33 East

by Susannah Rickards

  (The first of these parties will use members of the local Youth Theatre, playing an earlier generation version of themselves, thereby again fulfilling the requirements of our intergenerational funding application. The second will provide ample opportunities for school groups to engage in a sociological study of the white working class in late 1960s Britain and their attitudes to their own emigration, while geography students will no doubt benefit from studying the route of the Family of Four’s subsequent journey on the Shaw Saville Southern Cross – taking in Trinidad and Tobago, the Panama Canal and several of the Polynesian Islands.)

  Lead-up to the Finale

  This section of the promenade will feature a firework display on Woolwich Common, using – as is appropriate for the location – live ammunition. It will be supervised by those of the MoD currently stationed there, and will use the toddlers from the Woolwich Common Nursery School to create a tableau displaying Woolwich’s history from its Iron Age beginnings, through the founding of the dockyard, the establishment of the Military Academy, the incorporation with London, and finally the opening of the UK’s first branch of McDonald’s in the town centre. The walk back downhill will take in various art deco delights and will allow the recreation of another landmark moment, that of Sister 1’s regular flight from the back of an old Routemaster at the roundabout between the two deco cinemas. This fare-dodging tactic was well known in the late 1960s and will be recreated here by a team of acrobats on board an original Routemaster bus, brought out of retirement for this purpose.

  The Finale

  The audience and all performers will by now have re-grouped outside Woolwich Town Hall, the doors will then open and, as if they are rising from the black and white tiled floor, an assemblage of market stall holders, all dressed in black and white, will erupt from the Town Hall. They will lead the audience through to the market where, with a medley of traditional British songs, and very much in the style of Stanley Holloway in My Fair Lady, they will begin a simple routine of dances designed to allow the public to join in. When the audience are sufficiently engaged, the music and the routine will then change to the now theatrically obligatory (but nonetheless enjoyable for that) Bollywood form. The black and white attire of the market holders will turn inside out to reveal a multitude of colours.

  We expect that by now, with public and performers engaged together, there will be upwards of 500+ people, dancing, singing and enjoying learning the simple routines together in a dance route that takes in Woolwich Market and the waterfront.

  At the waterfront, the Sisters will again divide the group into two : Sister 1 will lead the first group underneath the river via the Woolwich Foot Tunnel, while Sister 2 takes the second group over the river on the Woolwich Car Ferry.

  When all audience and performers have assembled on the north side of the Thames, the Thames Barrier will be raised and lowered, synchronised in time with the pulsing Bollywood beat.

  Then, from the southern shore, the assembled audience will see the Green Man rise above Oxleas Wood, walking downhill to the township of Woolwich. Sited comfortably beside the Woolwich Leisure Centre, the Green Man will then beckon the people back from the less-popular north to the glorious south.

  (Operated by cranes, and held together by a simple yet effective pulley system, the Green Man is actually made of 504 metre-long canoes which, when laid end-to-end, span the width of the Thames at this point.)

  The Green Man comes to the edge of the water, his powerful and enticing voice now clear above the music, and lays himself down across the water, so that our audience and performers can walk back across the Thames, on a bridge made of his linked, upturned canoes.

  When all have crossed safely, the Green Man will reassemble for a moment before sinking beneath the river.

  (All the canoes are attached to miniature buoys and will be retrievable the following morning.)

  One last chorus as one remaining rocket lights the sky, then there is a final glimpse of the Green Man beneath the water, and the show is over.

  Sisters 1 and 2 will lead the audience back to the centre where they will enjoy a pie and mash supper (vegetarian options available) before boarding their respective forms of transport and heading home.

  Predicted outcomes :

  increased interest in the areas surrounding the thriving centre of Woolwich, such as Greenwich, Blackheath, Shooters Hill – areas that usually do not benefit from Woolwich’s high recognition factor among tourists/theatre-goers which will also enjoy the knock-on effect of those audience members who choose to stay overnight and look around the next day.

  through showing the better-known history of Woolwich it is envisioned that audiences will become more interested in the history of the whole area, and may even be persuaded to visit the Greenwich Museums, Eltham Palace etc.

