Adolf Hitler_ my part in his downfall - Spike Milligan [39]
Mother related how the week previously the whole family had nearly been killed. It was nine at night; Father, wearing aught but Marks and Spencer utility long underwear and tartan slippers, was heavily poised in the kitchen making a cup of tea, strength three. He was awaiting that jet of steam from the kettle that signals the invention of the steam engine. In the lounge, oblivious of the drama in the kitchen, were my mother and brother. This room had been modified into a bedroom-cum-sitting room, double-bed in one corner and the single for my brother in the other. This arrangement made my brother’s night manipulations extremely difficult. However, Mother was seated on an elephantine imitation brown mochette couch with eased springs, knitting Balaclavas for the lads at the Front. My brother, Desmond, a lad of fourteen, was sitting on his bed, looking through his wartime scrap book, reading aloud sections on Hitler’s promised invasion. A two-thirds slag, one-third coal fire smoked merrily in the grate. Suddenly, an explosion, arranged Luftwaffe. Mother was blown six feet up in the sitting position, then backwards over the couch. My brother was shot up against the wall, reaching ceiling level before returning. The fire was sucked up the chimney, as were mother’s C. & A. Mode slippers. The Cheesemans of Lewisham’s imitation-velour curtains billowed in and the room was filled with ash. It was all over in a flash. My mother was upside-down behind the couch. My father appeared at the door. “What’s happening:” he said. He presented a strange figure, clutching a steaming kettle and smoke-blackened from head to foot. He said “Wait here,” went to the back door and shouted “Anybody there?” He then returned and said. “It’s all right, he’s gone.” Despite the activities of German Bombers I was determined to sleep in my old bed. Sheets! Sheer bliss. Lying in bed I realised that the family was finally broken up the war had made inroads on our peacetime relationship, I was independent, my brother no longer had my company. All was changed. For the better? We’ll never know. We had been a very close-knit family, something not many British families were.
The New Cross Palais de Danse was still open. Next night I took Lily Chandler, a girl in whom I had a fifty-one per cent controlling interest, to the Palais. It was a long room with a gallery running around the top. Chicken wire had been stretched below the gallery because of a habit of people throwing things down on the dancers. A five-piece band was blowing its way through the wartime standard tunes. The room was packed with civvies, soldiers, sailors and airmen, with windows closed and blackouts up, the atmosphere was stifling. I spent that evening waltzing, foxtrotting, and chatting up Miss Chandler. I can still see the bobbing heads of the dancer, and the reflected spots from the revolving glass ball above me. Every dance in those days ended with the waltz ‘Who’s taking you home tonight’, and everyone would sing it sotto voce as they glided around. While I was doing this, the last bloody tram was leaving, so I had to walk Miss Chandler back to 45 Revelon Road, Brockley, a matter of two miles. The raid was still on. We walked back through deserted streets; occasionally fragments of A.A. shells would whoshhhh down and split on the pavements, they do say if’ you were hit by one of our own A.A. fragments you could have your rates reduced. Lily was wearing black, I think she had a premonition about me. As we approached Malpas Road a stick of three bombs fell about a half mile to our left, but they passed directly overhead and Lily and I lay down against a wall. While we were down there I tried to make love to her. “Don’t be a fool,” she said. “That was close,