A Change of Perspective

Henry swore as a sharp gust of wind whipped at his scarf, blowing it into his face and almost making him collide with a commuter coming the other way. He had left the set in frustration at the director, after the fifteenth (or was it the sixteenth?) take of a pivotal scene, the one where his character gives the monologue around which the whole picture was based. A scene which the famous actor Henry Fleming should have mastered with ease, and normally would have done.

Perhaps it was the location; the Inns of Court did provide a spectacular background, however, there were the almost constant interruptions of modern London, the sirens of the emergency services, the chattering of police helicopters circling overhead, the roar of a passing jet. Henry knew these could all be removed using modern technology, but they nevertheless seemed to be putting him off his stride. After all, the story was supposedly set in the nineteen-twenties, not the twenty-twenties.

As he strode across Waterloo Bridge, not for the first time Henry felt like a man out of time. His first major successes had come in the previous century, the late sixties and early seventies; he had become a household name, even if more than a little typecast.  For the last few years he had been searching for that one role that would break his typecasting, a role that he would be forever synonymous with.

In "The Life of August Greville" he believed he had found it. The dramatization of the great mystery writer’s life and work would, the director had assured Henry, be a lasting legacy, both to the writer and to the actor.

So far, though, Henry had struggled to find his way into the mind of Greville, had failed to inhabit the role as fully as he knew he was capable. Perhaps the fact that this was almost certainly his last film had added to the pressure, his wanting to give the performance of a lifetime becoming the one barrier against it.

There was also the problem of his co-star. Not the charming Elizabeth Neal, with whom he had worked many times before; although she would be billed just beneath him, the real co-star would be the city of London itself. It was here, in the metropolis that Greville so obviously loved, that the author had set many of his stories, so that his collected works could in some ways be looked at as a biography of the city itself.

A co-star, thought Henry, that he nowadays thoroughly detested. When he had first come to London in the early sixties, the town had been impossibly exciting, full of possibilities for a young, hungry actor. He had of course been very lucky, he knew that. His career had been a long and successful one.

As he had grown older, London itself had become less and less enticing to him. He had begun to spend more and more time at his cottage in Kent, enjoying his painting, his model soldier collection, and recently working on his autobiography. It had become an effort to drag himself up to London for work, the place seeming a little bit grubbier, a little bit cheaper and nastier every time. One of the reasons this would be his last film.

As if to underline his thoughts, to his right the London Eye towered above him, from amongst the concreted South Bank. The fact that the bunker of the National gallery was now a listed building was one thing; the eye, however, Henry viewed with a particular loathing. He knew he was being elitist; even so, he continued to view the eye as a particularly good example of “dumbing down.”

A gaggle of tourists passed by; one of them gave a double take, as she thought she recognised him. Henry was good enough to nod in acknowledgement.

However, his smile evaporated as a group of young boys sped past on electric scooters; another pet hate of his being the gang culture that seemed to be increasingly prevalent across the city. Despite still having a striking physical presence Henry was reminded that in comparison to the menacing characters he often portrayed, he was actually an old man heading towards his ninth decade. The speeding scooters looked particularly threatening to someone with ageing and brittle bones such as his.

He continued along the bridge, towards Waterloo station, remembering the first times he had arrived in London from this very station, and the thrill it had brought him. He was glad to see the old entrance with its flights of steps remained unchanged, compared to the ugly modern buildings that had sprung up in the area.

Henry continued past the entrance and the row of comfortingly familiar black cabs, towards Lower Marsh Street, or The Cut as it was sometimes called. For some reason, this area was mostly unchanged, still maintaining the slightly scruffy air that was left over from before the war years. Although there was now a smattering of coffee outlets and discount bookstores, the shop fronts themselves seemed as that would have been sixty years earlier.

One store in particular caught his eye. In a style that would not have been out of place in Portobello Road the sign above the window read “Jump the Gun” while on the glass was written, in a mock Victorian font “Mod and Retro Apparel!”

Henry paused in front of the glass. The window display contained, amongst several LP records from artists he had never heard of and bits and pieces of military uniforms, several items of clothing that would have not been out of place being worn by him in his younger days.

The door was open, and Henry found himself crossing the threshold. There was the reassuring jingle of a bell as he closed the door behind him; stepping inside was like stepping into a time capsule. The air was filled with the smells of another time: the aroma of well-made suits that had lasted half a century; the scent of leather and polish from handmade shoes. There was even, he was sure, a hint of pipe tobacco, something he had not come across, he was sure, since the last century.

The walls were covered with photographs of smartly dressed young people from a lifetime ago, stepping out into Carnaby Street or strolling along the King’s Road; there were several pop groups that he recognised, and one or two actors that he remembered working with during his long career. He had sadly outlived most of them.

Something with guitars was playing in the background, obviously a real record along with the familiar jumps and crackles. Henry began to explore the rails, enjoying the sensation of high-quality tailoring against his skin. He could almost imagine he was breathing in the collected scents from a thousand different clubs, forming a miasma around the clothing that he was now disturbing.

“Help you?” A young black man, perhaps in his early thirties, appeared from somewhere. He was dressed immaculately, in what looked suspiciously like a Saville Row suit, John Stephen shirt and Paisley patterned tie; his hair was shaved close to his head, accentuating an impressive pair of sideburns.  Henry suspected that the young man’s parents had probably not even been born when these clothes had been in fashion. He couldn’t help smiling.

“Oh hello. Yes, I saw the clothes through the window, just had to have a look.

