Underground

Copyright

The Borough Press

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Elizabeth: The Parade © James Smythe 2018; District: Blackfriars © Matthew Plampin 2018; Circle © Joanna Cannon 2018; Piccadilly: The Piccadilly Predicament © Lionel Shriver 2018; Northern © Kat Gordon 2018; Waterloo & City: Number Five © Joe Mungo Reed 2018; Central: Worm on a Hook © Tyler Keevil 2018; Jubilee © Layla AlAmmar 2018; Victoria: Green Park © Janice Pariat 2018; Metropolitan: My Beautiful Millennial © Tamsin Grey 2018; Bakerloo: London Etiquette © Katy Mahood 2018; Hammersmith & City: She Deserves It © Louisa Young 2018

Extracts of District: Blackfriars; Circle; Piccadilly: The Piccadilly Predicament; Northern; Waterloo & City: Number Five; Central: Worm on a Hook; Jubilee; Victoria: Green Park; Metropolitan: My Beautiful Millennial; Bakerloo: London Etiquette and Hammersmith & City: She Deserves It were all first published in the Evening Standard

Transport for London has licensed the use of its trademarks and IP with regard to the book Underground: Tales for London. Transport for London accepts no responsibility for the content of the book.

is a trademark of Transport for London and registered in the UK and other countries. All rights reserved.

Jacket design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

These stories are entirely works of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in them are the work of the authors’ imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780008300692

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2018 ISBN: 9780008300722

Version: 2018-08-31

Dedication

For London

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Note from the Editor

James Smythe – Elizabeth

Matthew Plampin – District

Joanna Cannon – Circle

Lionel Shriver – Piccadilly

Kat Gordon – Northern

Joe Mungo Reed – Waterloo & City

Tyler Keevil – Central

Layla AlAmmar – Jubilee

Janice Pariat – Victoria

Tamsin Grey – Metropolitan

Katy Mahood – Bakerloo

Louisa Young – Hammersmith & City

Notes on the Contributors

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Note from the Editor

Born in 1863, the London Underground is a place where everyone comes together, from the city’s most wealthy to its homeless, old people, young people, students, residents, visitors… five million of us cram into underground carriages every day, to make our way across the city.

It is a place of endless fascination. Lives literally cross over one another. We travel in close proximity across 250 miles of underground track: we mostly stare at our feet, our phones, our newspapers, but occasionally magic can happen – a flirtatious eye caught, a small kindness exchanged. There is occasional tragedy, too, with lives lost, taken, ended.

This short story collection is a celebration of the London Underground, commissioned to mark the opening of the Elizabeth line. The twelve stories – including one memoir – explore the scope of human experience, from family misadventures to spiritual journeys, from the ends of love affairs to those just beginning. Life and death are made manifest, all on the daily commute.

The Mayor of London, Sadiq Khan, said: ‘London is open.’ I believe this message to be essential. This is a city where everyone is welcome, and as these stories demonstrate, the London Underground is the network connecting us all.

Ann Bissell, 2018

ELIZABETH
The Parade
James Smythe

My father, who had been dead for fifteen years, was the last person to board the train. I had that singular sensation of, when looking at a crowd, being able to pick out the one face that meant something to me, to home in on it, to see every detail of it. It was my father, as if he had just been down to the shop and then returned, rather than having succumbed – that’s the word that the doctor used, when they called me to visit him: succumbed – to his death the way that he did.

But, of course, it wasn’t him. It was another man, with a suit like his and a coat like his, brushing around his knees even in the middle of the summer; only this man wasn’t dead. His face wasn’t as sallow and pallid as my father’s, at the end. He took his hat off, and I saw his face. The insides of the hat, so different to my father’s; which, I was convinced, held some secrets of the universe, because he would gaze into them when searching for moments of pause, and I would try to distract him. I stared at this man, and he met my eyes, and we smiled, because that’s what you do when something is mutually embarrassing. I looked away, then, to the platform; and the most striking memory, of my father, his actual suit and coat, leading me through the station one day when I was small. Holding my hand, guiding me, taking me someplace; I forget where. His hand, folded over mine, so large it swaddled it; and the warmth of it, on my child-thin knuckles.

