Where have all the bullets gone_ - Spike Milligan [55]
“‘ello son, you bin in trouble?”
Yes, I said, and her father’s after me.
Back at number thirty, I pull the string on the key.
“Is that you Spike?” Mrs Edgington in her nightie, calls from the top of the stairs.
“Yes, would you like some fish and chips?” No, they’ve had their supper. Remember to bolt the door, but not the food. I say OK.
“If you want a cup of tea it’s all there.” Ta. It’s 8 o’clock. They go to bed early to save electricity and heating. It’s not been an easy war for the working classes. I lie in bed eating fish and chips and sipping tea. The fire glows on to the walls. Geraldo and his band are sparkling on the radio, and Dorothy Carless is Thanking her dear for that lovely weekend, reminding me I myself have a very weak end.
Hitler is dead, and I am alive. I cannot understand it. He had so much going for him. Like the Red Army. I fall asleep to the glow of the dying fire, or am I dying to fire by the glow of sleep? It all depends on the size.
Leave: Day 1
I awake to the sound of buses. I can tell by the tyres on wet streets. It’s raining. I am wearing my new pyjamas, made from sheets by a Maddaloni tailor and dyed by the local laundry. I thought they would match my eyes.
“You awake, Spike?” Mrs Edgington at the door. “Cup of tea.” She screams! “What’s the matter with your face, Spike?”
I say “Everything. Why?”
“You’ve got blue all over it.” Does it match my eyes? Yes. It’s off my bloody pyjamas. It’s all over my body, now my body matches my eyes, and my eyes match the sheets. I spend the morning washing Mrs E’s sheets, and finally get it off my body with a loofah. I boil the pyjamas in the copper and now they look like an old Variety backdrop for G. H. Elliot’s act.
Porridge? Yes, Mrs Edgington.
“Harry loves porridge. I always gave it to the boys before they went to work. It’s very good for you, gives you a good lining to your stomach.”
Mr Edgington had had his breakfast earlier. “I’m an early riser, as soon as my eyes are open I have to get up.” He’s so right, it’s silly to get up with your eyes closed.
Down in the basement I tidy up, and something that is never done, I tidy down and sideways — it’s silly to miss those areas. I polish my boots and my appalling brown bulging civvy shoes that weigh eighteen pounds each.
The doorbell. “It’s Betty,” said Mrs E.
“No it isn’t, it’s the door bell.”
There she is in her smart WAAF uniform, bright brass buttons, her WAAF mascara and WAAF lipstick. Has she brought her knickers and boobs? From the right, number one! two! We all sit round the Edgingtons’ kitchen table and have ‘a nice cup of tea’. Mrs E tells of the bombin’, the doodle bugs, the incendries, and that married woman over the road. I’ll take Betty up to the West End. There’s Variety at the Met Edgware Road. Max Miller and the wonderful Wilson, Keppel and Betty. No words can describe the atmosphere of that bygone age that started in 1850 and died in the 1950s. Betty and I are in the front row. Max spots me. “‘Ello son, we got a soldier ‘ere back from the war? That the wife? On leave are you? Wot are you doin’ ‘ere then?” It’s Lyons Corner House beans on toast.
Back home. “That you Spike?” Yes. “Don’t forget to bolt the door.” Betty and I go down to the basement. Max Miller was right…what were we doing there?
I awake at Mrs Edgington bringing me in tea. “Bet is in the kitchen. Did you have a nice time in London?” Yes.
Betty has to return to duty; her knickers and knockers are leaving at midday. I see her to the tube, we’ll meet for further things later. She is swallowed up by the descending stairs.
The Great Amnesia
I have a diary. It says: Stayed Edgingtons. Stayed Beryl. Stayed Folks. But I can’t remember — so I searched for Beryl — Success — I found Beryl — she remembered, but won’t charge me.
Gunner Milligan Traces Beryl Southby Now Mrs Smith!
Yes! 40 years