The writing award was a bronze cup with Dad’s name engraved upon the base. “Writers Guild of Great Britain”, it read. “In recognition of outstanding contribution to the entertainment Industry”. For the first time in British television history, Dad’s twenty-six-part serial was sold to the USSR and all round the world. All signs suggested we were about to become very rich.
Dads’ accountant was not like minded and warned bluntly, that unless he leave the country, he would be clobbered for “super tax”, an absurd new law introduced by the Labour Party targeting the very rich. Dad was not particularly patriotic and even if he had been, the thought of paying 19 shillings in the pound to the bloody Inland Revenue appalled him. Leaving the country sounded a much better idea and conveniently suited his Bohemian spirit. The question was, where to go? Inevitably, he got his answer up at the pub. Within twenty minutes of airing his dilemma, a voice from the far end of the bar suggested Ireland. It was Harvey, the Vicar. He raised his glass and winked. “A tax haven for artists Tony”! Dad tried to smile. “Thanks for the advice Old boy” but deep down, alarm bells rang. God forbid, he thought to himself, as he drained his glass. The idea was appalling. He understood the logic but knew damned well that the combination of incessant rain and booze (or was it the other way round?) would lead him to his grave sooner rather than later. No. There had to be a better place! …And there was!
We were crammed into the car like sardines. Parents in the front, kids at the back. Myself in the middle like a useful toolbox to be packed in case of emergency. Between my legs, a potted rubber plant. To my left, a crate of twelve-year-old Chivas Regal and to my right my twelve-year-old sister Pascale. And last but not least, in a cot next to her, our new six-week-old skinned rabbit sister baby Amik.
I owe, everybody owes,
No food, no drink, no money have I got.
but still, we will be haaaaappy. I owe…
We sang non-stop, the entire journey, all the way down to Portsmouth harbour and across the channel. A happy family starting a happy new life. Then we stopped. Our jovial spirits put on pause. The weather turned rotten. Torrential rain escorted us for hundreds of miles, across France and deep into Italy. Water injected itself beneath the chassis and rose to form a puddle about my feet. We began to freeze. I turned the heating system on to counter act the effect but ten minutes later, the rain stopped and the sun came out. Our ordeal was over, or so we thought.
“You can turn off the heater now Son,” said Dad.
The idea was good but the Gods obviously wanted more fun, because what should have been a simple flick of a switch, decided to break off in my hand. I studied the piece of plastic and realized that reducing temperature was not an option.
“Well then, open the bloody windows”, screamed Dad. His command sounded reasonable but when I attempted to perform this simple task, the winding handles turned out to be blocked. Some sort of idiotic child safety feature invented by the Germans. “Sorry Dad. They’re stuck”.
“Bloody German car” said my stepmother bitterly. She was right. Our Volkswagen had a mind of its own and there was nothing we could do about it. Resigned to our fate, we continued our journey in what can only be described as a sauna bath on wheels.
As I watched the beautiful scenery pass by outside, our problems inside the car seemed irrelevant. Olive groves and umbrella pines now dotted the landscape. The highway we travelled was not full of potholes as anticipated, but a great feat of Italian engineering. Steel and concrete meandered its way uncompromisingly through valleys and mountains. My thoughts had long forgotten England. I was euphoric. “Daddy we’re going like a bomb “, I shouted. My declaration did not go down well. I should have kept my mouth shut. After the muffled explosion under the bonnet there was deathly silence. Our car lost all power and after two hundred yards, died.
Stranded at the edge of the highway, we watched steam billow from the radiator. Anja began to cry and Pascale smirked like a twit. Scarier however, was the way Dad looked at me. As if it was all my fault. His tight-lipped “Don’t you dare open your mouth again Nicholas” expression caused me to seize up with guilt. The only member of the family, who was impartial to our predicament, was my new little sister, who derived great joy from the jet of steam rising into the sky. Eventually that too died down and a certain amount of calm descended upon us. Within a remarkably short space of time, a breakdown truck arrived carrying two jovial Italians. Minutes later we were hooked up and back on the road.
How naïf I was. The Gods’ sense of humour knew no bounds. It was unfortunate that Dad removed the keys from the ignition, because had he left them in place, the steering system might not have locked the way it did. Our car was determined to turn right and hit the steel safety barrier with a severe jolt, making us all aware of the four-hundred-foot drop below us. As we buffeted along, the female contingent screamed pathetically. I on the other hand looked at the bottom of the ravine thinking to myself, it might well become our final resting place. Dad adopted a more constructive approach by sounding the horn furiously to signal the tow truck. Success! We stopped. The men jumped out, came over and assessed the damage. When they understood what had happened, they laughed and praised the Holy Mary we were alright. Had it not been for the tow bar, we might have had the chance to meet her in person!
At the garage, things proved even less funny. After studying the motor for several minutes, the mechanic shook his head solemnly. “Impossibile” he announced. This was Fiat country, not Volkswagen country and a spare cylinder head would take three weeks to arrive at the earliest. “Sieti proprio fregati” the mechanic said smiling. I immediately looked up his words in my Edwardian phrase book. “Thou art well and truly buggered” was the gist of what the man was saying.
What next? The choice was simple: Weep or else get to grips with our new situation. Sensibly we chose the latter. No one had been hurt and it was clear to all that there was no question or indeed possibility of returning to England. Daylight was failing and it was time to find shelter for the night. On the recommendations of the mechanic, we booked into “The Jolly Hotel” at the centre of Pisa. Ironically, the name did not reflect our mood but after tasting the wine and indulging in our first Italian “Buffata”, we all cheered up considerably.
On day two, we were faced with the laborious task of re-packing the entire contents of our car into 95 banana boxes, generously donated to us by the Jolly Hotel manager. On parting, he wished us “a Jolly pleasant journey” and prayed to Sant Antonio he would guide us safely to our jolly place of destination. Although deeply touched by the man’s wishes, it became apparent over the next few hours that the man’s well-meant prayers had fallen upon deaf ears.
