The Elephant and Castle flat was an unusual place.
It was situated in the middle of the Rockhart Estate and was one of many flats that were subsidized to students of Guy’s Hospital in an effort to improve the standards—the estate itself having featured on the BBC as the center for crackheads and dope dealers the previous year.
Jordan occupied it first, along with a couple of other students. Then, when he graduated from dentistry he passed it over to me. Because you could rent the flat in perpetuity each of the original students would pass their room on to their friends, who would pass it on to theirs, etc.
First there was Vicky, who was a friend of Jonathon’s, who was a student at Guy’s with Jordan. She was another story. Then there were the two women who shared the room with the bunk beds. Then there was a woman who replaced Vicky in the other room. At that time I was the only man in the flat. And as the man of the house I was given charge of the telephone bill which was the only thing that not covered by the rent.
The women in the bunks then fell out (figuratively not literally) and their room was adopted by Bond, James Bond, I kid you not.
Now if I had a name like James Bond (this was the Timothy Dalton era, after all, and ‘License to Kill’ had just come out) I would have changed my name to Jim, or Jimmy. For shits and grins I would have changed it to something else entirely different like ‘Mark’! Kidding aside, James was an actor, him being a friend of Chris Patterson, the last of the original tenants, who fancied himself as a director as well as a dentist.
James, however, was not a martini type guy. Instead he played sensitive souls mostly in repertory. And James stuck to James. So, whenever someone would call, it would invariably be some actress asking for James.
‘Can I speak to James, please?’ She would ask, with a cute southern counties accent.
I could not resist. ‘James who?’
‘Err, James Bond,’ she would reply.
‘Well, only if I can speak to Pussy Galore!’ I would laugh.
Well I’ve matured since then. A little bit. And maybe James got fed up with me because he moved out right around the time that JoJo came over from the States to visit me.
The rooms were so cheap it was never a problem filling them and sure enough the day after James moved out, Harry moved in.
Harry was more robust than James. He was not a sensitive soul at all. Harry was of average height but he wore confidence like the sloppy jacket he sported. His hair was spiky with blonde tips, and he had a square cut permanently bristled look.
JoJo, Harry and I got on well and we went down the pub next door almost nightly with him, and although the pub was known for hold ups and East End gangs, it was also known for lock-ins so we could drink after closing time without the cops bothering us.
Harry also had our gaydar going, if ‘Gaydar’ is still a thing.
JoJo was convinced. I was not so sure, but honestly but we didn’t care which way he swung his bat, as long as the lock-ins continued.
Then one day, out of the blue, Paris showed up.
Now with Paris our gaydar was screaming. It was on fire.
Paris was slender, and he had fine blonde curls that framed his head like a cherub. Paris was from Paris, of course, and his voice had a hint of a lisp. He was also staying with Harry in the room with the bunks.
Harry and Paris went out alone a few times while JoJo and I did our own thing—until one Saturday. It was after our ritual episode of Baywatch had completed when JoJo and I were wondering what to do, when Harry invited us to join Paris at a club in South London I’d never heard of.
This was great!
It was like being invited to the secret Harry that we always wanted to belong to.
Paris, Harry, JoJo and I took the Northern Line from Elephant down to Clapham South and Harry led the way.
We walked along the high street then cut into a neighbourhood of terraced shops until we stopped at one door that had no signage or shopfront at all. It was just a wooden door with a peek hole latch that opened when you knocked.
Harry gave two taps on the door then another three which I could only assume was a code for something. Then the latch slid opened and a two eyes shone out at us before the door creaked open to reveal the candy inside.
As we walked into those dark interiors we saw a dance floor with all manner of men dressed in drag, too much makeup, exhuberant dresses and unwieldy stilettoes.
It was glorious. Finally Harry was surreptitiously affirming ‘Yes, this is me!’ and JoJo and I were finally happy to see that he had found his mate in Paris.
The four of us danced the night away, swapping partners from time to time as the drag queens got up on stage to sing Aretha Franklin, Diana Ross, and of course ‘I’m Every Woman.’
While we danced I could only wonder who I’d never heard of this place despite having a thorough knowledge of the (straight) bar scene. It was like being invited into that ‘other’.
(Some years ago a friend from Berlin who was into BDSM had warned me of the hidden corners of South London but I had more or less ignored him. South London of all places! It made me recall the BBC coverage of the trial of Cynthia Payne or Madam Cyn as she was known, the madam who ran a brothel in Streatham. I was at home with Mum and Dad at the time she was acquitted. We were watching the telly and when the news came through, separately, both Dad and I roared ‘Yeah!’ It made for a strange father-son bonding experience I can tell you.)
Anyway Harry, Paris, JoJo and I danced and drank the night away and only returned to Elephant right around the time that the sun was clawing it its way back over the rooftops.
That evening it was only Harry, JoJo and I at the pub. We sat in the nook, I drank Tetley’s, Harry stuck to his Guiness and for some reason JoJo switched to a Gin and Tonic (Probably the result of the previous night excesses).
‘So?’ we asked him. We had not heard anything on the matter of Paris. In fact we never heard anything all day, despite the walls being so thin you could heard someone undress in the room next door (which was creepy come to think of it).
’So?’ I repeated.
‘Get me another pint first,’ Harry said with his usual gruff confidence. It was my turn. I turned away and walked up to the counter.
The warm pub lamps lit the pumps as Bruce the bartender pulled my Tetley’s. Harry’s Guinness poured from the tap while Harry pulled. But Guinness takes a long time to pour and needs to be nutured so that it is not all froth. I looked back at our table only to see JoJo bent close to Harry.
Her diminutive hands held his meathooks from across the small round beer stained table. I picked up our pints and angled JoJo’s G&T between my fingers so that the glass formed a triangle. Then I walked back to the table.
Harry and JoJo were still holding hands.
‘We liked Paris,’ I said as I lowered the drinks onto the table.
‘Paris the boy, not Paris the city,’ I joked lamely.
Harry looked up at me as I sat down. “Well,” he gulped. “I tried to fuck him, but he wouldn’t let me!” He blurted out the words like steam from a kettle.
‘What do you mean?’ I replied, suddenly disoriented by the direction of the conversation.
‘I mean I tried.’
‘You mean he’s not gay?’ I asked. I could have added ‘Because anyone called Paris has got to be gay,’ but I didn’t.
‘No Paris is not gay,’ he sobbed.
‘Jeez, well I guess its as hard for you guys to get laid as it is for us.’ Another lame comment, I knew.
Then I too reached out and I held Harry’s hand. And the three of us held hands in solidarity, in a triangle around the small beer stained table.
Painting Helen brought to Paris by Benjamin West via Picryl.