Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [92]
“They say that when an Amalfian dies and goes to heaven, it’s just another day to them,” spoke Spike Deans.
“Wot if he goes to hell?” guffaws Jam-Jar.
“Well, you’d be able to welcome ‘em in, tell ‘em one of your scrappy jokes and they’d know the bloody hell we’ve bin suffering from with you!” says Edgington.
Jam-Jar reacts. “Listen, pudden! Where I come from they think I’m in the Noel Coward class.”
There is an explosion of disbelieving laughter. He tries to retain his dignity by shouting above it.
“I’ve sung in D’Oyly Carte.”
“You never even sung in a fuckin’ dustcart,” says Gunner Nash.
More howling laughter. There was nothing so funny as a disorientated Jam-Jar. He realised he was on a losing wicket so joined in the laughter.
“Wot do I care,” he roared. “You can’t help if it you’re a lot of ignorant buggers.”
Soldier pouring sweat out of his boots.
We made it by mid-afternoon. Ravello was magic. It had called the great from many countries, Mozart, Wagner, Greta Garbo, the Duke of Windsor, and Lance-Bombardier Milligan. Ravello was the seat of the Princes of Rufulo. In the centre of the town was the Piazza, with its Cinquecento Chieasa. Inside, one is overwhelmed at the artistry, from the chased silver keyholes in the doors to the magnificent marble-sculptured pulpit turned into lace by the artisan, with the images of the Rufolo family entwined in the facade. A beautiful bust of the Matriarch of the Rufolos (blast! I can’t remember her name, was it Rita?, it must be in the Yellow Pages).
The peace inside was shattering. George Shipman, to our amazement, played three Purcell pieces on the organ, we had no idea he could play! Neither did he. The music soared as only an organ can. I sat in what had been the Ducal Pew, and gazed at the complex of marble that made up the altar. Like all worked marble of its day it was a masterpiece. The vaulted ceilings, however, were free of decoration, just plain whitewash which caught the light and gave the interior the effect of sunshine through gauze.
Duomo interior, Ravello.
Work it out yourself.
We felt like a cup of tea. In the Piazza we entered a little cafe. They made us a pot of brown water with some very nice Italian pastries.
The place is almost deserted save for a few waiters suffering touristic withdrawal symptoms.
“Beforrrrr warrr, come many a peoples, many, many peoples, English, plenty English, English very rich,” said our waiter looking at me.
I stood up and sang ‘God Save the King’, at the same time pulling out the empty linings of my trouser pockets. He understood, and soon he too displayed his empty pockets. We sat him down and he had tea and cakes with us. It was Ken Carter who was flush with money.
“As it appears that 19 Battery are skint, we of the 74 Mediums will pay.”
At these words Edgington and I took off our hats, prostrated ourselves on the pavement and kissed his boots. He tried to shoo us off, but we stuck to him like leeches, grovelling to him and shouting ‘Thank ‘ee young master’ in a Sussex brogue.
Now what? The place to see, apparently, was the Gardens of the Palace, listed as Belvedere del Cimbrone. Even though it wasn’t the flowering season, the gardens were a sheer delight to the eye—shrubs, bushes, trees all placed with the utmost precision to create an atmosphere of relaxation and tranquility. A central ornate marble fountain played watery tunes from its moulded lead faucets, surmounted by stone Cherubim. It was so planned as to avoid any view of the sea until one arrived at the tiled terrace, which was reached through a small replica of a Roman Triumphal Arc, alas now stripped of its marble!
“See?, we’re not the only ones who’ve lost our marbles,” said Edgington.
It was sunset. Standing on an abutment of the Villa Cimbrone, we were looking out on to a sea that lay like polished jade. Away