‘Deptford builders were well aware of London’s classical […] design idioms, and their failure to engage with them fully was not the process of misapprehension. Neither ‘imitating’ nor ‘fools’ they were simply uninterested in boarding the classical bandwagon.’
Articulating British classicism: Barbara Arciszewska, Elizabeth McKellar
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An unhealthy white guy I somhow recognise, his ponytail matting into a dreadlock, sits examining an empty but still steaming electric kettle. He has that special pallour reserved for people who work all year on outdoors markets in the northern hemisphere and my eye is drawn fataly to the unspeakable bulge protruding from the top of the back of his trousers. In front of him on the table are two tins of sweetcorn and a torn up packet of Rizla. He is advising the owner of the take-away: ‘I think you’re gonna need a new kettle mate’.
A man then walks in swinging a serrated knife and industrial grater hanging with shreds of chicken skin: he is nothing to do with the restaurant. He sits at the same table as the guy with the sweetcorn.
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Every time I go into Deptford I find out something about myself as an Englishman.
Today I’m dressed decently in battered tweed jacket and brown loafers, having decided that if I can ever get away with wearing this sort of garb it’s in Deptford. I only mention what I’m wearing because it affects what I feel during the following encounter.
I’ve decided to come and look at the houses on the High Street as it’s a beautiful evening. Reading a book which might reveal some interesting things about the area I’m keen to check out some of the references. Ambling along I pass a group of thickly accented West Indians who set off behind me at a similar pace and I can’t help but listen in to their conversation. I note that passports are the topic of conversation, tune out temporarily but switch back in to hear:
‘Nah, nah. It took me two weeks last time I tried to get the thing done…’.
‘…Anyways, why swap a continent for a island?’
‘Why swap a continent for a island’
‘Hmmm’.
‘Slavemaster don’t tell me, forgive me, but Slavemaster don’t tell me’.
[From across the street]: ‘Hey Rasta!’
It briefly crosses my mind that I am the subject of an unprovoked anti-racist tirade and I become politely nervous. I am being paranoid of course and as I cross the street and look back, half-expecting a cutting look, the guys are shuffling on, still talking, if a little more loudly than I am used to.
It’s my reaction that I’m interested in, because for a second I feel like an alien here tonight; I have been perturbed. Deptford is the kind of place where history bubbles very close to the surface, as opposed to history in ‘Historic Blackheath’ (just up the hill) where history feels put away behind plate glass.
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It is as a place of trade that Deptford really makes its name, as a place with people on the streets, but this evening the High Street is shutting down and the place is full of idlers. People loiter in front of hairdressers or can be seen drinking strong Guinness out of bottles, hugging the shopfronts and leaving the street to lead cleanly down from the New Cross Road and away to the station and finally the river.
The rag-market square, swept clean and suspiciously empty at this time in the evening, is pregnant with potential action, bearing no relation to the chaos of tomorrow morning. Tomorrow the strewn booty of house clearances will bring multifarious hordes, all searching for something useful and cheap. Even now however it somehow feels a very live space, containing the threat of tomorrow’s action.
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