Our boxes were delivered to the railway station in three horse-drawn carriages. Like refugees we bounced our way across the cobbles and passed Campo dei Miracoli, where I was able to catch my first and last glimpse of the famous leaning tower.
It felt good to be on the move again. As we steamed out of Pisa railway station, my cameraman’s eye looked back at the tracks glistening in the morning sunshine. Then something dreadfully familiar caught my eye. “Look Daddy...isn’t that the porter with our boxes?” For the second time in 24 hours, I knew I should have kept my mouth shut. It was a hopeless picture. Standing on the opposite platform, patiently guarding our possessions whilst waiting for the wrong train, was the short moustached porter Dad had tipped so heavily. It was common knowledge that Italians were notorious thieves and we knew the prospect of ever seeing our belongings again was highly unlikely.
Pot holes in Dad’s plan were growing deeper by the minute. Was his decision to leave England such a good idea? None of us knew the answer but what we did know, was that there was nothing we could do about it.
Syracuse, six hours later. Pale, exhausted and utterly depressed, we boarded the Malta Express. I could not help but notice a black menacing sky far out at sea. But considering the state we were in and my uncanny talent for announcing disaster, I decided it would be best to keep my mouth shut.
The storm hit us within an hour of departure. The non-slip decks were quickly transformed into an ice rink of Heinz chopped carrots & green pea soup. The place turned into a sea of vomit. People retched their guts out everywhere. Unearthly guttural sounds like wailing cats. Explosions of regurgitated dinners plastered the walls. With no signs of the storm subsiding, our ship ploughed on relentlessly up and over the mammoth waves into what seemed like bottomless pits.
Only Dad seemed impervious to the elements and like a naval commander, succeeded in plotting a course through the unsavoury minefield towards the safety of Bar del Paradiso, where throughout the rest of the journey he remained firmly planted on a stool and with the aid of my Italian phrase book gave regular commands to the bartender: “Another doppio Whisky per favore”.
2
Stupidly I had underestimated Gods’ wrath. For as if this terrible journey was not enough, the irritating snivel I had acquired whilst travelling through Italy, now in Malta had turned into a non-stop nosebleed. Gallons of blood flowed from my nasal organ into the Hotel wash basin and then spattered onto the green paisley patterned wallpaper. Only the chambermaid failed to appreciate the new colour scheme and ran off down the corridor screaming “murder! “Dad finally came to the conclusion, that unless something be done and pronto, young Nicholas might not have any blood left in him at all! Decision taken, I was carted off to the nearest hospital accompanied by Dad and a relieved hotel manager. After being handed over to a group of Maltese doctors, I was quick to understand their technique for stopping a simple nose bleed must have come straight out of the Spanish Inquisition hand book. Too weak to do anything about it, I lay there on my back, while the surgeons began the delicate task of cauterising my nostrils.
With no stomach for such things, Dad and the rest of the crew irritatingly abandoned me and continued to the island of destination without me.
Left in the hands of a male nurse, my head was pinned to the pillow with a rock-like grip, allowing me to contemplate a red-hot poker, which quavered at the entrance to my cavity. Shortly before passing out, I observed with fascination a wisp of smoke as it rose to the ceiling accompanied by the awful smell of burning flesh.
My recovery took three days, during which time, I was introduced to Maltese cuisine; a diet of thick slices of bread smeared with tomato paste. Apparently, a Maltese delicacy, which however palatable it may be to the natives, remains a taste I have yet to acquire!
On the third day, the bleeding stopped and I was allowed to sit up in bed. Acting on my request for something to read, the male nurse brought me a copy of the Daily Mirror, which I perused with interest. To my dismay however, the centre page where the pin up girl was usually found, had undergone serious cosmetic surgery. Her breasts had been removed with a pair of nail scissors and with the aid of a thick black marker, a clumsy dress drawn over what would have been a nice bare bum. I asked the nurse to bring me some more newspapers. He obliged kindly but it was the same procedure with every single paper. “Censorship” in Malta was big business and, I was told, carried out by a conclave of Monks up at the monastery. What, I asked myself, did they do with the twenty thousand cuttings of paper breasts imported from England each day? Images of monks with erections, drooling over a giant scrapbook, came to mind.
From the hospital window I saw Malta for the first time; an awesome labyrinth of buildings covering seven eighths of the island’s surface. Pulsating arteries of traffic, flowed twenty-four hours a day, emitting thick black smog which hung over the island like a curse. Piercing the skyline beyond the suburbs was a solitary hill, from which rose a cloud of sulphurous gas. This was not a volcano which I would have preferred, but a rat-infested rubbish dump. At the back of my mind the big question: Was this “Bloody Rock”, we had struggled so hard to reach really worth saving 19 shillings?
3
The sister island of Gozo was different. A wedge-shaped rock of honey coloured limestone. Forbidding cliffs on the West coast and to the East gold sandy beaches which slipped invitingly into a turquoise sea. There was little in the way of vegetation other than giant Prickly Pear cactus, which welcomed visitors with an applause of clapping hands. In winter, sea mists turned the island into a fairytale landscape at the centre of which a Citadel floated like a mirage. Had it not been for the eighty-seven pompous Catholic churches, the villages could well have been mistaken for Arab settlements at the edge of the Sahara.
There were more donkeys than cars and relatively few buildings. The landscape was not picturesque in the romantic way of most postcards but instead possessed a rugged beauty of geometrical shapes, strong light and dark shadows. There was something else too, something more profound, which either you felt or you didn’t. An energy radiating from within. Perhaps the same energy which Neolithic man had felt 7000 years before when he built his temples here. Whatever the reason, the energy still remained and touched me deeply.
