Two Saturdays ago I found myself propelled –
as it were – to London. I had read a review of Matthew Dunster’s adaptation of Solzhenitsyn’s
play, The Love Girl and the Innocent
that piqued my interest so much I thought I must see the production: by Jagged
Fence at the Southwark Playhouse. Stupidly, I’d booked for the wrong Saturday,
and could not contact the theatre to change the date. Fortunately, I was free,
and it’s easy enough to get to Newington: from St Pancras to the Elephant and
Castle via Thameslink.
Unknown to me, the writer, Joe Treasure, had written – just the day before my
visit – a very interesting blog about living in
Newington (or at the Elephant, as might be said): The Life, the Heart, the Elephant. He writes:
[At] the heart of our
neighbourhood is a frenetic figure-of-eight road junction, and a
shopping centre whose main floor, both inside and out, is at a subterranean
level to allow convenient access through concrete underpasses. This probably
looked stylish in an architecture’s drawing in 1960. Now its Bladerunner
grimness is redeemed only by the people who inhabit it – market traders, shoppers, commuters mothers
with pushchairs, old people sitting on the bench outside the hardware shop...
I didn’t see the subterranean level of the shopping
centre, but the exit from the overground railway station at the Elephant and
Castle brings you into the middle of the upper floor level. How to describe it?
Tacky, tawdry, bordering on the sordid: two ‘pay–day loan’ shops doing a brisk business; a far–eastern ‘supermarket’
with soulless, regimented isles, and a single checkout; a photograph frame –
decidedly a permanent fixture – on one of the supporting columns of the arcade
area: in this frame, a photograph of an eighteen–year old girl Last seen in x nightclub in the Elephant
and Castle area...
Outside on the street, the Gissing passage from In the Year of the Jubilee, quoted by
Joe Treasure, could stand as a description today: “...tumultuous traffic which
whirls and roars at this confluence of six highways.” (There are 27 buses you can catch, if you’re making for the
Southwark Playhouse.)
Disoriented, I ask a woman which road I’m standing in,
and the reply comes in a south London Afro–Caribbean accent I haven’t heard in
years:
“The Waalw’th rooad.”
I get my map out of my rucksack, but she has no time
of day for me, and walks off without a further word.
From the map, I see that I’m on the wrong side of the
shopping centre. Walking north I see on the other side of the road a great
porticoed building called the Metropolitan Tabernacle. Is it Jewish or Christian?
Well, south of the Thames it has to be Christian, but then ‘Tabernacle’ is a Hebrew word, משכן, mishkan, so my initial confusion is understandable. Taking one
of the confusing multitude of underpasses to Newington causeway, I’m confronted
by a woman whose ethnic origin is, I guess, somewhere east of Suez. Literally,
she walks straight up to me – without a
ghost of a smile – and blocks my path (short of my sidestepping her).
“Did I know the area?”
“No, but where are you going?”
“I’m trying to find the Borough.”
“Ah, I think it’s at the north end of Newington
causeway.”
I get the map out of my rucksack, but she has no
patience:
“I won’t waste your time or mine. I’ll ask a local...”
And off she goes; again without a glimmer of a smile –
or a word of thanks.
Joe Treasure’s description of the Elephant and Castle
as a “frenetic figure–of–eight road junction” can scarcely be bettered. Not all
locals seem to be affected by this. I sat opposite two seasoned south Londoners
in a large pub–cum–eatery. One had what might perhaps be described as a
‘cauliflower face’; both seemed completely unperturbed by the environment they
inhabited. But outside
on the street it seemed as if the “frenetic figure–of–eight road junction” had
indelibly printed its map on the minds of the borough’s citizens. Almost
everyone seemed Bound upon a Course –
to borrow the title of John Stewart Collis’ autobiography (but where it was all
leading – and if there were any resting places along the way – I would not like
to hazard a guess). And yet, before standing in judgement, are we not all
driven in some way or another? I know that I am. Still, I do not watch ‘soaps’
and so do not ‘ratchet up’ ersatz emotions. The world may be ‘going to hell in
a handcart’, but we are under no obligation to help it on its way!
I had hoped to read the play before
seeing it; but a copy of the Penguin translation has only just plopped through
my letterbox. It has 55 characters, so don’t hold your breath for a review...
Matthew Duncan has reduced the cast to 16, rotating them as necessary. The
production was superb, with powerful performances by the entire cast. I felt
that it deserved a standing ovation. But, had I stood up in such an intimate
space as the Southwark Playhouse it would have been an embarrassment to all –
which is a pity.
~ _________________________________ ~
One year in the mid 1960s I worked as a porter at
Great Ormond Street Hospital over the Christmas period. I had to cover
Christmas day, which meant walking in from my bedsit in Coldharbour Lane,
Camberwell. The streets were of course deserted, the weather grey and cold, and
the only person I remember seeing was a tramp at the Elephant and Castle. He
was what might be called a proper tramp,
such as are seldom seen these days: with long matted hair and beard; a
greatcoat of some description – perhaps given him by the Salvation Army, and
probably held together with a piece of rope. In other words, the very picture
of dishevelment and filth (in its non–derogatory sense). He was a wild looking
figure: a sort of Ezekiel whose incomprehensible visions had driven mad. Seldom
have I felt such pity for anyone in my life. I only hope he knew his way to a
Salvation Army Christmas shelter. (A friend – on holiday in Spain and on his
way to a restaurant – passed what appeared to be no more or less that a heap of
rags. Returning from the restaurant he noticed that this ‘heap of rags’ had
progressed down the pavement, and realised that beneath it was a human being .
. . This could well have been a feature of the Court of Miracles.)
Tramps were – and such as still exist, are – by
definition, homeless. But now we seem only to have the ‘homeless’. There
was a brief period when we had the strange phenomenon of the crusties – from
about 1985 to 1995 – but how they arose, ‘flourished’, and vanished I have no idea. As far as I remember,
tramps were solitary, and walked (tramped) from place to place. In the
1960s I remember noticing what I called a ‘noonday tide’ – not great in number
– but walking purposefully to some destination unknown to me. One day, when
there was snow on the ground in Coldharbour Lane, I noticed a tramp outside. I
made him some sardine sandwiches, and took them down. Not a word was said nor a
glance made, but from my room I had the great satisfaction of seeing him eat
them. It was one of those rare moments where gratitude did not need to be
expressed.
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