Egg Meat Songtext
von Ivor Cutler

In November 1956 I visited Vienna, a week after the Russians
Invaded Budapest and throttled the Hungarian revolution while the
World looked helplessly on. This is what I wrote two days later
I have not long returned from the Hungarian border and was as near to
Budapest as Oxford is to London. I am still there, and to me now the
Grey November flatness round London Airport as I returned is the same
Grey November flatness of the Hungary I had just been near. They
Merge. One night I am playing Shylock at the Memorial Theatre
Stratford-on-Avon, applying false blood to my left cheek; the next
Afternoon I am in a transit camp for the refugees watching
The real blood congealed on the cheek of a girl from Budapest
Who had been shot at. I am standing in a large icy room in an
Immense country house which till last year was Russian-
Occupied and since has been empty, derelict, bare, the mouldering
Shell of a great mansion that looked as if it was slowly dying
Of a wasting disease. Not a stick of furniture. Through the
Window I saw a lorry stacked with kitchen chairs being unloaded
An Austrian doctor had brought us from Vienna. They told
Me afterwards he had not been to bed for three nights
"Before the war," he said, as he got into his white coat


"This was beautiful Kolleg. Schön I was Student hier."
With us was a Hungarian welfare worker from London, and we were
Helping her unpack the great sacks of clothing she had brought
Onto brown paper on the floor. There was everything from socks
And pullovers to what I discovered were called "nursery brassieres"
- Could have been "nursing brassieres". There was even one pair
Of gigantic bloomers and a "very good fur coat". Through the
Doorless doorway for hours and hours they filed, men, women
Children, slowly, patiently, a procession that has no end. I suppose
I expected sobbing, hysteria, but these people, except for their
Clothes, were absolutely normal, alert, polite working-class folk
"They are all workers," the doctor said, "and they are
Turning their backs on Communism. Is it not wonderful?"
A Red Cross nurse squeezed past them, and a nun, both with bulky
Handbags. From crates they began to distribute little bundles
Of soap and towel. Why had I noticed the handbags, I thought
And then I realised it was because these two were carrying
Something. In that endless queue nobody was carrying anything at
All, and except for a stray mother and baby there were no groups
No families. Although they were all together they were also alone
As I helped two women to fit boots they looked at me, puzzled
And obviously asked what nationality I was. The Hungarian lady
Explained me to them and then translated for me. "I say to them
" She said, beaming, "that you are beautiful English actress."
I bowed and they bowed. Then the boy, fifteen, shivering, naked
To the waist under his thin jacket, ragged trousers drooping
Over gumboots, completed his costume. In five minutes, to his
Incredulous delight, he was transformed - a sweater, rather too
Big, red gloves, a smart London raincoat and a bright blue beret
There was a box of these berets, all colours of the rainbow
And they seemed to fit everybody. Each man, after getting into
Shirt or pullover, would perch one of these bright incongruous
Confections unselfconsciously on his head, bow his thanks, walk out
Then a little woman with waved hair with a slide in it. You might
See her any morning doing her shopping in any English street, except
That she wore a ragged man′s jacket, which two of her could have
Got into, and a skirt of brown sacking, like a blacksmith's apron
Over what looked like putties made of old bicycle tyres. Across her
Cheek she had a rough bandage, while under the coat her left shoulder
And breast were in some sort of plaster. She tried on a cardigan
Talking and smiling and shrugging as she did so. The doctor
Interpreted. "The Russians burn the houses," he said. "The family
Runs out, one one way, one another
Some are shot, her family is lost."
She curtseyed her thanks, picked up a little plastic doll
Studied it with childish wonder. Then she spoke again. "
She say," said the doctor, "that when the Russian troops come
To Budapest now they not know where they are and they shout ′
But where is this Canal Suez, where is this Canal Suez?'"
She suddenly pointed to her bandage and shook her fist. "
She say," said the doctor, "that she was street fighter
And the Russians hit her, so she cannot fight, but tomorrow
She is better and she goes back into Hungary to fight the
Russians more. She does not like the Russians, you know."
The street fighter picked up the great pair of bloomers, draped them
Across her whole body, giggled helplessly, put them back, curtseyed
And went. An Austrian Red Cross nurse turned to me as she handed
Out her hundredth towel and soap and said in English, "How is
Cranmer Court, Kensington? Before the war I was housekeeper for
Diplomatic Service, but Cranmer Court
Is very much different from this."
