After an hour and three sets of dancers alternating, the show is over. We all applaud wildly. With their departure, the tavern is quiet, save for the buzz of conversation. We drink a little more wine and then to our donkeys! They are waiting faithfully outside, eating a grass verge. I’m relieved to see that the huge erection has gone. Thank God Toni hadn’t noticed it, it would have made me feel so inadequate. Back along the dark path with cypress trees looming like portents of doom; under this sky they look like Van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night Over Aries’. The dragoman starts to sing. All Italians have a natural aptitude for singing; ours doesn’t. He has what jazz musicians call a ‘cloth ear’. It wasn’t helped by my donkey starting to bray. Behind me, I can hear Toni laughing.
We arrive back at the piazza, still alive with people. I pay the donkey man from my diminishing 72,000 lire. A drink before we retire, Toni? Si. We get the same waiter as last night. How are we enjoying the holiday? Very much. Would Toni like a Sambucco? No, she found out what that leads to last night. No, a lemonade please. And me? A half-bottle of Asti Spumante, my good man. I watch it being poured and frothing up in my glass. Can Toni have just a sip? Yes, a little sippy-poos then. Oh! She likes it! Another glass, please, waiter, and take this silly lemonade away.
I love watching people and here there were plenty to see, creatures that only emerge at night – they have a certain feline aura and use lots of brilliantine on their hair. At a table opposite is a man in a white suit, a heavy tan and patent leather hair. You can tell that he’s spent all day getting ready, the crease in his trousers says he doesn’t wear them for long periods. He drinks very slowly to conserve money. The woman with him looks like she’s been sprayed in varnish. She, too, has a powerful tan – hours spent slobbed out in the sun to show off at night. I feel that they are both skint but they keep up a front. Toni and I pick everybody to pieces. It’s great fun fantasizing over people. Are they doing it to us? They don’t appear to.
A church steeple clock strikes midnight; Toni and I drink up, and make our way on to the funicular down to the Marina Grande. Fisherfolk are sitting outside their houses chatting, some are preparing for night fishing, putting pressure lights on the prow to attract fish. The night porter lets us in. “Thank you for nice day,” says Toni. Never mind that. I grab her, weld our bodies together and kiss her. If I’d had glass eyes, they’d have steamed up. Despite the steam, she is going to bed alone, understand? Me and my steaming trousers bid her goodnight. I’m soon locked in the great empty space called sleep.
∗
I awake on the third morning of our holiday. Through the window, I can see that it’s another day with a clear blue sky. I yawn, stretch and make all those morning noises that men make. In the bathroom I can hear Toni’s bath running. I tap on the wall, she taps back. What a pity she doesn’t read morse code. I could tell her I love her:
. . . . . – .– – – . . . – . . – – – . . –!
I soap myself all over, giving the wedding tackle an extra soap for pleasure. Then I try the rickety shower; it just about works. I sing, Boo Boo ‘twas on the Isle of Capri that I found her. Toni gives a furious tapping on her wall. Ah! why aren’t we bathing and wall tapping together…I wonder which part she is washing. Ohhh helppppp. A brisk towelling down, then into my English gentleman’s ‘I’m-on-holiday’ kit. Grey flannels, white shirt and brown sensible lace-up shoes. There’s no doubting it, I look like a young nobleman on holiday. I collect Toni and we breakfast on the terrace. This morning it’s fresh orange juice. I give Toni’s upper thigh a squeeze – yes, it’s fresh Milligan as well. Toni smacks my hand. “You naughty, naughty, naughty boy,” she smacks in tempo to the words. A few rounds of hot toast and jam, a lemon tea and we are ready for the day.
I have consulted my Baedeker and have decided on a nice long walk to the Faraglioni. We board the funicular, empty save a peasant mother and her little girl. The child’s eyes are like a doe’s, giant brown things that tear your heart out. Like all children, though dressed poorly, she is scrubbed clean with her hair in a careful pigtail. Out of the box car and into the piazza where the cafés are setting up their tables and chairs for the day, and a few colourful sunshades. A street cleaner is sweeping the square. “Buon giorno,” he says as we pass. How nice, how different from those glum bastards on the workmen’s tram to Woolwich Arsenal.
Spike, Capri.
Off the piazza, we enter a vaulted tunnel. Then there’s a small sign with an arrow, ‘Faraglioni’. We hold hands and wander the flower-strewn path with this incredible light in the warmth of the morning sun. Flowers! Flowers! Flowers! Wild nasturtiums are going insane among the grasses. Columbine, campanula, yellow green arum, tall asters, little alkanet blue flowers, myrtle – the list was endless. There is the occasional villa staring out at that enticing sea. We pass a few explainable ruins – no doubt from the masonry that they are Roman. We don’t talk much, nature is talking for us. A few words to point something out, that is all. Along the path, at intervals, are stone seats. We sit and enjoy the magic silence of a place with no motor cars. The path zigzags lazily on. One thing I notice is the total absence of birds due, I presume, to the islanders killing them either for sport or to eat – both an abomination. We reach a point with a railed lookout. Here we stop and take a photo of each other.