‘Come with me,’ he said, as if that was all.

And then, snap, to reality, to the actual then: the light lurch of the train as we left Liverpool Street, leaving Alex’s flat for the last time; my rucksack, a bag with my entire life crammed into it, between my knees. The woman opposite me typing on her phone; the man next to me with a script, learning lines, his lips mouthing the words with almost silent sibilance; another woman with a novel, the cover folded backwards, just a tease of a glimpse of what she’s reading. For one year of my life, as a challenge, everything that I read was a suggestion from other readers on the underground: the covers acting as part of the lure, solidified by the intensity of the reader’s face as they tried to turn as many pages as they could before their stop. I tried to see the woman’s book, then, a cover of delicately painted art, but she kept it clenched. I wished that I could have known, because she was so intent that I wanted nothing more than to read it. People on all sides, all living their lives.

The comfort of feeling hemmed in; even if just a little.

I shut my eyes and leaned back. The new trains rattle less than the old. Less of a rocking sensation; somehow both more and less comforting, at the exact same time.

I heard a flapping that I was sure was a pigeon, somehow make its way into the carriage. They do that: they peck their way into stations, down escalators, onto platforms, into lunches. I pictured it, moving down the carriage; head bobbing, inquisitive, nudging crumbs and leaves along the line of the door. And then my phone trilled in my pocket, cutting through the flapping; leaving that noise gone, and no sign of the bird.

A message, from Alex:

I’m sorry. Fly safely. X

I deleted it. Didn’t just turn off the screen, act as if it weren’t there, but I deleted it. The faff of endless menus, of attempting to discover a way to remove that message, to purge it, while leaving the previous messages – I can’t wait to see you; I thought of you today – even though, perhaps, those were lies, since no choice such as his gets made so rashly. And I saw my hands – my knuckles, more wrinkled and drawn than I remembered them being, as if I hadn’t actually looked at them in the longest time, and time itself had cheated me of whatever near-muscular form I thought that my knuckles once had – and I realized how old I suddenly was. A tidal wave of time, washing over everything, swallowing it whole.

My father had died fifteen years earlier. He had been eighty-five, and old with it; a curmudgeon in a chair at Christmas, paper crown still folded on his placemat, Whisky Mac in hand regardless of what the rest of us were drinking. The man in the crowd reminded me far more of my father when I had been young, still hat and coat and briefcase and a complicit understanding that he was my hero; and I, in some way, maybe was his.

Then, of course, time and life interrupt; and we were at odds. When his father – my grandfather – died, I remember him telling me that he was sad that he never got a chance to say the things that he wanted to say. The gulf between them; the pain.

I told myself that history wouldn’t repeat; except, of course, that’s the nature of history. Inescapably cyclic.

Farringdon, and the electric slide of the doors that, when I was a child, on another line before this one even existed, used to hiss their pleasure at being opened. A girl got on. Ten, or eleven, and dressed for some sort of event: you can see them around at weekends, as superheroes or movie stars. This girl was wearing a bonnet, a Victorian child-heroine writ large. She apologized with her eyes, and she sat next to me. Bunched her skirts up. I folded my body as small as I could, in the space, and she smiled at me. And we left Farringdon, this part of the city that’s so old, so well worn; and in the tunnel, in the dark, I saw myself reflected in the window. My face, but somehow barely recognizable. The thump of the dark tunnel outside, seemingly endless, as if leaving the carriage and wading through the black might lead to some parallel world.

‘Pardon my intrusion,’ a still, small voice said. From the young lady. ‘You’re Gregory Abbey, aren’t you?’

I had a moment where I wondered if there was any chance she’d read one of my novels, but I doubted it – she was not the target audience, if such a thing even existed – and yet. Perhaps she was one of Alexander’s nieces. He had enough of them, faces that blended in amongst a parade of introductions: this is my friend, Gregory.

A lie, a lie, a barely formed truth.

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you,’ I said.

‘I’m Alice,’ she said. She held her hand out, to shake mine; and mine enveloped hers, a gnarled root swamping soft willow. ‘Do you remember me? It has been a while.’

