The London Flop House

I returned to London when there was an air of suspense surrounding public transportation.  An escaped Japanese terrorist from the Tel Aviv massacre was rumored to be heading to London.  I walked past Buckingham Palace where city crews were removing the bunting from the Duke of Windsor's funeral.  As I paused on the shaded south side of the palace to look at the royal vehicles, I suddenly heard the clip-clopping noise of horses.  I turned around to see magnificent chestnut horses drawing the caisson back to the palace.  When they stopped one horse bolted sideways and slammed into a car, denting it. The funeral of the duke was an historical occasion and I was sorry to miss it, but competing for a room with thousands of arriving strangers was out of the question.  Besides, I don’t enjoy big cities.

My last night in England June 6, 1972, the twenty-eighth anniversary of D-Day, was spent in a “bed and breakfast” east of Victoria Station.  It actually still exists, but I can’t use its name because it was my first encounter with a flop house.  A cot cost £1.50 with a hot bath 5p extra. The proprietress assured me, “We’re very clean around here.” The bed sheets still had hair in them, the wash basin wasn’t clean, and the towels looked and smelled dirty.  A sign on the wall read: “In case of fire, roof is readily available.” Perhaps jumping off it in case of fire was an option too.

I had to share the room with a Bristol dairyman who was only partially drunk.  We had a pretty good talk before it got dark, but how do you tell someone he stinks from ripe cheese, spoiled milk, and manure encrusted on his trousers?  Even our old high school basketball work-out jerseys didn’t smell that bad.  There was one cot left and I wondered who would stumble in during the night to complete the trio.  In the wee hours of the morning another drunk came in holding a pint.  As he sat on his cot he slowly lifted his head and quietly blurted out,“shee-ooo.” It was a page straight from Red Skelton’s old Freddy the Free Loader routine.  He guzzled and slobbered all night.  He never slept.  I never slept.  The dairyman slept soundly.  Because of these two unexpected guests I had to hang my head halfway out the window all night.  Thank goodness for the foggy night air of London! 

My days in the U.K. ended with a mixed bag.  I was impressed with its historical side: the buildings, palaces, railroads, monuments, and even the gruesome chopping block of Mary, Queen of Scots.  The English sentimental attachment to their royalty disappointed me, but I share their love of history and continuity - content and meaning which practically doesn’t exist in the U.S.  I began to think of Calais and France.

England had her characters: the girl in the plaid miniskirt, the Lincoln Hippies, the guy in Edinburgh with the black eye, the suspect Inverness farmer, the ex-communist in Liverpool, the talkative train conductor, and the two drunks in the London flop house. Because of the common language and being a humble backpacker I was able to see the U.K. on a real and more personal level.  I concluded there were many pearls set in a silvery sea. They were all interesting and not all of them were white.