The Spirit Of LondonZannie Volpe They did it every year, the two sisters. Came down to London, on the train, all the way from Wakefield, leaving behind husbands and houses, dogs, cats and cooking. They had done it every year now for at least ten years and the older sister, small, still sprightly and determined at 69 had even become a great grandmother in that time. They loved this annual adventure and this time the taller, always more glamorous younger sister had treated them to a first class ticket as last year they had travelled the length of the journey with a team of schoolboy cricketers, lively and jostling, and youthful though they both were certain they did not want an action replay. Their ritual was always the same. It started with the preparatory phone calls in early October and they alternated responsibility for booking ‘their’ hotel on the Strand and choosing the show they would take in on the long weekend Christmas shopping extravaganza. How they both loved the spirit in the air as they stepped off the train at King’s Cross - a November afternoon full of promise, fingers itching to be first on the draw with their American Express. The sisters leave the station unaware of other Londons being experienced around them. Predatory London lurking around the young girl who tries to tap them for enough for a cup of coffee as they pass the newsagents. The London that will put its claws around her arm tonight and take her down back alleys offering her a smoke of this pipe, a taste of that pill, a London that will leave her sucked up and spewed out within months if the predatory claws should really get a hold on that enticing vulnerability. The sisters continue their adventure on the Underground, anticipating their arrival at the Strand and wondering if that cheeky waiter will still be there, the one who flirted with them so deliciously last year. The older one is already mentally scanning the menu for the evening meal and the younger sister thinks of the drinks cabinet. Neither of them notice the Somali woman next to them in the carriage. This is a woman who experiences safe London, haven London, the place that was there when she flew from atrocities in her own land. Gentle London, sure London, the London that is always there when she wakes from her nightmares. London that promises her a future, London that will hold her in its arms as she slowly builds that future for herself. The sisters share their exclusive bubble of anticipation, occasionally checking the safety of handbags and suitcases and tucking their high heeled shoes further in as the carriage fills up. They do not want to arrive at the Strand with scuffed toes. Opposite sits an impeccably dressed man of about their age. Subtly pin striped suit and matching waistcoat, bowler hat, gold rimmed glasses and attaché case. He reminds the older sister of Maurice Chevalier but his London is not the London of the actor or singer. His London is that of the scholar. He knows a side of London the sisters neither know nor care about. Scholarly and erudite, the London he loves to trawl through holds the British Library and the British Museum, places where he has spent most of the past ten years - the same number of years the sisters have been doing their pilgrimage to Oxford Street. The driver of the tube calls out the name of the next stop. His father had arrived from the Caribbean in the fifties to a city full of hopes and dreams, a tantalising promise of a city, a place where he could provide for the family he planned to have. He had envisioned the spirit of London as being the vibrant beating heart of the Motherland but it would have broken his own heart if he had lived to experience the fears his sons now had for the very lives of his grandchildren who daily had to deal with threatening London, vicious London, laying in wait and I’ll get you after school London. Doors closed London, Black youth unemployment London, crack den, knife wielding trip up your righteous ways spiteful London. The sisters push their way out of the crowded tube and emerge out onto the bustling street, giggling like two school girls, savouring every moment. Both of them have two bulging suitcases with one of everything they could possibly need for any eventuality including an outfit in case Charlton Heston should be staying at the Strand and invites them to share his table. As usual there is someone there immediately to carry their cases and escort them to their room where the older sister does a silent inventory of the freshness of the flowers, the quality of the chocolates and the variety of the toiletries in the bathroom, earmarking for herself the Elizabeth Arden hand cream. First stop is down for tea and cakes.
The maitre de is from another era, one where ladies were ladies and wore gloves and hats and went calling and left cards. He should have been alive in Edwardian London where for some the spirit was indeed more genteel. Lace abounded and parasols protected fragile porcelain complexions. Gentleman called for carriages and talked of politics and punted on the Thames. He recognises the two guests from previous years, and although some part of himself secretly knows that their mother was herself in service as a girl he does not hold it against them as they know how to play the game of Edwardian London, calling for the menu with a tilt of the head and just that hint of reserve and ‘we all know our place in this world.’ That evening the two sisters go off to a show. They have treated themselves to the best seats in the house and have spent hours getting ready. Such a luxury to have someone to share all this with, someone who actually wants to go out rather than staying at home to catch another match on cable T.V. The theatre fills up and overflows with an air of expectancy. Lights dim, a hush descends and the curtain goes up. This is what they have come for. Gay London, playful London, powder and greasepaint and colourful London, Happy London, take you out of yourself London. Raucous London, riotous London, laugh a minute, cry a minute, tap dance among the chimney pots London. The girl in the lead role loves this London, loves the gaiety and the prospect of earning a living doing exactly what she loves doing most. She loves the spirit of London’s theatre land and its long traditions. She loves stories of ghosts in the ‘gods’, she loves the tales told by the doorman who’s been at the theatre so long he once met Gielgud as a young man. The two sisters have a spectacular evening and head back to the hotel to recuperate for tomorrow’s onslaught on Covent Garden and Oxford Street. Shopper’s Paradise. Mercantile heaven. The Lady of Threadneedle Street rubs her hands as people pay homage at the tills, pray that they have not reached their credit limit yet. Greedy London, fleece you London, pick your pockets while you’re not looking London. Buy me London, covet me London that spreads her wares like a harlot. Enticing, frenzied, leaves you gasping and wanting more London. The two sisters arrive back at their hotel, spent. They gloat over their goodies each certain she has out shopped the other, each game to do it all over again next year. Too soon it’s morning and time to return to Wakefield. They return to King’s Cross station like two pilgrims wending their way home, feeling fed by the spirit of London and unaware how London has fed on them.
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© 1999 Westminster Writers' Group. Last updated 02/07/99.