  Final statement

  We, of Two Sisters Arts, are committed to sharing our vision, and to bringing the prosperity and privilege enjoyed by the lucky denizens of Woolwich to all. As children allowed to roam free across Woolwich Common, through bomb sites, and derelict Arsenal buildings, we know ‘our’ Woolwich offers a truer insight into the heart of London, than for many of those for whom home is a 1930s semi, an Edwardian mansion block apartment, or modern river-view penthouse. If successful in this grant application we pledge, not only to endeavour to share this good fortune within the wider reaches of the borough itself, but also to reach still further in future. We hope to share Woolwich’s privilege with those eking out a living in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, the many suffering in Islington, and maybe even to those languishing in the outer reaches of Richmond upon Thames.

  We aim high, and with your help, Woolwich Tourist Board, we can do it.

  Two Sisters Arts, March 2010

  BEXLEY

  The Sugar House

  Emma Darwin

  Up in the elm tree the breeze catches my frock so that it flaps and flitters like a sooty flag, black muslin for Grandpapa Bean. In the sun my bow’s curly gold and the flights on the arrows are dark and fierce. I’m standing on the first thick branch and though there are few people about yet, I can hear everything… the clip and shush of the grooms as they take round the early morning feed, the clank of the scullery pump, the crooning pigeons and even the hoot of the first up train on Grandpapa’s railway over the hill at Abbey Wood.

  When Nannie took me to see him, I knew he was dead but for a moment I thought he’d turn his head and smile, the way he always did when we went in to say our Collect on Sundays. And then we got closer and I saw that he wasn’t there: that he’d gone. ‘To Jesus,’ said Nannie; ‘To God,’ said Grandmama; ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ said Mama, reading the Funeral Service to us all in the nursery, and crying the whole way through. Who will look after his railway now? I couldn’t help wondering. Who will make sure the rails are safe and the viaducts strong as the trains pound to and fro, full of girls like me and mothers and fathers, housemaids, soldiers, milk and chickens, parcels of silk and crates of china, letters from London and hops from Kent?

  Beyond the house the lawns are split by the blue of the lake, and the far side is a smudge of trees, some still winter-dark and others bright and new. I sling my bow over my shoulder again, and tuck the quiver into my sash. Then I climb higher, crook by crook, bark smooth under my hands, until I’m among the leaves.

  Driving through the park we glimpsed the house. Natasha’s only comment before we were past the gap in the trees was that it looked like a wedding cake, and how on earth was Grandpa Barber going to get up all those steps in his wheelchair? Always supposing he was still well enough to come.

  Big, dark, specimen trees and close-clipped hedges lined the road again. ‘There’ll be a lift somewhere,’ I said, giving her knee a friendly rub before I had to change down to turn into the car park. ‘Everywhere’s accessible these days.’ She said nothing, just shifted her knee out of range. ‘We only need have a quick look round.’

  ‘They’ll
give us the hard sell, Alex. Even party venues must be finding things tough.’

  ‘Okay, let’s pay to go round just like any tourist. Then if we think it’s a goer we can ask to speak to the events manager. It’s got to be better than upstairs at the Crown & Greyhound.’

  We left the car in the still empty car park with my cameras locked in the boot and walked back along the road, which was too narrow to have a proper pavement. A catering supplies truck passed us, close and fast over the speed bump, and Natasha flinched. ‘It’ll be much more expensive.’

  ‘Well, if it’s too much we’ll do something else,’ I said soothingly. On the gravel sweep before the house a notice said that Danson House opened at ten. My watch said ten to.

  ‘So now what do we do?’ said Natasha. ‘Don’t forget I’ve got to be at the Refugee Council by one.’

