At My Mother's Knee (35 page)

There are many lonely places on the planet but none so bleak
as the stop for the overnight X61 Crossville Coach for
London. Standing there waiting, alone and feeling sorry
for myself, watching the last bus pulling out of Woodside
terminus as I braced myself against the biting December wind
that howled up the hill from the river, I wanted nothing more
than to pick up my holdall and go home to my nice warm bed
and the security of 23 Holly Grove and pretend that the whole
ridiculous turn of affairs hadn't happened – but I couldn't. I'd
burned my bridges, and having made the decision to go off to
London, or Virginia Water or wherever it was Proprietor
T. Brailey was sending me, I had to stick to it.

London was everything I thought it would be. At five thirty in the morning I woke from a brief and fitful sleep to the
delights of the Finchley Road. My God, this was it, this was
London. My stomach was doing cartwheels and I silently
willed the coach to go faster as I looked out of the window trying
to spot a recognizable landmark. Driving past the white
Regency houses of Regent's Park towards Park Lane I nearly
leaped out of the coach. These houses are only the same ones
that were used as locations in
The Avengers
, I wanted to
scream excitedly at my fellow passengers. Look at that big
white house, that was in 'You'll Catch Your Death'.

There were half a dozen people scattered about the coach.
Aunty Chris would've described them as 'lost souls on life's
highway, all with a story to tell'. (Aunty Chris was a big fan of
The Untouchables
. She looked upon the late night café at
Woodside Ferry as if it were a painting by Hopper and wore
her black mac with the collar up and belted tightly at the waist,
imagining herself as a world-weary gal who had bin dun
wrong, as indeed she had.) She'd have loved the loners on the
coach and would've spent the trip imagining reasons for their
being there. 'See that one sat at the back? You know why she's
going to London, don't you? Why do you think? For an
abortion, God help her. Men, they make me sick.'

Outside the Playboy club on Park Lane was a bright red
Lotus Europa Mark II, exactly the same as Tara King's. It was
an omen. London was going to be exactly as I'd imagined. It
wouldn't be long before I had a mews house tucked away
behind the Houses of Parliament, I told myself encouragingly,
maybe even have a Lotus myself parked outside the Playboy
club.

The coach swept past Buckingham Palace on its last lap
towards
Victoria Coach Station
. Someone shouted that the flag
was up, which meant the Queen was home and was probably
still in bed. I tried to imagine the Queen in bed. Did she sleep
with a head full of rollers and a chiffon scarf? What side of the bed did she sleep on? How far did she have to run if she
wanted to go to the lav in the middle of the night? Did she have
an electric blanket . . . and a Teasmade? My excitement
quickly turned to nerves as the coach pulled in and stopped at
the station. This was it – I was finally in
London
.

First things first. I checked the time of the coach to Virginia
Water. The journey, I was told, took just over an hour, which
meant that the Wheatsheaf was hardly 'just round the corner
from Piccadilly Circus' as I'd thought up to now. The penny
finally dropped. I'd been stitched up like a kipper by Thelma
bloody Brailey. Well, since I was here I might as well give it a
go. My initial nervousness had gone and I was feeling fairly
optimistic and desperate to explore the city. I had at least eight
hours to kill before I needed to be in Virginia Water, which
meant the best part of the day could be spent doing just what
I wanted. I went down into the gents' lav to give my face a
swill and clean my teeth. I could hear my mother's voice as I
got a whiff of piss and bleach.

'If you have to use a public lav when you're out be very careful
– you get all sorts in there. Always go into a cubicle to do
your business, even if you only want to stand up. You don't
want some dirty old sod looking at your willy.' Looking at some
of the dubious characters hanging around I remembered her
wise words and, paying my penny, went into one of the lock-ups.

The graffiti was fascinating, as were the graphic illustrations
of crudely drawn men with highly exaggerated and oversized
penises doing strange, and what looked like physically impossible,
things to each other. Victoria Coach Station's very
own
Kama Sutra
. I sat there engrossed. There was a hole in the
wall the size of a halfcrown, and I froze as I realized that there
was an eye peering through it at me. I slapped my hand over
the hole and dragging my trousers up ran out of the cubicle. I
stood at the sink and splashed my burning face with water.
There was the sound of a toilet flushing and a door opening behind me, and I could see in the mirror the owner of the eye
casually toddling over to the sink next to me. I took a sly look
at him. He was little and fat with a bald patch and a combover.
He was wearing a black and white top and tight black
trousers, and there were traces of white make-up and lipstick
on his puffy face. He looked like a swollen Marcel Marceau.

