by Rupert Smith
There was the vexed question of my uniform. Phyllis had asked for ‘a few additional favours’ in return for my bed and board (which, believe me, I was already earning in full). One of these was that I should wear certain clothes around the house – nothing bizarre, just the leather jacket and jeans, with optional white T shirt, that he loved. At first I rebelled. I’ve never liked being told how to dress, and this uniform seemed pointless and impractical. But then I reasoned with myself. First, there was my overwhelming sense of gratitude to the man who had first recognized my talents. Was it so much to pander to the eccentric whims of an artistic old man? But more than that, there was something in me that responded to the demand, that saw in this strange ménage a dramatic challenge. Soon, the kitchen floor was my stage, the mop and bucket my modest props and the skimpy ‘uniform’ my wardrobe.
Being nice to Phyllis brought rewards. After a dirty morning washing down walls in the bathroom, I suggested that it would be more practical if I left my jeans off and worked in jacket and briefs only. Phyllis was delighted, and later took me out for dinner. When he asked if he could sketch me for a series of studies that he was working on, I happily obliged: posing as a sleeping sailor à la Cocteau was far easier than sweeping carpets.
Inevitably, this hothouse atmosphere became oppressive to a healthy, energetic boy of sixteen. I hadn’t come to London to work as a glorified skivvy – and there were bigger stages to conquer. At first, I took to exploring the immediate vicinity, fascinated by the teeming variety of life right outside my window (now clean and polished). Here the old world rubbed shoulders with the new. The cockney barrow boys, still dressed in the cloth caps and ‘gor blimey’ trousers of the music hall stage, were always ready with a cheeky ‘Morning, guv!’ as I passed by. But on the building sites that peppered the area, where new high-rises crowded to fill the bomb sites and to cover the crumbling slums, the workmen were more brazen, more aggressive. ‘ ’Ello, darling!’ they’d shout, mockingly, as I passed by. Or they’d whistle and call names – the names of the hateful playground. And always the ghostly parade of senior citizens, drifting around an area once familiar, now a strange new jungle of skyscrapers and subways.
I was never short of company: working men from the building sites would stop by the pubs before going home to their wives, eager for a drink; shop girls and office workers milled around the steamy interiors of cafés sharing sandwiches and gossip. But, young as I was, I knew that there was another world – the beau monde of artists, intellectuals and beauties – where I more truly belonged. It was calling me from across the Thames; dared I answer?
Phyllis was a fiercely protective guardian, taking seriously his responsibilities in loco parentis. He forbade journeys beyond a certain limited territory, and most specifically discouraged any thought of venturing into the West End. No sooner does anyone tell me not to do something than I long with all my heart to do it, and I knew that it was in the West End that my new world lay waiting to be conquered. In a matter of weeks, when I had more fully got the lie of the land, the magnetism of that forbidden country became too strong to resist.
But before I plunged head-first into a new world and made it mine, there was the small matter of my parents to settle. In the eyes of the law, I was still a minor (people forget how very young I was when I began my career, hence the often-repeated misunderstandings about my age). Mum and Dad didn’t want me back at home – in truth they were glad to see me started on the road of life. But they had misgivings about my new situation, particularly about my relationship with Phyllis. When I left home, it was technically without their permission; they knew from experience that they couldn’t stop me. I hadn’t thought it necessary to spell out the details of my new lifestyle – Mum and Dad had made it abundantly clear that they disliked Mr Phillips, and privately suspected him of leading me astray. I told them only that he had helped to find me a flat in London; I didn’t mention that he also lived there, nor that he had refused my offer of a financial contribution to the housekeeping. Of course, I paid my way in other currency, but they would never understand the niceties of that arrangement.
Soon after I had moved, I received a letter from my father informing me that he and my mother were coming to visit. I had hoped to wait a little longer before extending the invitation, but they were naturally loving parents, eager to see their child safe and happy in his new life.