∗
The magic walk continues. There seems to be nobody else in the world. I remember well how we stopped every now and then to embrace. It was nice to be able to do it outdoors without the neighbours looking on. “I never forget this walk,” said Toni, “I always, always remember.” We turn a corner and a new vista opens up to us, we can see to the top of the point where the remains of the villa of Tiberius are. Two white butterflies volute above us and dance on the wind. “Ah,” says Toni, “farfalle.” Oh! So they are farfallas. I thought they were butterflies.
We have been ambling along for half an hour when we turn another sharp corner and there is the majestic view of the Faraglioni, this great rock ejecting from the cobalt blue water. We both oo and ahh. This is photograph country, partner! I take one of Toni and she one of me. What a pity we can’t have one together! But wait, the superb brain of the young Milligan burns with inventive creativity. All I really need to do is place the camera on the wall, then with a long stick press the release button. As you can see below, it worked perfectly. Toni is totally bemused by her lover’s audacity. “You so clever,” she says and by God, I am and I’m still worth 68,000 lire.
DIY photo of Toni and me.
The ascent becomes fairly steep – a mixture of steps and paths and we reach what has been the villa of Tiberius, now down to a few bits of masonry. Who in their right mind would vandalize a magnificent Roman villa built for an emperor and leave nothing to show for their efforts? From the point, we see a sheer drop into the Tyrrhenian Sea. I let a stone fall; it seems an eternity till it hits the water. You felt that you could leap off into space and, like a bird, swoop over the waters. Looking down is hypnotic. “It make me giddy,” says Toni, shaking her head.
We’ve been away a couple of hours and would dearly like tea or coffee, so we return to the piazza. It’s a hot afternoon, so along with lemon tea we order two ice-creams. When they arrive, we are overwhelmed by the size. They are in tall champagne glasses, each layer a different garish colour, topped by a mountain of cream that ascends in a conical spiral. “Oh,” says Toni with a child’s delight. They look so beautiful, it’s a shame to eat them. So we eat them with shame. I do everything except lick the glass – how I’d love to do it! We wander over to a low-key souvenir shop; we are looking for postcards. I want to send them off to all those poor buggers I know in England and wish I could be there when they see the Capri postmark! I’d make ‘em suffer. This done we decide to return to the hotel and fill them in.
We sit on the hotel terrace. I send my parents a postcard telling them I’m here on Capri to stop me ruining my health. If my mother knew the truth, she would be having a mass said for my redemption
and the death of Toni. We drop them all into the hotel postbox where we meet Signor Brinati. He is happy because he has some new arrivals. They turn out to be an English officer and his wife, whom we would meet later. Right now it’s very hot and it’s time to immerse ourselves in the Bay of Naples. To our little beach then and that amazing display of Milligan’s water-sport tricks, a male Esther Williams. It all come to an inglorious end when a jellyfish stings me on the back of my thigh; it stings like mad. Toni says to put vinegar on it. Very good, Miss Fontana, now where is my usual supply of vinegar? What? I never carry any? You fool, no swimmer is complete without vinegar. So, no vinegar and not a vinegar shop in sight. I have to lump it and the bite just happens to turn into a red lump. Now Toni won’t enter the water – it’s silly when you haven’t any vinegar. We sunbathe and talk a little. Only four more days; it’s going so quickly, what a pity time hasn’t got a brake on it. I’m getting a very fine tan that I hope will last till I get to my parents’ new home in Dismal Deptford. I am going to keep the date of my return secret from them; I want to surprise them. Little did I know they would surprise me. More of that later.
Toni thinks it’s time we went for tea. Thinks! It’s time for tea! To the hotel, where I did sport under the shower and admire my appendages. We take tea on the terrace where we meet the young English officer and his wife, Lieutenant and Mrs Foster. I nod a good evening to them and they are pleased to hear their native tongue. We talk across to them; they are here for a week prior to posting back to the UK. He was in the Buffs regiment and she wasn’t. Yes, he was in Tunisia. I’m quick to let him know that he was not alone – I was there, too. He says which part and I say all of me.
He laughs. “Do you know Longstop?”
“Personally,” I say.
It terminates there, as they leave. They are going to have an evening swim. I warn them about the jellyfish and vinegar; they are grateful.
Toni wants a little lie-down. We retire to our rooms. Is she sure she wants to lie down alone? “Yes, go away, Terr-ee.” I continue the Life of Charlotte Bronte. Oh, hurry and die, Charlotte. I want to finish with the book. The sun, sea and air have their effect – I fall asleep with Charlotte far from dead, she’ll have to wait. It’s a nice little doze, ended by Toni leaning over me and kissing my eyes. “You sleep looong time,” she says, “nearly eight o’clock!” I’ll be ready in a flash and we’ll dine out tonight. I put on a cardigan to keep the chill of the night from my emaciated body.
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.