Memories of England faded astonishingly fast and this arid desert of an island became our new home. The greatest gift was the sun, which within two weeks of arrival turned our northern pasty face complexions bright pink.
Built by the Turks in the 16th century, our house, Number 10, Birbuba Street, was a palatial villa surrounded by a high wall three feet thick. Within the walls, a labyrinth of marble terraces, arched courtyards and palm trees. The foundations were carved out of solid rock and to my delight, it did not take long before I discovered the narrow steps leading to an underground cave. My thrill was immense. Chains, embedded in the walls suggested signs of dubious purpose. Slaves? The place could equally well have been home to the Minotaur. The damp smell of this dungeon ignited my imagination and when I saw the giant wooden wheel at the centre, I was convinced it had been used for torturing heretics and not for grinding corn as Dad boringly insisted. Regardless, now with the prisoners long dead, it was obvious to every member of the family what the place would be used for.
After the first party, my parents were immediately established into local high society and introduced to the Right Honourable Joseph Apap, Minister for waterworks and drainage. (According to the locals, a very valuable friend to have.) It was too early in our stay to know much about flooded cesspits or regurgitating porcelain orifices but the day would come when we would value his friendship above all.
Our new lifestyle differed slightly to that of England. We still went to the pub on Sundays (actually every day) but there was no drizzle or soggy chips and kids and even babies were allowed inside.
The ex-patriots we met were an eccentric community of mostly retired homosexuals and lesbians but also Naval Commanders and priests drinking themselves to death in local bars, which boasted patriotic names like, “God Save the Queen” or “The Royal Lady”. Out of all of the watering holes we frequented, there was one in particular where serious drinkers and queens gathered. “The Duke of Edinburgh Hotel”.
On entering, the first thing one noticed, was a glass cabinet screwed to the wall. On closer inspection, it housed an unwashed teacup and saucer with the imprint of red lipstick on the rim, a few dried tea leaves at the bottom and next to that, a plate with the original crumbs. Had it been a fruitcake, I wondered? The crumpled embroidered napkin was there too, also bearing traces of sticky red lips and pinned just above this “still life” was a faded sepia photograph, which explained everything.
A very young Queen Elizabeth 2nd stood next to her husband HRH Prince Phillip framed at the entrance to the hotel. It was hard to tell whether this souvenir commemorating the Queen’s visit 25 years earlier, had brought more business to the place or not. After closer inspection of things, I decided it hadn’t.
Once a magnificent colonial building, now, years later, the place was run down and shabby. The bedrooms were infested with cockroaches and anyone peeking into the kitchens, would have thought twice about ordering a ham sandwich. The “Duke”, was particularly unique due to the fact that it boasted the only lavatories on the island which were flushed with hot water, a plumbing error, which the management (or should I say the non-management) had failed to get fixed. For a hotel with 25 rooms, service was poor but in a heroic effort to give customer service, Vincent the proprietor did his very best to metamorphose into Barman, Chef, Head Waiter, Concierge and Porter, all in one, depending on demand. Needless to say, the place was not listed in the “Michelin Guide”.
In spite of everything, the bar was surprisingly always full of customers. Vincent’s character possessed a magnetism, towards which (and yet contrary to all laws of physics) “like poles” were attracted. So, it was only natural that my parents adopted the “Duke” as their second home.
Drinking sessions started at ten o’clock in the morning and went on until four in the afternoon. With too much energy bottled up inside to be wasted on this lethargic sport, I inevitably got bored and found every possible excuse to flee before the one-too-many beers got the better of me.
With camera over my shoulder, I walked off into the sizzling heat. I followed the coast, explored the beaches, the caves and the honeycombed cliffs. I skipped across the crystallized salt pans and then headed towards the centre of the island accompanied by the deafening song of cicadas. There was no shade because there were no trees and the ground burned so fiercely that standing in one place for too long fried my soles, forcing me to move on. By four in the afternoon the heat began to subside. I was mostly alone, except on rare occasions, when a grubby priest, or a dour, toothless peasant crossed my path.
Clouds were rare and far between. I was embraced by 360 degrees of turquoise sky and to the west, a fingernail of a new moon rising, beneath of which lay a cobalt sea. Then I saw them. Tiny black dots on the horizon, growing larger and larger as they approached. Then they were upon me, circling above my head. Bee eaters. Not sparrows or starlings but bee eaters with their green and indigo wings beating magnificently, hundreds of them flying in organized chaos. I strained my neck and instinctively raised my camera. But it was a short-lived thrill a I was too late. One of the birds dropped from the sky unexpectedly. The report of gunshot rammed the brutal reality into my head. Then, as if one shot was not enough, the birds were met with a barrage of machinegun fire coming from behind large boulders, each shot preceded by a little white puff of smoke. Instinctively I took cover and lay flat on the ground watching these magnificent creatures plummet to earth. Death was everywhere and with it came an eerie silence. The hunters departed, no longer interested in their quarry.
When all was clear, I got to my feet and picked up one of the crumpled birds. It was terrified. In the reflection of the creatures’ eye, I saw the remainder of his flock, continue their journey south. Then it closed its eye and died. What I had witnessed was the slaughter of wildlife on an industrial scale. What, I asked myself, would happen if there were no more birds left to kill? Unaware at the time, it was this very thought which would give birth to an idea for my next film.
4
From April through to September, my parents entertained. And now that we were living on a beautiful island, we suddenly seemed to have a lot of friends. Dad enjoyed the visits from England, because it was the excuse he needed to take a break from his work, justifying his actions by concluding he was a successful writer and therefore the “BBC” could bloody well wait! Before new guests arrived, it was the usual routine; “Stock up the fridge son. Don’t forget to buy a crate of Brandy, one of Whisky and one of Vodka and make damned sure there’s enough soda and tonic water to last the weekend.”. “Oh, and don’t forget the tomatoes for the “Bloody Mary’s”. The abundance of this particular fruit grown on the island played an important role in our drinking habits. “Righty Oh Dad” and off I went.
