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126
MRS CAROL NOADES
Outward appearance
Nearly invisible. Grey overcoat, blue trousers, stringy hair, a wedding ring.
Inside information
An envelope stuffer at Epik Publications. The Agency found out the staff were working for cash while on benefit. David, their boss, couldn’t afford to keep them all on, only some. The girls agreed they wouldn’t be divided like that. They all quit.
This is a disaster for Carol. She is illiterate; she survives by deflecting attention. The other women covered for her, reading addresses, matching them to parcels. Where else will she be able to work?
Her husband made her go into work today. Sod the others, he said, we need the money.
What she is doing or thinking
Her husband Billy works as a courier, but it’s irregular. He’s small and pretty, Billy, and vicious. What are we going to do now? he shouted. It’s not my fault! she told him, weepy. He called her stupid, you stupid cow you can’t even read. Carol gets on his nerves: he’s nice enough to everyone else.
So she’s sitting on the train, betraying her friends, but she’s thinking: it was wrong of David not to pay us properly and tell National Insurance. He got just as much out of it as we did. Maybe if I go and tell him that, maybe he could charge more for the packing and pay us. Maybe if I told him what it means to me.
So she sits on the train, butterflies in her tummy. But she’s going to see the boss and stand her ground.
It won’t do any good.
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127
MISS JENNY GREEN
Outward appearance
Red cheeked, twenty, short auburn hair, brilliant red coat. Bounds in at Embankment, giggling, and peers through the door between carriages. She waves at someone and starts to laugh. The train lurches and she drops into the seat at the end of the row.
Inside information
Works in the pay office of the London College of Printing, where she met Kevin. Now they live and go to work together every day. They are both Beatles fans; the music is sensible and has nice tunes.
What she is doing or thinking
Jenny never had much time for nonsense; straight after school she got a good job, went out every Friday with the same large crowd of friends. She knew Kevin was a good thing soon as they met.
She sees his round pale face, his James Dean hair, through a screen of splattered grit and dust. She sticks her tongue out at him. He says, ‘You’re mad, you are.’
‘I’m not having anything to do with you,’ she says, and pretends to examine her fingernails. A drunk staggers past her to stand by the door and that sets her off again.
Then the drunk vomits over her knees. Jenny pauses, and the ludicrousness of it hits her. Kevin calls, ‘That’ll teach you!’
She’ll have to go home and change. ‘I’m getting off here,’ she shouts through the glass. Kevin holds a hand up to his ear. She leaves the train at Lambeth North, giddy with laughter. The drunk looks confused. Kevin waves, chuckling, as the train pulls him away to the Elephant.
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128
DR AGATHA BEFFONT
Outward appearance
A large, round-featured woman with long hair parted in the middle. Everything about her is simple and tidy—from the dark green skirt and jacket to her black coat, all of which a trained eye could see is bespoke fashion. She looks, however, somewhat dazed, her mouth awry in a mixture of amusement and horror.
Inside information
The wife of a junior member of the aristocracy who works in the City. She herself is a member of a major branch of the aristocracy. She works for the Department of Health, Elephant and Castle. Noblesse oblige.
What she is doing or thinking
She is remembering this morning’s conversation with her daughter’s Nanny. Nanny is attractive, bright, 25 with a delectable smile and good manners. This morning she casually mentioned that she had difficulty with her parents.
‘Daddy raped me when I was nine,’ Nanny said, brightly. ‘I didn’t really know what it was. So I dismissed it, I suppose. Except I did rather keep away from him.’ Dr Beffont expressed the hope that she did. Did she tell anyone? ‘Oh yes, of course,’ said the girl. ‘That’s when he tried to kill me.’
‘Kill you!’ exclaimed Agatha.
‘Mmm hmm,’ said the girl nodding happily. ‘I woke up with my face covered by a pillow.’
She sounded so cheerfully normal that Agatha left for work. She is only just remembering that most child abusers were abused themselves. And that her daughter is now alone with her. And nine years old.
To make it a perfect morning, someone then throws up on her.
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129
MR JOHN MINNOTT
Outward appearance
Cherubically round man, about 45, in a spruce pinstripe suit and a new blue tie. Grey, flyaway hair. Smiles benignly through slightly piggy eyes.
Inside information
Works in Shipment Traffic for Pall Mall Oil. Once used pins on maps, now works with computers and feels up to date.
What he is doing or thinking
He is thinking of his wife Jean and their morning snuggles. Jean is plump and soft with a vast bottom. Their routine is to wake up at 6.30 every morning for a half hour hug.
It starts with Jean inserting herself under his arm, and resting her head on his grizzled chest. This is called Minging. Then she turns on her side and he hugs her bottom. Then they roll over and she hugs his. It’s like toast, you have to do both sides. The climax is the Smumph. He rolls one leg over her and sinks as if she were pillows.
John is convinced that being snuggled regularly gives people an aura. He is sure the old gent opposite is snuggled. So is the laughing girl at the end of the row. Not many other people are, and he feels sorry for them.
