My Father Sat on Winston Churchill
It was 1943. My father had just been voted the Prettiest Boy in Gozo. He was four-and-a-half-years old and, judging from the crumbling photographs he still insists on showing everyone, looked rather like Shirley Temple. His duties were to act as a mascot during the Gamm ta’ L-isfargel Quince Festival. This mainly involved dressing as Little Lord Fauntleroy, and climbing a stepladder and pinning St John the Apostle badges onto members of the Civil Service. But on Saturday, he also got to receive any VIP guests arriving at the Port of Marsaxlokk.
During the previous year, Malta had earned the highly dubious honour of becoming the Most Heavily Bombed Place on Earth. So said a plaque fixed to a giant monument of Valettian limestone, which, for at least twelve months, enjoyed the irony of being the only piece of construction in Malta not reassembled from rubble. Both Hitler and Mussolini had dive-bombed, torpedoed and strafed the small clutch of Mediterranean islands with everything they had. I appreciate they didn’t do it personally, but my guess is they were responsible for it somewhere along the line. For the Axis powers, the country was a stepping stone to the oil fields of Persia. For the Allies, Malta was the keystone to victory in North Africa. By the year’s end, though, there was no food, no fuel, no ammunition, no roads and nowhere to live. My father and his family were actually sleeping in a cave. For their troubles, the Maltese were awarded the St George Cross. Just the one, though. Presumably, they all got to wear it on some sort of roster basis.
By the next Christmas, things would be very different. Italy had surrendered, rebuilding had begun, the quinces were bountiful, rabbits could be heard singing (although only according to Crazy Joe Muscat, the Town Lunatic) and arriving at the Port of Marsaxlokk on the evening of the 24th were Winston Churchill, Franklin D Roosevelt and King George VI. They disgorged from their launch, armed with gifts for the populace (toys for the children, cigars for the menfolk and lingerie for the ladies), waving and smiling, and getting covered in what they took to be confetti but was, in fact, desiccated coconut stolen from the stores of the USS Ohio before it was scuttled. There to greet them was an impressive concord of local dignitaries headed by my four-and-a-half-year-old father. He got to shake hands with the King of England and was given a pair of silk stockings by President Roosevelt. The stockings later found their way into my great-grandmother’s Christmas stocking, which must have been confusing for her.
A lavish civic reception was held at the most magnificent mansion in all of Malta, the Torre Dei Cavalieri. The King was a big fan of bel canto opera, and it had been arranged for Maria Callas to sail over from Greece and sing selections from Donizetti, his favourite. Unfortunately, she couldn’t come for some reason and so my father, a precocious child even then, took her place. The fact that he couldn’t speak Italian, let alone sing it, did not, on his telling, detract from the fun of the evening. ‘I just la-la-la-ed,’ he says proudly today. Apparently, His Majesty very much enjoyed my father’s scat version of Lucia di Lammermoor, and did not at any stage of the evening ring up Hitler and ask him to resume bombing. I can only assume that the sound of Donizetti spinning in his grave like a turbine carried sufficiently from Lombardy to drown out the whole travesty.
It had been a wonderful night; wine had flowed, legs had danced and the travails of ’42 had been, if not forgotten, then politely not mentioned. But the evening was not over yet. Roosevelt stood up and tapped his glass for attention. An aide leaned into him and reminded him he was in a wheelchair. Roosevelt quickly sat down again. ‘My friends,’ he announced. ‘For many months we have wanted to pay some little tribute to you who have contributed so much to democracy, not just here but all over the civilised world. In the name of the people of the United States of America, I salute the island of Malta, its people and defenders, who, in the cause of freedom and justice and decency throughout the world, have rendered valorous service far above and beyond the call of duty. Under repeated fire from the skies, Malta stood alone, but unafraid in the centre of the sea, one tiny bright flame in the darkness – a beacon of hope for the clearer days which have come. What was done in this island maintains the highest traditions of gallant men and women who from the beginning of time have lived and died to preserve civilisation for all mankind.’ Rapturous applause filled the room and then, just as it started to leave, the President turned to King George VI and nodded that it was his turn. His Majesty removed the blow-tweeter from his mouth. ‘Ditto,’ he exclaimed. The petering applause continued on its way out with barely a look over its shoulder. ‘But tonight,’ continued the King in an effort to salvage the moment, ‘Christmas comes to Malta!’ With a majestic sweep of his hand he gestured to the door and who should stagger in but Santa Claus himself.
Churchill, dressed in a long red fireman’s coat and straw beard, was distributing candy canes to the clamouring children. A photographer from It Torca’s social column wanted a picture and Churchill was happy to oblige. He pulled up a gherkin barrel, plucked my father from the crowd, sat him on his knee and beamed at the camera. The flashbulb burst, startling my father a little, and his head shot back into Churchill’s chin with a crack. Ash from Churchill’s half-smoked Romeo y Julieta brushed against the ostrich feather in my father’s Fauntleroy cap, igniting it. The alarm was consistent with that which would greet the sight of a votive candle, but Churchill was nothing if not a man of overreaction. Like a rapidly uncoiled jaguar, he sprang, seeking to extinguish the flickering plume with the nearest available liquid, which, regrettably, was in the brandy balloon he was holding. Fortunately, velveteen is naturally flame retardant and so my father’s head was spared any major damage, although he never did manage to regrow his full crop of golden curls and was thus never again to feel within his grasp the prize of being Gozo’s Prettiest Boy. In fact, sixty-three years later, he’s now as bald as a doorknob. Not due to Churchill so much as to male pattern baldness. Still, he’ll continue entering.
Hope springs eternal.
This piece originally appeared in ‘The Age’.
Shaun Micallef is a Melbourne-based writer, producer, actor and comedian, and the host of ‘Talkin’ ’bout Your Generation’, on Network Ten. His 2004 book, ‘Smithereens’, is well worth tracking down.
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