In spite of their advanced years, our new guests, Leslie and Shiela from London, were in love like teenagers, cooing and twittering over large martinis on the terrace at sunset. They spent most of their holiday in their bedroom behind locked doors. Occasionally they would venture out for the sake of being polite or else to go out on an excursion to discover the island. One evening, in a gesture of goodwill, I suggested they visit the idyllic sandy beach of San Blas. A romantic destination to the east of the island. Accessible by means of a rather steep path. It was a lovers’ paradise and well worth the effort. Thrilled by the idea, the couple agreed. I drew up a map with explicit directions and next morning off they went in their rented car armed with a picnic, masks and snorkel.
By five in the afternoon, they were still not back. We decided it was time to start worrying. With reason! What we could not have foreseen was that the old boy would slip on a rock and knock himself unconscious. The incident happened during Siesta. Shiela found herself alone with her lover, bleeding badly from his head. To make matters worse, starving dogs showed up and she had been forced to fight them off with her snorkel. Had it not been for her pitiful cries, she may never have been rescued.
A ten-year-old boy appeared from the olive groves and with peasant strength, succeeded in dragging the body into the car. By seating himself upon an orange box (which allowed him a view above the dashboard) the boy drove them off as fast as he could to the local hospital. But his efforts were in vain because two days later our dear friend Leslie was dead.
It was a terrible shock and however hard we tried; no amount of consolation could calm Shiela down. One moment she wept, the next she was fuming with rage. “The bastard. How dare he treat me like that? Leslie had let her down badly. Up till that dreaded moment, her newfound love had worked miracles on her, partly because for the first time in half a century, she was sober. But now he was dead there seemed no point in living. The bottle became her only solace.
We understood the woman’s’ suffering but in the end, for the sake of a few days desperately needed peace, Dad decided to book her into the Duke of Edinburgh Hotel, where he imagined she would be taken well care of by the staff, only of course forgetting that there was no staff. The idea sounded good but then fell flat on its face. Three days later, Vincent called. “Please come at once Mister Steven. Shiela has lost control of her senses” We raced back to the Hotel as fast as possible and were met on the doorstep by a desperate hotel manager. “She keeps raiding the bar, Mister Steven. I don’t know what to do?” We pushed past Vincent and entered. There she was, our guest from England, standing at the top of the staircase, brandishing an empty bottle of brandy. An apparition in a torn pink nightgown, with a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. “God only knows how her Majesty put up with the miserable service here? Nothing works! If I want something, I have to get it myself! Get me another bottle of Napolean you bastards” she boomed. “Now!”
Indeed the 45% pacifier seemed to do the trick and on leaving the premises, having successfully calmed Shiela down and put her to bed with a supply of booze, it was now a question of calming the proprietor down. Dad promised Vincent that all expenses, including re-stocking the bar with missing bottles, should be billed directly to him. Vincent smiled. It sounded like a good deal for Vincent, less so for us.
During the next few days, matters of a more pressing nature needed to be addressed; The funeral. Driven by a certain amount of guilt, we felt duty bound to ensure the ceremony would be carried out to perfection. A task which proved easier said than done. Mr. Borg the local undertaker was determined to sell us his latest coffin design: “Coffin with panoramic view. Velly fashionable Mr. Steven, velly fashionable …you like? … Lady like for sure… yes, no, yes? ““No, no. we don’t like” came Dad’s answer. He knew damned well that Shiela would have a fit if she saw her dead lover gawking at her from inside the coffin. Things were bad enough without complicating matters.
Arrangements progressed slowly. Too slowly. It was mid-august and stiflingly hot. Mr. Borg feared premature decomposition of the body posed a real threat. No amount of makeup could conceal the fact and things needed to be speeded up. We agreed totally. All that was missing, was a priest to conduct the ceremony. On a Catholic island like Malta, priests were in abundance, so where was the problem? None, unless of course the deceased happened to be a Quaker! Which, just so happened he was! Vincent to the rescue. “Dear Mister Steven, I am in the hospitality business not the Church!” he argued. Even after several large whiskies his decision was final. “I am not a consecrated priest. I never took my vows. You must understand that?”
Dad did indeed understand his point. But in view of the amount of business he brought to his establishment, he had hoped for more. Three shots later, Vincent came to his senses. “Actually, maybe there is a solution” We were all ears. Apparently, there was a retired English Vicar on the island, an elderly gentleman by the name of Father Russell, who would probably bury anything, anywhere, regardless of faith in exchange for a bottle of Crème de Menthe.
Our procession started at 10am sharp. Things went according to plan. With a crack of his whip, Mr. Borg, the undertaker, unshaven and dressed in a grubby ill-fitting suit, led our convoy in his black horse-drawn hearse. A magnificent carriage with bevelled glass windows and gold leaf inlays. We followed close behind in an ancient Mercedes Benz taxi. Me in the front and my dad in the back sitting next to a heavily sedated Shiela. Behind our Mercedes, a yellow zodiac carrying my sisters and Stepmother. From the morgue, our path led us directly through the centre of town, where for some unknown reason, we were joined by hundreds of farmers brandishing red and white flags. Timing could not have been worse. Without realising it, we had managed to become part of the islands General Elections parade. Progress advanced at snail’s pace and looked as if we might never reach the cemetery. What happened next, took everybody by surprise: Without warning, a petard exploded above our heads and things changed dramatically. Mr. Borg lost control of his horse and shot forwards ploughing crazily through the crowd, which by the grace of God (or whatever) opened up before us like the Sea of Galilee. Taking advantage of this phenomenon, our taxi driver pushed his foot down hard in order to keep pace, missing people by inches as they fled from our path. Even out of town, there was no sign of the runaway hearse slowing down. It was clear our procession was being driven by the Devil himself.
