Goodbye Soldier Read Free

perfect! A crisp white-coated waiter still smelling of shaving soap attended us. Would I like tea, asks Toni. Yes, I say. What kind, she says. What’s she mean what kind? Tea, there’s only one kind. Toni orders in Italian and the waiter speeds to her bidding.
    “Isn’t it a lovely day?”
    Yes, Toni, and I love you.
    “The trees are at their best this time of the year.”
    Yes, Toni, and I love you.
    The tea arrives – ah! and Italian pastries. Good old Char. Toni watches as I mix mine with half milk, five spoons of sugar and stir it into a treacly goo. What’s that she’s drinking in a tall glass enclosed in a silver holder? There’s a lemon floating in it. Careless waiter! Shall I get it out for her? What? It’s meant to be there? Russian tea? Oh, I’m sorry I can’t speak Russian, so how should I know?
Temple of Aesculapius. “You have temple like that in England?” No, I say. We have only Nat Temple and his diseased Band.
∗
    The Italian pastries are all small multicoloured fiddly things. Haven’t they any jam doughnuts or currant buns? She pours tea like a duchess, eats like a bird, picks up pastries like an angel and sits upright ballerina-style. I had met a lady.
    I pay the bill. I must have tipped too heavily as the waiter clutches his heart and runs crying to the kitchen.
    “I show you nice things,” says Toni arising. “Having you ever seen Temple of Aesculapius?”
    No I have never seen his temple; the only Temple I’ve seen is Shirley. We walk through boulevards of roses, many a small fountain laughing in the sun. We talked, I know we talked but it was all coming to me through a long tube. I was spellbound by this girl by my side. We saw the temple and I took an amateur snapshot to enshrine the moment.
∗
    So we walk, walk, walk, talk, talk, talk. The walking involves my sensible brown English brogues. Let me describe them. At first glance they look like semi-deflated rugby balls. I have a small foot, size seven, but the shoe is size ten. The leather is convulsed, the soles are an inch thick with a rubber heel. I had bought them off a stall in Deptford. Basically, they made me look like a cripple. I wondered why people stood up for me in buses. Now Toni, elegant Toni, has noticed them. I suppose to her Italian mind they would appear to look like two giant stale salamis with shoelaces inserted. She tries to be tactful.
    “Terr-ee, why you wear you Army boots with nice clothes?”
    Army boots???? What was wrong with the girl? I told her these were my best shoes and the height of fashion in England in the 7 s . 6 d . range. I was the talk of Deptford! She stifled a laugh with her handkerchief. She is wearing delightful feather-light Ferragamo shoes.
    “You only ‘ave one pair of shoes?”
    Of course, that’s all one needs – one sensible pair weighing ten pounds each.
    “You must buy one more best pair,” she said and we left it at that. That magic afternoon wandered on and still does…We stop at a stall and have a lemonade each. We sit sipping them through straws.
    Toni points to the range of cakes and confectionary, “You have like this in England?”
    Oh, yes, I tell her, we have very good sweets in England and I reel them off: spotted dick, rice and jam, plum duff, suet and treacle pud. Oh, yes, we have sweet things. I offer her a cigarette from my Erinmore Mixture tin. No, she ‘no lak smoke’, she thinks that smoking is dangerous to one’s health. Is she mad? Smoking is lovely: all the film stars do it, smoking never hurt anyone, I said. I smoke sixty a day and am as fit as a fiddle, I said, coughing and bringing up a ton of it.
    We have arrived at the Spanish Steps. The flower sellers fade into drabness among the urgently growing flowers. Red roses! of course! I buy Toni a small bouquet – I had never bought flowers for a girl before. I passed them to her, they glowed red in the afternoon sun. She took them, looking intently at me as she did. Still looking at me, she withdrew