Three boys of seventeen answered the doctor's questions as
They tried on lumberjackets. They looked tired, but you would
Have guessed they were hikers after an uneventful holiday
They seemed more interested in the jackets. "There were nine
" The doctor said, "but now four - the five were killed."
One tried on a mauve beret with two yellow tassels
And the others dug him in the ribs, delighted
The lady helper clapped her hands. "Ach, so elegant!"
"They say," said the doctor, "they say that now when no
More guns they put petrol in bottle with match and throw
It at the Russian tanks. They do not wish fighting but
They have to fight because they wish to stay in home."
The four left, each with a beret on the back of his head
And studying an object which each had been given, smelling it
Gingerly as if it might explode. An English cigarette. By now
The doctor was talking to a fresh-faced country girl with a
Scarf over her flaxen hair. She was smiling and placid. She
Was markedly pregnant. The doctor said something to her
Smiling, and then to me, "Ah yes," he said, "Christmas, mmm-hmm."
It seemed an incongruous subject. Then he held up a minute woollen
Vest before her, saying to me, "He is to be born in Christmas."
"Yes, but where?"She felt the softness of the wool with
Incredulous pleasure, tucked it into her pocket and walked
Out, heavy, serene, while an ancient and weather-beaten
Old farmer looked impassively on from under a pixie hood
The oldest pixie that ever set fire to a bottle of petrol
An English press photographer talked to me as he knelt on the
Floor to snap a little girl who was staring at a tiny teddy-bear
"Yes," he said, "we just pulled out in time. I don′t mind saying
This little effort has shaken me to the core." He talked in fits
And starts as he hopped about with his camera. "I′ve seen things
" He said, "I can never forget. Do you have to take your hat off
To them when you see school kids being mowed down in the street?
Bloody murder, that's all that is. I thought I was hardened
I′d heard about the morgue, but when you see them stacked up
It's all they can do, I mean, like a butcher′s shop. 'Nein, nein
′ He said to the mother who was trying to comb the child's hair with
Her fingers, 'lassen Sie bitte, they will try to tidy them up.′"
"The weird thing about the Russians," he went on, "is that you never
See any. They′re all inside the tanks. You'd be walking down a
Street, then a rumble, you see everybody making for a doorway, you′re
Last in, the tank whizzes by, splaying the bullets right and left
Like a water-carrier." Then he told me about the collection-box. "
Middle of the night," he said, "everything raging, fires, the lot
You talk about the British being honest—you know, putting pennies in
A cap on Piccadilly and taking up your evening paper while the
Paperman's gone to see a man about a dog. Well, in Pest, they had
Their big box on the island in the middle, nobody guarding it, for
People to put their contributions into, for the resistance
You see, and not a penny was stolen, and they′d even
Got the convicts out of jail to help, and you saw them
Examining the box, puzzled, and then putting the money back
And more money pouring, and not a speck of looting."
By this time all the clothing had been distributed except the
Out-sized bloomers—there are certain things a woman will not
Do even at a time of national disaster—and, oddly enough, the
Handsome fur coat. I suppose it would have been too conspicuous
"They're dead honest," this photographer continued. "Did
You notice nobody pushes, they just get into the queue?"
The queue! I thought, and realised where I′d seen this scene
Before. 1940, the Blitz, the refugees—all this was completely
Believable as happening to British people. Then I remembered
A remark a Hungarian had made on the plane from London
"We are on the British border?" he said. I had to think
For a minute, looked down, and I saw water. "Yes," I said
"Oh, I forgot," he said, without a trace of
Irony, "you have for border the English Canal."
I thought, if one could walk from Dover to Calais, such a situation
As this Hungarian one would be possible. Cranmer Court would not be
So very much different. Boulogne would no longer be the joke holiday
Resort where you go for a naughty French day-trip; it might be the
Same huge refugee transit camp. And I'm proud to think that we would
Behave as well as the Hungarians are doing in their little effort
I looked out into the November dusk of the courtyard. I could see
Those coloured berets bobbing up and down in the gloom like gallant
Flowers. In this black and desperate hour they need help, these
Homeless, aimless, proud, dazed, brave people who do not wish
Fighting but have to fight because they wish to stay in home, people
Typified by the woman walking serenely and heavily out of that room
Holding a square of wool. He is to be born in Christmas. But where?