Down But Not Out

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 Orwell’s ‘Down and Out In London And Paris.’ And living and working beside these neighbours of ours was an essential part of West End existence. One besuited and well-spoken 'resident' would regale passing strangers with tales of how he’d been ruined through ill-advised investments in West End Shows (and he could reel off names of Producers and Managements to back up his stories). Others used to sell parking spaces in the bombsite opposite the New London to fund their Cider and Meths (Shepherds Supermarket opposite sold more fermented apple juice than bread or beans combined). I will remember forever how another resident persuaded a road gang digging up Drury Lane to let him work the afternoon. Bare-chested, drink-addled, he worked a shovel relentlessly for three hours straight without a break. But it wasn’t the drinks or the drugs or psychological issues that drove these people onto the streets. Chemicals, internally or externally sourced, were the catalysts not the cause. In every instance, 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. Gerald was no exception. A former Flyman at the City Variety, Leeds, he was unofficial foreman of the troupe of unofficial parking attendants. One night after the Incoming, Gerald came into the New London carrying a beautiful silver necklace. “I found it outside, Dave. Must belong to one of the audience. They might come asking about it.” Gerald dropped the heavy silver links into my palm. I passed it back to him. “Go hand it in at Bow Street. If it isn’t claimed in six weeks it becomes your property.” Gerald took some persuading, but finally he shuffled off into the night. I didn’t see him for a while, and when he finally returned he was grinning from ear to ear. “That necklace I found. Nobody claimed it. Four hundred pounds, Dave!” (A lot of money in 1983, a whole lot of cider). “I gave it to my sister. I’d never been able to give her anything before.” A few months 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. “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.