Dear Reader,

Welcome to our special Fitzrovia Atlas issue of StepAway Magazine.

I was delighted when Professor John Beck asked us to contribute to the University of Westminster’s Fitzrovia Atlas project. Our mission would be to celebrate the streets that flank the Regent Street campus, home to the Faculty of Social Sciences and the Humanities. So, in true StepAway style, we asked writers to slip on a stout pair of walking shoes and tread the same footpaths as George Orwell, Ezra Pound, Virginia Woolf and George Bernard Shaw before reflecting upon their walk in poetry or prose.

Fitzrovia has one of the richest literary and artistic histories in London. We thought that our writers may go hunting the ghosts of past luminaries, visiting their famous haunts, hoping to steal a glimpse of those bygone bohemian lives. We also wondered if they would find interest in the Fitzrovia of today, described recently by one of its most famous residents, Griff Rhys Jones, as a “walking space between four great arteries of London”.

Wandering eastwards, away from the hubbub of Regent Street, I could immediately discern why this area of London could be considered as ‘walking space’. The pace of the city became slower, allowing the purposeful metropolitan strut to melt into a stroll. The arterial roar of traffic noise became somewhat muted and a more relaxed path could be taken — meandering down alleyways and lingering in the very middle of narrow thoroughfares without the immediate expectation of angry honks from passing cars.

Moreover, this area felt like a true neighbourhood. Not only because it had small corner shops and pubs with rosy-faced regulars. There seemed to be an esoteric Fitzrovia way of doing things that seemed to be perpetuated and preserved by its inhabitants. It felt as though it was, in some unspoken manner, pressing against the mode of living that existed beyond its boundaries.

Jones describes the “all encompassing grey of Fitzrovia” as a place of “undiscovered nurses’ swimming pools and obscure modern art galleries, flute shops, play-script vendors and Cypriot tailors”, where “several wrecks that feature every year on the English Heritage “Buildings at Risk Register” lean precariously close to millionaire mansions” and “prostitutes and brothels discretely hide in basements”.

Fitzrovia opens itself only to those in the know. It appears inscrutable to the walker passing through, which makes it all the more fascinating. Will Self wrote recently that “when we read a description of a place we get whether or not the writer truly knows that place, even if we have no familiarity with it ourselves”.

The writers that we have published in this issue know Fitzrovia to varying degrees. As I read through their work I am captivated by what it means to see Fitzrovia with the new eyes of a tourist, or as a business visitor, or a commuting Londoner. Their gazes penetrate to varying depths but each offers a unique recording or remembering of a specific moment in this particularly special patch of London.

I hope that you enjoy discovering Fitzrovia along with us.

Yours faithfully,

Darren Richard Carlaw
editor@stepawaymagazine.com

The bus dropped me off at the bottom of the Strand. It was a morning grey as the paving stones under my feet. I rounded the Aldwych passing the eponymous theatre with its billboard for Stephen Ward the Musical. An ironic concept, all things considered. On Kingsway a girl was weeping and a woman limping. A man with flashing eyes stood still as street furniture.

A Londoner will always find fragments of her past, and here halfway up Kingsway was one of mine, an office building where once I’d worked long ago. I’d not noticed the name of the nearby church before – St Anselm and St Caecilia – surely I must have sat there once in a while contemplating love, or its loss.

I needed to cross a side street; at pavement’s edge, I teetered, ready to go forward as a black cab shaved past.

Further on I crossed the road to grimy Holborn Station, fronted by a stall of neon-bright flowers. The thunder of building and traffic noises grew as I reached Southampton Row and then quietened on Theobalds Road. The Unite Union building made me think of Bob Crow (former secretary general of RMT); not so long ago I’d seen him striding in Covent Garden, looking dapper.

On my left was Boswell Road. Then I spotted a man who may be on TV, but I couldn’t put a context to him. On my right was the modest but splendid Conway Hall, dedicated to free speech and independent thought.

I crossed the eccentrically-named Lambs Conduit Street. I guess once it was the conduit for sheep on their way to dinner plates.

I had reached the library where I perused photographs and memorabilia. I found no sign of myself, though there were glimpses of a lost time I recognised. One where theatre confronted society, put on happenings, took to the street, did daring things to shake up the world.