I felt myself spiralling. Shut my eyes, a blink that lasted a count of one, nothing more; and I remembered her. I remembered a photograph that my grandmother herself had shown me, of the day that she had her picture taken. And this was her, my grandmother, Alice Abbey; and she was sitting in front of me.

‘Are you real?’ I asked her, and she laughed. She didn’t answer; which, in itself, is an answer, of sorts. ‘Why are you so young? When I last saw you, you were an old woman.’

‘Wouldn’t you rather look like this, if you could?’

‘What are you doing here?’ I wondered how loud my voice was; how loud you should be, when speaking to somebody who was meant to be long dead.

‘I’m here because you are. I used to ride this stretch,’ she said. ‘The tunnels don’t change, you know.’ She smiled. Kicked her feet, which scuffed along the floor.

‘But why?’ I asked her.

‘Because today is when you’re going to die,’ she told me. ‘And this is what happens when you do.’

My dying father’s bedside was a strange affair. He was in a hospice, because there was no other way to make sure that he was actually cared for, not the half-arsed care that comes from having one eye on a dying man and another on the food you’re burning, the love you’re losing, the television you’re missing. He wasn’t happy, because he wanted me to take him in. But I had Alexander. I told him, then, when he asked why he couldn’t move in with me. He said, ‘You don’t have a wife, you don’t have children.’

I told him. He told me not to visit him any more.

The only time I made it through the doors was at the very end. The care workers apologized to me on his behalf. They had seen me sit, and wait, and ask – beg – to be let inside; and he had spat at them in proxy for me, this bitter old man.

I watched him die, and he looked at me before he did, too weak to say anything.

He succumbed, and neither of us said what we probably needed to say.

In his box, given to me after he passed, I found his hat. I stared inside it for hours, waiting to see if it would give itself up to me. Give him up to me; but nothing.

‘Do you feel it?’ Alice asked me. ‘How close you are?’

My hand instinctively went to my head, to the scar that Alex once remarked was shaped like a suspicious eye. ‘They said that I have six months,’ I replied, ‘but I’m going to Amsterdam, where they have treatments to try …’ My voice, trailing off, rang in my own ears.

‘It’s today,’ Alice said. Her smile was sympathetic. I looked at the window, the reflection, because I wanted to see what my own face was doing. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘It’s fine,’ I replied.

She positively beamed. ‘Good. There’s some people here who would love to see you.’

The doors opened at Tottenham Court Road. I remembered being here when I was a young man: being brought to Old Compton Street by a friend, to a world where everything felt permitted, and nothing was as I told myself it was. He said, ‘You’re not true to yourself,’ and I suppose that wasn’t wrong.

Through the doors, then, the people came. A bustle of them, of tourists and half-termers and commuters, and a busker, singing some old song; and Ronnie, in the middle of them all. That self-same friend, his eyes their almost-iridescent purple shimmer, his smile a spread of honest warmth.

‘I can’t believe it,’ I said.

‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘Greggy! What a delight!’ He embraced me, elbows into the other passengers – he was never one to care for what others thought of him, and his celebration was stronger than the personal space of anybody else in the carriage – and pulled me tight. ‘Look at you! You look good, considering.’

‘And you,’ I stammered. Our considerings were aligned: I might have been dying, but he had already been dead for going on forty years.

He sat opposite me, his long limbs extended then snapped back, arms folded and legs crossed. ‘This is a bit fancy, isn’t it?’ He looked down the carriage. ‘I remember when this was all fields.’ A joke; and a grin so delightful that I almost forgot the strangeness of his being there.

‘Yes,’ I replied, because I didn’t have any other words.

‘You got old,’ he said. Matter-of-fact. ‘Still, only as old as you feel.’ I remembered him then, in that moment, as he was when he died: gaunt. Not the same as my father, because one was sunken, the other collapsing. A vital difference. I wondered: would I sink? Or would I collapse? Was that what I was doing at that exact moment? ‘I knew I’d get here first.’ A glint in his eye. ‘You lazy shit, taking your time over something so important. I always said that you were a little behind.’ Bond Street, and the squash of people, suitcases and children tightly gripping hands.