The date was soon – very soon. Phyllis received the news with chilly disdain; he hated my parents, blaming them for his dismissal from the school. (There may have been some truth in this; Mum had often mentioned that ‘the authorities should hear about your Mr Phillips’.) I saw no reason for a confrontation, and persuaded Phyllis to make an ‘awayday’ of the Saturday in question, a favour easily granted after I posed as a dying slave for a new series of drawings, and hoovered the living room in a jockstrap.
Phyllis left early on Saturday morning, travelling to the South Coast to visit friends who ran a discreet pensione. My parents were due at eleven o’clock; I had exactly two hours to prepare for their arrival. Unwilling to cause them undue worry, I made a few rearrangements in the decor; Phyllis’s fine collection of prints and photographs would only have confused them, and the recent drawings for which I had modelled, fine works in themselves, were not to my parents’ bourgeois tastes. Then there was the library. Unlikely as my father was to scan the bookshelves, there was no point in leaving anything to chance, and I squirrelled away any titles that might have raised his eyebrows (carefully noting their original positions; Phyllis loved a tidy bookshelf). My mother had excellent taste in interior decor, preferring the clean lines of post-war modern to the baroque flourishes and frills favoured by Phyllis. Mirrors, cushion covers, valances and floral arrangements were stripped and stashed, the Lalique lampshades replaced by plain paper ones that I found in Woolworths.
Finally I was ready to receive Mum and Dad in my smart, unostentatious flat. Eleven o’clock struck, and the doorbell rang. As I marched forward to welcome them, my chest expanding with pride, I noticed from the corner of my eye one final, missed detail – a framed, signed photograph of Joan Sutherland hanging in the hallway. Just in time I whisked it away and opened the door to my dear parents.
The interview went better than I had expected. Mum and Dad were interested in every detail of my new life, opening cupboards, testing the bed, perusing the bookshelves. ‘It’s lovely, dear, really lovely,’ said Mum, passing from kitchen to bathroom with a look of vague irritation on her face – the look she wore when she was searching for something that she couldn’t find. ‘You’ve done well, lad,’ echoed Dad, turning over a copy of The Seven Pillars of Wisdom that I’d decided not to remove.
The inspection complete, they sat down edgily on the sofa and accepted a cup of tea and a biscuit. Questions came thick and fast. ‘Who’s the landlord?’ ‘How much are you paying?’ ‘Where’s the money coming from?’ from Dad. ‘Have you got a girlfriend?’ ‘Are you eating enough?’ and ‘Why haven’t you hoovered under the bed?’ from Mum. They loved me, God knows, and they cared about me – but I couldn’t wait to get them out of the flat.
After a long hour I bustled them out of the door in search of lunch. A strained meal in the Waterloo Kardomah passed without event as I parried each question with vague answers, not exactly lies but avoiding too much truth. When I saw them off, they were friendly, almost affectionate. ‘Get a job, son,’ said my father on parting. ‘Make us proud of you.’ I promised him that I would.
As the train took my parents back to sleepy suburbia, I pondered my situation. It was two o’clock. Phyllis was away, at least until the morning. I strolled out of the station towards the river, the great boundary of my territory. On this side, the grim monotony of life with Phyllis. On the other – who could tell? Somewhere out there was my future. And somewhere in that maze of unknown streets was Nutter.
What was to stop me? I walked a little further, setting foot on the bridge, enjoying the sunshine and the breeze off the river
. I walked a little further. I was half-way across, suspended between my old life and my new. Did I hesitate? Did I hell.
An unseen hand pushed me onwards, and I fairly flew the last hundred yards over the bridge before landing, breathless, on the Strand. I had no idea what I was looking for, knowing only the vaguest details about the West End, most of them learnt from the Monopoly board. Nutter had talked endlessly about ‘Soho’, his personal Mecca, where (he believed) sex and music overflowed from the coffee bars, pubs and night clubs that lined every street. It was thither that I was drawn, as if in a dream. Along the Strand I floated, dimly aware of the matinee audiences shuffling into the theatres that lined that once glorious street. Past Nelson, past the National Gallery, past the bookshops of Charing Cross Road where colourful volumes spilled out on to the pavements (I recognized some of the titles from Phyllis’s library). Past the Hippodrome and the Palace Theatre – names from a fairy tale. I had the strangest sensation – a mixture of the smell of freshly roasted coffee, the cheap scent of a blonde woman beside me, the shock (to me) of seeing her arm-in-arm with a black man – that I had found what I was looking for.
