‘After all, it’s only a couple of minutes’ walk from your place to the salon.’
She said this so I didn’t get any wrong ideas about why she was moving in. I told her it would be good to have someone to share the housework with and she said she’d clear up the mess she makes but not the mess I make. I told her she had a deal and gave her a big kiss as the bus drew up.
I walked back to the flat feeling dead chuffed. I put my Chet Baker Sings LP on and sat back on the bed with a full tumbler of cheap red wine. I lit a cigarette and thought that perhaps the 1960s were going to be good to me yet.
I was walking up Charing Cross Road the following Wednesday afternoon with Charlie when we bump into Joe dragging a sack along the ground out of Manette Street, by Foyle’s. He’s hot and sweaty and out of breath.
‘You two, ‘ere! I need a hand.’
‘Not from me you old Richard!’ shouts Charlie.
‘You’re a fucking tosser, Charlie. Just like every other soddin’ Eyetie.’
A Richard is a turd, a word that rhymes with Richard the Third. No wonder Joe felt socially humiliated. Hence his witty rejoinder.
Charlie whispers to me: ‘What’s he got in that sack then?’
‘No idea. His dirty washing?’
‘Looks heavy enough to be a stiff.’
‘But not big enough.’
‘You sort him out. I’m going to Brighton [Brighton Pier = disappear] down the arcade. See you. I’m gone.’
I walked over to Joe who was now sitting on the kerb mopping his face with a black handkerchief.
‘Gimme a hand getting this lot in a taxi.’
‘What is it?’
‘Old glazed tiles. Picture ones. I nicked them from the demolition site back there. These will be worth a fortune down in Chelsea. I’ll get a cab down there and flog ‘em.’
I went across the pavement and soon got Joe a cab. The cabby didn’t mind having the sack in the luggage space up front so I dragged it across. It occurred to me that Joe probably didn’t have the money to pay the fare at the other end so I gave the cabby a few bob to cover it.
Just as the cab is about to pull off Joe winds the window down and hands me a grubby bit of paper.
‘Phone her. She wants to speak to you. Important. Vera. You met her the other night.’
The cab pulls away and I wave Joe off in relief. I look down at the scrap and written on it in pencil is:
Vera EUSton 2385
It looked as though it was written by a child. The characters were different sizes and at odd angles. Presumably the fair hand of Joe.
There was a telephone kiosk just down Manette Street behind the Pillars of Hercules. I looked in my pocket and found I had four pennies so I shuffled down. The kiosk, like all kiosks in the West End, stank of urine. I lifted the receiver, put the four pennies in and let it ring. It was answered and I pushed Button A.
‘Hello? Vera?’
‘This is Vera. Can I help you?’
‘It’s Tim. Timmy Purdom.’
There was a silence.
‘I thought you would have phoned me sooner, dear.’
‘I only …’
‘I can’t talk now because I’ve got a gentleman visitor who has a train to catch. Phone me this evening … about nine-ish.’
And she hung up.
What did she want to speak to me about?
I didn’t get to phone her that evening because Veronica had decided to move in earlier than planned and this involved borrowing a bubble car off Charlie’s cousin and going over to her parents’ place while they were out and grabbing all her stuff.
It was good having her there when I arrived home in the evening and even better going to sleep with her and knowing she would still be next to me when I awoke in the morning. We’d watch telly together, listen to my music, listen to her music, get drunk and argue. It wasn’t a relationship that was going to be long term and lasting but then I don’t suppose either of us were prepared to commit ourselves like that anyhow. It was a relationship of the present, pro tem, and none the worse for that.
I finally got around to phoning Vera from the stairway phone at Porchester Road a few days later.
‘I thought you were going to phone me back the other day?’
‘I’ve been busy. I’m sorry.’
‘I need someone reliable.’
‘Hold on a minute … you need someone reliable?’
‘Didn’t Joe explain?’
‘Joe didn’t explain anything. He just gave me your number. Nothing else. Said I should call you.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry dear. I thought he explained.’
‘No.’
‘Well, let me explain. There’s a gentleman I know in the West End who often has a party …’
A party? A birthday party? An end of term party or what?
‘You know, dear. A party.’
‘Oh, yes. A party.’
‘That’s right. And at the party he’s usually too busy entertaining the guests and the young ladies to … to … to undertake the duties and responsibilities of being a cinema projectionist … if you get my drift?’
‘I don’t know anything about cinema projection.’
‘The cinema projection that I am referring to is, it should be said, that of the home variety such as you might find on the table top of numerous smart West End addresses.’
She means 8mm stuff. I’m now warming to her genteelisms.
‘May I be so bold as to inquire into the exact nature of the cinematographic footage I will be projecting?’
‘People enjoying themselves, dear, and doing no harm to anyone else. That’s all.’
‘But I don’t have any films.’
‘No, but I do. And I also have the projector.’
‘Why don’t you go around and show them?’
‘If I’m entertaining the guests I can’t be working the projector as well. I’ve only got one pair of hands. That’s if I’m there.’
‘Why doesn’t he do it himself?’
‘Well, dear, you are either interested or you are not. You may pick up as much as one pound in tips.’
