Authors: Jonathan Kemp
In the night we were woken by banging on the door and jumped out of our skins with fright. We lay there clinging together in the dark thinking it must be a ghost or a murderer or the devil himself come to claim us for the flames of hell. But it were only Charlie and Johnnycakes wanting to bed down. I got up and let them in and all four of us climbed into the one bed. Johnnycakes had some baccy so we rolled cigarettes and started exchanging stories of our day. No one had seen Taylor. Johnnycakes told us he’s going back to America on the first passage he can get. So the family has broken up. Mother is locked up and the children have to fend for themselves in the wilderness. And as I lay there trying to sleep after we’d nished the chat, I couldn’t help thinking it was all my fault.
This morning we woke to a beautiful spring day. April 3rd, 1895. It’s two weeks since we’ve seen Taylor and bade farewell to Johnnycakes. He may well be in America by now and it’s sad to think we’ll probably never see him again. He did ask if I wanted to go with him, and I must admit I was sorely tempted, though to be honest I can’t imagine living anywhere but here, even now, with all this fuss going on. And I need to see Oscar again, need to know the outcome. I don’t know why but I do.
We’ve fixed the front door, and have taken to begging and nicking food when we can. Neither Charlie nor Sidney have mentioned receiving money, so I’ve kept my mouth shut about mine. They must’ve made as much as I did, surely. But it’s been too long now for any one of us to come out with the truth. We’d rather keep up this pretence at poverty. Charlie has taken to picking pockets, which is something he says he grew up doing.
After a breakfast of piss-weak porridge, we made our way to the Old Bailey, Charlie purloining a few wallets and watches along the way. At one point Sidney ran off and came back with three shiny red apples, and I felt guilty accepting one when he held it out. But I was that hungry I wolfed it down, pips and all.
I’d never been in the Old Bailey before, and as you can imagine anything to do with the law leaves a bad taste in my mouth. It’s a fuckin’ vast place. As we entered, Charlie cracked a joke about the importance of being early and Sidney laughed. Some crusher led us into a small room where we were told we’d be spending the day. We’re not allowed into the courtroom. Fuck. Two crushers stood guard at the door and there was just one small bench for us to sit on, but we were given all the cigarettes we wanted and of course we stuffed our pockets and smoked ourselves stupid. Sidney and Charlie joked and laughed the whole time, of course, and I longed for them to shut up. I smiled half-heartedly at their lame jokes, but all I could think about was what was going on in the courtroom. I couldn’t wait to get out and find out. It was worse than being in prison.
Outside, we ran into Taylor’s mate George, who’d been to loads of our drag parties. We hardly recognized him out of his frock. He’d sat through the whole day, and he told us about it over an ale. He said that in the morning it’d been quite jovial, with Oscar in good spirits, but that in the afternoon Queensberry’s defence, Carson, went in for the kill, and after grilling Oscar over his books he started naming some boys Wilde’d befriended and given gifts to, including myself. He said that Oscar’s face had run deathly white. “I fear the worst for him, the poor bugger. He’ll go down for this, I’m certain. I’m leaving for France tomorrow. Wish me luck, boys.” And with a solemn goodbye he stood up and walked out. The ground beneath my feet disappeared.
“What d’ya make of that?” asked Sidney, and as Charlie started saying he thought Wilde was done for, I felt the bile rise and I had to dash to the shitter.
When I came out I couldn’t see Charlie and Sidney anywhere, so I walked home, feeling terrified and confused and dreading the next day in court.
How I curse that he taught me to read. For I do think that ignorance is bliss. This morning, in the papers, I was able to read the details of his arrest. Last night at some posh hotel in Knightsbridge, it was. It seems that Oscar withdrew his case yesterday and soon after a warrant was issued for his arrest. He’ll stand trial for “gross indecency.”
I’d only wanted to punish him and had thought that once he lost his case against Queensberry then that would be the end of that. Never imagined it would lead to this. I read that he was being held at Bow Street, so I told the boys I had some errands to run and I made my way there. We’ve been locked up in that room in the Old Bailey during the trial, so the boys wanted nothing more than to stay at home and sleep.
When I arrived at Bow Street, there was a mob gathered, shouting obscene names. I’ve never seen such a foulmouthed and frightening gaggle. I thought at one point they were going to storm the place. They were fearsome and I felt ashamed to be near them, to be amongst them, so I turned to leave and ran right into Bosie and he started hissing that I was a vile Judas scum of the earth, that I didn’t deserve to lick the dirt off Oscar’s shoes. Then he begged me not to give evidence, and I said I was only telling the truth and he said, “No, what you are doing,
Jack
, is killing him.” Then he turned and disappeared inside the police station.
