Still Standing: The Savage Years (32 page)

‘And when were you last in a casino?’ I asked her, growing increasingly fascinated by my mother’s apparent double life.

‘In the Isle of Man with your dad. You couldn’t see a thing, it was that dark, and there was a woman in the lav who expected a tip just for turning on the tap and handing you a paper towel. I gave her a couple of coppers though.’

‘And what time did you go to this casino with Vera?’

‘About half seven.’

‘And you didn’t get home till half one?’

‘Says he who spends the night out tomcatting until the early hours. You’re not the only one who can have a bit of fun, you know, so don’t be condemning me to a life stuck in the house on me own. I’m a free agent and I can do what I like and if I fancy a bit of an adventure, not that I’ll be doing it again,
then it’s no one’s business but me own. Now, what are you having for your tea?’

At about two o’clock in the morning I was awoken by gunshots coming from my mother’s bedroom. As I leapt out of bed the thought came into my mind as I looked around for a suitable weapon that perhaps she’d crossed a couple of gangsters in the casino and they’d turned up to avenge their honour.

‘Jesus tonight,’ I heard my mother shout. As I rushed into her bedroom clutching a wire coat hanger to fight the gangsters off with, I was hit in the face by a spray of water. Had the bullets gone through the ceiling and burst a pipe?

‘What’s going on?’ I shouted.

‘What d’ya think? Bloody ginger beer.’

Was my mother using cockney rhyming slang as a term of abuse? Surely not.

‘The ginger beer,’ she said irritably, pointing at some bottles lined up against the side of the wardrobe and pouring forth a mountain of frothy liquid. ‘It’s exploded. I must’ve used too much yeast again. I can never get it right. I put them in here out of the way of the kids. Now help me move the rest of these bottles into the lav in case they go off.’

Sleep was disturbed at regular intervals throughout the night by the sound of corks popping in the toilet, and in the morning Dot-Next-Door said she could hear someone messing around with fireworks all night, either that or someone was using explosives to break into the factory in Holt Road and should she call the police?

As I said, it was nice to be home.

Before I went back to London I made the trip to Landican Cemetery to visit my father’s grave with my mother. We stopped by to see Aunty Anne on our way home and found her busy whitewashing the inside of the large cupboard that had once stored coal, before the advent of the gas fire.

‘I just thought I’d throw a bit of distemper up those walls,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Wait till I rinse this brush out and I’ll make a cup of tea.’

It was odd not to find Aunty Chris sat in her chair wearing the ubiquitous nylon housecoat, her head full of curlers and her sucking on a fag while studying the racing page. The flat felt empty without her and, like my mother, Aunty Anne seemed to have shrunk.

‘What do you think of these Aids, Molly?’ she asked my mother, drying her hands on a souvenir tea towel from Norfolk.

‘Not much,’ my mother said, taking her mac off. ‘They taste foul and I never lost any weight on them.’

‘No, not those Ayds, the other ones,’ Aunty Anne said, flicking a fly with the tea towel. ‘That new priest at mass said he’d heard that some members of the congregation were concerned that you could catch it from drinking out of the chalice at communion. What do you think?’

‘I wouldn’t know what to think,’ my mother sighed. ‘A woman on the bus told me you can catch it off toilet seats and from glasses in pubs, but that sounds a bit far-fetched to me. I wonder how poor Rock Hudson caught it?’

‘Well, the priest told us that, as there was no evidence to prove the rumour and as he doubted that there were any homosexuals in the congregation, we were perfectly safe to take communion,’ Aunty Annie said, heading off to make the tea.

‘And how does he know there’s no homosexuals at St Michael’s then?’ my mother shouted after her.

‘Because I don’t think homosexuals go to mass,’ Aunty Anne replied from the kitchen.

‘Don’t talk daft, Annie,’ my mother said, tut-tutting. ‘The Catholic Church is littered with them. Why, in Ireland if a fellah doesn’t fancy women he says he’s had a vocation and becomes a priest. Not that I’m saying every priest is a homosexual but I’m bloody sure there’s a few lurking about.’

‘God forgive you, Molly,’ Aunty Anne said piously, bringing the teapot in. ‘Do you want a biscuit with your tea?’