‘What do I do if I’m interested?’
‘Do you have a fountain pen?’
‘Not with me.’
‘Any writing instrument?’
‘There’s a pencil here.’
‘Good. His name is Stephen and his telephone number is Welbeck 9378.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Good-night.’
‘Yes, good-night.’
I went back upstairs and told Veronica.
‘I’d like to come.’
‘It might be an orgy. It might be full of awful people.’
‘So, I don’t have to take part.’
‘I haven’t decided whether I’m doing it yet.’
‘You will.’
She was right.
I phoned this Stephen a few days later.
‘Is that Stephen?’
‘This is Stephen.’
‘I’m Timmy Purdom. Vera said I should call you.’
‘Oh, Timmy. Thank you so much for phoning. I had been expecting you. I’m so glad you rang.’
It was a soft, beautifully educated voice with deep and rich intonations and … yes … almost a feminine lilt to it. Was he a fairy? What was I letting myself in for?
‘Vera mentioned a party.’
‘Yes, we’re having a little get-together next Friday if you would like to make a note. It starts about 9 p.m. and it’s in a very good friend of mine’s house in Culross Street.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘You don’t know Culross Street?’
‘No. I’m fresh up from Rochester.’
‘What an intriguing coincidence!’
‘Why?’
‘My father was a dean at the Cathedral there.’
‘I don’t think I ever met him.’
This was a silly, smart-arse remark but somehow the context demanded it.
‘Culross Stre
et is a very charming mews right behind that bright new American embassy.’
‘In Grosvenor Square.’ I knew that at least.
‘Exactly.’
‘What number?’
‘You know I can never remember. But you’ll see a Bristol parked outside in British racing green. That one.’
‘Right.’
‘Good. You’ll tie up with Vera and bring the things over, Timmy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I do so look forward to meeting you, and do bring a girlfriend if you wish.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Until then.’
I told Veronica about the conversation but I didn’t mention what he said at the end. She graciously allowed me to go on the understanding that (1) I didn’t screw any girls, and (2) if it wasn’t too awful she could come along to the next one, if there was one. I agreed. But what I didn’t tell her was I didn’t intend going to any second one … in fact, why was I going to the first one?
The following Friday at about 7 p.m. I left Charlie in charge of Modern Snax and went upstairs to the maisonette and had a bath and washed my hair and changed into my suede jacket and good clothes that I had brought in with me in a bag. Then I caught a cab over to Vera’s at King’s Cross. She gave me the projector in a folding case, but no screen (‘Just point it at the wall, dear’), and a carrier bag that contained three rolls of 8mm film and an empty spool for take-up. I then walked down to the underground and got a train over to Marble Arch after changing at Holborn.
Culross Street I found right away, right behind the US embassy. A small narrow mews street with houses dating from the 1700s, all immaculately kept, all with big cars parked outside. I soon found the Bristol. I knocked on the door of the house.
The door was eventually opened by a man of medium build and height wearing glasses and holding a cigarette in the air just to the right of his head (a position he would not deviate from throughout the evening). He looked like he was in his early forties. He was wearing a darkish suit, a white shirt and some sort of regimental tie and his hair was receding slightly at the temples. His eyes were wide open and he had a bounciness about him as though he had just won a prize. This I felt must be Stephen. I was right.
‘It’s Timmy, isn’t it? Do come in, dear boy. Do come in.’
He waved me in and pointed down a corridor that seemed to go on for ever. At the end a door opened on to a large room at a slightly lower level, down a few steps. The remarkable thing about the room was that it seemed much bigger than the frontage of the house would allow.
Stephen waved me in and announced to the guests: ‘The movie man’s here, boys and girls!’
‘Oh, good.’
‘Yes, please.’
‘The film chappie!’
‘Good show!’
‘Let’s hope so!’
There were five or six blokes standing and sitting around in day and evening suits. All talking with frightfully good accents. Their ages were from the late forties upwards. One geezer with grey hair looked like he was about seventy. There were about seven girls there. Well made-up in expensive suits and dresses with hairdos and pricey handbags. A couple of them were younger than me but the rest looked mid-to late twenties. They were standing around talking and drinking. The girls were doing all the laughing.
‘Timmy, put your things there and let me get you a drink. What would you like? Gin and tonic perhaps? Something else?’
‘You haven’t got a brandy and soda?’
‘I’m sure we have. Let me go and see and while I’m doing that you can put your projector thingy over here and set it up.’
Which I did while Stephen Brightoned. All of the guests carried on talking and I was left alone at the end of the room getting sorted. There were some really attractive girls there but I felt that I was a bit out of my depth. I wouldn’t be the kind of bloke who figured on their shopping lists. This lot was after bigger things that could not be provided by even Mr Calabrese’s star employee. A bottle of champagne popped and there was more laughter and giggling. I watched the 8mm film through as the projector auto-threaded.
Stephen suddenly popped up at my side and silently offered me the brandy and soda. I nodded and took a sip.
‘How have you been keeping, Timmy?’
