Bedz on the Rye

‘It’s no time to be making plans for a holiday Ron. You should’ve done that years ago.’ Says Antoine, who is perched on a solid pine bedframe. Ron continues to stare out of the window. ‘Anyways, not at your age, there’s this virus making its rounds like the grim reaper.’

‘Don’t be so gloomy Antoine, let an old man dream.’ Ron turns around with both hands in his pockets sticking out like paws. He has small blue peepers studded in his round, pink head and wears a beige coloured sweatshirt over cream trousers. Ron is slightly blurred at the edges, but when he puts on his reading glasses to go over the accounts, he gains a certain edge like a betting clerk.

Ron runs a shop called Bedz on the Rye and he has done so for the last twenty-seven years. He bought it off his uncle when he became ill, likely asbestos - things were different then. The market was looking up, there were loads of new families moving into the area with money to splash, everyone needed a bed. Waterbeds came into fashion for a little while, nearly did his back in carrying one into the store with Larry. After that they always drained them before moving. Nowadays everyone’s about memory-foam and low bed frames, although tighter with their budget. He doesn’t make enough business these days. Ron has to keep the shop open all hours in case somebody comes in to buy; ‘Can’t miss an opportunity and can’t compete with them online retailers.’ His beds are middle-of-the-range, affordable, no frills and he’s got Larry with the van if you want it delivered to your door.

The only regular customer he gets is Antoine who works for an old people’s home. Elderly care worker is what you call them these days, and Antoine looked after his old mum before she went, so he’s a good lad, still a bit young but who isn’t when you’re over sixty. Still no plans to retire – ‘I couldn’t afford it!’ but still with an itch to get out there, to see the world. Every day he stands at the shop window looking out, watching the street, waiting for someone to come in. Ron wonders how much longer this sort of thing can go on. Every time he takes stock of his beds and mattresses, he is reminded that he hasn’t sold enough for this quarter. At least he owns the leasehold he muses, though that must be running low too, can’t quite remember or find the energy to locate the deeds.

He never married - didn’t want to - not really. There was this one lady friend he made called Veronica. Oh, she was lovely. She had this shop a few stores down selling vintage clothing and furs, she was actually older than Ron by several years, but he daren’t ask by how much, a woman must be allowed to keep her secrets. He’d buy her coffees and croissants and take them a few doors down in the mornings, chatting while she got the place ready. Veronica had these trunk suitcases that looked like they belonged in the back of a Fiat 500 and picnic hampers, which she would open up all over the shop and delicately toss mountains of shawls and silk scarves into them, pulling out little wisps, enticing customers to reach out and buy one. Those mornings were bliss. They would talk about politics and hit records, Veronica spoke about wanting to move away and start all over again; Ron felt trepidation and excitement at the possibilities that could materialise out of thin air. It was the last time he felt young.

Drizzle started falling and it got chilly standing by the door, Ron trod lightly into his back-office, switching on the overhead heater that made a faint hum. In moments like these he wished a customer would come in to make him not dwell. She did as she set out to do. It was the summer of 2005 when Veronica closed her shop forever, selling the business to a yuppie couple who transformed it into a yoga studio. She came by to sit on one of the many bright beds for sale that day and dazzled Ron as she spoke with certainty about where she was off to and what she was going to do.

‘I’ll swim in the most beautiful crystal-clear lake in the summers and be able to buy and sell as many silks as I like.’

‘You can speak Italian can you?’

‘Capisco benissimo!’ Ron raised his eyebrows impressed and besotted. ‘You must come and visit me. Will you? Yes promise.’

What would happen if he turned over the “Open” sign to say “Closed” for a week? The shop door swings open and Antoine steps in wearing a drenched raincoat with the hood pulled over his hair, holding a blue plastic bag.

‘Do you mind it’s too rainy to walk back just yet.’

‘You know something Antoine? I’m going on holiday.’

‘Oh yes, when?’

‘Right now.’ Ron looked pleased with himself and had some colour in his cheeks for once.

‘Where to?’ Rummaging in his shopping bag.

Already Ron had put on his jacket and folded his reading glasses into their case for travel, ‘To Lake Como in Italy.’

Antoine stops and looks at him like he’s loopy, ‘You can’t you know it’s been quarantined.’

‘I don’t care about that I’m going.’ And with that, Ron gave Antoine his umbrella and switched off all the electrics in his shop and swung the sign round to say “Closed”.

From Peckham Rye to Rye

Take the no. 63 bus from Peckham Rye to Kings Cross. Board a train, with a changeover at Ashford Int., then you’re in Rye.