From my view point, more alarming however, was to see the coffin bounce up and down and then slide dangerously backwards towards us. In a matter of seconds, disaster would strike! The image of a coffin crashing through our windscreen at fifty miles an hour could not be a good omen. But on approaching the cemetery, the Arab beast responsible for the drama skidded to a halt in a great cloud of dust (instinctively knowing, from previous outings, he had reached his destination) and with the sudden reversal of inertia conveniently caused the coffin to return to its rightful position with a resounding thud. Relief.
At the cemetery, things were already in progress. A tatty congregation had gathered round a hole in the ground and a drunken Father Russell was there to greet us. In view of the heat, not a moment was wasted and no sooner had we exited our vehicles when the pallbearers were already lowering the coffin into the grave. Praise the Lord, our ordeal would soon be over and we would be able to change back into sensible clothing. As the Vicar read from his Bible, barely half way through, I sensed something was not quite right. “…And the Lord sayeth…and the Lord sayeth…” The man kept on repeating his lines like a scratched record. Yes, thought I…the Lord sayeth the coffin be stucketh, or what?”. Closer observation showed the coffin was indeed jammed at an angle of 30 degrees. Our deceased guest was a particularly tall Gentleman. Six foot three inches to be exact. In other words, 18 inches taller than the average Maltese citizen or regulation grave, which I might add, were all carved into solid rock.
What followed, was an impressive show of peasant improvisation. A bearer leapt into the hole armed with a pickaxe and with one almighty upward swing, succeeded in dislodging the coffin, causing the lower end to drop the last three feet with an unholy thump. As if that was not enough, he then started to hack away at the rock to make more room for the other end. It was obvious to everyone that this task could go on for hours. A now very irritated, Father Russell ordered the man to abandon task, barely giving him enough time to scramble out of the pit short of being buried himself. “Ashes to ashes” The Vicar terminated the ceremony with remarkable speed and hearing the word “Amen”, was like music to our ears. “Where am I. What’s going on?” Sheila finally woke from her sedated state having been asleep throughout the ceremony. “We’re off to the Duke of Edinburgh for a drink” said dad cheerfully. “About time too,” said Shiela. “I’m parched”.
As we left the cemetery, I wondered whether or not it was Christian of us to have buried our guest at an angle? But the unbearable heat steered my thoughts sensibly back to the duke, where at last we would be able to loosen our ties and quench ourselves with cold beers. “That went down well, “said Father Russell as he drained his first glass of Crème de Menthe.
5
The parcel was addressed to Master Nicholas Steven. I ripped it open and pulled out a T-shirt. Printed in large colourful letters across the front was the title; Festival of the midnight sun. I tried it on at once and was delighted to see that it fit. This present was the first sign of life from my mother for over two years. Since the divorce there had been total silence. Dad’s obligation of paying her monthly allowance had the tendency to slip. Inside the parcel was a curt reminder: Tony. I received your parcel from Fortnum & Masons but how on earth do you expect me to survive on Beluga caviar? She hoped also that “Barbie Bitch “was not suffering too much from sunburn (due to her pale skin) and that she was looking after her “Darling” children properly. Reading between the lines, Dad guessed that mother was having a good time. He hoped also that she would find a new husband a.s.a.p. Because until that day arrived, the monthly alimony payments would remain a burden.
What none of us could have known, was that at that particular moment in time, a potential suitor and guest of the Excelsior Hotel in Helsinki, was about to try his luck and perhaps even fulfil Dad’s wishes. Outside the building, police formed a human chain to prevent hysterical teenagers from devouring the rock star. The musician in question managed to escape through the tradesman’s entrance and make a dash for the lift, inside of which, my mother was about to disembark vertically to the fifth floor. Her departure was stalled momentarily, due to a large black foot, which forced its way between the closing the doors. She watched helplessly as the sweaty black man stepped in. For the rest of the journey, he stood uncomfortably close wearing gold chains around his neck, a flower power shirt and worse, a ridiculous Afro haircut. “Hey Sister, you’re a cool chick. How about, you and me get hooked up?” The poetic proposal might have charmed some ladies but not so Mother. Completely alien to this type of wooing, she reacted badly; “How dare you, you rude young man. I am not a tart! “On the fifth floor, the lift doors re-opened and a disappointed Jimmy Hendrix made his exit.
I was delighted with my groovy new T-shirt. I was sure no-one else on the island would have one quite like it and with a bit of luck, maybe some gorgeous dolly bird would want to rip it off my back. Or was that wishful thinking? It was wishful thinking. Unfortunately, I had failed to inherit my dads’ talent in this domain and any naughty thoughts going through my head would have been impossible to put into practice without being locked up. Instead of young women swooning at my feet, the way they did with dad, girls usually found every possible excuse to avoid me. This may have had something to do with my approach: Not every girl, I discovered, was interested in the principal of the “focal plane shutter”. But I did not give up and after careful thought, it occurred to me, I might find romance in other ways. The fact was, in a short space of time, I had become the islands’ society photographer charged with shooting drunken ex-pats and babies, so why not pretty girls as well?