Retracing my steps to the bus stop, with the odd digression, I happened upon Red Lion Square and a delightful statue of Fenner Brockway. He looked flyaway, lively, erudite and like someone you’d love to know (it was the first I’d heard of him, to my shame). I read that he had been the President of Liberation, (previously the Movement for Colonial Freedom). What a title: President of Liberation!

Truly, I thought, a radical heart beats in Fitzrovia.

Joan Byrne

I didn’t see them in the streets,
or in the brightly-lit interiors
of the double-decker buses
passing by at night.

I didn’t find them crawling around
on all fours in the pubs.
Instead I saw the young at lunch in Fitzroy Square,
eating out of paper containers,
sitting on the grass in circles
in neatly pressed pants and shirts open at the collar,
discussing Facebook and soccer scores.

Where did everyone go?
Where were the wild-eyed new Bohemian poets?
Back to the office and computer screen
at precisely 13:00 hours?

I didn’t see one hair of the drunken head of Dylan Thomas.
Did the younger Sylvia Plath go home to check on the cake
rising in the oven?
Was no one teaching them to become
the new Laureate of Song, or the Duke of Earl?

I wondered down which cobblestone street were they now hidden,
the real wild life of Fitzrovia,
tightly wrapped in plastic to protect them from the
prying eyes of memory and the rain?
And behind which facade do they secretly recite
the Howl of Ginsberg, while plotting to take the Road of Kerouac.

Their backs leaning against Fitzroy Square’s garden railings, the six workmen sit in a line on the pavement, eating sandwiches and drinking from paper cups. One of them whistles when Virginia Woolf walks past. The others laugh. ‘You’ve got to be joking, mate,’ says the shaven-headed one. ‘Much too skinny. And she don’t look all there, either.’

The Westminster Council lorry waits in the square while one of the recycling team brings three plastic sacks up from the basement of number 29, unaware that one of the sacks contains the discarded drafts for Arms and the Man. Upstairs, George Bernard Shaw strokes his beard, his pen poised.

Sir Charles Eastlake hesitates before he gets into the hansom cab outside number 7 and looks up at the front of the house. He turns to a workman in a yellow safety helmet who’s leaning against the railings and smoking a cigarette. ‘Do you have any idea how much longer this scaffolding is due to stay up?’
The workman turns to him and shrugs. “No idea mate. Best to ring head office.’
Sir Charles sighs. ‘National Gallery,’ he tells the driver as he climbs into the cab.

The Marquess of Salisbury turns to his wife. ‘Do you realise, Georgina, that there’s a group of people down there letting their dogs jump through the railings and tear about in the garden. And look, one of those animals is cocking his leg up against the Barbara Hepworth. I just don’t know what this square is coming to.
‘Really, my dear?’
‘And now there’s a man, in some sort of uniform, standing in front of our car writing something down. He looks like an African. Do you think he’s anything to do with those Mozambique people downstairs?’
‘That must be a traffic warden. I believe they call them Civil Enforcement Officers now. Your driver must have parked on a double yellow line again. I expect you’ll be receiving another fine.’
‘That’s absurd. Don’t they realise I’m the Prime Minister?’

Returning to his lodgings in Cleveland Street, Samuel Morse sees a notice pinned to the front door. He leans forward to examine it more closely, tapping his fingers on the door in annoyance as he reads that Vinyasa yoga classes are to be held every Thursday in the All Souls Clubhouse that occupies the ground floor and basement of the building. When one of the club members appears, he points at the notice. ‘This is disgraceful,’ he tells her furiously. ‘To allow such heathen practices in a Christian house.’

When James Boswell wakes up with a bad hangover, he shouts for his manservant.
‘Francis, is the Horse and Groom open yet?’
‘No sir, it doesn’t open until midday.’
‘Well, are there any whores about in the street?’
‘It’s still rather early for them too sir.’
‘Then go over to Greggs and bring me back one of their breakfast deals. How much are they?’
‘£2.25, sir.’
‘Well then get me two.’

There’s a loud crash and Ed Murrow looks up from his typewriter. ‘Oh God,’ says his wife. ‘Have the Germans finally started bombing?’
He walks over to the window, looks out and shakes his head. ’No, it’s only some truck delivering beer to the Masons Arms next door.’ He lights up another Camel. ‘And anyhow, this building is protected by Cactus Security while the scaffolding is up.’