He is sure that snuggled people have a broader perspective on life. He could write a book about it: The Secret of Snuggles. It would advise long, warm showers afterwards as part of the general cosiness, and give practical advice on what to do if someone farts. (Basically, you ignore it or light a match).
What a lucky man you are, he thinks.
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130
MRS GERTA FAZAHI
Outward appearance
Golden coat, matching scarf, small black shoes and bag. Middle aged, carefully groomed. Smiles to herself, shakes her head, and is suddenly laughing and crying at the same time. Hurriedly wipes her face. No one seems to have seen.
Inside information
Teaches Arabic and Hebrew two days a week at Merely College. Her husband Saul, a lecturer at University College, is dying of motor neurone disease.
What she is doing or thinking
Remembering dinner the night before. Saul has been fitted with a vocalizer, a machine that transforms laboriously typed words into sounds. When it speaks, the machine has an American accent. Saul is Jewish Lebanese. Their visitors were French academics, colleagues who had made a special trip to see Saul before he died.
Saul made light of everything. He started to type in textbook French. The machine burped with an American accent. ‘Cesste bun, cesste see deliseeox,’ the machine said. ‘Jay oon ideeee. Juh voodraize parlezz avek twaaah.’ The party took Saul through as many languages as they, in all their cosmopolitan glory, could speak, the funniest being German.
Gerta has just realized that she will never hear Saul’s own voice and accent again. He’ll still tell jokes. But he’s like a tree, falling away leaf by leaf. She wishes it wasn’t winter, but spring.
She hears laughter and turns to see a young girl in a red coat, teasing a boy in the next car. Gerta watches them, aching for them. Life is a great rolling wheel, moving on. Sometimes it crushes.
Then a drunk vomits. Sometimes you laugh.
>
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131
MR RON BUSBY
Outward appearance
Ronnie Kray? Thick-set man, slick hair, cheeks troubled by Marilyn-like beauty spots. Huge shoulders under camel-coloured overcoat. Copper wrist band, gold (?) watch. Going over papers. Sits with one ankle resting on the opposite knee, both arms firmly occupying the armrests.
Inside information
Busby is going to a stakeholders’ meeting at Adventure Capital. Runs a deregulated bus company in West Oxfordshire, a cattle feed processing plant, and several homes. Currently developing a property in Little Scam, Oxon.
What he is doing or thinking
Grumpily reviewing papers for today’s meeting, still angry at having his planning application turned down. A year ago, he moved into a large farmhouse on the outskirts of Little Scam, redecorated and renamed it The Manor House. The plan was to get clearance to build three new homes in the orchard and sell the entire property with the valuable planning permissions.
Then, attack of the nimbies. Middle-class farts simply didn’t want anyone young or non-U moving into their cottagy paradise. Road use in the village, no development near the 12th century church, etc. He wasn’t given permission. He’s writing to Douglas Hurd about it.
Suddenly, Mr Busby’s aerial foot is kicked by someone also suspending his foot in the same way. Busby glowers at him. The man’s drunk. At Waterloo, both men stand to leave. The idiot bends over and shoves Busby backwards with his bum. Then their briefcases collide. The person sitting next to Busby starts to giggle. Angrily, Busby sweeps away in the opposite direction.
He hates trains. They’re full of people.
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132
MR RICHARD THURLOW
Outward appearance
Delicate face, stringy, tanned, and ruddy. Narrow shouldered but somehow outdoorsy. Wears a suit and a body warmer without sleeves. Squashed sideways by the bulk of the man next to him.
Inside information
Dick is a champion clay shooter. Works in the York Road branch of Lloyds Bank. Lots of friends in Pall Mall Oil with whom he shoots regularly.
What he is doing or thinking
Wishing his neighbour would shrink. He knows the type: self-made man, thumps around the grounds, arrogant as hell, is a poor shot, but thinks he’s a member of some kind of elite.
It pains him to say it, but manners on the grounds are deteriorating. Only last Saturday, he saw some idiot abusing the young scorers. ‘I’m not satisfied with the birds!’ he shouted. By bullying a youngster, he was allowed to re-shoot the entire stand. It made Dick’s blood boil.
Suddenly, Dick’s eyes clear: the man next to him. It’s him. He’s the same one. Dick is about to say something when the man’s foot is kicked by the fellow opposite him. Serves you right. Then they both stand and the two of them do a Laurel and Hardy routine, bumping bums and cases. Dick makes a point of sniggering nastily. He catches the man’s eye. No wonder you have to take it out on children, matey. Idiots like you scare good people away from the sport.
Dick stands up to follow and sees that this man is too short. He’s not the same person at all. But Dick is still mad.
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133
MRS MARGARET LEVESQUE
Outward appearance
Late twenties, neat beige suit, long baby-blue cloth coat. Sits frozen, eyes fixed on Passenger 121.
Inside information
Works in administration for the Tabernacle, an evangelical ministry near Elephant and Castle.
