ROME EXPRESS by TIMMI MILSOM (beach read book txt) 📖

THE ROME EXPRESS

Timmi Milsom, January 2010


The Rome Express rattles through the Italian Alps, I stare out of the window, regretting my return to the grim shores of mid 70’s England.

Would you like a biscuit sonny?
Oh not again.
Where’s your mummy?
This must be the twentieth time I’ve been asked.
In England
You’ve come from Rome, by yourself?
Umm

Back in 1974 as a precocious floppy haired 14 year old schoolboy, I had gone on holiday to Rome to stay with friends. I have never understood why my parents sent me by train, a three day trip on three different trains and a smelly ferry from Dover there and back again with a suitcase half the size of me and ten pounds in my pocket. But I felt rich and free.

Fantastic

Of course in 2010 my parents would have been done for child abuse, I would have been assaulted by all manner of strange people and looking back at the pictures of a pretty little boy in shorts, I am rather surprised I wasn’t.
But in 1974 everyone was nice and didn’t do nasty thing to small boys, well at least not where I lived in a nice county town, in a nice country, where everyone was nice. Nasty thing only happened somewhere else, somewhere foreign and abroad, as far as my new friend was concerned the Rome Express was just such a place.

I think you better sit with us.
Bugger, why can’t people leave me alone.

I was perfectly happy, fantasizing about spies and Nazi’s and guns and absolutely nothing nasty had happened, well apart from an over excited Italian girl wanting to kiss me in the Coliseum.

Ugg

Nice boys from nice towns viewed girls at that age with a singular horror, how the world has changed, how I have changed.

I’m fine thank you.

We snaked through the French countryside and the weather turned from scorched olive trees to lashing rain on the bleak wet fields. The hours dragged on, my new friend wanted to make conversation and being a well brought up little boy I tried. But we had been to two very different Italy’s.
My Italy was of sun drenched lunches in the Roman hills playing tag between the grape vines and dinner late at night by the Trevi fountain.

God what a spoiled brat I was, am.

Hers was of screaming kids and expensive ice cream on a litter strewn Lido.
The Rome Express had now slowed down to a snails pace and my new friend was trying to make me eat jam sandwiches on that special white bread that only the British would make.

Any Prosciutto?

A look of horror spread across her anxious face, in those far off days probably the most exotic thing she had ever eaten was an Avocado, whereas I had spent three weeks being force fed, pasta and salami and stinky cheese and wonderful breads and pizza and tomatoes the size of fists and fresh anchovies and muscles in garlic sauce and was now without doubt a floppy haired 14 year old authority on Italian food..

Forigen food is bad for you.

I stared hard at the jam sandwich and being a polite well brought up little boy asked.

Would you like a glass of wine’ it’s from Tuscany.
What!
You shouldn’t be drinking at your age
Er Why?
Well because, Err, I will talk to your mummy when we get back.

The train was now so slow I was excitedly peering out of the window waiting for Mr. Big to attack the train and James Bond to rescue us, unfortunately my new friend beared not the slightness resemblance to Jane Seymour.

We are sorry but…

Boring, nothing exciting every happens.

The train is being diverted to Boulogne.

We were supposed to be going to Calais, my new friend muttered dark things about foreigners with especial reference to the French. I couldn’t care less, perhaps we had been high jacked by the French, but that didn’t work as a fantasy as they all rode around on bicycles in stripy shirts wearing chains of garlic. As this seemed improbable idea I ate another jam sandwich, not even homemade jam or Umbrian bread, obviously as an Italian food expert I knew these things and sighed in disappointment. The uneventful hours passed being quizzed on the iniquities of my parents abandoning me in a foreign country when we arrived, finally in Boulogne.
The boat dock was full to heaving, in the little shelter provided, I struggled with my oversized case and tried to keep dry. Everyone was shouting and complaining, the rain sheeted down whipped into a blizzard by the howling wind. Bugger I wish I was back in Italy.

Oh well, here goes.

Looking floppy haired and a bit bedraggled, I forced my way through the complaining throng. I played the Timmi nice bit dim card, something I do to this day and someone will always rescue me. In this case a nice French sailor who deposited me in one of the lounges and stowed my bag on a high shelf which I had no chance of recovering and gave me a pat on the bum.

Umm.

