London 2000

London 2000

Friday, June 30 to Saturday, July 1
Virgin Atlantic made a lousy first impression. I fumed for almost two hours in the check-in line, inching forward like a piglet moving through the digestion of a very old, very dyspeptic boa constrictor. But Virgin redeemed themselves handsomely by getting us to London only five and a half hours after takeoff, one of the shortest transAtlantic flights I’ve ever experienced.
Gatwick Express whisked me off to Victoria Station in plenty of time to drop my bags off at the hotel. The Topham’s Belgravia is an elegant Georgian style hostelry on Ebury Street, a comfortable nest in the heart of the city. The crisp young woman at the desk told me my room could be ready in an hour, but it was an hour I couldn’t spare. I ducked into a washroom for a quick shave and brush, and set off for my appointment in Leicester Square.
Walking past Buckingham Palace, I was collared by a toothy older man with a camera, very friendly, who wanted to know where I was from. When he asked me to put my name and address into a notebook, I sensed a shakedown and scrawled Anthony Trollope, followed by a Philadelphia address. He deftly snapped a couple of pictures of me in front of the palace. A split second before he hit me up for cash, I made like Alice’s white rabbit and suddenly remembered a most pressing engagement. I left him sputtering and calling out for his couple of pounds, pleased to foil him in his shabby little scam.
Queen’s Walk, on the east side of Green Park, is cool and green and dark as evening shade. I strolled along humming, overjoyed at being once again in one of my favorite cities. On Piccadilly, I made a beeline for Tower Records, stopping only for a look through Hatchard’s bookshop. But at Tower my watch told me it was time to pop off. A punkette with shaved eyebrows and makeup that would alarm a visitor from Mars sat at a counter, perhaps contemplating her next piercing. She directed me to the passage under Piccadilly Circus and I sprinted off, emerging into Coventry Street.
I had arranged to meet Peter and David at the execrably executed Charlie Chaplin statue in Leicester Square. It’s a hideous eyesore, a mortal insult to its subject, but it sufficed as a point of contact. David appeared first, alone; Peter (and Phil Edwards, a happy surprise) joined us moments later. Seeing these dear old friends, I felt I was coming home again. This transAtlantic friendship has warmed me for fifteen years, with no end in sight. Peter and David remain comfortingly the same, but Phil has shed a good deal of weight, which becomes him.
David knew just the right pub for our first stop, reached through a warren of narrow streets and alleys: the Lamb and Flag. I had a pint of best bitter, and Peter presented me with a CD I’ve been looking for (how did he know?), and a coffee mug and sweatshirt emblazoned with my own artwork. (Last year I designed a poster for the My Fair Lady which Peter directed at Chester.) Next stop was a leisurely lunch at The Garrick, a wine bar/restaurant.
Waterloo Bridge was a short walk away; we crossed to the National Theatre complex. Suddenly the great, memorable sights along the river reawakened me: I was so delighted to be with my friends, I’d almost forgotten where I was. We had drinks in the coffee lounge of the National Theatre, then reluctantly said goodbye to David: he was staying at the National to see their production of The Heiress. Peter and Phil and I walked to Waterloo Station (another huge, romantic railway terminus like Victoria), then further into South London, to the Old Vic. Our goal: a play by Frank McGuinness which Peter had highly recommended, Dolly West’s Kitchen.
The Old Vic Theatre is itself a spectacle to rival any of the plays onstage. The space is a deep horseshoe, quietly ornate. The boxes rise above the stalls, fronted by a kind of pie-crust decoration. I know little of the Regency style in architecture, but I imagine this is a sterling example of it. The Old Vic seems to echo with the performances of generations of great, great actors. Their photos in performance line the walls: Burton, Olivier, Richardson, Gielgud...
Dolly West’s Kitchen was a good play made even better by the performers. The best was the family matriarch, Pauline Flanagan — an American, I was pleased to note. Her death scene was quiet, so delicate one barely realized it was happening, which made it all the more devastating.
We took the underground from Waterloo Station to Victoria and walked the three blocks to the hotel. Peter told me Noel Coward had lived on Ebury Street. Hannah and Kevin were due in at any time. The desk clerk said Dana had arrived, so I grabbed my bags, left Peter and Phil in the hotel bar, and took the elevator up to the third floor. After that there was another short flight of steps and I was there.
Seeing Dana, anywhere on the globe, is one of the purest pleasures I know — I have now met up with her in three foreign countries. She was mildly displeased with the room, claiming it was too hot. With a fan going I found it comfortable. The beds, however, were the narrowest I’ve seen. It was a small room, charmingly decorated in the airy English cottage style. Artwork by various members of the Topham family adorns every wall in the hotel; generally they’re unadventurous pieces, landscapes, flowers and so forth. I visited with Dana alone for a few moments before running down to fetch Phil and Peter.
Dana and my friends took to one another immediately. I’d hoped they would join us for dinner, but they declined, for Phil was staying with a friend and didn’t want simply to pop in at bedtime. I hated desperately to see them go; we’d had far too little time together. When they left, Dana and I caught up with family business over salmon pate and a bottle of chardonnay from a shop at Victoria. Finally Hannah and Kevin arrived. They had come directly from Rome, and I was gratified to find that they’d had a wonderful vacation and had loved Italy. I want everyone to embrace my second home with the same passion I have, though I’d have preferred to guide them personally.
This London trip was a splendid opportunity for me to get to know my new nephew. I’d met Kevin for the first time at Christmas and liked him at once. He is a most attractive and personable young man, fully worthy of my darling niece Hannah. Marriage agrees with her; she seems very happy.