When she was seven, Margaret returned from holiday. On the landing outside her bedroom, something evil waited, small, round, like a mouse without a head. Margaret wailed and it sprang apart and leapt at her face. ‘It’s just a poor little bird,’ said her mum, who always sided with Maggie’s younger sister.
Ever since, Margaret has disguised a mortal terror of birds. She and her husband just moved to Theydon Bois. Rooks caw in the trees, jackdaws nest in their new chimney, sparrows feed on neighbours’ tables.
What she is doing or thinking
There is a bird on the train. It keeps fluttering upwards. She’ll be covered in mites, in dust, in feathers. Her beautiful blue coat will get filthy, she’ll choke. She’ll itch for hours.
She can’t stand it. At Waterloo, she bolts. On the platform, the shaking stops. The guilt comes, then anger, frustration. She’ll be late, she’s out of control. She’s still angry with herself when the next train rumbles in.
Just past Lambeth North, it stops. They all wait. The speakers crackle and the driver announces, ‘I’m very sorry to tell you we’ll be here for some time. The train ahead of us has gone through the barriers.’
Something without a head jumps again. Margaret remembers the people on the other train and thinks: the bird. It saved me.
So does she like them now?
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134
LEON DE MARCO
Outward appearance
Skinny young man, Italian pallor, 1960s pointed boots, brown leather jacket on coat-hanger shoulders, pink shirt with black bead patterns embroidered on it. Sits scrunched up against the section divider, legs crossed at ankles, face bitter with fatigue. Suddenly smiles gently at Passenger 121.
Inside information
Leon has been out all night. Lives on an estate on Hercules Road2 with his mum. She will already have gone to work, leaving an anxious note to ring her.
What he is doing or thinking
Remembering last night. Went with his mates to Wet, a new club, and stayed ’til 5.00 AM. Wet has a temporary swimming pool set up in it. Everyone strips down to their shorts, the girls take off their tops, it’s cool, nobody gets hassled. It’s just so much fun to dance until you’re sweaty, and then to swim. It was sexy but nobody got groped. Well not badly. They all just talked.
He can’t remember what it was about, but it was light and heavy at the same time: stars, the beginning of the universe, how good everybody looked. And don’t swallow the water.
Then out, feeling glossy, cool, fresh, round to a caff by the market for coffee and doughnuts. They loved each other, at least when they said goodnight, see ya, with the birds beginning to sing in the trees.
He wishes he could hold it in place, build some kind of monument to it. The train slows at Lambeth North and he moves towards the pigeon. ‘Come on, little pigeon, go on home,’ he says.
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Another helpful and informative 253 footnote
2 According to Graham Gibberd’s On Lambeth Marsh, land bounded by the current Hercules Road, Kennington Road and Cosser Street was leased by Sergeant Major Philip Astley in the 1780s. There he built his own house, Hercules Hall, the Hercules Tavern, and also Hercules Terrace, where William Blake2a lived. Until redecoration in 1996/97 the pub was a kind of branch office of the Central Office of Information, serving fine spirits, hot and cold dishes and eczema. The Central Office of Information, on Hercules Road, is decorated with a crude mosaic of the labours of Hercules, doubtless in some ignorance of Astley.
The Sergeant Major was a circus strongman, who performed ‘Twelve Trials of Hercules’ in his own theatre, Astley’s. The amphitheatre was on the site of the current St Thomas’ Hospital nurses’ home on Westminster Bridge Road. Astley’s son took it over, and it remained in operation for many years, part of the Lambeth tradition of cheap theatrical spectacle that continues to this day with shameful excesses such as the Royal National Theatre.
Dickens describes the vulgarity of the crowd and the inferiority of the spectacle at Astley’s in Sketches by Boz.
Astley’s went through a number of name changes, often like the National called ‘Royal’, and remained open until 1893. It was finally closed, like so many buildings south of the river, for being a disorderly house.
Read the tea leaves, National.
2a On 11th January 1995, William Blake came back to Hercules Road.
The train, trailing spirits, pulled him. He arrived staggering forward as if hurled onto the platform of Lambeth North tube station. He swirled, like the leaves the Council no longer sweeps up, that rattle undead on the streets year after year.
Outward appearance
He wears a broad, squashed straw hat and a compress for a toothache. His jacket is long and brown, stained, but he wears a new cravat, snow white. His tan breeches down to the knee have not been changed all winter, and the stockings, his silken best, are splattered with clay and dung two hundred years old.
It is how he was dressed on 11th January 1795.
So who is William Blake?
The year just past, 1794, has been his annus mirabilis. Out of his tiny cottage he has written, illustrated, printed Songs of Experience, the Book of Urizon, Europe: A Prophecy and the Book of Los. He is exhausted. To clear his head, he went walking down Leake Street, under the tossed trees, past cows fenced in the fields of Kennington Manor. Battered by the wind, he was returning when his body was caught up in a mightier gust of the spirit.