The car bringing John Reith back from a meeting with the Prime Minister about the abdication crisis stops outside the BBC headquarters. Reith remains for a while in the back seat, looking with disgust at his various employees lounging around outside on Portland Place, some in t-shirts, others wearing jeans and trainers. He sighs angrily at the sight of a young woman in shorts in the arms of an unshaven man. ‘What is that thing he’s wearing on his head?’ he asks his driver.
‘I believe it’s called a baseball cap, sir,’ the driver replies.

From his studio above Domino’s, Henry Fuseli, brush in hand, stares down at the contrasts of light and dark caused by the streetlight shining on the man sitting on the pavement opposite. The man, with matted long blond hair and wearing a dirty black duffle coat, is eating a discarded piece of pizza. He appears to notice Fuseli’s attention and gets to his feet, picks up his bulging orange plastic bags and walks slowly up Hanson Street, still chewing.

Saki walks into the offices of the Artemis recruitment agency where a woman at the reception desk is peering into a computer. ‘Good morning,’ he says, smoothing down his brilliantined hair, ‘I’m looking for a personal secretary.’
She looks up. ‘Very well sir. Do you have any specific requirements?’
‘Yes. Must be a man. A youngish, personable-looking man. And not Jewish. The name’s Munro. I work at home, just round the corner in Mortimer Street.’

The barman in The King and Queen looks Bob Dylan up and down and nods at his guitar. ‘You’ve got the wrong night, son. Friday night is the folk club.’ He points at the large TV screen up on the wall. ‘It’s Premier League football tonight. Arsenal v Chelsea, if you’re interested.’ Bob shakes his head and walks out into the freezing evening, past the thumping bass coming from the delivery van parked in the street.

Thumbing his smartphone, the bored driver sits in the black Mercedes parked outside 49 Tottenham Street. Inside, after the talk by Keir Hardie, the mood in the Communist Club is turning unpleasant. ‘This organisation is getting more and more bourgeois,’ shouts one member. ‘One minute we find that a burglar alarm has been installed and now, if you care to look outside, there’s a large expensive car with a chauffeur waiting to collect someone here.’
‘Well comrade, that chauffeur is a worker,’ says Hardie. ‘Would it make you happier if he got a ticket?’

The black guy with the Mohican haircut walks along Goodge Street. He’s wearing a Night of the Living Dead t-shirt, green tracksuit bottoms with green earrings to match and carrying a red shoulder bag. Roger Fry turns his head to stare as he passes and nearly drops the pot he’s carrying.

Because John Constable is strolling along gazing up at the clouds rather than looking where he’s going, he bumps headlong into Robert Smirke, the architect who lives just down the road from him.
‘Why don’t you have a look at the exhibition in that Woolff Gallery opposite you?’ says Smirke, after they make their apologies. ‘You might find it interesting. The artist has made all these pieces using old record labels he’s collected – Tamla, Sex Pistols, Elvis and so on.’
‘It doesn’t sound my sort of thing,’ says Constable.

When the Fifth Congress is adjourned for the day, Vladimir Lenin and Josef Stalin leave the hall and walk down Charlotte Street, discussing the failings of the Mensheviks and the need to build a revolutionary working class party. They stop outside the Fitzroy Tavern and look at the menu displayed outside.
‘What is Chicken Achari?’ asks Lenin.
Stalin shrugs. ‘I’ve no idea. Shall we try the Mega Sharing Platter?’
‘Very well. And look, they take Visa cards.’

At closing time George Orwell and a fellow Home Guard sergeant leave the Newman Arms. ‘How will you get home?’ asks Orwell.
The sergeant nods towards the cycle docking station. ‘I’ll use one of those Boris bikes.’
Orwell shakes his head. ‘I don’t think you should call them that, nor ride one.’
‘Really? Why not?’
‘Firstly because the original idea was Livingstone’s and secondly because Johnson is a frightful reactionary. So, one has to get one’s facts right and also stick to one’s principles.’

Aleister Crowley and Dylan Thomas stagger out of the Marquis of Granby and Crowley points at the Buca Lounge opposite. ‘Now for shisha.’
Thomas looks puzzled. ‘What?’
‘You know. Hookah pipe… Hubble-bubble. I used them in North Africa.’
They cross the road but the Buca Lounge’s door is locked and its windows are covered in photocopied notices:
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN
THE ESPRESSO COFFEE MACHINE, GRINDER, KNOC BOX AND WATER TREATMENT UNIT ARE THE PROPERTY OF UK COOLING SOLUTIONS LTD.
WE WANT THESE RETURNED
WE REQUIRE ACCESS TO REMOVE OUR GOODS FROM SITE
RUSLAN, PLEASE CALL US TO RETURN OUR GOODS
‘I think the place is closed,’ says Thomas.

