Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [94]
By his facial reaction I could have been speaking Chinese; even worse, he said, “Scusi, ma Io non parla Francese.”
They had a drink with us. “‘Ere’s Victory for the Allies,” she said.
That got rid of all the wine. Two more carafes arrived, with them we drank a ‘Salute Italia Viva Il Re’ that got rid of two more. From the bread on the table Jam-Jar Griffin was wiping the last of the egg off the plates.
“Leave the pattern on, mate,” said Carter.
“Now, would you like a sweet?” said our Lady of the Food. “We got lots of eggs ‘ere and a barrel of Marsala in the cellar and, as a special treat, we could give you all a Zabiglione.”
There was the stunned silence of culinary illiterates. Tactfully she explained what it was, how it was made and how it tasted. “It was made in honour of a General Zabiglione, I believe he was one of Garibaldi’s Generals.” How could we refuse?
In great anticipation we proceeded to destroy our taste-buds with State Express 555. Overwhelmed by my musical ego, I sat at the piano and played a very dodgy version of ‘Body and Soul’, leaving out the difficult key-change in the middle eight.
“That’s a lovely tune,” said Carter.
“Yes it is,” I said.
“Then why play?”
“It’s coming,” said Edgington cupping his ear in the direction of the kitchen, from whence came noises in the wake of which our Madonna of the seven Teeth came forth with a tray on which were six glasses of yellowish stuff. Slight apprehension, except Jam-Jar who is into it like Dracula into a throat. “It’s custard,” he said, “That’s it, zabiglione is Italian for custard.”
It was the turn of Lance-Bombardier Carter to play.
“They laughed when I sat down to play the piano,” he said. “But when I played…they became hysterical.”
We all giggled and laughed, mind you, at this stage we would have all giggled and laughed if we’d been told we had a week to live. He played his own composition, called ‘Candlelight’.* I still, to this day, sometimes find myself humming it.
*Strange, when I was writing about this particular incident, I phoned Ken and asked if he remembered the words. He said, “Yes I’ve got them somewhere. I’ll dig them out and let you have them.” That night Ken died in his sleep.
The man on the right is Bombardier K, Carter and the man on the left isn’t—but with promotion could be!
We were now introduced to an exotic Italian after-dinner drink, Sambuca, which is set alight.
“Christ,” said Edgington, “how do you drink that without first-degree burns?”
Outside, night had fallen along the Amalfian coast. With Ken still playing those incredibly romantic tunes of the Forties, Harry and I went and looked at the view outside. It was a vast, velvety panorama. The moon lit the whole scene, the clarity was startling, like sunlight through a blue-tinted glass. I could hear distant singing drifting upwards from the sea. I noticed boats with tiny yellow lamps like fairy lanterns on the water, and a rhythmic beating, of course! it was the pescatores attracting the fish. It was like a magic canvas.
I include Harry Edgington’s recollection of that evening, written in 1977!!
But to the memories of the evening of that day, which as I’ve already said are not continuous or consecutive in their order. How we got to that establishment virtually on the brink of a 2,000-foot-high coastline, I haven’t a clue. Whether it was a private house or a cafe I couldn’t tell you. I can recall that we sat out on that stone-flagged terrace with disconcertingly thin wrought-iron railings; we were there for perhaps an hour while evening gave way to twilight and eventually to a fine calm night over which mistress moon queened it in spectacular fashion, cutting a massive fan-shaped swathe across the millpond calmness of the Med., directly towards us so it seemed.
We were too overawed by the scene to talk much. Far below the fishermen’s boats were intriguing us, lanterns on the prow; the singing of the fishermen came wafting up the 2,000 feet as they banged on the sides of their boats with pieces of wood. The sounds and