‘Don’t think I’m rude,’ I said, ‘but I have to ask: why are you here?’

They looked at each other, as if the answer should be obvious; and they smiled, because they were in on a private joke that I most definitely was not.

‘Think of this as a parade,’ Alice said. ‘A farewell and mind your way.’

‘Death doesn’t need to be as dour as the world would have it. We’re here to celebrate with you.’

‘And what if I don’t want to die?’ I asked. ‘What happens then?’

‘You don’t have a choice,’ Ronnie said.

The train pulled in to Paddington. I waited, for a moment, and then—

I was gone, from my seat, to the platform, rucksack strap gripped in my hand; my worn old knuckles white with the force of my hold. And the doors hushed shut behind me, and I turned to see Alice and Ronnie staring through the glass; and I said, out loud, ‘I am not dying today,’ and I walked along the platform, watched until the train moved out of sight. ‘Not today,’ as I sat on a bench. Put my hand to my head, and swore I could feel something under the skin, under the bone, beating alongside my pulse.

Alex drove me to my first appointment, at University College Hospital, back when my illness was nothing more than a persistent headache and an elevated blood-cell count. He sat in the car and said, ‘I’ll wait here for you.’ And I should have known then, really. Because so much with him was, Let’s not make a big deal out of this.

As I was led through to the test chamber, they asked if I was alone. I told them, ‘My partner’s in the car,’ and they said, each nurse with a slightly different inflection, ‘They can come inside, you know,’ and I replied, ‘Oh, he prefers it.’ As if that was justification. Each nurse their own version of a consolatory nod.

‘It’s hard on the loved ones,’ that’s what one of the nurses said to me, later; when the prognosis was dealt, and I was reeling, and Alex wasn’t with me.

‘Yes,’ I said, placid as you like; because I didn’t want to say, well how do you think it feels to be here alone?

That day, when I got home, my head shaven, hat perched defiantly on my smooth, round skull, he told me that he had spoken to his ex-wife; that they had more to sort out, regarding their children, their house, their possessions.

He asked me if I minded him going to see her.

‘Of course not,’ I told him. Why would I mind?

I rode the city, the length and breadth of it. I went to whichever line would take me. Every line, every length. Every destination, every station with their shared darknesses in the tunnels, running off for as long as you can imagine; this intricate webbing, underneath the city – my city – that links everything, everyplace together. To Pinner, to my old flat, bought when I was in my fifties, the fifth floor of a block that felt craningly high even at only six floors, all vulgar Eighties carpets and wooden kitchen, but so very, very mine; to Kensington, to Alice’s house, remembered briefly from when I was a child and she, most definitely, was not, but after the war and she had money and my mother telling me to not touch anything; to Hackney, where I lived in the years before it was trendy to say that you lived there, when it really was council terraces and warehouses that couldn’t even dream of being turned into communes; to Richmond, to the bars that felt like a part of me when nowhere else was open, where I sat and drank quietly, waiting to be noticed; and to the bookshops at the lower end of Soho, no longer hiding their content in blank covers, smuggled out in my teenaged pockets, no longer hiding anything at all.

I went to all of these places, and yet to none of them; I remembered them all perfectly, a lifetime in just the blink of my eyes; just as people said happened. A flash, so bright in that extended moment as to be almost entirely blinding.

I met Alex when he was already lying to his wife. A friend of mine that I knew online told me about an app, and he explained how to install it onto my phone, and from there I met Alex. He was ten years younger than I was, but he spoke about time as if he was some sort of master of it: the things that he had done, the people he had known, the life he had lived. He had two children, but he never spoke about them and didn’t want me to either, as if my saying their names might somehow alert them to my existence. He had a wife, whose name I was allowed to say, but only in a way that suggested I was appreciative of the pain he was enduring by staying with her. ‘Oh, Deborah wouldn’t understand,’ he would moan, hyphenating every syllable with his breath for some sort of extreme emphasis. ‘She’s known about my dalliances before, but this?’ He stroked my arm. ‘This love? She wouldn’t understand that.’