Nothing happened on that first visit – nothing that the casual observer would have remarked. I wandered through a maze of streets, noticing the shops stacked with favourite records, the pubs where conversation and laughter roared, the handsome ‘types’ that lined every lane. But inside me, something clicked. I wonder how a young priest feels when he first hears the call of God and discovers his vocation? I’m not religious (although I’m a deeply spiritual person), but I imagine it’s something akin to what I felt as I first penetrated Soho.
I reached Piccadilly Circus and jumped on a bus. Within minutes the colour had drained from life and we were back in Kansas – in my case, Elephant and Castle. Time had flown. It was well past seven. I hurried to the house and set about repairing the havoc I had wrought in Phyllis’s over-decorated nest. Pictures went back on to hooks, books were returned to their shelves, swags and tassels and bibelots came out of hiding. Soon it was maison Phyllis once more – and for the first time, it revolted me. This padded cell, this decorated prison, how drab and dismal compared to the sights of Soho! Here I seemed sucked of energy by the soft comforts that Phyllis loved so much. Out there, in the clean, cool streets, among the sharp young men of the West End, I felt alive, invigorated.
Finally, I was satisfied with my handiwork. Even eagle-eyed Phyllis would never detect the change in his surroundings. But would he detect the change in me?
After that first taste of freedom, I wanted more, more, more. Did Phyllis know that I was sneaking across the river at every opportunity? Certainly he was sullen with me, sometimes downright nasty, but I could always win him over by leaving the bathroom door open in the mornings when I took my shower, snuggling up with him at night to share a hot chocolate. But one thing was sure to me now: I needed my new life in the West End more than I feared the consequences of disobeying Phyllis.
At first my visits were cautious; I’d sit in a cafe, or I’d browse the record shops. I seldom ventured into the pubs; I still looked much too young to be served. But as I grew more accustomed to my patch, I became bolder. I struck up conversations with people on the street, with the friendly fruiterer who sold me a banana (with a cheeky smile and a joke), or the distinguished customer in a book shop who helped me to find the novels of Christopher Isherwood. I was eager to make friends and to learn. And of course the best place in the world to do those things was in the bars.
In those days, pubs and bars were civilized places where you could enjoy a drink, a chat and a cigarette without being deafened by music or assaulted by drunks. Soho was famous for the variety and quality of its pubs, many of them haunts for intellectuals and artists like myself. But it wasn’t in these rarefied circles that I felt at home. I was drawn to earthier company – the ‘hoofers’ and showgirls eking out a living in theatreland, who loved nothing so much as a party. I’ve never been a snob. I chose not the academics and intellectuals, but followed my instinct for the young, bright and energetic. History would show how right I was.
There was one bar that I made my very own. It’s gone now, swept away in a welter of sex shops and wine bars. But for me, it was a second home. Second home! What am I saying? It was the first place where I had ever felt truly at home.
I discovered it one grey, freezing afternoon when seeking shelter from the coldest winter on record in a bookshop off St Martin’s Lane. I was a favourite with the manager, a dear Australian who specialized in militaria and was always happy to warm me up with a drink in one hand and a leather-bound volume on corporal punishment in the other. On the day in question, trade was slow (it was never brisk) and my friend decided to shut up shop. It was five o’clock – earlier than I had intended to go home to Phyllis’s unpredictable temper, but with only enough pennies in my pocket to pay the bus fare, I had little choice. Besides, I was hungry.
Trevor, my Australian friend, sympathized with my situation (he’d heard enough about my landlord’s eccentricities) and offered to buy me a drink and a sandwich ‘at my club’. Now Trevor was not the sort to have ‘a a club’ – despite his impressive war record he would not have been welcomed at the Garrick or the Athenaeum. But he buttoned his raincoat, pulled down the shutters and, umbrella under one arm and my hand over the other, marched me at a smart pace down Charing Cross Road, made a sharp right and bundled me into an unremarkable little side street that led back in to Leicester Square. ‘Here we are, son,’ he said, stopping in a dark doorway. ‘Welcome to the club.’
