The Brooklyn Rail

In September, Nightboat Books will publish Love, Leda, a lost novel from the bohemian poet Mark Hyatt. Leda, the novel’s protagonist, semi-homeless and estranged from his given family, relies on the support of his chosen one: a community of older gay men and divorced women who feed and clothe him, gently encouraging him to find a foothold in a society which excludes him at every turn. Written prior to the UK’s Sexual Offences Act of 1967, Hyatt’s frank depiction of Leda’s search for intimacy, love, sex, and survival among a criminalized subculture serves as an important historical record. The Guardian describes it as “a singular work; a contemporary portrait of working-class gay London in the years running up to decriminalisation that neither flatters nor sensationalises.”

*

In the street, I feel extremely fresh and mellow. Life to me is all dialogue with oneself, and man loves man deeper than he can, but is too shy to show it in his eyes. And man has yet to admit that he too is feminine. On top of all this, he plays this awful game of being a cowboy, out to hurt the man that hurt him.

I jump on the tube to Leicester Square. Going up the stairs I see an old lesbian friend of mine go down the other side. As we pass, she blows a kiss. I used to meet her at the gay club in Chelsea, but we’ve been out of touch with each other for some weeks now. I think the beautiful young girl beside her is her loved one.

I make my way to the laundrette and sit down to wait. The clock on the wall is slow and the place is steaming hot. I can see Ron coming along the street, dressed in ice blue jeans and shirt. He looks pretty dishy. I go outside and wait for him. He sees me and starts smiling; pleased. I love his butterfly eyes.

“You could have made the bed this morning,” he says, without meaning.

“Sorry, it went out of my head. I needed a bath, that’s why.”

“What are we doing tonight?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I was leaving it to you.”

“We can go to Highgate if you like.”

“What goes on there?”

“Friends of mine live there. They have a packet of marijuana.”

“Will they let me in?”

“I see no reason why they should turn you away.”

“Are they intellectuals?”

“What — my friends? You’re joking.”

“O.K. We’ll try our luck.”

“Do you mind if we take a taxi?” he says.

“Not if you go halves with me.”

“I don’t mind paying. I can’t bear going by bus.”

“Do they have money?”

“No. But they have a ball every so often.”

“Taxi! Taxi!” A taxi pulls over. Ron tells the driver where we are going and we get in. He looks out of the window and I think of my truest non-loving lover, Daniel. He comes from the north and is married with four children. I loved him so much that I am in eternal misery while he wore a mask of human love every day. My own experience tells me that more love goes into the thought of homosexuality than the practice. But Daniel made me feel all the affection that my mind and body needs. (Needless to say, I am still in love with him, but he doesn’t like the idea of homosexuality and has forbidden me to show my love. So I have to bury it inside me when I am in his presence; in this way my love becomes the hermit of my solitude.) Once I dreamt he was dead, or thought the idea up, I can’t remember, and when he was buried I dug him up from his grave and began to make love to him. I think this happened when he rejected me in front of his wife. (It was pure hell for both of us.) He, being a Christian, thinks there would be no truth in human speech without God’s truth, but my idea of justice is that which is right at the time. And he’s right every time in my eyes. But I think man should believe in man and his work and leave God to himself.

The taxi stops and Ron pulls my arm. He pays the taxi and I suggest we have a drink first. I walk into a pub and order two double whiskeys. Ron follows me, sees the drink and shakes his head. So I pour it all into one glass.

“I’ll have a light ale,” he says.

“A light please.”

“Right, sir,” says the barman.

“Will you be all right with that drink?” asks Ron.

“Sure, it will put me on top of the world.”

“One and six.” The barman places it in front of Ron.

“Have one yourself.” I give him six shillings.

“Thank you, sir,” he says, delighted with his own service.

“Rather empty, isn’t it,” says Ron. A silent pause between.

“Where do they live?”

“Not far. Along the street.”

“Heaven only knows where I am.”

“Have you no idea?” he says.

“No.” I feel the whiskey mix with my blood.

“Well, up the road is a tube station. To the left of there.”

“That’s good.”

“Drink up and we’ll go.”

“Are any of them gay?”

“Some are. But I don’t know who’s going to be there.”

“I’m ready.”

“Goodnight,” says the barman as we make our exit.

Streetlights are depressing. They give everything a yellowish look. We walk up the street and turn the corner.

“I thought you said it was in the same street.”

“It is. We’re going in by the back to make sure we get in.”

We turn into a dark alley. Over the little brick walls, one can see the flowers have gone to sleep.

“Hello, we’re here,” he says, opening a gate.

