For the whole of the 1980s I lived in Ladbroke Grove, just up by Harrow Road and close to the Grand Union Canal. This was in the days before the catastrophe of gentrification. I was working at the time as a teacher in Holland Park School, and on Saturdays I would do my grocery shopping in the market at Portobello Road, often meeting pupils of mine who had Saturday jobs on the fruit and vegetable stalls. In the evenings or perhaps for a Saturday matinee, I might go to see a film at the Electric Cinema (pictured) which first opened in Portobello Road in 1910. Nowadays it’s a very smart place, but back then the seats were rickety and mice would be running between your feet as you sat and watched Bob Dylan and Sam Shepard in the crazy film, Reynaldo and Clara, which also featured Allen Ginsberg; or Elliot Gould playing Philip Marlowe in The Long Goodbye. But did I care?
I loved to ferret through the stalls looking for CDs or second-hand books, anything that took my fancy. It was there that I discovered two sensational CDs featuring Joe Arroyo, possibly Colombia’s greatest salsero, bought them for a couple of quid each. And before that, back in the days of vinyl, I bought four of John Lennon’s solo albums in a pop-up shop opposite Tesco, also for a couple of quid each. There was a family butcher’s in the Golborne Road where the meat and the service were always excellent; and I would sometimes go into the Cañada Blanch Spanish School at the very top of Portobello for lunch in the canteen there, where two of my Spanish friends taught: calamares a la romana, delicious! Above all, I loved the colour and the buzz on the streets and loved being part of that community. There were the Rastas smoking ganja on the corners, and the Spanish and the Morrocans and the Portuguese, and so many other nationalities, and everywhere heaved to the sound of Bob Marley. Get up, stand up, stand up for your rights!
Among the many characters in the area, and believe me there were many, there was a black man who used to carry a white cross. I would see him frequently in different parts of the borough but mostly in Ladbroke Grove, and on one occasion I even met him in the big supermarket up by the canal. He had put his cross down just behind one of the check-outs and was paying for his goods.
So the story below is actually a true story and it was published in my translation some years later in Managua, in the Saturday supplement of El Nuevo Diario along with the picture of a cross sculpted by the poet, Ernesto Cardenal.
The Cross
Laminated white wood. An oak cross with white panels. The size of a man. A tall man, almost six foot six. A man with broad shoulders and a long neck. A man with short black hair. A black man, carrying a white cross. He says nothing as he walks along the street. Says nothing to anyone, but talks constantly to himself. Maybe he’s praying. Maybe not. He wears black trousers, worn at the knees. His trousers are tucked inside Wellington boots. His jacket is not black, but dark blue, the cuffs frayed. Under the jacket he wears a polo neck sweater, thin black wool. He goes up the street muttering under his breath and people gape at him as he goes. No one laughs in his face, but behind his back, people roll their eyes and a smile appears on their lips. An eccentric, carrying a huge white cross. Was a time in Virginia, a man could be crucified for less. The Klan would have told him what to do with that cross, that’s for sure. . . .
johnjosephlyons 
I know of this man, i lived around the corner from him as a young lad growing up & would see him multiple times a day everyday.
Now this wasn’t a particularly nice or safe part of ladbroke grove so i was weary of him but some of my friends weren’t & would torment him or make fun of him/laugh at him ect
His appearance was tattered, he’d wear this grayish coat with thick soled black shoes with black bags over his feet lining the shoes to stop hes feet getting wet, snotty nose with matted hair & beard, cross was always shiney white.
& I’d always tell them to leave him
be & as a young curious lad seeing this man either from my window or on the streets, everyday carrying that cross day in day out rain or shine i would ask him questions,
what’s you’re name ?
why do you carry that cross ?
do you speak ?
But never got any responses except a quick glare. which was understandable because he knew my face and knew the people i hung around with.
Time passes, throughout the years it was the same old story, friends would poke fun & I’d stick up for him,
leave him alone, why you bugging him ect.
& one day just like clock work I’m walking home from school and our paths cross once again as they did everyday, i ask him,
whats you’re name ?
not expecting an answer he replies with a mumble, which i couldn’t make out, pardon i said ?
My name is Felix
Felix ? i replied
yes, whats you’re name he mumbles back
my name ?
he softly nods while hesitantly looking me in the eye
Scott, I replied. I see you everyday
I know, you’re friends always trouble me everyday. why ?
feeling terrible i answer back take no notice of them, they’re just being idiots.
I try and tell them but they are gonna do what they want.
i know, thank you he said.
how long have you been carrying that cross?
a long time
why ? I eagerly ask.
ain’t you tired of it ?
he giggles with a snotty nose & matted beard and replies yes im very tired its heavy ! i need one that is lighter.
why do you carry it? i ask again
annnnd this is the worst part of my story because I honestly can’t remember what it was he said !!
I could try & remember or give you what I thought he might have said but it might not be accurate & i wouldn’t want to do that.
But as the years went by and like clock work multiple times a day id see Felix walking up & down the street & we would say hello to each other or a little wave.
After school hours me & my friends would hang around the local shops & Felix would be at the bus stop waiting to catch the bus and obviously his cross too, id see him get turnt away many a times because of the cross being to big and awkward or the bus driver just being genuinely off put by his appearance.
I saw him one day & old Felix had a trick up his sleeve ! he had put hinges with small sliding locks on his cross so he could fold it up & take it on the bus, never did i see him get turnt away again.
needless to say my friends started to poke fun at me for this because he wouldn’t talk to anyone but myself, which didn’t bother me as i could handle myself with friends, they were just winding me up.
my parents ended up moving to a different part of London & i went with, only to here he had passed which is sad.
RIP Felix
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Thank you so much for this, Scott. I would be interested to know how you came across my story. Rgds, John
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Hi John. This is a very interesting story. Do you know if there is any truth in the claim that he had tried in vain to save his two children from a house fire in Notting Hill?
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Hi Martin, thanks for your question. Unfortunately, I have no knowledge of this. I never spoke to the man and eventually moved away from the area.
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