As the West End braces itself for the first cold snap of the winter, we remember some of the hardy souls who shed their roots, and fled their families, to make the streets of London’s Theatreland their home in the 1980’s.
It was a matter of geography. There were a number of homeless shelters neighbouring West End Theatres. Some of them, like Bruce House, received pretty good reviews in George Orwell’s ‘Down and Out In Paris And London.’* And living and working beside these neighbours of ours was an essential part of West End existence in the early 1980s. One besuited and well-spoken 'resident' would regale passers-by with tales of how he’d been reduced to penury through ill-advised investments in West End Shows ...and he could reel off the names of several Producers and Managements to back up his claims. Others collaborated together to sell parking spaces in the bomb-site opposite the New London Theatre (renamed the Gillian Lynne Theatre) in order to fund their Cider and Meths (Shepherds Supermarket opposite sold more fermented apple juice than bread, baked beans and Benson and Hedges combined).
I will remember forever how another resident persuaded a road gang digging up the road in front of The Theatre Royal Drury Lane to let him work the afternoon. Bare-chested and drink-addled, he worked a shovel relentlessly for three hours straight, without a break, putting the professional road gang to shame.
But it wasn’t the drinks or the drugs or deep-seated psychological conditions that drove these people onto the streets. Chemicals, whether naturally occurring or ingested, were the catalysts not the cause. Because with all the ‘neighbours’ I spoke to, it was families that were the root of the problem. Families they felt they had let down in some way. Families they could not go back to. Or perhaps felt that they could not go back to.
Gerald was no exception. A former Flyman at the City Variety, Leeds, he was the unofficial foreman of a troupe of 'fake' parking attendants charging gullible motorists for the privilege of parking in the vacant lot opposite the New London. One night, just after the Cats Incoming, Gerald came into the New London carrying a beautiful silver necklace.
“I found it outside, Dave," he exclaimed excitedly. It must belong to one of your audience. They might come asking about it.”
Gerald dropped the heavy silver links into my palm. I passed it back to him.
“Go and hand it in at Bow Street Police Station."** I told him. "And if it isn’t claimed in six weeks, it becomes your property.”
Gerald took some persuading. But finally he shuffled off into the night, necklace in hand.
I didn’t see Gerald for a couple of months after that. And when he finally returned to Parker Street he was grinning from ear to ear.
“Remember that necklace I found, Dave?" he beamed. "I handed it in like you said and nobody claimed it! So I took it into an antiques shop to have it valued. Four hundred pounds, Dave!” (A lot of money in 1983. A whole lot of cider I thought to myself).
“...I gave it to my sister," Gerald told me beaming proudly. "I’d never been able to give her anything before.”
A few weeks later, Gerald was allocated a council bedsit in some distant suburb. He came into the theatre one afternoon to tell me how his luck had changed.
“You know what though, Dave? I’d really like to see the show once before I go.”
Cats was sold out for eighteen months, but I walked round to the box office and collared a top price single (a week’s rent for me at the time). As I was walking back to the foyer, a story played out in my head. Gerald sees the show. Gerald meets some of his cronies afterwards. A couple of bottles later, he’s missed his train. A few bottles more and he won’t even remember his address. ...or his name.
“Sorry, Gerald,” I declared with a shrug, the ticket balled up in my fist, “we’re completely sold out.”
And I never saw him again. Which was a good thing I hope."
DT
15 November 2024
*George Orwell's brilliant 'Down and Out in Paris and London' will be 92 years young next January, in spite of having been rejected by Faber and Faber's editorial director, one T.S. Elliot, whose poems provided the basis for Andrew Lloyd Webbers Cats.
**Now the luxurious NoMad Hotel
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