We met in bars on the ground floors of hotels, and then occasionally in restaurants adjacent to those bars. A few times, his wife was away, and we went to his house, where we slept in the guest bedroom, on an undressed mattress and under a naked duvet, in case his wife wondered why the master bedsheets had been changed.

He never came to visit me; I always went to visit him. He left his wife when she caught us one day. Or she left him, I was never sure. I bought my flat, and he bought his, near Liverpool Street. He told me that it was too soon for us to cohabit. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘are you sure that you want everybody to talk?’

When, eventually, I told him my prognosis, his face was perfectly still for a while, until his eyebrow raised, and he said, ‘What a shame.’

As if there was ever a future for us, at all.

On the platform, at Paddington. Waiting for the purple trains, at the doors, perfectly aligned to the opening of the carriages. The people, crowding, with their bags, their lovers, their pasts and futures; every part of human life somehow finding its way to that platform. I watched as train after train passed through the station.

‘Are you OK, sir?’ A woman in a uniform, a tabard, smiling at me. I smiled back.

‘I’m overwhelmed, that’s all.’

‘London can do that,’ she replied. She looked at my over-filled rucksack, the mark of a visitor. ‘You here for a holiday?’

‘No. I’m leaving,’ I said.

She smiled again. She had a lovely smile. Warm, kind. Reminded me of my mother. ‘Let me know if you need anything, OK?’

I stood as she walked off, and I made my way to the marked area of the platform, by the glass doors. Being on a platform would once tousle every part of you as the train rushed towards you; but that time, it was just there.

The doors opened, and there she was: my mother.

Her name was Elizabeth. Betty, she called herself, because – in her words – ‘I’m not exactly the Queen, now, am I?’

Ronnie laughed, from his seat. ‘I told you he’d be back. Didn’t I tell you?’

My mother opened her arms, and I sank into them.

Alice told me about the route she used to take. ‘My whole life,’ she said, ‘this run. This line, these tunnels, they’ve existed for so long. Not these exact tunnels, but adjacent is sometimes the same as the original, don’t you think?’ The train stopped, and people disembarked, and more boarded. Each time I stared, to see the faces and hear the voices.

‘Nothing beats the original,’ my old tutor, Sean, said, ‘though God knows this city tries: constantly self-imitating.’ Sean died of old age, a peaceful passing that made those of us at his funeral somehow envious: his was, we agreed, as if we were all cricketers, a good innings.

‘You don’t like London,’ I said to him, almost under my breath, a phrase I had recited a hundred times or more in the years that I knew him.

‘And you blame him?’ My cousin, Vanessa. Long hours spent playing in Alice’s garden, when she was in her middle age, and Vanessa and I were, for a time, all each other had. Vanessa took scissors to her own wrists, but those scars weren’t visible: in that carriage, she was in her twenties, footloose and free of those fancies that people seem so eager to be free of.

‘Not everybody feels like you do, you know.’ Arnold, the first boy I ever loved, cancer of the insides, a spread that lost all track of its origin point.

‘And not everybody is quite so contentious.’ Samir, from the school I once taught in, while trying to make ends meet between novels. Colleague, first reader, friend, infection that rendered him first slightly stilled, then completely static.

‘Don’t remember Gregory much, then, I take it?’ Adelle, agent, dedicated smoker who overcame the odds of the smoker’s lot and died, elderly, in a crash.

‘As much as I need to,’ Ronnie said. Cutting through them all. Ronnie, who died because – as he said in the letter that he left his friends, which we all gathered around to read in the week following his death – he loved too much. His smile was pervasive, able to somehow commit to whatever situation we found ourselves in: that same smile, somehow consistently appropriate. Even then, with my impending.

I pulled him to one side. ‘How did you deal with this?’ I asked.

‘The parade? I decided that everything’s a parade now. One big to-do.’

We left the city, or the innards of the city. The part that feels as though it’s inescapable when you’re inside it, and then so alluring as to be almost unreachable when you’re not. The built-up gave way to the suburbs, the built-down: two-storeys, bungalows, flats above shops. Comfort and ease; the love handles of my city.