The garden is like a rubbish dump. Tin cans, piles of old papers and far more milk bottles than I can count. As we pass the loo, the sound of sucking and kissing drift out. He opens the back door and we walk into the kitchen. There is a cupboard built of old orange boxes. The gas stove is covered in solid grease. We make our way along a passage into the front room. A boy and a girl are lying on the sofa. One young boy plays a guitar; four others sit around the fireplace cooking baked potatoes; two girls lean against a wall, talking. A boy and a girl are doing “the creep” in the middle of the floor. One of the boys in front of the fire gets up. He has no shirt because of his lovely tan.

“Hello, Ron,” he says.

“Hello, Peter.”

“Who have you got with you?”

“This is Leda,” replies Ron. Peter comes up to me and puts out his hand:

“I’m Peter,” he says and we shake hands. He starts pointing. “That’s Alan, Joe, Sheridan, the two girls, Mary and Ann. Henry and another Mary, kissing there on the sofa, and Paul. The two dancing are Mick and Joan, Christopher and Wendy are in the loo, and this is Leda everyone —”

I nod my head. His eyes are red as beetroots. Joe gets up and leaves the room. Everyone is smoking, looking pretty high. Ron goes over to the two girls and starts talking. I sit down by the fireplace. Joe comes back with a tin and opens it.

“Have one,” he says. There are twenty-five homemade cigarettes completely filled (by the smell) with pot.

“Thanks.”

He takes them to Ron. Alan gives them a light.

“What do you do, Leda?” asks Henry.

“I’m a social bum.”

“Good,” he says. Paul begins to sing — “Cushy buttercupfield” — so I take a great liking towards him. Christopher enters and just looks at me.

“Where is she?” asks Mick.

“Getting dressed,” he says, grinning. No one in the room is more than twenty-one years old. I can see a toilet roll pinned across the room, wall to wall like a Christmas decoration. It makes me laugh.

“He’s cool,” says Christopher.

“You’re too far gone, so leave him be,” says Mary.

“Play something smooth,” says Peter. He comes across the room and bends over me.

“Dance with me,” he says.

I jump to my feet without question and he puts his arm around my waist. I put an arm over his shoulder and put the cigarette into my mouth. My other hand I let run up and down his back. Paul begins to whistle the same tune. Wendy enters with a tray of black coffee. She places it on the floor, counts heads, finds there are two cups missing and leaves again. Everyone buzzes around the tray. Ann places a cup at Paul’s feet. Sheridan leaves the room and Joe gets up and turns off the light. The flames dance and the shadows jump.

Wendy and Sheridan enter; she with two more coffees, he with a packet of butter and a knife. The other Mary pulls the baked potatoes from under the fire and passes them round. Peter leaves me and gets stuck into potatoes and coffee. I join them and Paul stops playing. Mick and Alan leave the room. Everyone else sits in a circle.

“You’re a bloody good cook,” says Christopher.

“Thank you, kind sir,” says Mary.

“You can’t beat my mother’s cooking,” says Paul.

“But she’s been dead for two years,” says Wendy.

“That’s why you can’t beat her,” replies Paul.

“I prefer my own cooking,” says Henry.

“And how long have you been cooking?” asks Ann.

“I took cookery at school. That’s how long.”

“I bet you’ve forgotten how to cook water,” says Christopher.

“They’re very nice,” says Ron.

“Really they cook themselves,” says Henry.

“Then next time there’s a party I won’t cook,” says Mary.

“There won’t be a next time. I’m going to drop a bomb on you,” says Sheridan, and he throws the butter which sticks to the wall and slides down helplessly.

“You can bake this,” says Christopher, unzipping his flies.

“You’ve got a new hot water bottle, I think,” says Mary.

“I am not a hot water bottle, Mary,” says Wendy.

“Sorry, love, but he uses girls like a computer.”

“I only fill in the gap,” says Christopher.

Mick enters with a gallon jar of cider and turns the lights on.

“Isn’t he a darling,” says Joan, and everyone gets to their feet. Alan comes in with a record player and four jazz records. He puts it on the floor and leaves again. Joe plugs it in and puts on two L.P.s They pour out the cider into coffee cups. Alan returns with a tin of cigarettes. Taking one, he passes the tin to Christopher, who puts one between his lips and another behind his ear. He gives them to me. I take one and pass the tin to Paul who passes it on. Henry opens the window a little and everyone starts dancing. Paul sits back on the sofa and I lie along it with my head in his lap. I feel the stones in his trousers and roll my head. It annoys him but he doesn’t say a word. Someone throws a drop of cider over me, but I am too sleepy to move. The music seems to fade away. Now and then a head appears and disappears.