An odd town that slipped down the back of the sofa and is quite neatly tucked in to Antiquity.

‘I don’t see the sea.’

‘I don’t think we cross the sea on the way down.’

I thought it was a coastal town right up until the time we were standing in Rye. Feet firmly on cobbled streets, looking through thin panes of glass at nick nacks from another era – proud porcelain cats and those hairbrushes that have horse hairs for bristles. All the houses are lopsided from age. Red roof tiles slacken and look like they are slowly slipping downhill, pulling the plaster and the weight of the houses with them, sinking with decrepitude. But the wooden beams sprout upwards, holding up the entire town, lifting masses up to St. Mary’s church spire. Which has ‘one of the oldest working church tower clocks in the country’, says the free pamphlet. Dating to ‘1561-2’ it tells me, with the sort of accuracy only someone with smalltown pride would insist on hammering in. I mean, it was like 500 years ago. But this clock face has emblazoned on it an inscription, which I stare at morbidly when the bell sounds a delicate chime:

For our time is a very shadow that passeth away

-       Wisdom

That makes me think accuracy may be all we have. Quite timely too, as we arrive three hours early to check-in at the Tea House, next to the Mint. It is lovely, though the guesthouse owner surprised by our early arrival wants us to get out of her hair, so that she can tidy the rooms in peace (completely fair, but we only want to leave our bags here, so that we can walk on down to the sea – there is a sea nearby). He tells her full of gestures and charm (because he’s better at it than me) and Brenda who is accommodating and glittery, in persona, grabs her keys to the Mercedes and offers to drive us down. What a winner.

On the way to her parked car, she tells us a strange story of a cantorial monk who had done the deed with a local girl in the Medieval times.

‘He was holed up in here – Right here.’

Pointing to an embankment of green presided over by a weeping willow.

‘They buried him alive.’

I expected her to tell us tales of singing ghosts, but none followed.

Camber Sands. That’s where the sea is at! The Camber is a huge stretch of sand with wide open seas all round, rolling waves. Surfers and dogs. The weather was unusually warm so I took my socks off and got my feet sandy, then wet. Strolling. You can see Rye rise up in the distance. It sits on a ridge, which according to Wikipedia is the reason for the town’s name. I was almost right too, about it being a coastal town, because in Medieval days the sea reached Rye. It was a port town – one of the Cinque Ports – renowned for smuggling. But in the proceeding centuries landowners who wanted to expand their farmlands, reclaimed the marshland from the ocean. They stemmed the flow of the River Rother so that it became the only waterway that let ships sails right up to Rye, until the seascape changed to what it is today. Rye is about 2 miles from the sea when it used to be on top of it. I guess that clock face has seen a lot of change.

Cormorants and sturdy sheep. Tumbling border collies; funny scruffy looking dogs out on walks with their funny scruffy looking owners. It takes an hour or so to walk back to Rye. We eat sweet vinegary mussels from styrofoam cups, which reminds me in Normandy there was a dish on the menu called fruits de mer. We pass under Land’s Gate built in the 14^th Century, again Medieval, looking immoveable. Rye is really pedalling the School for Wizards & Witches and I’m starting to see a pattern. Anything that is so old that it could be deemed mystical is on the menu at Rye. The Mermaids Inn is very famous for being a smuggler’s haunt centuries ago. I eat two day’s running at Simon The Pie Man, where the older waitresses wear white pinafore aprons over their sombre black skirts and have their hair tied back in exquisite buns. I enter and buy books from the Tiny Book Store, where the bookshop owner gives me a knowing speech about his collection –

‘Like I say. Books come to me. I don’t go looking for them… We got a load of Vintage Penguins in. A whole load but it’s hard to find a First Edition… Can’t for the life of me get hold of any Seamus Heaney, not these days.’

I like Rye. I like how peculiar it is, or is trying to be, but does that matter? There’s a rusted blade of a short-sword sticking out of one of the beams in our guesthouse. No one attests to knowing what it’s doing there. Gold. I’m a tourist and I love it.

On the final day we go to Rye Castle and Museum. £4 entry. Bargain. A well kept Medieval castle later used as a jail. Also the first prison in Britain to have a women’s tower, how thoughtful. I particularly liked the exhibition cabinet on Coopers: craftsmen who made barrels. I learnt a lot of barrel facts, such as, ‘All barrels are casks but not all casks are barrels’. Did you know that a barrel is a measurement? And a Hogshead is one up from a Barrel? Me neither.