We were all hungry by now, so we struck out toward Sloane Square. I’d foolishly left my map at the hotel, so we wandered a bit aimlessly, ending up back on Ebury street. As we walked toward Pimlico, we looked but found no plaque for Coward. But in one house Harold Nicolson and Vita Sackville-West had lived in their unconventional ménage. And two doors down was the house where Mozart wrote his first symphony. The closer we got to Orange Square, there were more storefronts, mostly antiques and home decoration shops. Then we stumbled on the perfect place for dinner.
The Poulet au Pot was bustling, full of people happily dining on what looked, and smelled, like excellent food. It appeared to be built on several levels, with soft romantic lighting, plants and dried flowers clinging to every surface. They were full, but the very accommodating host insisted we wait while he tried to juggle tables. It took almost half an hour, but we were finally situated in the spot of spots. We sat under the awning outside, surrounded by potted shrubs, with pleasant little Orange Square just beyond. Dana almost glowed with pleasure. I believe she would choose to dine al fresco even if a hurricane were brewing. We had no such problems this night; it was cool and pleasant. The meal was taken at the most leisurely pace imaginable. The four of us were blissed out at being together, in London, and with fine food in front of us. It was almost eleven when we gathered ourselves together and walked back down Ebury Street.
I spotted another blue plaque across the street: Dame Edith Evans had lived there for some years. It appeared to be yet another of the small hotels lining this street; rainbow flags proclaimed it to be a gay guesthouse.
Back at the hotel we resisted going to bed, as we were still excited to be together, joyful at being in London.

Sunday, July 2
Dana and Kevin and Hannah were already eating when I came down. The breakfast room of the hotel is a cheery, floral room, next to a little conservatory lit by a skylight. A full breakfast was part of the arrangement, so I ordered scrambled eggs with sauteed mushrooms, toast and marmalade. My favorite, black currant jam, was available. The coffee, for which I have a promethean capacity, was just the way I like it -- fresh and constantly replenished.
The weather was perfect. From Victoria we took the tube to the Tower Hill Station. The line to the Tower of London was long, but moved quickly. The Tower is unexpectedly large, built over the centuries in a variety of types of stone. Once in the gate we joined a tour already in progress.
Our Yeoman Warder, a Mr. Thompson, was the best guide we could have asked for. His narration was delivered in the ringing tones of an old-time barnstorming actor, the bloody tales delivered with dramatic relish and faultless timing. At the base of the White Tower he pointed out the Tower’s famous ravens and told the familiar legend that if the ravens ever left the Tower, “the monarchy will end, and the Tower itself (dramatic pause) crumble to dust!” Another perfectly timed pause, then — “Hence the cages!”
Beside a pretty patch of green he pointed out where the scaffold stood, where Anne Boleyn, Lady Jane Grey, and Essex were beheaded. Again, the delivery of the story was everything; we could almost hear the whisper of the axe falling. At that point the tour was over and we were free to ask questions. Dana and I both asked for the name of a good book on the Tower’s history. Mr. Thompson recommended The Tower by Derek Wilson.
On my first visit to London I’d toured the Tower, but hadn’t bothered to see the crown jewels. This time I did. The lines moved quickly, with excellent audio-visuals shown all along. The various crowns were in glass cases, along a moving sidewalk, a clever way to keep the crowds moving. But one was still given the option of trotting back over a little bridge and going through again.
We exited at the Thames embankment and took a river boat down to the Jubilee Gardens and London’s latest attraction, the London Eye. This enormous ferris wheel is the second tallest structure in London. The construction is (deliberately?) designed to look like a giant bicycle wheel, spokes, hub, and all. Instead of cars with bars across the lap, it has enclosed capsules. Otherwise, this card-carrying acrophobe would never have consented to ride in it. We had to buy our tickets in advance, for 3:30 the following day. The mere sight of a structure like the London Eye can dry my mouth and make my nerve-ends tingle, so I was relieved to head for Westminster Bridge. Along the bank in front of the London County buildings were a series of sculptures by that horrid old fraud Salvador Dali, but on the other side, the impressive statue of Queen Boadicea in her chariot was shrouded in white plastic.
It began to sprinkle, but not before Dana got a good sight of what I knew would be her favorite piece of public statuary. It’s certainly one of mine, the Winston Churchill in Parliament Square. The greatest Englishman is in a long coat, looking resolute, determined that the Nazis shall not prevail, the quintessence of British bulldoggery.
Kevin and I ducked into a pub, The Red Lion, and I introduced him to best bitter, which he enjoyed enough to order several more over the next few days. While we quaffed our brews, Hannah and Dana found a table at a sidewalk café down the block, The Churchill (what else?). When Kevin and I joined them I ordered a sandwich of creamed cheese and lox, and finished with cassata Siciliana, ice cream with cake, liqueur, and candied fruits.
We returned to the Churchill statue. Across Parliament Square was Westminster Abbey. As we approached we could see it was closed. Or was it? A cheerful cockney cricket with a few remaining teeth and a chain of keys at his waist came up and told us to come along with him. “See ‘ere, Oy’ve got the keys.” I assumed he was the verger. He seemed harmless, even helpful, so we followed. Along with a few other people, he took us around the east face of the abbey, pointing out details in the architecture that the casual observer might miss. He paused to fulminate against the elegant Henry Moore sculpture between the Abbey and Parliament, which I’ve always rather liked. He and the Queen Mother do not. According to him, she comes in for early service on Sunday mornings and is known to chat with commoners in the church (which seems in character). On the south side we detoured through a pleasant residential back street behind the abbey. Our guide pointed out the Queen Mother’s guest house and another marked by a plaque, where Lawrence of Arabia had lived. Around the corner was St. John’s Church, nicknamed “Queen Anne’s Footstool.” The story goes that the formidable queen rejected design after design, then kicked over her footstool. “That,” she told the architect, “is what I want it to look like.” Sure enough, the four stunted towers do rather resemble the upended legs of a footstool. Lord Chesterfield likened it to an elephant thrown on its back with legs extended.