I went over the road to Billy Lam’s Chinese chippy to seek solace in a prawn curry with chips. All this talk of homosexuals coming from my mother and Aunty Anne was making me a little uncomfortable, especially any mention of Aids. I was trying to convince myself that it would soon be over and a cure found.

But it wasn’t. The Spectre of Aids, as some of the press often dramatically called it, had now seriously ridden into town, bringing a vast army with it and wiping out thousands of our community – talented, brilliant men who had made enormous contributions to the theatre, ballet, the arts and music. All those incredible men bravely continued in their chosen profession until ill health finally forced them into retirement, hospital and inevitable death.

Regulars of the Vauxhall would suddenly vanish, re-emerging as shadows of their former selves, emaciated and frail, their faces bearing all the tell-tale signs that we had come to recognize: the sunken cheeks, the yellowing skin, teeth that appeared to be too big for the mouth, the unbearable sadness in the hollow eyes that burned brightly in
skeletal sockets and called to mind the victims of the Nazi extermination camps.

Death became a way of life and when I wasn’t visiting friends in hospitals I was at a funeral, often returning home to listen to my answerphone telling me that a friend I’d only just visited that morning had died. Reflecting on this in those dangerous wee small hours, I wondered if I myself was a grim reaper. Just lately everyone I came into contact with seemed to die and a visit from me to a hospital bedside would signal a fast-approaching demise.

The Westminster Hospital, now a block of fancy apartments, had an excellent Aids unit on the top floor, overseen by the remarkable Professor Brian Gazzard. Professor Gazzard, a pioneer in Aids research, was approachable and practical when it came to dealing with sensitive issues, for many of the parents of the patients in his care didn’t even know that their son was gay, never mind dying of a terminal disease. Professor Gazzard spoke out against hypocrisy and fear generated by the media and deserves a medal for his continuing work in the fight against Aids.

The Salvation Army were regulars on the wards, practical and efficient as always, proving that they really were an army and a compassionate, non-judgemental one at that. I’d watch them in the day room, my respect growing each day as I saw them console the parents and lovers of the recently deceased. Through the long hours of the night they would tend to those who were alone in their final moments, then organize and pay for their funerals. The Quakers were another group of good people that I have the greatest respect for as they came frequently, volunteering to help when others wouldn’t dare.

Lily took on a different role during those dark times, as did the majority of the acts. Our job was to boost morale, keep the spirits up and, most importantly, to make our audiences laugh, allowing them to forget for a brief while about this deadly killer that was sweeping through the gay community with a speed comparable to that of a bush fire.

I had frequent visits from anxious young men in the dressing room of the Vauxhall, all of them wondering if they ‘could have a few words’. I always knew what was coming by the look on their faces and the oh so familiar opening line, ‘I went for a test last week …’

A nineteen-year-old I’ll call Tim broke down over the sink, dissolving into tears as he told me that he’d just learned he’d tested positive.

‘But I’ve only slept with two men,’ he sobbed. ‘How is it possible?’

Aids wasn’t selective, it didn’t matter how many people you’d had unprotected sex with, it only took one who was carrying the virus to become infected.

When Tim went blind and lost the use of his legs I went to visit him in the Middlesex Hospital.

‘You’d better put these on,’ the nurse said, handing me a mask and gown as she led me to a room with yellow tape across the door.

‘I don’t need them, thanks,’ I’d say as I pushed back the curtains surrounding the bed, to which she’d reply, ‘Your choice.’

The funny, pretty little design student who never missed a Thursday night at the Vauxhall and who had so much to live for now lay on the bed, blind, paralysed and disfigured by sarcoma, holding his mother’s hand as she sat quietly by his bedside.

‘He’s just woken up,’ she said gently. ‘Are you a friend?’

I introduced myself to her and then bent down to kiss Tim.

‘You came,’ he said. ‘Mum, this is the first person I told when I found out I was positive.’

We made polite conversation for a while, asking the usual banal questions one asks around hospital beds, ‘How are you feeling?’ and ‘Are they looking after you OK?’

Tim’s mother excused herself, leaving us alone for a while. ‘Call me,’ she said, the pain in her eyes belying the smile on her lips. ‘If he needs anything, I’ll be in the kitchen.’

We chatted quietly and just before I left Tim I asked him why he chose to tell me out of everyone when he was first diagnosed HIV positive.