  ‘And I’ve got to be at the studio at two. Shall we look round outside? We might be able to see the garden. If the weather’s like today–’

  ‘Yeah, right, in August. As if.’

  ‘There’d be plenty of inside if it isn’t.’ She didn’t answer. ‘Look, we can get round that way.’ I started to walk towards the trees to the left of the house, and she followed me. ‘It looks so imposing, but it’s not actually at all big, is it.’

  No, not big at all for a what you’d call a great house, but as perfect as something drawn by a talented child, and a precocious one too; it wasn’t a flight of fancy, not a gingerbread cottage or castle with towers like medieval hats, but a vision of the plainest, purest shapes: cubes, rectangles, triangles, half-hexagons. The classical forms, the golden mean, a building not earthy or even earthly, but spun from mathematics. And as we stood and looked at it, the sun came round and swept the dirty yellow-grey of early morning from every face, leaving each a pale, different gold.

  ‘If it is a wedding cake, then they haven’t put the white icing on yet,’ I said, one eye on Natasha. ‘It’s still marzipan.’

  She smiled, reluctantly perhaps, but then she reached up and pulled down my head to kiss me. We stayed like that for a while, and I thought how good she smelled in the cool warmth of the April sun: shampoo and toothpaste and her favourite scent, and under it all something so female… She rubbed her cheek across mine, and my heart turned over. ‘I love it when you’ve just shaved,’ she said. ‘It’s the only thing wrong with morning sex, but now…’

  ‘Mmm…’ I said, kissing her again. Her cheek was always softer against mine than I remembered. And so was her body, I thought. She pulled a little away from me, smiling, then snuggled back. ‘And morning sex, is, of course, Alexander Oyenusi, absolutely the only reason you offered me house room…’

  ‘It’s a fair cop, Miss,’ I said vaguely into that specially sweet bit under the corner of her jaw. After so many months of us taking it in turns to shuttle to and fro between London and Liverpool, for a whole month while she did this course I could go to sleep with her, I could wake up with her, reach for her, find her… and still every morning, every day, she was sweeter and more delicious than my memory could hold on to. I rested my chin on the top of her head. ‘Can we be like this forever?’

  She went rigid, then suddenly there was a yard of cold space between us. ‘Not you as well? Don’t tell me you’re thinking about weddings too!’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Tash,’ I said, taken aback. ‘Who said anything about weddings? It’s just a party for my Grandpa and Grandma, which I said I’d help with, and you said you would too.’

  ‘Yeah, okay,’ she said. ‘Look, they’re opening. Did you say there’s a café? I need some coffee, and then let’s get it over with.’

  Higher and higher and towards the light. There are more people down on the ground now, going about their business. There are two I don’t know; I settle myself astride a branch and look down properly. The lady looks cross, and the gentleman looks like a picture in the magazine that Grandmama reads about the African missions and all the people they help. When I was little and didn’t like my dinner, Nannie used to tell me not to be so fussy because I was lucky to have any when so many people were starving in Africa. Once I asked why I couldn’t send the toast crusts and rice pudding and sardines off to them in a parcel with plenty of stamps. I half expected a scolding, but she just laughed.

  The lady and gentleman are holding hands as if they’re getting married. But you can marry someone, and they die anyway, maybe not long after; they die, and leave you behind. Is it worse when you’ve only just learnt to love someone, or when you’ve loved them almost all your life? Is it worse to be the one dying, or the one left behind? Grandmama says she’ll be joining Grandpapa soon, that he’s happy in Heaven and she will be too. But she cries nonetheless, as if she doesn’t quite believe it.

  The café, the booklet said, was once the breakfast room of the house, and it had old photographs on the walls. Collodion prints by the local photographer, by the look of them: the gamekeeper outside his Gothick thatched cottage; a be-skirted little boy glaring uneasily at the camera; three young ladies dressed for a coming-out ball; an elderly gentleman reading a book to a pinafored girl of about twelve.