Our verger finally led us around to a back entrance and told us to go on in that way, then waved us goodbye. But we only had access to the cloister; the sanctuary would have to wait for a future visit.
My family were willing to let me lead them on a “greatest hits” tour, so we set off toward St. James Park. I wanted to give them the best possible first sight of Buckingham Palace. But the park was roped off, so we turned back toward the enormous buildings housing the Foreign Office. Snuggled into a nook at the back of one of the buildings are the Cabinet War Rooms, where Churchill and Eisenhower and company planned the rescue of Europe. The rooms appear to be grafted on like a wasp nest stuck to a proud edifice. Cement-filled sandbags still suggest wartime hardship. From there we walked down Whitehall toward Admiralty Arch, past Downing Street, the Treasury and the Horse Guards. I pointed out the Banqueting Hall, in front of which feckless King Charles lost his head to a republican axe.
At Almiralty Arch we had a straight shot to the Victoria monument and the Palace, but they were too far away to engage our attention for more than a moment. More fascinating was Trafalgar Square, with its millions of pigeons swirling about. Kevin tried to get some of the pigeons to eat out of his hand, but to no avail. A tattered little man, an Indian, attempted to place a couple of the birds for him but they kept fluttering away. The scrofulous creatures looked none too healthy; I hoped that Kevin wouldn’t end up swarming with bird lice.
The haughty Landseer lions guarding the four corners of Nelson’s column invite hundreds of photographers every day to point and shoot. Thinking I might clamber up on the back of one, I shinnied up onto the pedestal. It was higher than I’d estimated, and the lions, now that I was closer up, looked daunting -- and slippery. A vision of my obituary swam before my eyes: Artist Falls off Bronze Lion, Breaks Neck. With a defiant challenge to my acrophobia scheduled for the next day, I decided to pass up this opportunity. When I finally got down, Hannah and Kevin were perched between the front paws of one of the lions for Dana to take a shot.
Across Pall Mall from Trafalgar Square was the grande dame of London’s museums, the National Gallery, but our attention was drawn to a wonderfully quirky modern bronze on the northwest plinth of Trafalgar Square. In front of the stately National Gallery, Bill Woodrow’s “Regardless of History” looks as incongruous as I.M. Pei’s pyramid before the Louvre. A withered bare tree sits atop a book and a human bust. It sends powerful snaky roots into the objects, curling down around the sides of the plinth like the tentacles of an octopus. Some surely find it nightmarish; we loved it.
We scampered across the roaring traffic to the National Portrait Gallery, my favorite London museum. It was open, and free of charge, but was within minutes of closing. No problem: the weather was splendid and nightfall was hours away. We walked to Leicester Square, then to Piccadilly Circus, with its ragtag bands of beggars and scam artists, photographers and tourists.
It was time for a drink. In the direction of Soho we found a pub that wasn’t overly crowded or smoky or filled with football fans, The White Horse. Kevin and I had a pint of best bitter, and by the time we were relaxed and ready to press on, the pub had filled up and a game was about to start.
On this trip, I noticed that many pubs have posted signs barring all patrons wearing football colors. This comes as no surprise if one has seen the way roving bands of football hooligans now misbehave over sport. Americans see Britain as a civilized land of good manners and fair play, but the spectacle of nationalism as evinced by this game is quickly putting that image to rest. Britain was not in the finals this year so the scent of thuggery I noted two summers ago was no longer in the air.
Dana, as always, was mad to sample what London had to offer in the way of Indian food. Along the row of small friendly restaurants on Irving Street off Leicester Square we had seen the Ashoka Tandoori. The tables outside, topped with snowy cloths, invited Dana to dine with her favorite eating companion, Al Fresco. There was only one tiny cloud on the horizon: Kevin is not an adventurous eater. But he was willing to give Indian a try.
Indian cuisine, to the unitiated, can be alarming. I’d introduced Tootie to it my last time in London. She’s a game old bird, and sailed into it with zest, but it hadn’t tinkled her chimes. All the tables outside the Ashoka Tandoori were full, except for a tiny one near the door. The hosts tumbled all over themselves arranging it to accommodate us. We sat down to hammer out a menu that Kevin might find to his liking. The panorama of available items ensured that something would certainly suit him, tandoori style chicken, say. I ordered the tandoori sampler, but Kevin elected to try one of the more highly spiced dishes. As usual, the plates got passed around, and he actually opted for the fierier dish. We were all proud of him, and equally pleased at our own choices.
We’d spotted a gleaming new wine bar on Leicester Square so we stopped by after dinner. The girls sat at a table while Kevin and I went up to the bar. I had a glass of Graham’s port. Kevin, being an enthusiast of Italian wines (bless his heart!), ordered a Montepulciano. The bartender promised to bring cappuccinos for Dana and Hannah, but came around a few minutes later to apologize: the coffee machine had been turned off for the night.
We walked back down Piccadilly, then past St. James’s Palace, along the Mall toward Buckingham Palace, pale and lovely in the soft night. We were tired after our long day’s journey, but supremely happy.

Monday, July 3
On this day I turned 54. After breakfast, we dropped off Dana’s film at a Boots Dispensary on Victoria Street, then took the Underground to Leicester Square. Our goal was the half-price ticket kiosk at the corner of the square. Coming out of the Underground a news seller at the entrance told us we’d get a better deal at the half-price tickets booth at this stop, rather than buck the lines at the kiosk. So we turned back and got in line.
