Where have all the bullets gone_ - Spike Milligan [57]
And so to that occasion. A third-class from Charing Cross to Reigate. How nice was the buttoned upholstery of the compartments on the old Southern Railway. I’ve a carriage to myself and I settle back with the Daily Herald. It’s a sunny day; my eyes wander from the paper to the window. Lewisham Junction — and ‘the Government are to increase the sugar ration’ as we speed through Catford. By Sydenham, ‘Burnley have drawn with Queens Park Rangers after extra time’; as we pass the Crystal Palace Towers, ‘Mr Attlee is saying that demobilization is to be speeded up’ at Croydon. An old couple get on. They reek of Sanatogen. “Young man, does this train go to Reigate?” Yes it does, ‘and Mr Attlee went on to say that there will be jobs for all returning soldiers’ and ‘Tickets, please, all tickets please’ says an Inspector. I show him my rail warrant. “On leave son?” he says, cutting a V in the document. He has a son in France as Purley Junction flashes past. He’s in the Marine Commandos. Yes, madame, it definitely goes to Reigate. The Inspector leaves, his steel clippers mincing in his hand, hungry for tickets. The old couple sit close together. He is thin and bald, and when she takes her hat off, so is she. They are worried about Reigate. Does it go there? Yes it does! Yes, yes, I’m sure Mr Attlee is going to Reigate. “He says all war criminals will be sentenced to Reigate.” Reigate Grand Station, and we get off on to the deserted platform. “Is this Reigate, young man?” Yes, this is Reigate young man. With kitbag, pack and trumpet case I catch the Green Line bus that drops me at the bottom of the hill. I gasp and stagger upwards. Betty, oh Betty, what did you do to my manhood?
A car stops. “Want a lift, Sergeant?” A moustachioed Major with a face like a dismantled sink pump.
“Yes sir,” providing he doesn’t want to rattle me knackers.
“On leave?”
“Yes sir, from Italy.”
“Oh, you missed all the bombin’.”
“No, I’ve never missed the bombin’. Ha ha ha ha ha hooray Henry.” He drops me at the very gate. 40 Meadow Way, Woodhatch.
“Thank you very much sir,” and if I ever see you again, it’ll be two weeks too soon.
I turn to see my mother’s white face at the parlour window, looking for scandal. I see her mouth the words ‘Oh, it’s Terry’ and appear at the door. “My son…My son.” Good, she remembers me! “You came back, despite the ginger cake,” she says. “When are you going back?” Can I come in? Would I like some tea? “Oh my son, my son.” Good, she still remembers me. “Your telegram said today or tomorrow.” Yes, so I’ve come today, but yesterday, today was tomorrow, so what’s the problem? The 6x4 box room is all ready for you. A single bed with a pink eiderdown, a steel cream painted fireplace blocked with newspaper, a bedside table with barley twist legs, a po, a dressing-table with a cracked mirror, a cane chair painted silver, a standard lamp with an oil cloth shade with pirate ships on it. A ceiling light with a white globe. There are no windows. “It’s the best we could do, son.” She hugs me again. What a memory she has.
But wait, where is my father, Captain Leo A. Milligan RA RAOC Retired? Why wasn’t he standing at the gates with the Irish wolfhounds on a leash, his saffron kilt blowing in the Reigate winds, his piper at his elbow playing ‘Danny Boy’, and holding out the traditional bannock.
“What are you talking about, my son, has the war done this to you?” Of course, he’s at work, I forgot.
I hang up my clothes in the cupboard. In one corner is my poor brother’s pre-war suit — you can see the coat hanger through it. There’s his shirts, his Marks and Spencer’s flannels and his sports jacket which must have been dead a year.
Would I like some tea and fruit cake? She’s made the fruit cake special, because ‘You’ve always liked it.” Wrong, fruit cake gives me the shits. We have it on a tray in the front room. “It gets the sun in the afternoon.” Mum is looking well, she is fifty, she’s survived three crowned heads, seven crowned bodies and eighteen cats. Brother Desmond? He’s fine, he’s in the Ox and Bucks. How thrilling.