A memory, of Alex poking my sides, before I got ill. Telling me, ‘Well, this is a new addition.’ My stomach, his finger sinking into pink flesh. ‘Nobody told me we were expecting.’

‘I don’t know why you stayed with him,’ Ronnie said, reading my mind.

‘I didn’t ask you,’ I said. Maybe I spat my words, defensive, because Ronnie looked affronted; but still, his lovely smile essentially formed his face for itself.

‘You lived out here, didn’t you?’ he asked me.

‘Once. You didn’t.’

‘Thank God. I died before I could pretend that I wanted to.’ Snark, smirk.

‘I did actually want to, you know.’

‘You didn’t know what you wanted.’ His smile changed. Have you ever seen somebody who looks so happy, suddenly so sad? Or maybe not sad, but withdrawn; understanding, empathic. ‘It’s funny, this. Leaving somewhere. Moving on. The past, going into a place you haven’t been yet.’

The train stopped. Hayes and Harlington. Last stop before Heathrow.

Ronnie looked to the doors. My father, definitely him this time, standing there. In the hat that he used to wear, the perfectly pressed suit. His lip a line, a crease, in an otherwise creaseless face.

‘I’ll leave you two alone,’ Ronnie said. He squeezed my arm, near my wrist; and Alice waved at me, and my mother kissed my cheek. Everybody else faded away, until there was just me and him, him and me, in this carriage, thundering past the houses, on its way.

‘I lived in a house near here,’ I said to him. He sat opposite me, and he did that affectation with his trousers: hitching them slightly, so that they didn’t catch on his socks; so that a glimpse of his ankles could be seen, below the braces on his socks. ‘The first time that I moved in with somebody, it was here.’

‘Nice enough area,’ he said. ‘I remember coming here when you were a kid. There was a shop. For your models.’ I used to build Airfix models. A Sopwith Camel with my grandfather, who saw them during the war. Glue on my fingers, and I would peel it off in what felt like sheets. My father watching us, somehow envious of the relationship I had with him. I didn’t know who he was more jealous of. ‘How long’s this line been open, then?’

‘A year or so,’ I replied. He nodded. Information, not good or bad; just useful. ‘I loved him,’ I said. My father didn’t blink.

A pause, as pregnant as any I have ever experienced.

‘It’s different,’ he finally said. ‘Than what you expect.’

‘What is?’

‘Where you’re going.’ He moved to stare out of the window, pushing his face to the glass so that he could see along the track as we followed a bend.

‘Did you have this?’

‘Everybody has this.’

‘So who was at yours?’ I felt petulant. As if, if I kept him talking, maybe I could stay alive for longer. Maybe I could prolong the inevitable; the succumbing.

‘Oh, you know. Your Uncle Jackie, he was there. My friends. Some of the boys from the Rose.’ He took his hat off. His hair a fine dusting. ‘Your grandfather.’

‘What did he say to you?’

He examined the insides of his hat. All the secrets of life, in there. ‘He said that he didn’t care what we’d never spoken about. He said that it didn’t matter, in the end.’ He stood up. I distinctly remember it: his standing as punctuation, perfectly timed with the train’s arrival; the slowing, the coasting, towards the airport’s station. ‘That’s what I would say, Gregory. I’ve read your books. I like to think that I know the measure of you.’ The train stopped in a tunnel, briefly. In the dark, waiting for a platform; for an ending. Good to know that some things never change. ‘We should go,’ he said.

‘I don’t know how I feel,’ I told him.

‘I don’t think you should know.’

I followed him, off the train, and to the platform. Through the windows, I could see something ill-defined: a person, a man, left on the train. Sitting very still in his seat, waiting to be found. And when that body was found, it would cause a delay. I felt guilty then, in that British way that we feel guilt for our actions altering the lives of those we don’t know; but then the trains would run to schedule again, and all would be well.

Alex would be called to identify, because there was only really one number in the body’s telephone that mattered; and he would stand back, hand over mouth. Surprised, but not surprised. He would say that I was a friend of his, I’m sure.

It didn’t matter.

One day, he would die: and he would have his own parade. His own things left unsaid; his own regrets.

I wondered if I would be called upon to visit him; and if I would, then, refuse.