  There were french windows out onto the lawns but they weren’t open. ‘It’s a bit chilly still,’ the lady who brought us the coffee said. ‘Are you here for long? We might be opening them for lunchtime.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said, feeling Natasha shift uneasily beside me. ‘It’s a lovely house, though.’

  The waitress settled her tray on her hip. ‘Yes, it is, now it’s being looked after properly, after all the vandalism. Of course the grounds have changed. The elm disease was bad hereabouts – they lost a lot of trees. But inside… lucky they had all sorts of stuff – these photographs from the Bean family, and the Boyd things even older. Brings it alive, doesn’t it. Sometimes you can imagine the family’s only just stepped out for a breath of air… And where are you from?’

  ‘Biggin Hill,’ I said, and of course she said, ‘I mean, where are you really from?’

  ‘Biggin Hill.’ I said again. ‘Kentish born and bred.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ she said, and after a moment. ‘I’ll just get your croissants.’

  As she trotted off Natasha smiled at me and murmured, ‘Shall I tell her about my Russian grandfather? Just to confuse things?’

  ‘So which of your family can come?’ I asked, pulling out my phone. ‘Have you heard yet?’ There was a text waiting. ‘Oh good, Great-uncle Frank says yes.’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t asked. It’s bad enough having Granny with that look in her eye.’

  ‘What look?’ I asked, clicking on the list of my grandfather’s family. ‘Barber, Francis, hm, where are you?’

  ‘The isn’t it about time you and Alex got married look, of course… Mum even asked once! Asked, straight out! Alex, are you listening to me?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, and did.

  ‘Then will you please stop going on about the bloody guest list?’

  I put my phone away. ‘Sorry.’

  The waitress returned with our croissants.

  In the grand entrance hall the sun had barely had a chance to warm the stone or bring the marble busts to life, but the steward was keen to explain things. ‘John Boyd inherited a business importing and exporting sugar,’ he said. ‘It was the great industry of the eighteenth century, the way to make fortunes as railways were in the nineteenth. And he also owned a fort in West Africa, exporting slaves to work the sugar plantations in the West Indies.’

  No flicker at what he’d just said, but then he’d be used to talking to school trips. But Natasha said, ‘Ouch!’ and turned away to make for the first of the main rooms. I thanked him and followed, and saw her glance quickly away from the congregation of little gilt chairs and start to study the paintings. Plump, un-alarming Classical deities, all pearly satin robes and significant gestures, fitted nicely between the grand mirrors. Cupids climbed vines between the windows, a muse played a flute, and Bacchus was a pleasant young gentleman carr
ying a jug. Plenty of natural light, if I were scouting a job, but they already had a souvenir guide and postcards. It faced east and a bit of south from the bay, so it might be a bit gloomy for the early evening drinks that we were planning.

  ‘Not much sign of where the money came from here, though,’ Natasha went on. ‘More Versailles than St Vincent. But then there never is, is there? Perish the thought that they should be reminded of the bones under their feet.’

  ‘I know.’

  Another steward with a thick folder strolled puposefully towards us. ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it. This is originally the dining room, but when we host weddings the ceremony takes place in here, though the rest of the house is yours too: you take possession for the day. Were you thinking of holding an event?’

  Natasha turned and walked away to the next room so abruptly that the lady looked worried.

  ‘We are thinking of an event, but not a wedding,’ I said quickly. ‘An anniversary party.’

  ‘Oh, how lovely. Is it your – your – parents?’ she asked, more cautiously.

  ‘No, my grandparents. It’s their Diamond wedding anniversary.’

  ‘Diamond! Goodness me, how wonderful! You don’t hear of that very often these days. Did they meet in the war?’

  ‘Yes, my grandmother was in the American army. Hers was the first African-American women’s unit to go overseas, and my grandfather was in the RAF. They met in France.’