I wake up and find I have been sleeping with Peter and Paul. It is about four in the morning. I get out of bed, fully dressed. Ron and Alan are in the other bed. I creep out of the house and start walking back to Thomas’s flat. A few cars are on the road. The morning is hazy. My senses tell me which direction to go. I cut down some backstreets and see the milkman hard at it. I pass a car with someone sleeping over the steering wheel. Five charwomen are walking on the other side of the road, talking and laughing. It seems mad to me at such an early hour, to be happy and going to work. I see a dead cat lying in the gutter, its body steaming. I pick a flower from a garden and stick it in my hair, cross the main road and walk straight into a policeman. He looks at my hair and then looks me in the eyes.

“What’s all this then?” he says.

“What’s all what?”

“That flower there.”

“I stuck it in my hair to make me look pretty, because I feel awful.”

“Have you been to a party?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Well, take that damn silly thing out of your hair and be on your way,” he says, and walks on. I put the flower in my mouth and catch sight of a clock. Seven.

I open the window of Thomas’s place and smell the frying pan. He’s up, in the kitchen, looking equally as bright as myself.

“I see you survived the night,” he says.

“I am innocent.”

He places a fried egg on bread in front of me.

“Eat that... You’re not innocent of anything.”

“Can’t you imagine me, good as gold?”

“No, you’re always celebrating some kind of sermon.”

“That’s because I’m ignorant.”

“Take this.” He hands me a cup of tea.

“Thanks. I don’t have any roots. That’s why.”

“Are you seriously going to be like this all your life?”

He sits down in front of me with his egg.

“I don’t think so. I’ll tell you what. I’ll try a job for your sake.”

“You know where the Labour Exchange is,” he says.

“I know them all off by heart in London.”

“If you get a job, I’ll give you a pound tonight.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“So I can trust you to do that, can I?” he says.

“Yes, but I’m not going to stampede the Labour Exchange for a job.”

“I can understand that,” he says, getting up.

“I’m going to lie down.” And I lie down on his settee. He goes into the bathroom and I hear him washing. Outside, the noise of cars increases, making the windows rattle.

“Will you take the dirty laundry to the shop, it’s on your way to the Labour Exchange,” he shouts from the bathroom.

“Yes.”

The sound of the lavatory. He comes out, displaying himself and comes nearer.

“How about that, all man for you,” he says.

“Not for me, love.”

“O.K. be like that.” He goes away, rubbing himself and starting to dress.

“If I get a job, then I’ll go to the cinema and have an early night.”

“That’s the thing to do.” He smiles and throws me a book.

“Confucius. He was a foreigner, wasn’t he?”

“It’s O.K. It’s been translated,” he says.

“It’s new, isn’t it?”

“I bought it for you yesterday.”

“You shouldn’t keep me in luxury. It’s not good for my health.”

“You know the score.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m going. Don’t forget the laundry or I’ll have nothing but dirty clothes for next week. See you later.”

“O.K. Goodbye.”

The street door slams. I get up and go into the bathroom where I wash and cover myself in scent. I smell good but feel bad inside and the egg didn’t help. I look through my new book without much interest, wondering if I can ever discover Confucius. Time will tell. I start to wash up the breakfast things and drop a cup which smashes at my feet. I go back to the bathroom and have a look at myself, say to my reflection in the mirror, “Oh, God, is that really you?”

Then I laugh, feeling a bit mad with life itself. I return to the kitchen and make a cup of imitation coffee and sit down, rather sleepy. I remember the flower; must have dropped it somewhere on my way home. I finish the coffee and hunt for dirty laundry. Buggered if I can see it, so make a move, and there it stands outside the street door, a ticket around its neck. I put it on my shoulder and carry it down the road. The shop isn’t open, so I put it against the door and leave it. Outside the Labour Exchange, two old men are talking. I walk into the palace of the poor, the colour of washed-out grass, and go up to the desk.

“State your trade,” says the woman behind the desk.

“Sheet metal worker.”

“Along there. Box two.” She speaks meaninglessly.

Box two, and I am the only one. That’s what one gets for being early. So I go in and sit down. The people behind the desk are walking up and down like dogs, staring at me as if I were out of place.

“I won’t keep you a minute,” says a man, disappearing into a back room. The time they take. One could have a baby and still have time on hand. He appears again and sits down in front of me.

“What can I do for you?” he says.

“I want a job.”

“Your trade?”

“Sheet metal worker.”

“Are you skilled or unskilled labour?”

“I’m a skilled guillotine operator.”

“What’s the name of your last employer?”

“I’ve forgotten.”

“When did you last work as a guillotine operator?”

“About two years ago.”

“When did you last hold a job?”

“About two years ago.”

“Do you think you can just pop in and get a job when you feel like it?” he says, blowing his top.

“That’s what it’s here for.”

“Some people wait weeks to get a job.”

“You’re a bastard for keeping people waiting.”

“Here, go to the address on this card,” he says, all vexed.

“Thank you, kind sir.”

“I hope you get the fucking job,” he says, announcing this to the whole of the Exchange.