We should have braved the lines of the other, but it wasn’t till later that we found this out. We had all hoped to see different things. The kids hadn’t seen Les Mis and also wanted very much to see The Lion King. Dana had several shows in mind, and so did I. London is currently presenting a number of musicals. The most promising was Spend, Spend, Spend!, based on a true story. (Some idiot barmaid won big on the football pools and quickly squandered every farthing, ending up poorer than she’d begun.) The breezy blonde at the counter instantly dismissed The Lion King with “Oh, who wants to see people dressed as animals?” Somehow she talked us — all four of us — into seats for the fabulous spectacle at the Dominion! The marvelous French show, Notre Dame de Paris!
Lucky us.
When we trotted back up the stairs, Kevin and Hannah returned to see if they could get tickets for the next night for Les Mis, while Dana and I chatted with the news agent. He’d recently spent several years in the USA, and liked it, but on his return he’d been plagued by tax problems, necessitating his selling papers on the street. It sounded half sincere, half braggadocio, but he was entertaining and immensely friendly. When Hannah and Kevin joined us, Les Mis tickets in hand, he pointed the way to the National Portrait Gallery.
Here I was in my element. Once inside we quickly split up, having different agendas, and promised to meet in an hour and a half by the John Major portrait (a fine — and major — portrait of a distinctly minor politician). In the main lobby was a photographic history of Elizabeth Taylor. She was beautiful from the first, as she is today, and seemingly without vanity. One of the most striking was a simple profile, shot only days after her brain surgery, her hair a ragged white crew cut. Her sagging face still has a touching dignity and the beauty remains intact. Not even marriage to a Larry Fortensky can altogether eclipse that increasingly rare quality, glamour.
At the galleries in back were the entries for their annual portrait contest. Many of these new pieces strain for effect and achieve their newness at the cost of coherence. Others (like Jennifer McRae’s) go against the conventional grain yet still manage by rigorous discipline to achieve real originality and power.
I didn’t get to see everything I wanted to see, but that would have taken days. When we met to compare notes, Hannah and Kevin were most impressed by the Tudor portraits, Dana by a hanging plexiglas figure of a dancer unfamiliar to me.
Directly across the street was another inviting pub, The Chandos, like many pubs decorated with flower boxes bursting with red geraniums. The others had sandwiches; I had the ploughman’s lunch. The cheese was a pungent, creamy Stilton, accompanied by a slab of gammon (ham), pickles and a salad. The pickled beetroot and pickled onions were stingingly sour; the cheese and bread was a necessary balance. This was all washed down with, you guessed it, a pint of best bitter. We had to leave quickly to take the Underground to Waterloo Station, to get in line for The London Eye.
We dutifully arrived half an hour early and got into line. A couple of young Russian girls attempted to push past us, but Kevin turned and admonished them — in Russian. The line to the wheel moved inexorably on, and my pulse accelerated slightly. If I die today, I thought, my life will at least have a certain roundness to it: July 3, 1946 - July 3, 2000. The line was really moving quickly now. We mounted the ramp... an attendant roped us into a group... we were hastened forward and with the great wheel still turning, filed quickly into the capsule.
The door slammed shut.
I was caught. No escape was possible. Only then did I feel a faint shadow of panic, but sitting down on the bench in the center calmed me at once. In no time I was enjoying the view thoroughly. It was only a moderately hazy day and London from above is thrilling. (From that height, Gotebo, Oklahoma would be thrilling.) Big Ben’s tower marked our progress and soon we ascended past its topmost spire. By the time we were halfway up to the top I was confidently pointing out landmarks and buildings and parks to anyone who would listen. And when we came down I was sorry it was over. I would probably never have gone up if my family hadn’t done so. They loved it too.
On the ground again, Hannah and Kevin lit out for Madame Tussaud’s, and Dana and I set out to get our theatre tickets for the following night. We walked along the Thames to the Hungerford footbridge, and ended up in the Victoria Embankment Gardens.
This was truly Wonderland. Dana was ecstatic. I was hardly less so. This narrow park, wedged in between the river and the Strand, is expressive of a very English genius: the creation of gardens that look spontaneous, as if nature itself had done all the work. Great beds of bloom lie in irregular shapes. Statues are discreetly framed by banks of shrubbery. And only the grass looks controlled. We meandered along, drinking it all in, hardly aware of the world beyond this celestial spot. The roar of traffic is only yards away but the trees soak up the sound like a sponge. Alongside the path was a most unusual tree; I wasn’t exactly sure what it was. The toothed sandpapery leaves hanging down in a perfect canopy suggested it’s a weeping elm — if such a species exists. With one step we were under this lush green tent, in a chlorophyll world all our own, peering out like adventurous children.
Further along the path behind the Savoy Hotel was our favorite monument in the grounds. Atop a column, a bust of Sir Arthur Sullivan gazes gruffly toward the Savoy, for whose theatre he wrote the G&S operettas. At the base, a nude young woman clutches the column, her body contorted in a spasm of grief. It’s delectably sentimental Victorian twaddle, of course, and quite over the top, especially when one considers Sir Arthur’s alleged sexual proclivities.
In the Savoy, Dana and I, after wrestling with the London phone system, managed to call our hotel. We arranged with Hannah and Kevin to meet outside the Dominion Theatre just before the performance. The Drury Lane Theatre was our next stop, where I got a ticket for the following night. John Updike’s novel The Witches of Eastwick has been adapted into a musical and was in previews. This was the one ticket in town I really wanted, and I was successful.
Around the corner from The Drury Lane was Covent Garden, and just as I’d expected, Dana fell in love with it. This is one of the great welcoming spaces in London. Although we didn’t have much time to spend, Dana found a shop that sold huge, scented bicarbonate balls for the bath. She made a discreet haul and we pressed on, up Charing Cross Road.