''Ello, love,' he said matter-of-factly, stroking his eyebrow in
the mirror. I gave him a curt nod that my mother would've been
proud of. He glanced around to see if we were being observed
before slowly leaning over and slyly grabbing my crotch. 'Nice
carts, dear,' he simpered, giving me a good squeeze. I leaped ten
feet in the air and let out a strangled shriek.

'All right, dear, no need to scream the fuckin' cottage down,'
Marcel said, swishing past me in a huff. 'You fuckin' feely
hommies shouldn't be getting it out if you don't want trade,'
he added, swanning up the stairs.

I had no idea what he was talking about. I'd yet to learn
Polari, the language of the queens, and for all I knew he
could've been speaking Polish with an East End accent. If this
was a London homo then I was bitterly disappointed. He
looked nothing like the sophisticated models who stood
around casually in their underpants, pointing out something of
great interest in the distance to a colleague who also happened
to be in his vest and underpants while he enjoyed his pipe, on
page 342 of my mother's catalogue.

I had a cup of tea in the café to gather my wits before dumping
my holdall in left luggage and venturing out for a wander.
It was still dark; it was also cold and I was suddenly aware of
how tired I was. My eyes itched and burned and my lips were
dry and sore, but I brightened up when I stumbled upon Eaton
Place. This was where the Bellamy family and their staff lived
in
Upstairs, Downstairs
. This was the very street that the
defiant Sarah marched down after walking out on a life below
stairs to seek a career on the 'alls. London was like a giant film set and Eaton Place particularly unreal in the half-light of the
early morning. I knew then why I had come to London. It was
beautiful.

I made my way to Victoria Station to find the tube. I had no
idea about the mysteries of the London Underground and
spent half an hour studying the tube map on the station wall,
trying to make sense of the coloured lines as I plotted my
course to
Piccadilly
Circus. I'd read an article in my dad's
Sunday paper entitled 'Twenty-four Hours in the Life of
Piccadilly Circus' and noticed with interest that 'homosexuals
lurked' (
sic
) under the arches of the Fire Insurance Building.
The journalist went on to say that this was a well-known
'haunt' of male prostitutes and their homosexual clientele.
Maybe I'd be mistaken for a male prostitute and be whisked
off my feet to some millionaire playboy's pad to become his
plaything.

I'll never forget my first glimpse of Piccadilly Circus, climbing
the stairs from the confusing bowels of the underground
with the anticipation of a child into Regent Street and a burst
of light to find that the sun had risen and it was a bright crisp
morning. I found myself outside a shop called Swan and
Edgar's (now Tower Records). It was still early and the shop
was closed, but even if it had been open I wouldn't have had
the nerve to go in. It looked too posh. To my right was the
statue of Eros, although I knew from my ma that it was really
Eros's twin Anteros and that it was a monument to Lord
Shaftesbury; to my left were the neon hoardings and the arches
of the Fire Insurance Building.

I stood drinking it all in. I no longer felt tired; I was
exhilarated by the mere fact that I was actually standing in the
centre of London. Piccadilly bloody Circus. Crossing the road
towards the Fire Building I looked to see if I could spot any
male prostitutes 'haunting' the arches, not that I had any idea
what a male prostitute looked like, but it was disappointingly deserted. I hung around for a bit to see if I could tempt any
millionaires who might be driving past on their way home
from a smart nightclub in their Bentleys or E-type Jags and
'looking for a bit of company', but there was nothing doing.
Business must be slack of a Saturday morning. I felt stupid
leaning on the railings and besides, hunger was beginning to
get the better of me, so I went in search of breakfast. In
Denman Street I found the New Piccadilly Café. It was like
stepping back in time to the fifties: Formica tables with chairs
covered in bright plastic, glass coffee cups and saucers and a
large horseshoe-shaped menu displaying the bill of fare, yet
another exciting and eccentric location in London's film set for
me to play in. It was unsophisticated, strangely comforting
and, most important, cheap. I ordered the full English and a
cup of tea.