“I must say you have some wonderful things here; although people would have been wearing most of this stuff when I was your age. Which was some time ago…”

The young man’s face had a familiar expression.

“If you don’t mind me saying, aren’t you…?”

Henry grinned, genuinely pleased to be recognised.

“Well, yes, I am, actually.”

“Oh, I love your movies; especially those ones from the sixties. Had a sort of timeless quality, you know?”

“Hm. That’s one way of putting it. Not sure my critics would agree…”

“Yeah? Well what do they know, anyway…”

“Well, that’s true.” Henry pulled out a beautifully styled Crombie style overcoat.

“Good to know that real style never goes completely out of fashion. I’m sure some of these could tell a few stories…”

“Collectors’ items, some of these” agreed the young man.

Henry was about to replace the coat when something stopped him.

“Do you know, I think this may be what I’ve been looking for…where did you get this?

“Oh, could be anywhere. We go to auctions, house clearances, that sort of thing. I could try to find out, if you like…”

“If you could.” Henry slipped the coat on; it fitted like a glove.

“As you can imagine, it’s not always easy to find things in my size. You know, it’s like this coat was here waiting for me…”

“Forty quid that one; thirty-five if you throw in an autograph.”

“You have a deal.”

Henry paid for the coat. The young man then surprised him by producing a glossy photograph of Henry in one of his early roles.

“Oh, yes; the rather dashing Captain Yorga, Vampire Hunter. I actually played the good guy in that one…”

Henry signed the photograph with relish.

“I’ll put it here on the wall” said the young man.

“Between Liam Gallagher and Wilko Johnson. They’re both regular customers you know.”

“Well, I am honoured” said Henry, although he had absolutely no idea who those people were.

“They’re musicians” said the young man helpfully.

“Yes of course. Oh, and don’t worry about a bag; I’m going to wear it.

“And as I said, if you could find out where it came from, I’d be very grateful.”

He handed over a business card.

“I don’t usually do this you know; but this is my personal number. This coat; there’s something about it…”

Henry shrugged on his new acquisition and stepped out of the shop, back into the present.

Although Henry was usually well dressed, the coat seemed to make him feel…taller? Was that it? Henry knew he usually cut quite an imposing figure; however, the coat made him feel both regal and mysterious at the same time.

Although the shop had been well lit, outside the light had taken on a different quality. It felt as if Henry had just put on a new pair of glasses; the buildings, people and traffic suddenly crystal clear. As he walked back along Lower Marsh Street, he could hear the poetic sound of train wheels and the screech of brakes as they rattled into the station; the scent of the electric rail suddenly filled his nostrils.

As he began to cross the bridge once again the wind buffeted him. But this time it was bracing, engulfing him like the embrace of an old friend.

In the middle of the bridge he paused, breathing in deeply. On every side, the panorama of London stretched into the distance, with its

Millions of stories, personalities and moments of history all joining together.

“Rather like a giant jigsaw puzzle” he announced in his best theatrical voice, then burst into laughter. A group of Japanese schoolgirls stared at him as they passed.

This city; it had a life, a personality of its own. There were a million stories here, a million triumphs and tragedies; it seemed as he stood there that at that instant, he was a part of every one.

“You know” he announced to the city itself.

“You could write a book; no, a hundred books. And not even begin to capture the soul of this place…”

This was London; and at this particular moment in time, he too was London.

Henry swanned back on to the set. The Inns of Court now had a certain romance about them, one that Dickens had attempted to describe many years before. They felt timeless, even with the cameras, microphones and supporting cast members and extras that were everywhere.

“Tony; I’m ready” he announced to a startled director, who almost dropped his sandwich in shock at the actor’s thundering voice.

Everyone was quickly called back on set.

“Your coat” he said to Henry.

“That’s not the one from costume, is it?”

“No; but I’m sure if there are any continuity issues we can…”

“No; That’s not what I meant. What I meant to say was I think it’s perfect for the role.

“Seems to transform you, somehow…”

“In more ways than one” said Henry.

“Of course, I’d rather it was my acting skills, but as you seem to like it…”

Henry did the scene in one take. The words now seemed to flow effortlessly, as if he were actually forming the words himself rather than reciting them from memory. It felt, he thought, as if someone else was speaking through his voice.

“And cut!” shouted Tony, in a mixture of triumph and relief.

Henry stayed in character for a few seconds, savouring the moment. It took him a second to realise that the spontaneous applause from the cast and crew was in fact for him. An ageing sound engineer even found the courage to approach.

“Mr Fleming” he said.

 “Just wanted you to know I recorded Mr Greville on one of his last TV appearances, back in the ‘eighties. And I have to say, you’ve got him off to a tee. If I’d closed my eyes, I could have sworn it was old August speaking.”

Waving off the congratulations, Henry returned to his trailer for a well-earned gin and tonic. His phone was buzzing as he stepped inside.

“Yes. Henry Fleming.”

“Oh, yes, Mr Fleming. It’s Nick here, from the shop, you gave me your number?

“Only, I spoke to my colleague Terry; he does all the buying. Apparently, the coat you bought doesn’t seen to have a very interesting history. Came from a house clearance; seems Terry found a laundry ticket inside. Had a name on it…hang on, I wrote it down.

“Oh yeah, here we are. The name on the ticket is…Albert; no, August. August Grenville.”

“Greville? August Greville?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Anyone you know?”

Henry was silent for a long pause.

“Oh yes” he said at last.

“I suddenly have the feeling that I know him very well…”