My first shot presented herself Sunday morning at the Duke of Edinburgh. Her name; Nicole. A very pretty girl on holiday with her parents and like me, bored. Typically, our parents were inside the pub reminiscing about England over large whiskies. Our Coke and chips were finished and we were both in need of some action. She seemed to like me and after stammering out my proposal, agreed to let me take some pictures of her. We left the duke and within twenty minutes were clambering over the ruined foundations of the Citadel overlooking the town. It was a great location and I soon found the vaulted mill room I was looking for. We slipped through an opening in the wall and a shaft of sunlight beamed down from a crack in the ceiling creating the perfect set. I took dozens of pictures of her, from every conceivable angle. After the second roll of film, I began to feel hot under the collar. Memories came rushing back in a flash; Our school matron, Miss Mackay, kissing me on the lips and of course the beautiful Fleur. This was my chance to test the ground further. Nicole really was extremely pretty with blond, straight hair and generous lips. I was about to kiss her on the spot and I would have done so, but then any macho instinct I might have possessed, abandoned me. Replaced instead by a disapproving voice: “Are you really going to take advantage of this poor innocent girl Nicholas?” I looked up at the shaft of light, expecting to see Dad. He was not there. Just my mind playing tricks again. I was my worst enemy. Miss Mackay laughed and Fleur slapped me in the face. There was no longer any reason to stay, so we walked back down the hill in silence. When we got back to the pub, I detected Nicole’s disappointment; “Are you gay Nick?” she asked unexpectedly. Gay? I asked myself. What on earth did she mean? I always regarded myself as being a jolly sort of chap, therefore I must be gay, or else it was a trick question? Either that or a new “in” word which had not yet reached the shores of Malta? Determined not to fall into a trap, I gave her what I deemed to be a sensible answer. “Sometimes I am and sometimes I’m not”. Nicole gave me an odd look and then her parents came out of the pub. “Time to go dear”. I was left standing there and suddenly didn’t feel so jolly. “Bi” she said. (as in goodbye I presumed) so I waved as she was bundled off into the car and drove off out of my life. Standing at the edge of the pavement, I decided it would probably be best if I focussed my talent on still life.
It turned out that photographing “Rocks”, even Neolithic ones, had its limitations. Deep down it was my own rocks I should be worried about. There was no question, the lust for carnal knowledge hung over me like an out-of-reach forbidden fruit. And if I didn’t do something about it and fast, they would probably shrivel up and drop to the ground in a cloud of dust.
6
Since the Turkish invasion in 1656, the island had remained pretty quiet. Then Maggie Bell arrived. A rock singer and rising star in the British charts. A dynamic Glaswegian with red and green hair and the voice of a growling cat. On our tiny island of just ten square miles, it was just a matter of time until our paths would cross. We would inevitably meet at one of the three watering holes: The Duke, The Wilderness or the Gleneagles bar down at the harbour. My guess was it would be the Gleneagles. I was right. “What will it be”? asked my dad. Maggie looked up from the far end of the bar and grinned. It was a Cheshire cat grin. A row of bitty little teeth with a large gap in the middle. “Bells”. She growled. Three hours passed. Dad had met his match. There were not many women he knew, apart from my stepmother, who could hold their drink the way she could. The friendship was cemented.
News of her arrival ricocheted around our rock and by early evening, it had already reached Vincent’s ears. His entrepreneurial spirit shifted into top gear. The lady was a gift from heaven, he declared, sent by God to save his foundering Discotheque from bankruptcy. He at once set about organizing a concert for her. The fact that the lady was on holiday was irrelevant, concluding that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity not to be squandered. Luckily for him, Maggie was bored with laying on the beach all day and surprised everyone by embracing his challenge whole-heartedly and even offered her services to sing with the one and only band on the island; The Tramps. An amateur rock band, that boasted decibels but little else. Rehearsals began at once and over a period of three weeks, Maggie transformed the groups modest talent into something remarkably professional.
Within two weeks, the first concert was held at Vincent’s Wilderness Disco. Appropriately named because of the desert in which it was located. Half the island population turned out to witness the spectacle and Maggie sang her heart out until the early hours of the morning. What was originally planned as a one-night gig, lasted three days and three nights. The event was such a success, that for several days the island remained under shock. Vincent in particular could not believe his luck. The revenue that flowed into the till, fueled his entrepreneurial imagination even more. However, from the point of view of the average mortal, Vincents new plans, bordered on the edge of insanity. “God has blessed me with a mission”. He announced one morning. “I shall build a fountain. The Maggie Bell fountain. A great statue in honour of the singer carved out of solid rock. Can you imagine, a twelve-foot monument erected in front of the Wilderness Disco?”. The general response to his vision was, “No we can’t”.
Vincent, however, was by no means discouraged. Outweighing by far the Queens’ prestigious teacup, he was convinced it would attract plenty of business. Although what type of business, remained dubious speculation). Maggie’s anatomy was that of a Ruben’s and to immortalize her as such, might well attract the wrong type of customer.
There was also a tiny detail he had overlooked. The question everybody asked themselves, was, where would the water supply come from? The Disco was in the middle of a desert and the nearest pipeline was five miles away. Secondly. If the supply of water was found, which part of Maggie’s anatomy would it sprinkle from? Vincent shrugged off our fears with a laugh and reminded us that he was well connected. His dear friend Joe Apap, (the minister for waterworks and drainage), would fix it. “All he needs is a little encouragement from the ladies”. Vincent winked at Anja. “Just dance with the old boy on Saturday night and ask him a favour”. Anja was wary of the plan. “Are you sure that’s all he’ll want?” she asked. Vincent brushed aside her fears. “The man is a gentleman. Do it and I’ll give you a bottle of whisky” he said. The deal was done.
The bizarre idea of being turned into a fountain, suited Maggie’s ego. Perhaps she imagined herself portrayed as a Botticelli Venus. Whatever went through her head, she accepted Vincent’s crackpot idea and agreed to pose for the sculptor. But finding one proved to be difficult. The only one available, was a Maltese mason called Joseph Apap. Hired by the Catholic Church, his “Mani d’oro” were used mostly for sculpting saints for local feasts. Vincent’s proposal for a rock star fountain was therefore met with skepticism. Rock Stars are not part of God’s plan, the sculptor argued. After fierce negotiations, it became clear that the only conditions, under which Joseph would carry out such a task, would be if Maggie was a Saint. Although part of the proceeds from Maggie’s concert had gone to the local orphanage, Vincent knew it was not enough to merit beatification. The Vatican would never agree. Who had heard of saints drinking whisky anyway, let alone snorting coke?