Augustus John studies the Protape shop window. Charles Laughton, whose flat is above the shop, has arranged to meet him there so that they can walk down to the Apollo Theatre together. ‘What are all these things?’ asks John when Laughton appears.
‘They’re external drives. Elsa thinks we should get one to keep copies of our films and publicity photos on.’
John tugs at his moustache. ‘Hm…Could I keep copies of my paintings and drawings on one?’
‘Yes, but you’d have to get a PC first.’

The police emergency response cars, lights flashing, drive into Stephen’s Mews. This is difficult because of the Crossrail construction works in the street. The police, some plain-clothed, pile out of their cars and start to batter down the door and windows of number 7, where a meeting of German anarchists is taking place at the International Club. When the members open the door and see not only police but also a large crowd of angry and excited onlookers, they appeal to the police for protection. ‘We’ll protect you dammed foreigners with the staff,’ a sergeant replies and both police and the crowd pile into the club, wounding some of the members and carrying off jars of beer, papers, books, money and even some of the members’ clothes.

Tony Rickaby

Kate Wise

Gower Street, twin bed -
remember wooly sweaters,
winter cuddling, rain.

Faber and Faber
published Eliot and Plath;
the blue plaque is scratched.

Amy Schreibman Walter

The stars are a free show
golden-chained
where no sun shines.

Resign:
The times are strange enough.
Live:
life, London, this moment in June;
live happily ever after on Charlotte Street,
deliciously aged, and sad.

Kate Wise

Brown and redbrick Georgian
gives way at Rathbone Street
to painted pub-fronts, a bend north,

and a block of wire-rimmed flats
designed to mock pedestrians
lacking motivation. A pint

of bitter at the Duke of York
silts to the bottom of my soul.
When I emerge the sun still shines

and the street warps again, east
this time to Charlotte Street
where the shock of a photo shop’s

yellow storefront distracts me
from the crude baton of what
I used to call the Post Office Tower

when London was new to me
underfoot, every step a marvel.
I can’t let that stainless construct

affix me with its rotating gaze,
its battery-powered vibrations;
so dodging behind a trash truck,

down Goodge Street, I gain the north walk
past the green façade of Icco
offering its £3 pizzas,

then duck into Berners Mews
through a tunnel of scaffolding
to reclaim my wits in the dark.

William Doreski

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Tony Rickaby

William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire, and teaches at Keene State College. His most recent book of poetry is The Suburbs of Atlantis (2013). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in many journals.

Jerry Ratch, novelist and poet has published 13 books of poetry, a novel, Wild Dreams of Reality, and a memoir, A Body Divided, the story of a one-armed boy growing up in a two-fisted world. His poems have been in over two dozens magazines and anthologies. Also, recently published on-line is his novel, How the Sixties Ended: or, the San Francisco Poetry Wars, which can be found here. He lives with his wife, artist Sherry Karver in Oakland, California. More about Jerry’s work can be found on his website. His work can also be purchased as kindle books.

Tony Rickaby studied at St.Martin’s School of Art. His current practice reflects upon walks around South London. He has written for Aspidistra, Athregeum, Fox Chase Review, Dark Sky, Ditch, Sugar Mule, Whistling Fire and Word Riot and produced animations and visual poems for Altered Scale, InStereo Press, Drunken Boat, Locus Novus, Otholiths, Toad and Suss. His website can be found here.

Amy Schreibman Walter is an American poet living and working in London. She is a graduate of The Faber and Faber Institute’s Becoming a Poet program, based in Bloomsbury. She has a Graduate Certificate in Creative Writing earned at Birkbeck University, also in Bloomsbury. Her favorite pub in London is The Lamb, on Lamb’s Conduit Street. When not gallavanting around Bloomsbury, Amy co-edits the online poetry magazine: here/there: poetry. Her poems have appeared in journals on both sides of the Atlantic. Her website can be found here.

Kate Wise fits poetry in around being a solicitor and mum to two under-threes, composing on her commute. She has recently been published in New Trad Journal, and edition 12 of StepAway Magazine. She was commended in the 2013 Cafe Writers competition, and placed third in the 2014 Ware Poets Open competition.