‘I didn’t tell you,’ he said, ‘I told Lily.’

I went in search of his mother to tell her that I was leaving.

‘Thank you for being his friend,’ she said, struggling to keep her composure. ‘He’s a wonderful little boy, you know, I’ve never heard him complain once, not once. I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.’

I took the stairs down instead of the lift in case anyone should get in and see me crying.

There were benefits and fundraisers held in every pub and club to raise money for hospices, the Terrence Higgins Trust and the London Lighthouse. Every act on the circuit turned out to support them. I did at least three charities a week, sometimes more, and between us we managed to raise thousands of pounds. Adrella and I did regular shows on the Aids ward at St Mary’s in Paddington. I’d drag up as a nurse and dispense red and white wine from cardboard urine bottles to the nurses and patients. At Christmas it was
particularly difficult to keep a smile on your face. Even though there was a celebratory air on the ward, it was tinged with sadness and a desperation to enjoy the moment as we all knew that the majority of men lying there and some of their friends would not live to see the New Year in.

I sat on the bed of an old friend from the Market Tavern, his youth, health and handsome good looks ravaged by Aids but his sense of humour still very much intact.

‘Is there anything you’d like?’ I asked

‘I suppose a wank’s out of the question, is it?’ he replied wryly. ‘Failing that I’d love a fag, but you’ll have to hold it for me as I can’t use my arms.’

I lit the fag and held it while he took a few drags.

‘I needed that,’ he said, coughing and spluttering, ‘but no more, thanks.’

When I looked around for somewhere to put the fag out, he said, ‘Don’t waste it, smoke it.’ The other people in the room, a couple from a charity, a young intern and some nurses, watched me intently to see what I’d do. Would I smoke a cigarette that had just left the lips of someone dying from Aids?

Dismissing any doubts of my own, to the amazement of the group I took a drag, not wishing to insult my friend and make him feel like a leper. It was still uncertain whether or not the virus could be transmitted by saliva but as this was a theory I didn’t believe I was happy to sit and share a fag with an old pal.

Working the Vauxhall was akin to entertaining the troops at the front. You never knew who would be missing from the audience the next time you stood before them, which one
would be the next to die, not from a sniper’s bullet but from something equally deadly.

In the war against Aids, the Vauxhall, like so many other gay pubs and clubs, was in the forefront. It was no longer fashionable to be gay – homophobic attacks were now rising alarmingly. Gays carried disease and were solely responsible for the epidemic that was killing them off. Why should we be bothered, some people said. They have no one to blame but themselves, let it kill them all. Such talk made me boiling mad and I’d rant from the stage, expressing my feelings through Lily, trying to get the point across that we were all in this together, boosting morale and hopefully easing the burden in the process. I protected my gay audiences as fiercely as Lily guarded her two kids, Bunty and Jason, and wouldn’t think twice about leaping off the stage and belting any disrespectful heterosexual who’d wandered in with his mates ‘for a laugh’ and stepped out of line.

The cabaret acts, drag or otherwise, fought like Trojans against ignorance and prejudice and have, apart from those of my generation, mostly gone unrecognized.

After Peter (Adrella) died in 2011 from cancer I was sent a copy of a blog that read: ‘There was something about drag back then that forged the identity of many a gay man. The gratitude I feel to Adrella, Lily Savage, Regina Fong et al isn’t confined to appreciating the bloody good entertainment they provided. They affirmed us all when few others did. They made the “gay scene” a less threatening place. They helped build a community during the darkest days of the epidemic which was killing so many of us.’

Other tributes poured in. ‘The drag queens were and are the original freedom fighters for all lesbian, gay and transgendered persons. We owe them our lives.’

Thank you for that, Sebastian Sandys and Father Bernard Lynch, and when people ask me if I still mind being referred to as a ‘drag queen’ by the press, which I don’t by the way, it’s remarks like yours that make me extremely proud to belong to that extraordinary and much maligned group of entertainers.

Adrella had been offered two weeks’ work in Finland if he could get a trio together. I signed up, as did Ebony (John), another act on the circuit. Both Adrella and Ebony had been before and knew what to expect, whereas I was blissfully ignorant about the place and was looking forward to visiting and working in this Nordic country.