Halfway there we found The Slug and Lettuce, more a sleek modern bar than a pub. The name was an eyecatcher, so I ducked in and got matches for us both. Dana wanted to see that hoary old chestnut, Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap, which has been running ever since 1952. The theatre it’s playing in was on the way to the Dominion, so we stopped and she got a ticket.
The city was beginning to get hot and we were beginning to wilt. In the neighborhood of the Dominion we tried to find a place to sit down for a bite to eat, but the only prospects were fast-food joints. Earlier sampling of this cuisine has proven to be dicey. From my 1971 trip, I remember — vividly — the wretched ketchup in a Wimpy Bar, a tasteless, glutinous mess. Outside the Dominion was a man at a sandwich stand. We got what I would never have expected to find anywhere, not even India: tandoori chicken sandwiches. They weren’t bad really, but viewed from the side, the white bread and the irregular pink meat looked remarkably like the focal point of one of the spicier centerfolds.
At 7:30 Hannah and Kevin joined us and we marched into the Dominion Theatre, smiling with happy anticipation. I can imagine that cattle might wear similar smiles as they’re being led into a slaughterhouse.
Notre Dame de Paris, how do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways... Despite its grand title, this musical is the most abysmal spectacle I’ve ever seen in any theatre, in any city, in all my fifty-four years. In all fairness, it has an excuse. It is French. Oh, the lyrics have been translated, but leaving them in the original might have been wiser. Or more merciful. The lines describing Phoebus, “He shines just like the sun... he’s not just anyone,” were profound, even witty, in comparison to some of the others.
The orchestra was not live, but previously taped — and deafening. From the very first notes, there seemed to be an undeclared war onstage: the dancing chorus were absolutely determined to wrest the audience’s attention from the principal performers. They began writhing about in ugly calisthenics posing as dancing. This “choreography” had absolutely no artistry or dramatic point and it didn’t let up until half an hour later. Perhaps these unfortunate people were meant to be epileptics. It was hard to tell, or to care.
The first song, “Age of the Cathedrals” was — and I can barely believe I’m writing this — not bad! Yet the singer, like every other soloist onstage, had an ungainly black smudge of microphone pasted over his mouth. The next song was sung, like the first, in the smack dab middle of the stage, and delivered point-blank at the audience like an overripe tomato. (Oh! if only I’d had a basketful of them at that moment!) After “Age of the Cathedrals,” every song sounded almost exactly the same, like cookies stamped out by a vast impersonal machine, or more uncharitably, like identical turds squeezed out of an enormous poodle.
The Esmeralda was sung by “Australia’s greatest female singing sensation” Tina Arena, but even she was swallowed whole by this monster of a musical. The actor playing Frollo, the villainous monk, was far and away the best of the singers, indeed the only performer who wasn’t made to look an utter fool. The Quasimodo, a French performer named Galou, had a voice like a burlap bag filled with stones. The voice suited the character, I suppose, but that didn’t make it any easier to listen to. Or forgive.
So, you might ask, how were the sets? Surely the great Gothic cathedral of Notre Dame, with its soaring buttresses, its gargoyles, its gloomy splendor, would make a beautiful setting, right? But they even screwed this up. True, there were two gargoyles on top of ugly blocks, slowly hauled around the stage to no dramatic point whatever, but even they looked embarrassed to be in this ludicrous farrago. If they weren’t, they should have been. When the lights came up at the end of Act I we looked at one another, stunned and incredulous. But we stayed for Act II. Sometimes you just want to know exactly how bad bad can get.
Three quarters through the last act Quasimodo sang a supposedly mournful dirge called “God You Made the World All Wrong” but all I could think of was that ditty from the Thirties, “Sam, You Made the Pants Too Long.” But by this time we were all shaking with laughter. At one point several of the dancers shinnied up the back wall with ropes, for no discernible reason. Well, perhaps to give a selling point in the ads: “All singing! All dancing! All rappelling!” But the crowning touch came when Esmeralda was hanged and Quasimodo sang a lament over her broken body. Four of the dancers — I am not making this up — sang over their girls’ broken bodies. What a touchingly democratic gesture, I thought, giving everyone his own dead Gypsy.
At the curtain call, shamelessly milked, some of the audience actually stood and gave this steaming pile of rhinoceros merde a standing ovation! But I was gratified to note that the actors were playing to two-thirds houses, despite its having opened only in May. With any luck, this show will soon die like a dog in the road, and with even more luck, its sets, costumes, and printed scores will be burned ceremoniously in the Place de la Concorde as a warning to other presumptuous Frenchmen.
We needed a reward of some kind, anything to help us scrape this execration off our shoes. Ah, yes: food. Down Charing Cross Road and across a narrow street from the Palace Theatre was Cappuccetto’s, the little Italian restaurant where I’d had a fine meal two years ago. Because of the hour, we were seated immediately. Chianti all around — things were already looking up. I had the gnocchi alla gorgonzola, which improved matters even more.
Outside the restaurant was another, The Spice of Life. Since Hannah and Kevin were going to the Palace next door to see Les Mis the following night, we fixed that as the place to meet for dinner. The kids were returning to Madame Tussaud’s, since they hadn’t been able to go in.

Tuesday, July 4
As a change of pace, I had a kipper for breakfast (wonderful), and of course dry toast slathered with good English marmalade. We set out down Ebury Street for Sloane Square. Our eventual goal was Chelsea. They were somewhat disappointed by King’s Road, having expected numerous little antique shops. Dana and I did stop at one large collection of shops under one roof, all with mouthwatering offerings, unfortunately at bankruptive prices. Dana fell quite hopelessly in love with an umbrella stand stand in the form of a pop-eyed dog on its hind legs, a riding crop in its mouth. The price would have made Donald Trump go pale, so she regretfully left it there for another, richer master. I only saw a few hundred things I wanted, but managed to hold myself firmly in check.
