It was the dog days of summer and the air was solid with the stench of exhaust fumes. It didn’t bother Gilbert. He was so used to the dirt and the grime he no longer noticed it. Soho was his home, the place where he was most comfortable; everything he wanted, everything he needed was here. He raised his chin and sniffed. The stale aroma of Old Compton Street was in a strange way almost pleasurable. Tying his shoelaces, having to kneel on one knee had exhausted him, but it was still manageable. Old age made him conscious of his own mortality but at least, he thought, shrugging his shoulders, I know who and what I am.
He patted himself down and surveyed his terrain. The clubs, the delis, the clip joints: some boarded up, others still operating behind dusty doors. He pulled the door to behind him and followed his nose, a nose powdered carefully as befits an ageing queen, out into the village they call Soho. He walked slowly past the For Sale and Sold notices, his knees creaking, every step measured. Soho was his patch, his village. Gilbert acted the old queen but he wasn’t the only queen in Soho and if outsiders didn’t like it, well he was so ancient it no longer mattered and they could bugger off or he’d give them a good slapping, so he would.
Sixty years ago, Gilbert had closed another door behind him. Home then was a working class estate in Derry. His Mum was forever in the kitchen endlessly wiping a cloth across every surface in case Father O’Brien sidled in the back door without knocking. Gilbert left and had never been back. If he’d stayed, he might have punched Father O’Brien right in his cassock and what then?
After he’d paid for his ticket across the water, all he had in the world was one five pound note and a spare pair of underpants with two odd socks folded into a Co-op plastic bag. He’d hitchhiked to London and it was there he discovered Soho.
Soho welcomed Gilbert unconditionally; a gangly camp adolescent with purple eyeliner. Soho accepted him. In Soho, if you were different, people were indifferent. You could be visible or invisible. He could be Damian or Gilbert. It was his choice.
If at first he’d fallen in love, in love with everything about Soho, the sights, the smells, the sex and not least the rudeness of it all, now, after all these years he truly loved Soho. Falling in love and loving were two different things in Gilbert’s book. It was the people he’d loved the most: his friends, male and female or otherwise, young and old, his lovers, all of them, especially the ones he’d loved and lost.
He pulled his shoulders back and brushed a fleck of dust from the sleeve of his linen jacket. He was heading for the Café Espana. It wasn’t for the coffee. He had better coffee at home. It was the theatre, the performance. How many times had he made this journey? He looked neither right nor left. If he couldn’t see the For Sale or Sold notices, they weren’t there. He wet a finger and smoothed an eyebrow, all the while concentrating on his footwork.
His usual table by the open window was wiped clean, waiting for him to be seated. This was Gilbert’s time, early evening when there was a lull. The waiter brought him a cup of black bitter liquid and left it cooling while Gilbert mopped his brow.
Old Compton Street was quiet, so quiet that soon he could hear Sadie’s stilettos tap tapping along the pavement towards him. Gilbert busied himself with folding his handkerchief back into his top pocket. Sadie was a working girl and there were times when she could not acknowledge him but today she threw him a wicked grin.
“Alright. Gilbert? Hot enough for you?”
Clutching her arm like an ancient mariner was a well dressed business man who had self evidently over indulged in the Groucho Club. Sadie stopped and steadied her client, who was rocking gently on his feet.
Gilbert crooked his little finger, a universal gesture.
Sadie grinned over her shoulder and winked at him.
“Shan’t be long.”
Gilbert was content sitting in the window, his eyelids drooping in the heat. The sun was casting long shadows over Soho, throwing the buildings opposite into sharp relief. It was now gin and tonic time for Gilbert and he nodded at the young waiter who was soon at his shoulder.
The waiter was dressed in uniform black, a sleeveless tee shirt worn above tight trousers with a single key dangling from a chain on his waist. With the confidence of youth, he swivelled his hips as he turned and made a show of flicking his tea towel at a pigeon pecking outside. Gilbert, the old queen, buffed his nails on his lapel and pursed his lips. He sighed and pressed his glass against a cheek, enjoying the feel of it straight from the fridge, just the way he liked it.
Across the road, he saw Sebastian waving at him. Sebastian’s shoulder length silver hair was parted on one side and lank from the heat of the day. He was wearing flared jeans and a faded cord jacket, which may or may not have been peach. Gilbert raised his hand and Sebastian crossed over and sat beside him.
