Wednesday, July 28, 2010
London

The Foundling Museum:
With the sun shining down upon London today, I thought it a shame to be spending time in a museum, but after a delicious muesli breakfast, my friend Cynthia joined me on the bus to the Foundling Museum, one of London’s best-kept secrets. Tucked away in a recess of Brunswick Square is a place that has its origins in the 18th century when no less than 1000 babies were abandoned on doorsteps by unwed mothers to fend for themselves. Most died in infancy or early childhood on the streets of the city. It was time, thought the merchant seaman Thomas Coram, to create a safe haven for these unwanted mites. He sought the financial aid of the king (George II) in his philantropic scheme but met with little cooperation. It was not until the Duchess of Salisbury granted his venture her patronage that others lent their support. In course of time, he managed to garner the assistance of two leading artistic lights of the period–the composer Frederic Handel and the painter William Hogart. The trio eventually raised the ‘hospital’ that stood in what came to be called Coram Fields–a ‘foundling’ home for society’s littlest rejects. By the Victorian Age, it was a thriving resource for miserable young women who brought no less than 60 babies in per week (of which, by a cruel lottery system, no more than 20 were admitted). The Foundling Home was moved from its city location to Berkhamstead and continued to function until the 1930s where it was finally closed.

To walk through this museum is to suppress tears and deal with a constant lump in the throat. The most poignant exhibits are the ‘tokens’ left by the poor mothers–a medal, a small coin, a necklace of cheap glass beads, a cross–items that would identify their babies whom they hoped would be restored to them if and when they saw better days. Some were happily reunited with their children (whose names were changed as they went through a baptism upon entry into the home), most found that their babies had died already (the infant mortality rate was high) by the time they had the means to retrieve their little ones.

The museum also has a clutch of wonderful paintings that filled The Picture Gallery, which was used as the Dining Room when the foundlings lived in the building. Rich Victorians made a Sunday afternoon outing of visiting the Gallery while the children were at lunch–a bit like visiting the zoo today, I suppose. The Court Room is a splendid place decorated with intricate plasterwork by William Wooton and sporting an unusual olive green color. It contains some fine paintings by Hogart themed around the finding of children–as in the case of Moses from the Bible.

There was a particularly intriguing painting by William Stuart depicting the Battle of Trafalgar which caught my eye because, apart from the HMS Victory (upon whose deck Nelson died), it featured the Temeraire, the ship that features in Turner’s famous painting The Fighting Temeraire, which hangs in the National Gallery in London and which the British pick repeatedly as their most beloved painting of all time.

Upstairs, in the Handel Room, is the composer’s own copy of The Messiah which was performed as a fund-raiser in the Foundling Home. Coram was far-sighted enough to realise that he could use the space for cultural activities that would raise the money to fund his enterprise. Sadly, much as I would like to believe that the children were treated kindly, I discovered that Charles Dickens based his Oliver Twist on this place–so it could not have been a haven at all. In fact, children were raised to do hard physical labor since most of the boys were farmed out to the army at the age of 13 (if there was a war at the time, they were expected to go out and fight in it) while the girls were ‘picked’ out to be domestic servants and subjected to a life of further hardship. You can tell why, while it was a fantastic experience to be in the museum, it was by no means an uplifting one. Still. The Museum was on my To-Do List, so I was glad I ‘did’ it.

Cynthia and I then nipped into the Waitrose at Brunswick Center so I could buy my supply of English powdered soup. She had no idea there was a Waitrose in this location and wondered at my knowledge of the city. She told me that she and Michael think I ought to become a London tour guide! Well, that’s one job I think I would gladly accept if anyone offered it to me. Except that in London, I’d have to go through six years of grueling study to be certified as a Blue Badge Guide–unless I’d want to be a free lancer!

The Jerusalem Tavern:
It was time for me to part company with Cynthia and hop on to a bus to Britten Street which I overlooked from my room from the loft I had stayed in for the last 2 months of my year in London. I had plans to meet Jack Cooke, son of my friends Paul and Loulou (who happen to be in Italy) and there he was, awaiting my arrival at a little past 1.00 pm. Jack used to be my occasional theater companion. A strikingly intelligent young man in his 20s, I enjoy his company and have always been struck by his degree of general knowledge and humor–both of which were in evidence at the Jerusalem Tavern that I wanted to visit as it is listed in one of my books as one of London’s most interesting pubs. Dating from 1710, it is a quaint, crammed space (which explains why there were always hordes of lawyers crowding the pavement in the evening, pints in hand, when I passed it on the way back to my digs from the bus stop). Jack bought me a drink (my choice was a very good grapefruit beer), his was a glass of red wine. We caught up on everything that has happened in the past year before he told me that he would be in New York in September where we promised to continue our conversation as he had to rush off back to work.