Hannah and Kevin had gone off to pursue other shopping, and we met under a bank clock as arranged. From there we took a walking tour through the back streets of Chelsea, down Tite Street (the homes of Oscar Wilde and Peter Warlock the composer), The Chelsea Embankment, Cheyne Walk (George Eliot, T.S. Eliot (no kin), Rossetti and Swinburne, Thomas Carlyle). I pointed out the lacy green Battersea Bridge. The London Peace Pagoda lay across the river.
The ultimate goal was Harrod’s, so we walked up the Fulham Road. By the time we were ready to eat, the pub The Bunch of Grapes popped into our path. We were shown upstairs to a pleasant dining room, all stained wainscotting and mullioned windows. I ordered the meat pie and the by-now-inevitable pint of best bitter.
At Harrod’s the kids left us to speed on over to Madame Tussaud’s. I searched all over the store for any kind of confection in my favorite flavor, black currant, which is much easier to find in Britain than America. Not today, however. I satisfied myself in Harrod’s produce department with a small box of the actual fruit, and I nibbled them as Dana and I walked down Knightsbridge toward Hyde Park. By themselves black currants are tart and vaguely piney, but I loved them nonetheless.
Dana fell in love with Hyde Park, as everyone does. A London park is like no place on earth, a perfect balance between nature and art. I’ve always fancied that Boston’s Public Garden is the closest thing to the London ideal on our side of the water, but there’s really no comparison. London’s parks command limitless vistas, with trees that look as if they’ve stood there since the Crusades, and possibly have. The shrubbery is lush and, like the Victoria Embankment Gardens, a triumphant partnership of nature and art. Dana and I sat down on a bench and watched the people, squirrels and rabbits, the pigeons (somehow statelier than their American counterparts) and magpies. I don’t think I ever enjoyed simply sitting on a park bench more than I did this perfect July afternoon. Good lord, how I love being with Dana!
Just around the bend in the walkway was the Serpentine, the gracefully curved lake which draws so many different waterfowl: mallards and canvasbacks, Canadian and greylag geese, coots. There were undoubtedly swans somewhere on the lake but we didn’t see them. The sky was more grey than not, but it was the most beautiful day one could imagine.
Late afternoon approached and it was time to get on the Underground, for our rendezvous with Kevin and Hannah. I directed Dana to the more scenic route, along exquisitely tended flower beds. Here was another canopy of tree, a weeping cherry this time, big as a circus tent. Like the tree in the Embankment Gardens, it was a magnet for children, or for lucky adults who can draw on the child within. Dana and I scampered for it as if fleeing for cover. It was truly magical inside, vast and dark, and already filled with others like us.
At Hyde Park Corner we caught the subway to Leicester Square. I resisted the urge to scold the young woman at the half-price ticket booth, the one who’d directed us to the disaster at the Dominion the night before, but the second-hand bookstores on Charing Cross Road beckoned. I barely had time to do more than duck into each one and ask for the book on the Tower recommended by our Yeoman Warder, and The Characters of Shakespeare’s Plays by Hazlitt. No luck. I suppose I’ll simply have to return to London.
The Spice of Life looked less attractive than it had the previous night. But there were outdoor tables not being used. Dana sat down to wait for the kids. I set out to scout around for another restaurant. There were many choices here; we were at the edge of Soho. Rejecting Elvis Wok, I immediately found two excellent prospects and hurried back to Dana. A young woman trotted up behind me.
“Excuse me, would you moind coming aover and kissing me friend?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Her explanation was in such deep-dyed cockney, or its Soho equivalent, that I didn’t quite understand. But what the hell, I’m a sport, so I walked down the block to the haircutting shop where they both worked. She brought out a tall, pretty blonde girl who bridled and guffawed and shuffled from foot to foot. She seemed, if not exactly embarrassed, incredulous that anyone would want actually to kiss her. I thought I’d better get it over quickly to spare her further embarrassment. I leaned over and planted a quick one on her cheek, to the merriment of her friend and a young man from the shop.
“Aaoh, thank yew so much, Oi dew apologize to your woife and daughtah!” Hannah had joined Dana.
I explained that they were my cousin and niece.
“Aaaoh, then it’s all roight, innit?”
She stood chatting with us a moment. Her name is Michele and her parents came here from Ireland. I assume she’s spent her entire life in London, though obviously not in the drawing rooms of Mayfair or Belgravia. She was chipper and pretty and quite friendly. When asked to recommend a nearby restaurant she said they were all good but she and her mates liked The Stockpot.
Kevin arrived. I gave Michele a kiss for good measure (we Americans are a friendly lot) and we walked her the few steps to her shop, where I got a flirtatious wave from the blonde, who looked quite ready for another buss. When I kiss ‘em, they stay kissed. I never did figure out why all this had happened.
At The Stockpot we were served quickly (and cheaply), then separated again, Hannah and Kevin to the Palace, just around the corner, Dana and I toward the Ambassadors Theatre. I dropped Dana off to see The Mousetrap. Having plenty of time to get to Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, I thought I might be able to do a bit more bookstore prowling. On the first day, on the way to the Lamb and Flag, I’d noted a short street with many small used bookstores. I was unable to find it, and didn’t want to be late, so I walked through Covent Garden at my leisure.
Two years before I’d had a fine glass of port at The Crusting Pipe, the wine bar at Covent Garden. I wanted to repeat the performance, but they were offering treacle tart, which I’d been curious to taste. My slice arrived in a pool of cool custard, with a sprig of mint. It was small but powerful, one of the sweetest desserts I could have ordered. Imagine a pie crust filled with crunchy caramel, sort of an aerated Heath Bar without a chocolate coating. The creamy custard sauce helped blunt the intensity of the sweetness. A cup of coffee would have been an ideal accompaniment, but curtain time was approaching.