Where’s your mummy
Oh bugger off
I headed off to explore, the ferry over was smelly but this was far far worse with lots and lots more people. What was going on? It didn’t look like we were about to be attacked by pirates and nobody seemed to be smuggling Nazi gold, but the crowds of people did look like the refugees I had seen on TV, were we at War? Something was going on. Fighting through the crowds I headed for the deck, just as I was about to attempt the door, it swung open and I was hit by a fearsome blast of wind and rain which nailed me to the wall. A towering figure in a yellow Sou Wester shot through water pouring off him, a pond forming on the cabin floor as he struggled to close it again.

Stay here sonny, its rough out there.

Being a well brought up little boy, I was always taught that if there was a problem I was to ask a policeman, but on a ferry in Boulogne there was little chance of a policeman, but the nice man in the blue suit with gold bits, looked similar.

Excuse me
Yes sonny
What’s happening?

Perhaps this trip was going to be more exciting than I thought. The boat I was on, was going to be the first to leave France in two days as a force 9 gale had whipped up a storm in the channel and every boat train and car attempting to leave France had been diverted, so the ferry was going to be full, very full. That sounded ominous.

Best go back to your mummy.

As my parents had no idea of the value of money my ten pounds, which was not a lot even then was now about fifty pence, just enough for a few cups of Hot chocolate. So I wandered around the ever filling ferry with a plastic tumbler of plastic chocolate, listening to happy family’s argue and moan.

Eeh, I think it was that mayo, mayon, mayyonaiseee

After what seemed like forever the ferry was full, I had never seen so many people in my life and why did nobody speak English? These people came from somewhere called East End, I wonder where that is?
Finally having successfully avoided anyone calling me Sony and funny men, which was a shame as I was a bit bored and could do with a good laugh, the ferry departed the shores of France in a deafening howl of horns.
Dodging between men in Sou Westers I got to the deck and huddled behind lifeboat so my shorts didn’t get wetter than they already were and slowly slowly the ferry pulled away from France.

Gosh

Just past the protection of the port we were hit by a massive wave and the ferry slewed to one side and seemed to rear up thirty feet.

Cool, this was great.

From inside there was a collective howl of despair, but the ship sailed on relentlessly out into the black channel night. I wonder if all ships did this?

What the fuck are you doing here?
Err? Looking at the sea.
Get inside, NOW!

The large yellow Sou Wester threw me back into the loving warmth of the ferry which smelt even funnier than before. The ship dropped again so I grabbed hold of the nearest thing, a grey faced woman in a plastic mac.

OH MY GOD

I’d been called a lot of things but never that, a collective moan went up around me.

Gosh what a lot of people, don’t they look funny.

The ships horns blared again.

OH MY GOD

Gosh what a lot of fuss people make. The ship had reared up again and from the safety of the lounge I could see water shooting up the sides of the boat before crashing down on the sodden deck in an almighty roar.

Wow

The lady in the Mac threw up, missing me by inches.

Errr, Nasty

The ship slewed to one side and those few of us still standing were tipped along with the luggage onto the other side of the lounge. Someone screamed.

This was fun.

Well it would be apart from the funny smell and the vomit on the floor. I wandered around the boat, no one asked me where my mummy was. That was a first, everyone was to busy moaning and groaning and avoiding other people being sick.

I am sure the Queen would not behave like this.

The boat dropped again and slewed the other way, water crashed down on the deck as the horns tried to protect us against the deafening sound of the raging sea. After a few hours the stench inside was appalling, I had given up looking for Nazi’s and Pirates it was all too exciting anyway, even the sailors were not interested in me any more. The Ferry dropped and reared every few minutes and the nice man with the gold bits was looking a bit funny.

The café had closed, no customers I suppose all very annoying as I wanted a cup of Hot Chocolate. The café floor was a minefield of cups, trays and half eaten full English breakfasts, the other half now was on the floor of the lounge.

Uggg

The horns blared and the ship listed badly to one side. We were halfway over, people screamed. Panic set in as everything not bolted down smashed itself against the far wall and people flew through the air. I gripped a pillar.

This is fun and not a Nazi in sight.

I later discovered I hugged that pillar for almost five hours, which was very boring for a 14 year old floppy haired expert on Italian food, but the people screaming every few minutes added a certain frisson as the Ferry dropped, reared and tried to roll over.

Eventually a cheer went up from the grey sick people as the lights of Dover hoved into view on the far horizon. By now the boat was only bouncing up and down fifty feet or so on each wave, pretty calm by