'You enjoying that, my friend?' the man behind the counter
shouted over to me as I shovelled down the food. 'Where you
from?' he asked as he brought my tea over to the table. He told
me his name was Lorenzo and that his father had opened the
café in the early fifties. 'Brasses on every corner and bloody
Budapest street rats fighting the Bubble and squeaks in the
street,' he told me, speaking yet another language that I didn't
understand.

I told him a condensed version of my tale, trying to make the
Wheatsheaf Hotel sound like the most marvellous place on
earth.

'Ah, hotel life,' Lorenzo said sadly, shaking his head and
going back to his counter. 'It's very hard life.' He brightened up
enough when I was leaving to wish me good luck and tell me to
visit again soon. I assured him I would but had no inkling that
this was no idle promise, as I was to be a customer of the New
Piccadilly Café for over three decades until it was finally closed
down to make way for 'development' in December 2007.

In Great Windmill Street opposite the theatre there was a shop that had a noticeboard in the window. I read the strange
assortment of cards pinned up on the board with drawing pins
and tried to make sense of them. There was a lady who gave
enemas to discerning gentlemen and another who was a nanny
and claimed that she was particularly good at dealing with
naughty boys and bed-wetters. These I could more or less
understand, but the others?
Large Chest for Sale, Soho. Phone
Miss Blossom
, or
TV and Wardrobe for Sale, Marble Arch
and
Old Chair Bottoms Re-Caned. Phone Miss Swish
. What did it
mean, I asked myself, why were all the single women in the
area selling off their furniture?

Here was a woman who had a rubber mackintosh and boots
for sale. Were times so hard she was having to sell off her mac
and wellies? And another poor soul forced to give tango
lessons at a very strict tempo in a Soho garret. Obviously not
everyone found gold paving stones in London then.

I puzzled over those cards for years until a friend eventually
put me right. I genuinely had no idea that they were
euphemisms for something else entirely that had nothing at all
to do with the sale or repair of second-hand furniture or
clothing.

I wandered round Savile Row, New Bond Street and Oxford
Street. London had started to come to life but the big crowds
were yet to descend and I was able to study
Selfridges
'
Christmas windows in peace. The theme was Alice in
Wonderland. There was a film of the same name being released
in the New Year and the producers obviously saw Selfridges'
windows as the perfect place for a plug. They really were outstanding,
though, dressed with sets and costumes from the
forthcoming film. I stood there for a good half-hour, amazed
by the detail in the incredible costumes and the ingenuity of the
sets. I was used to Blackler's Dancing Waters and papier-mâché
puppets – I'd never seen anything of this quality before. This
was pure magic.

I was hovering round the door, contemplating whether to go
inside or not, when a woman swept past me. It was Honor
Blackman. Cathy Gale, the original Avenger girl who had left
to become Bond girl Pussy Galore, had just brushed past me in
a huge white coat. The doorman greeted her and she replied in
that unmistakable voice. I'm surprised I didn't have a seizure.
I tore after her through the perfume and make-up department,
beginning to feel an empathy with Alice as she chased the
White Rabbit, not that I was or am a fan of Alice. Personally I
think she was a snotty little prig and I wish I'd sat behind her
in school so I could've put chewing gum in her hair.

Standing by each counter, an assortment of women with hair
higher than a Maori's hut and startlingly thick make-up posed
with bottles of perfume enquiring if 'Madam would like to
test?' Honor Blackman swept past them all, declining their
offers; she was probably very particular about what sort of
scent she used, I thought. She would wear something heady
and sensual from Paris that was so expensive that a six-ounce
bottle was the same price as a house in Lowther Street. She
reeked of elegance anyway and didn't need or want a blast of
Blue Jeans, the discerning woman. I studied her as she
examined a pot of cream, putting it back quickly with a polite
but firm 'No thank you'. God, she was elegant. She had hardly
any make-up on, but she made those living shop-window
dummies hawking their wares and spraying their noxious
scents look like a raddled grab bag of overpainted drag queens.
I desperately wanted to go over and speak to her but I didn't
have the bottle, and I didn't want her to think that I was a
crazed fan, autograph book in hand, stalking her around
Selfridges. Instead I watched her, John Steed's right-hand
woman, rise majestically up on the escalator and out of sight.