I don’t think a sugar high had anything to do with the intensity of my pleasure over the remainder of the evening but I can’t be sure. I know only that I settled into my excellent stall seat with a great feeling of well-being and excitement, which continued for the next couple of hours. The Drury Lane has played host to great musical after great musical, ever since the Twenties. My chances, therefore, were good.
John Updike’s The Witches of Eastwick seems, if you consider it, an ideal property to adapt into a musical. And it was, oh, it gloriously was.
The three female leads were Lucie Arnaz, Maria Friedman, and Joanna Riding. I’d seen Arnaz on stage before, in Seesaw. In my opinion she could eat poor Liza Minnelli for breakfast and still have room for a hefty serving of Madonna. Friedman I knew from the recent CD of Lady in the Dark. Joanna Riding was new to me, but she more than held her own, metamorphosing from a mousy librarian type to a sexual livewire. But the surprise and chief delight of the production was Ian McShane as the Devil, or rather, Darryl Van Horne. The moment he bounded onstage, you couldn’t take your eyes off him. He was nothing at all like Jack Nicholson, the excellent movie Van Horne. He was better. McShane had the energy and verve absolutely vital for musical theatre. Without it you’re dead. Or you’re in Notre Dame de Paris.
I was eager to see another performer. Rosemary Ashe played Felicia Gabriel, the town busybody, the nemesis to the three witches. She had melted my heart with her recording of “If Love Were All” on my recording of Bitter Sweet, then trumped it with two other songs. I went into the theatre already loving her, and left it a complete fan. She was magnificent as kvetch, nagging wife, and town troublemaker. In short, a titanic talent.
A budding director of musicals could learn virtually everything he needed to know by a careful comparison of two musical productions, Notre Dame de Paris and The Witches of Eastwick. Herewith a checklist. Witches had, as the other had not: superb music and clever lyrics; glorious, actually witty sets and lighting; terrific performers who played beautifully to each other, not at the audience; a singing and dancing chorus every one of whom was an individualized character, a presence; and most important of all, staging with point, wit, and grace. The director should be given much credit. He is Eric Schaeffer, an American.
The show was good from first to last, though one or two songs could profitably be replaced. But it’s in previews, where such things are fixed. Witches was funny and wonderfully acted, with knockout effects calculated to take our breath away. The Act I finale could hardly be bettered. The three women are at Van Horne’s mansion, and here they learn they can levitate. To their delight, they hover over the stage, and emboldened at their newfound power, decide to try their wings: they soar out over the audience. Well, sir, the crowd went wild.
This was the good time I’d been hoping to have. In essence, this is musical comedy, a sadly rare commodity in these days of pompous, solemn adaptations of Great Literature by no-talents. I left the Drury Lane exhilarated, despite the light rain falling. But I had my umbrella and the wet cobblestones reflecting the lights of the town shone like jewels. This great city, at night in a gentle rain, can be magical. I couldn’t help humming the Noel Coward song
London at night,
Whether sober or tight,
Is a sight that Americans die to see...
Back at the hotel, Dana told me she’d enjoyed the play, but at bottom The Mousetrap really isn’t a very good piece of drama. I knew that already, but seeing a production which has run for 48 years is something a first-time visitor to London should take in. All in all, The Mousetrap is a hopelessly antiquated piece of claptrap, but that said, I do wish Christie had bequeathed me the royalties.

Wednesday, July 5
After another heavenly breakfast — the Topham’s coffee is superb — we picked up Dana’s pictures and walked down Victoria Street to Westminster Abbey. I’d seen it on my first visit, but that was 29 years ago. I didn’t remember much except Poet’s Corner, certainly not the vast heaving crowds. We again split from the kids so they could take the tour at their own pace.
It was enjoyable, though many of the tombs and memorials could have done with a discreet plaque identifying the remains mouldering within. Dana got misty at the tomb of the unknown soldier. I was more impressed with the adjacent memorial to Churchill. There’s even a memorial to FDR, Churchill’s great partner and friend, a gladdening sight to an American.
We wanted to get to Bankside in plenty of time for the theatre, so we took the Westminster Underground to Blackfriars and crossed the bridge on foot. The walk along the river to the Globe is a scenic one. It’s here that London has built the annex to the Tate Museum. Controversy has swirled around it from the start, mostly because of its collection rather than the building itself, an inoffensive box.
The great Globe is London’s proudest new possession. On this trip I was going to see the inside, for we had tickets to The Tempest, my second favorite Shakespeare play. Dana was ravening for more Indian food, so I asked a theatre employee about restaurants in the area. There was a good Indian place, she said, but it was several blocks away. We settled for the restaurant at the Globe. I had the Italian tart, with sun-dried tomatoes, cheese and sausage, accompanied by a crisp salad and a glass of wine.
The lackadaisical pace of our waiter gave us only a few minutes to spend in the Globe giftshop. At the entrance to the theatre itself our usher told us we could go into the yard at the interval, if we wanted to see how the groundlings view the stage. The theatre still smells of raw wood and plaster. Our seats, broad wooden benches, were on the middle level, almost directly facing the stage. Even though we were on the second row of our gallery, we had an unobstructed view of the stage, even when the players played right at the edge of it, as the clowns were apt to do.
We were on hallowed ground, I felt, though the current Globe is several yards off from the original site. No matter — it felt the same. This was a production not to be missed. Vanessa Redgrave, one of the supreme actresses of our time, was playing Prospero. This was, I believe, the fifth Tempest I’ve seen, if one includes the very loose film adaptation, Prospero’s Books.