On the way home, I took a detour into St James’s Park. It was as busy as ever, running alive with guards and trade. I needed to distract myself from the ghosts of Taylor and Oscar and the way they were darkening my mood. I got into a chat with a burly young butcher and before long we were frigging each other in the bushes, trousers pushed down around our ankles. He delivered the primest beef, it has to be said, and I walked back feeling a little better in mood, though the ghosts still hovered and would not go. Perhaps they never will.
1954
I spent last night
in a police cell.
Gore had taken me to my first queer pub, the Lord Barrymore, near Regent’s Park. I’ve walked past it on several occasions, never imagining for a minute what it was, and not being a pub person I’d never had cause to go in. But last night we went for a drink there.
A few weeks ago, Gore was astonished to hear that I’d never been inside a queer pub. He refused even to believe me to begin with. Once I convinced him that it was true, he insisted the situation be rectified. I agreed to go to one with him. A few weeks went by and nothing more was said about it. But yesterday, I brought the subject up and asked whether he was free that evening. He said yes, so after our meal we got a cab into town.
I felt a great deal of trepidation during the cab ride, and despite all the wine we’d drunk with our meal I was incredibly nervous as we entered. There was a lot of rococo carved glass over and behind the counter and a number of mahogany chairs with red leather upholstery. A fog of cigarette smoke blurred the air. Apparently it had only gone queer in the last few months; before that it was an ordinary public house. Gore informed me that once a place has become established as a queer pub, the police start raiding it on a regular basis so that the clientele have to move on to another pub.
There were about thirty people there when we arrived. All of them turned to look at us when we walked in. As we made our way to the bar I noticed Gore nod acquaintance to a few men and I wondered if any of them were his punters, but dismissed the thought. There were two or three young soldiers by the dartboard, and a clutch of young men standing by the fire who seemed to be wearing make-up, the paint illuminated by the firelight. The rest were an unremarkable and fairly typical crowd of men. I overheard bits of conversations as I followed Gore. Dog-ends, my mother used to call them.
“She said, ‘Well, don’t ask me, dear, I’ve only got two inches of vagina left’ …”
“So, by the time I finally got to Kathmandu …”
“If I catch you strolling and caterwauling I’ll beat the milk out of your breasts, so I will.”
“Smell her!”
Gore ordered the drinks and I gave him the money to pay for them. As he took it, I noticed those around us watching the transaction, and knew how it must seem to them. A feeling of both pride and shame washed through me.
If only.
It was easy enough finding a seat, and Gore said it was because most people preferred to stand so they could observe everything, or rather everyone, in the room. There didn’t seem much to observe to me. Just a regular public house, except perhaps for the occasional shriek of hysterical laughter and the absence of women. I said as much to Gore when he returned with the drinks, and he explained that glances were being constantly exchanged and rendezvous being arranged without a word being spoken—an invisible web being spun around us of covert eye movements and facial gestures you’d be hard-pushed to notice. The soldiers, apparently, are well known for letting you fellate them in the gents’, if you slip them a couple of quid.
Gore told me that the regulars call the landlord Mother. And in these places most of the punters are regulars. He explained that all eyes had been on us because they had never seen me before. I said I found the attention rather strange. He laughed, and I wasn’t sure if he was laughing at me.
At that point, a grey-haired old man in an extremely tight burgundy velvet jacket and blue cravat, who had been staring and blinking at Gore ever since we’d sat down, came up to the table and grabbed Gore’s hand. In the fruitiest voice, he said, “
Young man
, when
you
have a few spare hours and
I
have a few spare pounds of plaster of Paris, you
must
let me make a cast of your hands. They’re divine.”
“Away with you, Jack!” Gore laughed, pulling his hand free.
“I’m serious, Gregory, I intend to immortalise them in bronze.” A lascivious grin spread across his face. “And your cock too, if you’d let me.” He gave Gore a nudge.
“Behave,” Gore said, “there’ll be none of that talk in front of my friend here. He’s an artist. A real artist.” Gore nodded in my direction.
Jack held out a limp hand for me to shake. “Jack Rose.”
“Colin Read. Pleased to meet you.” I shook his hand.
“I knew an artist once,” he said.
“Sure you did, Jack, sure you did,” Gore teased, looking at me. “Didn’t you meet Mr Oscar Wilde himself, now?”