“Hallo darling. What a view you have, the eyes and ears of Soho.”
He placed a hand on Gilbert’s knee. ”I shall call you Captain Cat.”
They sat for a while, not speaking, until Sebastian put his elbows on the table and pointed his fingers like a steeple. His wrinkled cheeks were mottled with purple veins. He seemed near to tears.
“I’ve had a letter from the council. It says a bed sit in Clapham.”
Gilbert cleared his throat and coughed. His shoulders wriggled beneath his jacket. “I’ll worry about it tomorrow. That’s the way I am.”
Sebastian shook his head. “It’s not tomorrow I worry about, it’s the day after tomorrow and the day after that.”
Gilbert spread his hands on the table, fingers apart. “What can we do? It may not happen. Anyway, it will see us out.”
Sebastian pressed a lavender coloured tissue to his eyes. “We had the best of times, didn’t we?”
Later that evening, the two of them were upstairs in Sadie’s flat. Business was slow and they were sitting at her kitchen table drinking tea and dunking biscuits.
Sebastian’s eyes were moist. “We had them all round here, didn’t we? The Rolling Stones, remember? Rod Stewart at the Flamingo—that’s a betting shop now—Kenny Baker at Ronnie Scotts.”
Sadie refilled their cups. She patted Gilbert on the shoulder. “What about that fight over Christine Keeler outside the Nelson?”
Sebastian flapped his hand. “I saw Gary Glitter once. He used to sing at the Marquee.”
Gilbert snorted. “He’s the sort to give the place a bad name.”
Sadie laughed. “You boys. Now come on. Mind how you go.”
She switched on the landing light. An ancient mousetrap hung from a piece of string in a corner. The stair carpet had felt the tread of many feet and was threadbare in places.
Downstairs, a shower of rain had made the pavements wet and shiny beneath the street lamps. Soho was quiet, with just a few tourists clutching cameras strolling along Old Compton Street. Sebastian hugged Gilbert and kissed him on both cheeks.
“Take care of yourself, my dear friend.”
Gilbert stood and watched as he walked past the boarded up buildings and waited until Sebastian reached his front door and fumbled for his keys and let himself in.
Gilbert steadied himself with one hand against an abandoned wheelie bin and with the other hand on his hip he took a deep breath. The air was sweet, so very sweet.
He patted himself down and surveyed his terrain. The clubs, the delis, the clip joints: some boarded up, others still operating behind dusty doors. He pulled the door to behind him and followed his nose, a nose powdered carefully as befits an ageing queen, out into the village they call Soho. He walked slowly past the For Sale and Sold notices, his knees creaking, every step measured. Soho was his patch, his village. Gilbert acted the old queen but he wasn’t the only queen in Soho and if outsiders didn’t like it, well he was so ancient it no longer mattered and they could bugger off or he’d give them a good slapping, so he would.
Sixty years ago, Gilbert had closed another door behind him. Home then was a working class estate in Derry. His Mum was forever in the kitchen endlessly wiping a cloth across every surface in case Father O’Brien sidled in the back door without knocking. Gilbert left and had never been back. If he’d stayed, he might have punched Father O’Brien right in his cassock and what then?
After he’d paid for his ticket across the water, all he had in the world was one five pound note and a spare pair of underpants with two odd socks folded into a Co-op plastic bag. He’d hitchhiked to London and it was there he discovered Soho.
Soho welcomed Gilbert unconditionally; a gangly camp adolescent with purple eyeliner. Soho accepted him. In Soho, if you were different, people were indifferent. You could be visible or invisible. He could be Damian or Gilbert. It was his choice.
If at first he’d fallen in love, in love with everything about Soho, the sights, the smells, the sex and not least the rudeness of it all, now, after all these years he truly loved Soho. Falling in love and loving were two different things in Gilbert’s book. It was the people he’d loved the most: his friends, male and female or otherwise, young and old, his lovers, all of them, especially the ones he’d loved and lost.
He pulled his shoulders back and brushed a fleck of dust from the sleeve of his linen jacket. He was heading for the Café Espana. It wasn’t for the coffee. He had better coffee at home. It was the theatre, the performance. How many times had he made this journey? He looked neither right nor left. If he couldn’t see the For Sale or Sold notices, they weren’t there. He wet a finger and smoothed an eyebrow, all the while concentrating on his footwork.