A Session at the Old Bailey:
There are some London guide book writers who say that if there is only one thing you can possibly find the time to do in London, it should be attending a session at the Old Bailey. Since I can actually see the dome right outside my bedroom window and have never been there before, this visit seemed as good as any to accomplish that goal. So off I went, on foot, down Warwick Passage to the imposing building on Newgate Street (where the notorious Newgate Prison once stood), to find the entrance to the sessions court. I was admitted into Court 6 on the Second floor where I spent a half hour listening to the reading of a transcript of a case that has been going on for months. The accused, two women–one white, one black–were in the dock awaiting the verdict in their role in aiding and abetting a robbery. It was interesting to see that the judge and the barristers still sport the white powdered wigs of the 18th century–a custom that has died out in every other part of the English-speaking world. I do wish I had seen the proceedings in an actual case, but my appetite was whetted enough to consider making another trip to this venerable old building on another trip to the city.

St. James’ Church, Piccadilly:
It was time to hop on a bus again–this time to Piccadilly–with the hope of getting inside the Church of St. James which Christopher Wren considered his own personal favorite among the many post-Fire churches he built. En route, I passed by the Apollo Theater on Shaftesbury Avenue, and on impulse I hopped off the bus to try and see if I could get a single ticket for the evening’s show of Arthur Miller’s All My Sons which has received fantastic reviews and for which half-price tickets are not available at the theater booth at Leicester Square. Can you imagine how my heart sang when I snagged the last ticket in the balcony for the show? Boy, I thought, this could easily become the highlight of my visit.

Set in a lovely courtyard which has special personal memories for me (it was here that the late Indo-British author Kamala Markandaya upon whom my doctoral dissertation is based, had posed with me after treating me to afternoon tea at next-door’s Fortnum and Mason, 23 years ago). St. James’ was open, thankfully, which allowed me to enter a hushed space and after a few moment’s of prayer and reflection, treat my eyes to the sight of the wooden carvings on the altar which I recognized instantly as the work of the one and only Grindling Gibbons, the most skilled wood carver of the 18th century and one of my own favorite decorative artists. Apart from his skill in wood, I saw, for perhaps the first time, a marble carving by him at the Baptismal Font where none other than the poet William Blake had been baptised. The church is full of artistic interest and I can see why Wren loved it so much–its ceiling with its gilded plasterwork is particularly interesting. I was delighted that I finally managed to see the inside of a church that Wren had so loved.

Fortnum and Mason:
It was time to enter another temple–this one a temple to Mammon. It is one of my all-time favorite London stores–the 18th century F&M where I make at least one pilgrimage on every visit to London. I always find some little trinket to tickle my fancy and this time I found an unusual musical biscuit box for Chriselle and a reversible tea cozy for me that sports the logo of the store. I saw a lovely exhibit of artistic ceramics on the first floor, took a glance at the famous picnic hampers for which the store is renowned and paused around the tea counter wondering if or not I ought to buy one of their assorted tea caddies. I decided against it–perhaps on another trip.

St. John’s Bar and Restaurant:
On the bus again, I fought against the clock to make my 6.oo pm appointment with my friend John at the St. John’s Bar and Restaurant where it was my aim to have an early dinner of Roasted Bone Marrow and Parsley Salad on Toast, apparently the signature dish of its acclaimed chef Fergus Henderson whose philosophy of Nose to Tail Eating has put the restaurant on the city’s gastronomic map. John arrived at the appointed hour to join me in a glass of wine while I finally had the pear cider I’d been craving since I arrived in London. The salad was every bit as good as it sounds though the presentation was odd. I was served four large marrow bones (thankfully with a long picking fork), and the well-dressed parsley salad on the side with a teaspoon of salt. The combination of flavors was very good indeed and this is easily something I could reproduce in my Southport kitchen. The last time, Stephanie and I had eaten in this restaurant, the salad had gone and I had promised myself I would return to taste it.

All My Sons at the Apollo Theater:
It was great catching up with John, who was one of the respondents in my Anglo-Indian immigrant survey before I scooted off, this time by Tube, to Piccadilly Circus to make the 7. 30 pm show of All My Sons. Starring David Suchet (best known to me for his role as Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot–though I can’t stand him in that avatar) and Zoe Wannamaker (whom I had become acquainted with through her role as the mother in the long-running Britcom My Family which I used to watch religiously during my year in London), it is considered Arthur Miller’s best play and among the handful of best plays of the 20th century. Though I have seen many stage versions of Death of a Salesman and A View from the Bridge, I had never seen All My Sons on stage, so I was thrilled to have the opportunity to do so in London in a production that has earned rave reviews.

And I could easily see why. Even my nose-bleed seats (my opera glasses helped tremendously) did not stop me from fully immersing myself in a play that tore at my heart strings and left me a snivelling mess at the very end. I had no tissues with me (I travel light) and as I fought back tears provoked by the crushing denouement, I had a very hard time indeed. If you live in London, run–don’t walk–to the Apollo and book yourself a ticket. As I had imagined, it is easily the highlight of my stay, so far. Talk about drama…this was theater at its finest and I felt truly privileged to have been allowed to partake of it.

It was about 10. 30 when I sat on the bus and was home at Amen Court about 20 minutes later. Cynthia and Michael had just returned from a black tie dinner appointment at Mansion House with the Lord Mayor of London and presented me with the printed menu from their formal evening out. We sat chatting for the next half hour as we caught up on our day before we thought we could close shop for the night.