“No word of a lie,” he said, dropping the genteel accent and trowelling on the Cockney. “I was a beautiful boy, not ashamed to say it, a shiny ripe apple in this veritable Eden, and Mr Wilde liked beautiful boys, as did all the swells that came my way. But we had something special, Mr Wilde and I. Treated me like gold, he did. Here, take a vada at this,” he said, plunging his hand into his inside jacket pocket and plucking out a tatty sepia photograph. He handed it over and said, “Just you read what’s written on the back of that, Mr Read, go on, read it. Aloud, if you don’t mind.”
I read. “‘To Jack, my favourite writing desk, O.W.’”
I said I was impressed, that I had enjoyed many of Wilde’s writings.
“I had a silver cigarette case, too, what he gave me. But the filth took that.” He helped himself to a sip from my drink. “It’s a crime what this country did to that man, a crime!” he hissed.
Then without further encouragement he launched into a monologue. “When they locked ’im up, London sank to its knees, five years before the century did, tatty and knackered, as grey as Victoria’s hair. The inns were empty, the drag balls wiped off the face of the city like a tart’s panstick. Most of the well-to-do queens had sodded off abroad, the ones who stayed too scared to play out their lust. The party was over. I fucked off up to Manchester, but I had such a miserable time I came back after a year. You ever been? Don’t bother. I missed London. But the London I missed was no more.”
He paused for dramatic effect.
“But then,” he said, moving closer, “ever so gradually, legions of Oscars started to spring up like flowers all over London, on every street corner in town from the Dilly to Oxford Street. So many Oscars. Vivid and proud.” His hands started to dance, stressing certain words with an invisible stitch of the smoky air. “More timid than he had been, mind you, but taking their cue nevertheless from his former glory, before Lily Law kicked the living daylights out of him. And the resilience of this desire fascinated me. I heard the song of its voice and joined in the chorus. They were back: the taverns, and the drag parties, and the swells. You could suddenly make out a sparkle of gold feathers beneath the ash-grey pelt of London town.”
He paused, lost in some long-forgotten memory, a beatific smile lighting his wrinkled, powdered face.
“D’y’know, it was as if he had to die so as to be reincarnated not just as a person, but as a whole new century. That’s how big he was.”
Then he turned to Gore and said, “Can this old ponce ponce a Vogue off you, duckie?” And while Gore was fishing in his jacket pocket Jack lifted Gore’s glass and took a swig.
As Gore handed Jack a cigarette, there was a sudden burst of noise and half a dozen policemen crashed through the doors. Everybody froze. Absolute silence. My heart was racing. Jack just rolled his eyes as if to say,
here we go again
, and tilted forward to light his cigarette in the flame that Gore offered.
“Goodnight, sweet ladies,” Jack hissed before slinking off to the back of the room, gliding like a phantom.
“Good evening, gents,” said one of the policemen.
“How can we help you, officer?” asked the landlord.
“We’re here to seek your co-operation.”
“Oh, yes?”
“If you’d all be so kind as to supply us with your names and addresses, then we’ll be on our way.”
“Why?”
“Just procedure, sir.”
“But you’ve got them already. You were in here last week. There’s nobody here tonight who wasn’t here then. No one.” I looked at the floor.
“It won’t take a minute, sir.”
Our table was nearest to the door and a policeman sat down in the seat Jack had vacated. I looked at Gore; he looked calm as anything.
“Evenin’, ladies,” he said with an imbecilic grin. Neither of us spoke. “If I could have your name, please, sir.”
“Gregory Moretti.”
“And where do you live, Mr Moretti?”
“With him,” he said, pointing at me. I couldn’t believe my ears. I was confused as to why Gore would say that. But I didn’t have much time to reflect on it, for the policeman turned immediately to me.
“Does he live with you, sir?”
“Yes,” I blurted out.
“You don’t sound so sure, sir.”
“Yes, he does, he lives with me.”
“And what is your relationship with this young man, sir, if I may ask?”
I was momentarily flummoxed, and by the time I came out with “friend,” Gregory had already said “son” the smallest fraction of a second faster.
The policeman closed his notepad, put away his pencil, stood up and asked us to accompany him to the station. I felt so humiliated I could hardly stand.
“Leave ’em alone, they’ve done no harm. Only having a bleedin’ drink. It’s not a crime,” yelled the landlord.
“Stay out of this, Mother.”
“Mr Wilson to you.”