His usual table by the open window was wiped clean, waiting for him to be seated. This was Gilbert’s time, early evening when there was a lull. The waiter brought him a cup of black bitter liquid and left it cooling while Gilbert mopped his brow.
Old Compton Street was quiet, so quiet that soon he could hear Sadie’s stilettos tap tapping along the pavement towards him. Gilbert busied himself with folding his handkerchief back into his top pocket. Sadie was a working girl and there were times when she could not acknowledge him but today she threw him a wicked grin.
“Alright. Gilbert? Hot enough for you?”
Clutching her arm like an ancient mariner was a well dressed business man who had self evidently over indulged in the Groucho Club. Sadie stopped and steadied her client, who was rocking gently on his feet.
Gilbert crooked his little finger, a universal gesture.
Sadie grinned over her shoulder and winked at him.
“Shan’t be long.”
Gilbert was content sitting in the window, his eyelids drooping in the heat. The sun was casting long shadows over Soho, throwing the buildings opposite into sharp relief. It was now gin and tonic time for Gilbert and he nodded at the young waiter who was soon at his shoulder.
The waiter was dressed in uniform black, a sleeveless tee shirt worn above tight trousers with a single key dangling from a chain on his waist. With the confidence of youth, he swivelled his hips as he turned and made a show of flicking his tea towel at a pigeon pecking outside. Gilbert, the old queen, buffed his nails on his lapel and pursed his lips. He sighed and pressed his glass against a cheek, enjoying the feel of it straight from the fridge, just the way he liked it.
Across the road, he saw Sebastian waving at him. Sebastian’s shoulder length silver hair was parted on one side and lank from the heat of the day. He was wearing flared jeans and a faded cord jacket, which may or may not have been peach. Gilbert raised his hand and Sebastian crossed over and sat beside him.
“Hallo darling. What a view you have, the eyes and ears of Soho.”
He placed a hand on Gilbert’s knee. ”I shall call you Captain Cat.”
They sat for a while, not speaking, until Sebastian put his elbows on the table and pointed his fingers like a steeple. His wrinkled cheeks were mottled with purple veins. He seemed near to tears.
“I’ve had a letter from the council. It says a bed sit in Clapham.”
Gilbert cleared his throat and coughed. His shoulders wriggled beneath his jacket. “I’ll worry about it tomorrow. That’s the way I am.”
Sebastian shook his head. “It’s not tomorrow I worry about, it’s the day after tomorrow and the day after that.”
Gilbert spread his hands on the table, fingers apart. “What can we do? It may not happen. Anyway, it will see us out.”
Sebastian pressed a lavender coloured tissue to his eyes. “We had the best of times, didn’t we?”
Later that evening, the two of them were upstairs in Sadie’s flat. Business was slow and they were sitting at her kitchen table drinking tea and dunking biscuits.
Sebastian’s eyes were moist. “We had them all round here, didn’t we? The Rolling Stones, remember? Rod Stewart at the Flamingo—that’s a betting shop now—Kenny Baker at Ronnie Scotts.”
Sadie refilled their cups. She patted Gilbert on the shoulder. “What about that fight over Christine Keeler outside the Nelson?”
Sebastian flapped his hand. “I saw Gary Glitter once. He used to sing at the Marquee.”
Gilbert snorted. “He’s the sort to give the place a bad name.”
Sadie laughed. “You boys. Now come on. Mind how you go.”
She switched on the landing light. An ancient mousetrap hung from a piece of string in a corner. The stair carpet had felt the tread of many feet and was threadbare in places.
Downstairs, a shower of rain had made the pavements wet and shiny beneath the street lamps. Soho was quiet, with just a few tourists clutching cameras strolling along Old Compton Street. Sebastian hugged Gilbert and kissed him on both cheeks.
“Take care of yourself, my dear friend.”
Gilbert stood and watched as he walked past the boarded up buildings and waited until Sebastian reached his front door and fumbled for his keys and let himself in.
Gilbert steadied himself with one hand against an abandoned wheelie bin and with the other hand on his hip he took a deep breath. The air was sweet, so very sweet.