This production was played with almost no scenic assistance other than a couple of lucite rocks, a rope let down from the center of the stage, and the audience’s imaginations. Redgrave had just the right touch of gravitas for the role, her gender being quite immaterial. The clowns Stephano and Trinculo were wonderfully over the top. Jasper Britton, playing Caliban, however, played to the topmost level of the gallery. He first appeared from a trap door, a fresh fish in his mouth, growling and bubbling like a stew simmering on the hob. By the time the play was fifteen minutes older, he had dismembered the fish and tossed the ragged bits into the audience. Still, nobody seemed to hold it against him. The groundlings of Shakespeare’s time were very likely pelted with worse.
At intermission I had a beer and we walked down into the yard, where the groundlings view the play standing. I can easily imagine enjoying the play from this aspect, provided I hadn’t walked all day. It’s an intimate view worth checking out on a future visit.
The director, Lenka Udovicki, is Serbian, and the Masque of Ceres reflected this. So did the music. The much-deplored outside noises, planes and traffic, were little in evidence. I feel it was a successful production that could have been even better, perhaps more concentrated. Though much of the verse speaking was clear and crisp, some of it was muddied. The real surprise was that the actors made themselves as clear as they did, completely without miking. Good acting technique isn’t entirely a thing of the past.
Almost three solid hours sitting at a play is restful to the feet, so Dana agreed to walk back to Trafalgar Square with me instead of taxiing. Thus we got a good taste of the City, the old original London given short shrift by too many visitors. At Ludgate Hill, Dana was able to see how huge St. Paul’s really is. A river view barely does it justice. We walked down Ludgate into Fleet Street, to Temple Bar and the Aldwych crescent, taking our time. We stopped at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese (where Dana got matches), then pressed on. On the Strand we started looking for prospective restaurants.
We were about fifteen minutes late arriving at Trafalgar Square, but the kids weren’t there yet. Together again, we braved the traffic, sprinting across Pall Mall to the National Gallery. They were ready to eat soon, but I managed to inveigle them in to see Hogarth’s Rake’s Progress and Marriage à la Mode, and especially The Ambassadors, by the greatest portraitist of all time (and my favorite painter), Hans Holbein the Younger.
Salieri had looked like a promising restaurant, and the kids, thank heaven, are not yet tired of Italian cooking (impossible for me!). The theme was Venice, with masks and murals and baroque excrescences erupting from every surface. It was filled already, but we got a table immediately. Our waiter was a stately, mustachioed gentleman with a tall bald dome and relaxed, professional demeanor, friendly and helpful. I ordered a glass of champagne, a nod to our last meal together. This was followed by oysters baked with cheese and spinach, slices of duck breast in a black currant sauce and a guilt-inducing chocolate mousse. We had two bottles of the house red, a fine, tart Turkish (!) wine. The color was remarkable, a clear bright garnet.
I was bringing the first oyster to my mouth when a laugh rang out, the likes of which I’ve never heard before. It was like the barking of an electronic seal — or perhaps a distant cousin of the Hound of the Baskervilles — and it came from our waiter, sharing a joke with someone across the room. When he came at the end to settle the bill, I prayed nobody would make a joke. It wasn’t necessary; some pleasantry from one of us brought the laugh ringing forth again. But by that time wine and conviviality had blunted its power to startle. It was a memorable end to a wonderful visit with my cherished family.
Back at the hotel I said my goodbyes to Hannah and Kevin and left Dana to do her packing. I remembered the Ebury Wine Bar down the street; it had looked so very inviting on our first tour down the street. First I stopped at Victoria to change some money for Dana, then wandered down Ebury Street.
Going by the house with the Edith Evans plaque, I noticed that the gay guesthouse had a name: the Noel Coward Hotel. He had indeed lived here (presumably not in cozy domesticity with Dame Edith) before his first great successes. I rang the bell and got the rates in case of a future visit, then proceeded to the wine bar. Over a glass of port I talked with a pleasant black man (with a far tonier accent than Coward ever uttered). The wine bar offered good food, I noticed, another good reason to stay in the neighborhood on my next visit.

Thursday, July 6
Kevin and Hannah were long gone when I got up. I had breakfast with darling Dana, checked out, and left her at the curb (kerb, rather), where she hoped to catch a taxi to Liverpool Station.
My plane was due to leave at 3:00 in the afternoon, so I had a couple of morning hours to cram in a little more London. I took the Underground to Piccadilly Circus, to briefly browse at Virgin and Tower. I behaved myself and only bought a 2-disc set, then ambled back down Piccadilly to Fortnum and Mason.
I prowled the aisles looking for anything of black currant flavor, except for preserves, which one can find in America. No luck. I did find an old favorite in the prepared foods section — a Scotch egg! I bought one and went back into Piccadilly, walking slowly toward the hotel. I stopped to tour the Burlington Arcade, where I bought some exotically scented soaps from Savonnerie.
Strolling through St. James Park, I ate my Scotch egg (such a simple item, and so tasty!) and soaked up as much of the London morning as I could in this paradise of a park. The changing of the Guard in front of Buckingham Palace was just winding up.
Everything went like clockwork from then: I picked up my luggage at the hotel, walked to Victoria, got a ticket and rode through the grey and brown suburbs to Gatwick. The flight was more pleasant this time, as I had an aisle seat. My seatmates were a couple about my age from Leeds, on their way to visit Boston. I told them all the best places to go and eat, and the best out-of-town places to explore. The only noteworthy event on the flight came as we rolled across the tarmac in Boston: a stewardess gave me a bottle of brandy, “from the crew for being so nice and friendly.” I didn’t know the reason, but rather suspect the couple from Leeds might have put them up to it.
Britain has always been lucky for me.