On the walk down steep cobbled streets to the station I’m inordinately glad I found Rye. For no good reason, I feel like I’ve made an important pilgrimage from my hometown featuring Rye in its title. (Do New Yorkers feel the same when they visit York?) As we leave, hand in hand, I am met by the exuberant copy of the tourist information board…

Welcome to Historic Rye

Perched on a hill, the medieval town of Rye is the sort of place you thought existed only in your imagination.

Peckham Perspective (or how World Cup fever worked)

WHITE HORSE

A pub where the interior decor is like a greenhouse with hanging succulents and skylights, lifting that heavy dingy pub atmosphere. You can breathe in here. The average age is 24, in fact it’s the most healthy and nonchalantly dishevelled crowd I’ve seen. Stylish ironic sports caps worn askew, and frayed backpacks that look like hand-me-downs from war veterans at Dunkirk. A vegan burger is over £10 and doesn’t come with chips - that are handcut by the way. The football is playing on one screen at the end of the room. It’s the England Vs. Colombia Round-16, I’m not very familiar with football but I’m here. Leaning across the bar with splayed elbows to cool down, at least I can see the ball. With my glasses on I can also see everyone else. Around a third of those watching care about the game, but the rest are hanging out with their tribe in a chill environment sipping on their locally brewed beers. Even in the height of summer dark ale is being supped. Once, the ball grazes the side of a goal post and skims off the pitch, people clap and give a single shout that feels like a pat on the back.

NAG’S HEAD

An England flag hangs under the telly. Tacked to the wood panelling with drawing pins, stamped in. The white of the St. George’s Cross is stained by nicotine and time. There's clenched fists and pint glasses filled with lager - lager - lager - you can even buy tinnies in here. The guy sat alone at the back with the sideburns and mullet is draining his can right now. He leers at the girls on my table like a maniac and grins with no frills and broken teeth. Everything is brown in colour, mauves and maroons seep through. Upholstery like the carpet of a forgotten ferry, docked in the shipyard since the late 1970’s. Around the island of tables in the middle of the pub are Great White Sharks. Big Fat Lads with Bald Heads. Bellies.

Gawan my Son
Not laaaaaaikely
Playin’ like bollocks
Take it daaaaaan tha liiiiiine
BOLLOCKS!
Keep ‘old of it son
Take your time, son

The match is being played over three screens. Every man is steaming, shouting, seething at all angles. I see spittle and raw joy, incensed blokes who look like they’re having the time of their lives but are about to explode. Slurs and You Wot!? Chucked at the Colombian shirt wearing cunt, perched like a pile of meat skewered to a stick on his stool. Jeering. Eruptions of laughter. You can’t take a joke? 

It’s what we call an Old Man Pub but I feel more raw energy in here than a playground. A fruit machine flashes wildly against the wall. When Colombia scores the mood gets cut. Silence like a soldier got shot. The guy in orange hi-vis punches the door and walks out on to the street, where we go next.

It’s Extra Time as we walk the length of Peckham High Street. Every window, in every shop is playing the Game. Hairdressers, chicken shops, John the Unicorn, newsagents. We peer through panes of glass at the scores staying static. We walk on through the quiet and empty street. The summer heat hangs heavy with pressure over the tarmac, and the traffic lights change colour to no oncoming vehicles. 

PECKHAM LEVELS

A converted car park with a good heavy-handed lick of paint, since I last saw it. I remember a bare building with you know those holes between the car park levels, between floor and ceiling. Because you know car parks are concrete slabs made for sheltering cars not people, though sometimes skaters use them and homeless people. Well let me tell you! Now there are windows! And fluorescent tinted tubes and industrial sized fairy lights, and wacky chairs and a working bar and proper toilets, the works. They’ve got a big screen playing the match and now it’s on to penalties. Groups of thirty year olds in tight polo shirts and arm bulges, wearing espadrilles, share a jug of beer and gesture with boyish excitement. Boho chic, tussled hair, the ambient mood-lighting is flushed with pink, setting off the sunset hues dissipating over the city scape outside and damn - this is so Instgrammable. England scores! The room erupts and hushes. Colombia misses. The room claps and hushes. The final kick is coming. The ball is soaring. England SCORES!!!!!!!! 

Field Notes from an Anthropologist: There are three pubs in Peckham filled with three types of people. I’m part of it. The hipsters, working class, and yuppies. There are invisible barriers that exist between the pubs and their clientele but the footie breaks them down. Because when you are all sharing in one activity (you could call this common activity a ritual), you can be different but it’s okay because you are all doing the same thing.