They took us away in a Black Maria, and I felt as if I were being driven to my execution. Gore suddenly seemed like a complete stranger about whose life I knew absolutely nothing. To compound my humiliation, there were two men with us in the back of the van dressed in women’s clothes, their faces covered in make-up. One of them explained that they’d just been arrested for soliciting in the park. They introduced themselves as Lady Godiva and Gilda Lily. Gilda did all the talking, explaining that Lady Godiva was still upset that the police had accosted her in the middle of a particularly enjoyable encounter, servicing a serviceman in possession of what Gilda termed “the biggest cazzo in Christendom.” He leant across and said quietly, “She takes her work too seriously, if you ask me.” He put a hand on my knee and said, “There are two things I can’t stand: size queens and small cocks.”
I looked at Lady Godiva. He looked at me and smiled weakly, exposing teeth so bucked I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to be fellated by him. My grandmother would have described them by saying he could eat an apple through a letterbox.
Gore and I exchanged not one word during the entire journey. The sounds of the traffic as we travelled through the city filled me with sadness. At the station we were separated immediately and taken into different rooms. I don’t think I have ever been quite so petrified in my entire life. A police officer took down my details and then put me in a cell with Gilda and Lady Godiva, who still hadn’t said a word. I was in there for what seemed hours. I wondered if they would interview me first and then Gore, or Gore first and then me, or both simultaneously, but concluded it didn’t really matter. Our stories would not match. I wasn’t about to start fabricating a life in which he was my son. Besides, what if he had decided to pretend he had simply used the wrong word accidentally in the pub and had meant to say friend? What if he was about to tell the truth? And what was the truth? Could I say he was a friend; could I lie and say he lived with me?
My mind was spinning with so many thoughts, and all the while Gilda was beside me recounting stories about the cock size of various members of parliament. “They don’t call them members for nothing, love, believe you me!” he roared.
And still the only torture was his absence.
I wondered what Gore was doing, why he hadn’t been put in with us.
Finally, I was taken to an interview room, where I maintained that his current address was with me.
“Why did he say he was your son, do you think?” The policeman arched an eyebrow.
“I imagine he used the wrong word accidentally. He is multi-lingual and is prone to mistakes on occasion.”
“That’s what he said.”
I relaxed a little.
“You know that the Lord Barrymore is frequented by homosexuals, do you, Mr Read?”
I said I did.
“And do you frequent the Lord Barrymore, Mr Read?”
I said that it was my first time there.
“It always is, sir, it always is.” He grinned and I was as tense as ever.
Then he pushed a sheet of text toward me and said, “If you could just read through and sign this statement for me, Miss—sorry,
Mister
Read.” I read through it, considered pointing out the numerous errors in spelling, punctuation, and grammar, but thought better of it. I signed it and pushed it back toward him and he declared me a free man.
“And Gregory?”
“He’s waiting outside for you.” And he gave me that knowing grin again, and I thought to myself,
You don’t know anything, you filthy Yahoo
. That was what my father used to say under his breath whenever anyone tried to talk to him whom he didn’t like, which was almost everybody. I remember as a child thinking it a terrible name to call anyone. But, by Christ, that ape before me was a filthy Yahoo if ever I saw one. Where do they find them?
I found Gore skulking around outside, kicking the curb like a naughty bored child.
“Come on,” I said, “let’s get home.” We took a black cab home in silence, and I found myself thinking about Frank Symonds sitting in all those cabs with all those boys years ago, and wondering what he might have talked to them about, or whether they too sat in a silence as deadly as this, like two creatures who had yet to develop a means to communicate. My mind was racing with words, but none of them seemed the right thing to say. Not in front of a cabbie. As soon as we were in the house I asked Gore why he hadn’t simply given his own address and he said he didn’t have one. He told me he had run away from his place in Islington without paying his rent and is sleeping in parks or with friends. I told him that I was sorry about his situation, and would help as much as I could, but that there was absolutely no way he could stay here.
He laughed.
“Gore, this is no joking matter.”
I knew that, compared to the scrapes he’d regularly found himself in and the dangerous situations he’d placed himself in, a London bobby was child’s play, but I still felt sick from the whole experience. I tried to keep a stern face, but he carried on laughing and eventually I found myself succumbing to a smile and then I myself began to laugh. In some curious way I felt the experience had brought us closer, though God alone knows how or why. I was very cross with him, and he knew it, I could tell. I can’t help feeling a little unsettled by the whole affair. Especially the police having my details. I imagine that they have a huge ledger in which they record the details of every homosexual they’ve ever unearthed, and I keep picturing the policeman who interviewed me scratching my name in it and blotting it dry with a grin of triumph. I thought of Montagu, Wildeblood, and Pitt-Rivers in their cells. There but for the grace of God go I, I thought, even though I’m an atheist.