St Paul’s Church, aka The Actors’ Church, Bedford St, London
You may have seen the entrance to this church yourself. I have – many times – but I normally have somewhere to go, an appointment I’m late for, but the other week I stopped. And I’m so glad I did.
St Paul’s church is known as the Actors’ Church, and after just one glance at the bench plaques in the garden, I could see why.
And then, I hope intentionally, the benches themselves were laid out almost theatrically. Don’t you think they look as if they are waiting for an audience?
Most of all though, this is just a gorgeous quiet courtyard, with generous planting. It really is a sanctuary – and I want to come back further along the season to see what’s changed. I bet there are some treasures here.
And inside the church, there’s even more homages to actors. Here are a few that caught my eye.
And possibly my favourite:
When I went back outside, along with the office workers and quite possibly some famous actors who were ‘resting’, I sat on a bench – this one because it made me think of the time my four siblings had lunch together at Joe Allens and were sitting next to the Fiennes family, all fine actors. Not only were they 100% more aristocratic looking and dignified than us, for some reason my older brother had a garden hoe with him – really! It was as if the restaurant had let in the peasants. It still makes me laugh. Anyway I scribbled lots of notes.
Here’s what I imagined:
Lunchtime at the Actors’ Church, Covent Garden
The actor slips in quietly,
walks past sandwich wrappers,
office workers and that man
shouting into his phone,
a rehearsal no-one’s been invited to.
Her favourite bench faces the sundial
as if time itself writes all the lines
and there’s a prompter hidden
behind the garden’s curtains
of spring bulbs and blossom.
She unwraps her sandwich slowly,
lets the foil catch the light.
She can’t remember the last time
she entered the church,
although once a hymn leaked out
and made her cry, vivid scenes
of childhood Sunday school, Latin
prayers she still recites as warm ups.
Out on the piazza, a bare-chested clown
unicycles on a high-wire for money,
but she’s at rest here, only her fingers
echo the applause, clapping against
the bench’s two golden plaques.
She’s auditioning with ghosts today,
lets the sundial point to her next role.
And look, there really was a bare-chested street entertainer just on the other side of the wall of this tranquil church garden. If this strange juxtapostion doesn’t sum up the joy of London, I’m not sure what does!
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