Next day, it was a gloomy Vincent we encountered at the pub. A shadow of his former self. The man’s self-esteem had shrivelled up. His dream seemed to have crumbled before ever being built and there was nothing anybody could do about it. Or could they? A heavenly voice then pierced the gloom. “You owe me a bottle of whisky Vincent, “said Anja unexpectedly. Vincent looked round. Anja held up an envelope and waved it in his face. Vincent grabbed it and read the contents; a smile lit up his face. The waterworks department had approved the pipeline.
Inevitably, the partying began to take its toll. Dad was weeks behind with work on his latest script and a screaming letter from his editor in London shocked him into action. He had little choice but to make a business trip back to England. During the past weeks, Maggie Bell, had become almost a family member and moved in with us and slept in the spare bedroom. Seizing the opportunity of going to London, Anja joined dad, deciding she desperately needed a new pair of boots. Two days later, they left the island on the first available flight.
With my parents gone, it was time to test out my photographic skills. I had a good eye and thanks to dad’s Playboy magazines, had acquired plenty of knowledge regarding the female anatomy. Number one of my To-do-list needed to be crossed off! My plan was kick started with help from the Scots, who had decided Malta should become their number one holiday destination. Throughout the season, Bonny lassies of all shapes and sizes disembarked onto our tiny island. As the flow of beauty’s stepped ashore, Shit-man and I sat on the rocks and watched from a safe distance. It was a common game the lads played on weekends, spurred on by the fact all local girls had to be home by 9pm. The foreign girls were different and we all knew that by late evening, 90 percent of them would end up at one of the islands discos.” She’s mine” said Shit-man. “No, I saw her first” I said laughing, knowing full well, that my macho skills stood little chance against his. He rolled a joint. As he did so, a couple of ladies caught my eye. A blond followed by a red head, darted out of the crowd and dived straight into a waiting taxi. The blond looked stunningly pretty and if my x-ray vision was anything to go by, had a perfect body lifted straight off the centrefold of playboy magazine. So obsessed was I with my mission to photograph a naked woman, that the consequences of my antics, perhaps backfiring, had not crossed my mind in the slightest. Nature had blessed me with both stupidity and naivety of unfathomable proportions. The fact Joan was on holiday with her boyfriend seemed irrelevant too, even if, as I later discovered, she was betrothed to a chap called Branston Pickle or was it, Richard Branson? who cared? My duty, as a photographer, surely, was to immortalize beauty onto celluloid. Was it not?
The courage I needed to put plan into action, might have had something to do with the new hairs, I noticed, sprouting on my chest or maybe those on my chin, but whatever the reason, the task boiled down to a few simple words. “Will you pose for me naked? I asked. “Yes, Nik I will but not without Rose”. Rose? her ginger headed girlfriend? Two Goddesses for the price of one? I couldn’t believe my luck. Would I shoot them together or one at a time? From the front or from behind? When and where? My poor mind was instantly overtaxed. How? was not the problem. When was not the problem either but where, the beach? God no! There were monks everywhere, in grubby cassocks, hiding in belfries, behind sand dunes and rocks, littering the countryside with newspaper cuttings of boobs, which they traded with their equally grubby brothers. No. These boobs were mine. Finders’ keepers. No sharing! In the end, I decided to do the shoot at home, far from prying eyes, surrounded by a ten-foot wall of solid rock.
When I loaded my first roll of PAN F into the Rolleiflex, I trembled like a leaf. By the third roll, I calmed down considerably, as if I’d been photographing naked women my whole life! Cool, collected, Helmut Newton in persona, a true master of his trade. The ladies too were most obliging and positioned themselves according to my direction. Joan, lay outstretched across the wicker chair, head tilted to one side, just enough to catch the morning sun across her body, which as predicted, cast a perfect ray at 10:15 precisely. Then I shot Rose, with her cheeky smile, resting against the frame of the doorway as if to say, “Go on, catch me if you can. I dare you”. I had taught myself to pull focus on people’s eyes, but this time, it seemed more logical to focus on the ladies’ nipples. Who would look at their eyes anyway? By late afternoon my girls were in the can. I drove them back to their rented flat and on departure, emphasized they should keep quiet about our photographic session. “Of course, we won’t tell a soul Nik” As we parted company, they giggled hysterically.
7
Having a rock star as a baby sitter was pretty cool but what took place during those four weeks absence of my parents was even cooler. My parents would have gone bananas if they’d found out. But they never did, and I was determined things should stay that way.
Saturday
The parties are getting wilder and a cloud of cannabis hangs permanently over the house. We forgot my sister at the disco last night. Her cot was safely stacked between crates of beer at the back of the bar. She woke at four in the morning for her feed. Joe the barman is good at mixing cocktails but knows nothing about milk temperature. He had to race after us in his car carrying the cot. Embarrassing.
Sunday
“Shit man” is my new friend. The drummer from the Tramps. Everybody calls him “Shit Man” because it’s the most used phrase in his vocabulary. He smells permanently of weed and keeps giving me negatives to develop. I did some for him last night but they are very rude pictures: Naked people mostly doing rude things. But the positions are educational.
Monday
It’s really hot. My sisters crawl around naked most of the time and eat scraps off the floor. Another party last night. Didn’t go to bed at all. Watched the moon rise and smoked my first joint. Everybody was running around naked in the garden. I tried to keep my clothes on but then they got ripped off me and I was sprayed with water. Silly twits.
Tuesday
Today Shit Man gave me a load of cannabis which I put it on the roof to dry. In three or four days we can smoke it he said.
Wednesday
Maggie asked me to take some shots of her for her new album “Queen of the night”. I am really excited. We went to an old fortress at the edge of the cliffs. It was really windy. With a yellow filter I captured Maggie’s mane of black hair as it blew across her face. It’s going to be a great picture. I clicked away non-stop. But the best one was when she lifted her T-shirt and pushed her breasts through the rusty bars of the wrought iron gate. Reminded me of a twin nuclear power station. Not sure if it will sell her Album though?
