Armed only with my guitar, & my pen -- &, of course, a couple changes of clothes -- I'd arrived. All the stories, all the biographies, all the history books I'd read had not prepared me for the wonder of Victoria Station. The trains on the platform, the people scurrying everywhere, the news stands & their barkers -- all that steel & glass high over head -- these were almost overwhelming. Not even standing in the middle of Grand Central Terminal during rush hour compares to the things I'd felt standing there taking it all in. I'm surprised no one had physically pushed me out of their way because of my gawking.
I'd wandered round, not knowing even which way it was to the street, & stumbled upon the tourist office. A very helpful old woman understood that I wasn't interested in even two-star accommodations & kindly indicated on the Underground map to a "safe" hostel near Earl's Court. I had certainly heard of this neighborhood, but was not aware that it was where most twenty-something's from all over the world tend to wind up when heading to London.
I took the Tube to a station I now forget one or two stops before Earl's Court, found & checked into the hostel -- finding I was sharing with five other fellow travelers in a room with ten beds. Each had looked up when I entered the room & promptly ignored me. I decided at that minute that I would spend no more than one night here.
I'd secured my guitar with the proprietor & took the rest of my belongings off to find a pub. Considering I was so close to Earl's Court, I chose that direction & off I went. I was very hungry & in need of a pint, so I stepped into the first pub I'd come by once on Earl's Court Road. It was a nice looking, fairly stereotypical English Pub. The people there were mostly foreign as well as a number of locals, all of the working or traveling classes. I felt immediately at ease.
The first person with whom I'd spoken was a young Welshman who'd come to London to seek work as a hotel concierge. I could only understand every third word he'd said, but we had a good time drinking & joking despite my continually having to ask him to repeat himself more slowly.
At some point he'd asked me if I was looking for a place. I told him I had little money, but that it would certainly last longer in a flat than it would at the hostel. As it turned out, he had just taken a room in the neighborhood & needed a flat-mate. We agreed upon a price & a time when I would leave, & we made plans to meet the next afternoon to go to the place.
The flat really was just a room in a flat -- a flat consisting of a room, a small bath & a sitting room & kitchenette to which we had no access. The Filipino woman renting us the room apologized that she couldn't share the sitting room & kitchenette, as they were her room, & said that she understands that we would need hot water for showering, but that my room-mate & I would have to switch off days because she refused to pay for all that electricity & water. We chose to agree with her, but each of us would wait till she would leave in the morning & then each of us would shower anyway.
Because my room-mate had a "bothersome" bladder, he wanted the bed near the door that he could easily get to the toilet at night. I certainly didn't mind taking the bed by the window witch looked out on most of the stretch of Old Brompton Road up to, & a bit past, the back entrance of Earl's Court Station. There was a row of quaint houses along there, the view was rather nice.
Each morning while he was showering, I would sit up in bed, open the window & smoke a cigarette while the suits from each of those quaint houses kissed their wives goodbye at their door & walked up the block to take the train into town. This would happen every ten or twenty minutes just before the next train was to arrive.
One morning I'd lingered a bit longer at that window than usual & noticed that after the street had become clear of these husbands a man came out of the Tube station & walked to one of those houses. I couldn't be sure, as I'd not been paying much attention, but I didn't think this was the man who had left only moments before.
Next morning at about the same time, I watched that one house. The door opened, the husband stepped out, the wife leaned out, they kissed goodbye, & he walks off to the station. After the street clears, here comes the other man from the station -- not in a suit -- & walks right up to that door, & calls something I couldn't hear out. The wife looks out the window, & a few seconds later she opens the door, kisses him & lets him in.
This went on for some weeks while I watched. I'd had a strange feeling that Old Brompton Road was important somehow. I couldn't remember ever having seen the name except on the map after arriving in London. But there was something about it.
As I was nearing the end of my London trip, I'd decided to get the address of this house because while there are countless historical & ill reputed locations in London, I was sure that this house would be discussed in one of my books still in NYC.
Then, once back in my Queens apartment, I picked up the book I knew had this address in it. It took me a little time, but there it was, staring at me & laughing. That house on Old Brompton Road was the very same house in which Aleister Crowley & his "dipsomaniac" wife Rose Kelly had lived not long before Crowley had finally decided to divorce Rose.
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