There was no sign, not even a light to suggest that we had ‘arrived’ anywhere. But Trevor pushed the street door open and led me into a dimly lit hall, up some shoddily carpeted stairs to a landing. Two doors faced us. One was blank. The other, in shaky metal lettering, spelt out the word ‘Members’. Trevor rang a doorbell and we were admitted.
The interior of the club (it was always just called ‘the club’, although officially it was La Bohème) belied the shabbiness of its approaches. It was dimly lit with a welcoming red glow. Plush and gold wallpaper gave it a rich, luxurious feel – just like something from a film, I remember thinking. It was a small room, with a curved bar along one wall, three or four tables, some banquette seating and a window carefully concealed behind thick, colourless velvet drapes. Pictures of sporting heroes and movie stars lined the walls, with pride of place given to Marilyn (I felt an immediate pang). Trevor led the way, descending a few steps from the door to the bar, and I followed, conscious of every eye upon me. I paused, smiled, and continued my descent.
There were, maybe, a dozen patrons in the club that night, and every single one of them bought me a drink. Even the barman, Tommy, bought me a drink (an unheard-of occurrence, I was informed, but Tommy and I struck up an immediate sympathy). Fortunately for me, I was used to liquor – remember, I’d started drinking at a very early age, otherwise they would have carried me out of there on a stretcher. Trevor was amazed at my capacity and boasted that he’d introduced ‘a valuable new member’ to the establishment. He was so happy that night, his tiny eyes shining out of his sweaty little face with sheer pride.
It was not the decor or the booze that impressed me most about the club, but the clientele. It was a democratic mix: all ages and types rubbed shoulders in that little room, and for once the crippling class-consciousness of post-war England seemed forgotten. Soon Trevor and Tommy weren’t my only friends: there was Paul, a one-eyed ‘odd job man’ with a splendid collection of tattoos who’d sustained his injury in ‘a fight with a Maltese pimp’. When we were flush, we’d stand each other drinks, but more often we’d accept hospitality from the older customers who befriended us. There was Charlie, Tommy’s best friend and ‘companion’, a hopeless drunk who tried, night after night, to tell me the secret of life but who always lapsed into incomprehensible slurring just as he was getting to the good bit.
Phyllis, of course, knew nothing about my West End life. He was aw
are that I was going out on my own, and retaliated in the only way left open to him, with sulks, scenes and a thousand petty acts of grudgingness. Mostly I kept him sweet: he was at heart an affectionate old man with too much time on his hands, prone to temper but quick to forgive. I felt sorry for him. His ‘new career’ had failed to materialize as his health gave out, and he didn’t have the heart to embark on fresh theatrical projects. His memory of our school stage triumphs was enough – and I was always happy to fan the flame of his devotion to that memory, acting out favourite scenes, ‘rehearsing’ for hour after hour as Phyllis watched his ambitions slip ever further beyond his grasp.
It was not Phyllis’s career, but mine that was on the rise. It was a magic time to be young, and I was in the right place at the right time. Sooner or later, my lucky chance would come along. And I saw that lucky chance walk through the door of the club one evening as I sat drinking with Paul.
It was a busy night – a royal film premiere had just taken place in Leicester Square, and the pubs, clubs and cafes were full of black-tie revellers. Even our club had an elegant air; Tommy had placed a framed picture of the Queen in pride of place above the bar and draped red, white and blue bunting around the windows. (Remember, this was before Swinging London and the fashion for Union Jacks – like so much else, that was a trend that started in La Bohème.) Paul and I were stationed at the corner of the bar where we could keep an eye on the new arrivals, hoping that we could ‘charm’ a friendly stranger into buying the round. Suddenly there appeared at the top of the stairs a striking figure of a man, neat and tidy in his DJ and bow tie, his hair and nails expensively maintained (I’ve always had an eye for grooming). I didn’t recognize him at first, although soon enough he’d be on the cover of every magazine in the world.
