blowing smoke rings. I scrub my body all the while singing like Bing Crosby. At the same time I am laundering my vest and underpants. I hear Mulgrew coughing his lungs up.
“Don’t you bring that up in here,” I shout.
“I’m awa’,” says Mulgrew. “I’m taking four more cigarettes. I’ll pay you back on NAAFI day.”
I’m really into Bing Crosby now. “The bells of Saint Mary booboolum da did dee da,” I sing, refreshed. I towel down; next, I lacquer my hair with Brylcreem till it glistens like a fly trap. Now, a little read before tea. “Boo boo da de dum de dee.” Yes, I was definitely as good as Bing Crosby. I lay abed reading a poem by Francis Thompson, ‘To a Snowflake’.
What heart could have thought you
Past our devisal
Oh filagree petal
Fashioned so purely
Fragilely, surely
From what Paradisal
Imagineless metal
Too costly for cost
“Boo boo boo da de dum, the bells of Saint Mary.” Yes, there was no getting away from it, I was the equal of Crosby. I sing as I dress. Singing and dressing at one and the same time, ladies and gentlemen. I pick up the intercom.
“ Pronto , ”’ says the telephonist.
“ Possibile parlare con camera venti-due? ”
Soon Toni is on the phone, “What you do, Terr-ee?”
“I’m reading poetry.”
“I come down. We both have tea, yes?”
“Yes, and Toni?”
“What?”
“Boo boo da de dum, the bells of Saint Mary.”
“Oh, very nice, Terr-ee. I come down now.”
When she arrives at my door, I have struck a Robert Taylor pose. “Come in,” I say. It’s not Toni, it’s the chambermaid. Do I want my bed turned down? Blast, my Robert Taylor pose wasted. Toni arrives and we
The town is shabby, the people shabby. There was the occasional non-shabby person; there were even the mildly shabby and those with just a touch of the shabbies. We are driven to the top of the town on a slight rise and stop at the Albergo Frederico, or Hotel Fred. It’s another 1930 s Mussolini modern, but turns out to be very comfortable. From my window the town is laid out like a carpet, with the tree-lined Via d’Annunzio stretching down to the waterfront.
“I say, old man, haven’t you heard that the jolly old guerra is finito.”
It’s good news, I have a room on my own! No Mulgrew or Hall coming in late and pissed. I strip for a bath. I look at myself in the full-length mirror and scream. My God, I’m thin. I look like a Belsen victim. God knows I had tried hard to develop myself. I’d done weightlifting until I hurt my back, so the least I could do was give it a bath. I’m interrupted by a tap on the door. It’s Mulgrew, he’s out of fags again and gasping. “You don’t know what real suffering is,” he says. I gave him one of my Passing Cloud cigarettes that came in a parcel from my mother. “My God, you’re thin,” he said. “Does it hurt?”
“If you mean I’m painfully thin.”
“Can’t you take something for it?”
“Like what?”
“Like food.”
“I’ve tried everything – Sanatogen, cod liver oil and malt, even Mellins Baby Food.”
Mulgrew giggles. “Let’s see your biceps.”
I flex my arms. He starts to laugh at two protruberances that look like golf balls. “Never mind,” I said. “A good tailor can do wonders for a body like mine. There’s padded shoulders for a start.”
“With your body, you need a padded suit.”
I repair to the bathroom, while Mulgrew lies on my bed blowing smoke rings. I scrub my body all the while singing like Bing Crosby. At the same time I am laundering my vest and underpants. I hear Mulgrew coughing his lungs up.
“Don’t you bring that up in here,” I shout.
“I’m awa’,” says Mulgrew. “I’m taking four more cigarettes. I’ll pay you back on NAAFI day.”
I’m really into Bing Crosby now. “The bells of Saint Mary booboolum da did dee da,” I sing, refreshed. I towel down; next, I lacquer my hair with Brylcreem till it glistens like a fly trap. Now, a little read before tea. “Boo boo da de dum de dee.” Yes, I was definitely as good as Bing Crosby. I lay abed reading a poem by Francis Thompson, ‘To a Snowflake’.
What heart could have thought you
Past our devisal
Oh filagree petal
Fashioned so purely
Fragilely, surely
From what Paradisal
Imagineless metal
Too costly for cost
“Boo boo boo da de dum, the bells of Saint Mary.” Yes, there was no getting away from it, I was the equal of Crosby. I sing as I dress. Singing and dressing at one and the same time, ladies and gentlemen. I pick up the intercom.
“ Pronto , ”’ says the telephonist.
“ Possibile parlare con camera venti-due? ”
Soon Toni is on the phone, “What you do, Terr-ee?”
“I’m reading poetry.”
“I come down. We both have tea, yes?”
“Yes, and Toni?”
“What?”
“Boo boo da de dum, the bells of Saint Mary.”
“Oh, very nice, Terr-ee. I come down now.”
When she arrives at my door, I have struck a Robert Taylor pose. “Come in,” I say. It’s not Toni, it’s the chambermaid. Do I want my bed turned down? Blast, my Robert Taylor pose wasted. Toni arrives and we
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