Saturday
Back on the roof today. Disaster! All the weed has blown over into the farmyard next door. The animals are behaving oddly. Didn’t know goats could sleep on their backs.
Instead of shrivelling up and dropping to the ground in a cloud of dust, my fruit finally found their purpose in life. Thanks to Joe the barman, I did not remain a virgin. In the corner of the disco sat this beautiful girl. Tanned skin, mass of hair and dark brown eyes. A New York model apparently. In other words, out of my league. “Now’s your chance” said Joe the barman in a loud whisper. I expected my lack of self-confidence to get the upper hand but instead my Neanderthal instinct went into auto-pilot. Grunt, grunt.
The girl looked at me from across the room and I flushed. That was my cue. I took a shot of whisky, ordered a second, then walked over and handed her the drink. “Hi I’m Nick”. “I’m Alex. Nice to meet you”. she said with an American accent. Awkward pause while I tried to think what to say next. I dug deep into my arsenal of famous movie lines but my mind went blank. What would Humphrey Bogart have said? Then, to hell with Humphrey. I knew better! “Do you know the principle of the clockwork movie camera?” I asked. Alex looked at me oddly. I wanted to die on the spot but surprisingly she wanted to know more. So, I sat down beside her and told her everything. “Fully wound up, it can go on for as long as sixty seconds”, I boasted. “…And if the shutter is set at 16
frames per second…it will go on even longer…nearly five minutes non-stop in fact”. “Is that a promise?” she asked. I didn’t have a clue what she was on about but it didn’t matter. She put her hand on my lap and unexpectedly kissed me. “I just love English boys” she said squeezing my thigh. She kissed me again. This time probing my ear with her tongue. Hallelujah! My spring unwound and for the first time in my life, I lost interest in principles, clockwork or otherwise. Even if I was not the first man to go where no man had gone before, warp factor one of my journey into the unknown had begun. Joe winked at me from across the room. Four whiskies later we were racing at high speed across the island towards her place.
We pulled up in front of her house at 4am. Peasants were on their way to mass. I followed Alex inside knowing that I too was about to take part in a ritual.
She draped a scarf over the bedside light, lit some incense and kicked off her sandals. In the dim light she undressed and I watched her silhouette as her clothes fell to the floor. Then she slipped silently between the sheets, and instinctively I did the same and finally knew what it was like to feel a warm body beside me. We lay there, side by side for several minutes, looking into each other’s eyes. We kissed and she sighed deeply lifting her body gently in response. We kissed again, both of us overwhelmed with passion and determined the moment should last forever. Then all too soon, a towering wave crashed down upon us and swallowed us up in one torrential gush of pleasure. Then the wave receded as quickly as it had come and abandoned us on the soft smooth white sand like babies.
My parents were due back from London in two days. Maggie and I did a huge clean up, gave my baby sister a bath and got rid of over one hundred beer bottles until all signs of debauchery was gone. By the time they arrived, the place looked moderately respectable. Dad brought back great news. Warner Brothers accepted his idea for the novel and had offered a ten percent advance on royalties. We’re going to be rich!! Anja got herself a sexy pair of knee-high boots. We finished off a bottle of whisky, then went to Bed.
Next morning Dad screamed across the terrace. “NICHOLAS!” He never called me by my full name unless I was in deep trouble. It could only mean one of two things and both were equally dreaded. I crawled out of bed and braced myself for the worst. “What is it, Dad? I asked cheerfully. I entered his bedroom and when I saw him holding up the negatives, my heart sank. They were the negatives I had developed for Shit man. My dear sister, had obviously crawled into my darkroom and pulled down the interesting ribbon of celluloid hanging on a line. Like a faithful dog she then delivered the goods on all fours to my father in bed. Thinking he was doing me a favour, he rescued them from her sticky fingers. With spectacles perched on his nose, he viewed my latest work against the morning sun. Regrettably what he saw were not picturesque country scenes or sunsets but something quite different. Something which he correctly perceived to be fornicating Maltese! Thanks to “Shit man” I was now in deep shit! Dad erupted like a volcano! Photographing girls was one thing but pornography was quite another. It took a hell of a lot of persuasion to convince him I was not the photographer, especially when I understood what was at stake: The threat of being deported back to England to live with my Aunt Daphne. A fate worse than death. For three days and three nights, I lived in fear of this horrendous sentence being carried out. Then, for no particular reason, dad yielded to compassion. My sins were pardoned and his ruling withdrawn. My relief was huge, albeit short lived.
“NICHOLAS!” Dad screamed. Here we go again, thought I. My unfathomable stupidity, had come back to bite me. News of my session with the naked ladies had spread across the island like wildfire and finally reached his ears. Having evaded one sentence of deportation, I strongly suspected the sentence would be re-instated.
“Show me the pictures Nicholas.” Sorry, what pictures Dad? “You know damned well what I mean. Now get them”, he boomed. “Ok, I’ll get them”. I walked off to my laboratory, retrieved the envelope containing the black & white prints of Joan and Rose and three minutes later handed them over. Dad pulled them out one by one, laid them neatly on the kitchen table and adjusted his spectacles. There they sat, looking up at us from the wicker work chair, illuminated by the 10:15 shaft of sunlight, Joan in all her seductive beauty, a teasing smile on her lips, as if to say “Hah! Got ourselves into a wee mess have we, Nicky?”. The tense atmosphere was enough to hear a mousetrap go off. Damn! What an idiot I was. This time tomorrow, I’d be on a flight back to England.
“To be honest, I would have used a 55mm lens but on the whole, not bad old son. Not bad at all”. My relief was instantaneous. What a fool I had been to underestimate my father. We were of course, chips made from the same block and we were both Naughty Thoughted.
TO BE CONTINUED