He said this like we were old friends who hadn’t seen each other for a while. A puzzling remark. He was standing just a couple of inches closer to me than people normally do and I felt awkward and, strange as it may seem, threatened. I leant back against the table and he inched forward. I moved to the side. He remained where he was.
‘You’re a friend of Vera’s, I believe?’
‘No. I know Vera … sort of.’
‘Yes, I remember now. Vera. Dear Vera. Have you ever done it with Vera?’
I thought to myself, What a bloody cheek! It’s no business of yours, but I answered him anyway: ‘No, I haven’t … actually.’
‘She’s very good. She has a vagina that can clasp you with the firmness of … of a sailor’s fist.’
His eyes were looking me up and down as he said this. As if he was sizing me up for something. The femininity of his voice that was so apparent on the telephone wasn’t so noticeable in the flesh but his mannerisms made up for it. One thing I’ve always noticed about homosexuals, particularly closet queers, is this eye movement thing. Their eyes are always wandering over you. There was a bank manager down in Rochester who often used to come by the photographer’s for film. He was just like that. He got discovered in a public convenience with a lorry driver and got a prison sentence. He was just like that. Always stood just a bit too close. Always had the eyes going all over you. Perhaps I’ve got Stephen all wrong, but I think at the very least he must be bisexual. Vera says he’s always got pretty girls around him but that doesn’t mean anything. Not a brass farthing.
I guess he knows all about sailors’ fists …
A fat balding guy in an evening suit waddles over to us and saves me from this situation.
‘You’re the film chap.’
‘Yes. Timmy Purdom.’
‘Purdom. Don’t come from Crowhurst way, do you?’
‘No. I’ve never been there in my life.’
‘Oh.’
‘Timmy, this is Dudley Fleming. Our host tonight.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’
We shake hands.
‘Pleased to meet you, Timmy.’
Dudley wanders back to the chesterfield and some blonde with big tits who is all over him.
A tall girl with long black hair in a white evening dress walks by and Stephen takes her arm.
‘This is Carol. Carol is flying out to see Brasilia for herself tomorrow. Aren’t you, Carol?’
She nods in an aloofish sort of way.
‘One of her many admirers is paying for the trip, isn’t he, Carol?’
There’s a frosty smile. She doesn’t want to meet me, the hired help.
‘Carol is a lovely girl, Timmy. From a very good background. But I’m really afraid her penchant for the black boys is going to get her into serious trouble. I’m very worried about her.’
Stephen goes across the room and raises his hands. The talk and laughter dwindles to silence. He says, ‘I think it is time, ladies and gentlemen, for a spot of movie magic. Peter, if you will take care of the lights and … Mr Projectionist, if you please.’
The room went dark and a white beam from the projector shot across to the far wall. What would we see first?
There were four films and I’ll describe them individually in the sequence they were shown. All were scratched and damaged with odd frames missing and, in one instance, a scene or scenes missing. These prints had been about a long time and the sprocket holes were ripped in odd places and sometimes missing altogether. All were black-and-white and mute.
FIFI ET SES DEUX AMIS
Three minutes of three people: a good-looking buxom blonde and two blokes with moustaches. It looks like it was made in the 1920s, probably in Fran
ce. The film opens with Bloke One being given a blow job by the girl. Then they start fucking in different positions. The door opens and Bloke Two walks in unaware. Bloke One remonstrates with him and Bloke Two exits. Bloke One re-joins the girl and she whispers something in his ear. He gets off the bed and shouts out the door to Bloke Two, who then comes back in and gets on the bed. The girl has both men at the same time.
The production values are not bad for the time. There’s plenty of inter-cutting of close-ups and whoever directed it gave some thought to the action. The girl is a vigorous performer and quite obviously enjoyed it. The two blokes were a bit wooden and stiff (no pun here).
SMART ALECK
This looks like it was made in the States in the early 1950s.
If the previous film had been made by a gifted amateur this one was made by an un-gifted professional. It has all the surface slickness of a professional film but it is lazy in direction and detail.
A salesman at a hotel (or is it called a motel?) invites a young girl up to his room for a drink. She gets a bit tipsy and they start to have sex. Later, she won’t suck him so she calls in another girl, who does. Then the three of them carry on together.
THE NYLON MAN
This is older than Smart Aleck and dates from some time in the early 1940s. American (again).
A salesman (again!) sells a girl a pair of inferior stockings and he calls by later just as a large hole appears in them. The girl is furious. The salesman offers to fix them with his magic salve and this together with his smooth talking soon leads to them making love. At the end she realises she has been hoodwinked again and throws him out.
RIN-TIN-TIN MEXICANO
A very bad print with whole scenes missing. Mexican. Shot some time in the 1930s.
A woman takes a shower, has sex with a dog who mounts her from behind after licking her, then has another shower (or is it the same shower?), then makes love to an older man on the floor while the dog is asleep.
Stephen had thoughtfully placed a small lamp on the table next to the projector so I could switch it on and see what I was doing while changing films. The laughter and giggles subsided in the intermissions and gave way to rustlings and murmurings. I wasn’t sure what they were doing but they were certainly doing something. When the lights came on at the end I could see a few shirts and blouses unbuttoned but that was all.
London Blues Page 10
