Every Thursday I travel from Ealing to Deptford for my personal training session. Some say it’s a long way to go. But it’s not just the PT. Or the coffee and banana bread in the Mouse’s Tail. It’s the journey.
8 am in Church Lane and the Patrick Ryan & Daughter hearse drivers are polishing up their black mercs. Making them gleam for today’s mourners. Just as they did for yesterday’s. And the day before’s. The losers of mums, of dads, of sons, of daughters, of lovers, of spouses, of life-long friends. For the hearse drivers, it’s a day like any other. Not for the grief-stricken though.
South Ealing station platform. Don’t smoke. Stand behind the yellow line. Report anything suspicious. Don’t ride a scooter on the platform (someone is). Do your bit and wash your hands before and after your journey. Don’t encourage beggars. Wear a face covering. Don’t board the train when the doors are closing. Play your part - we’re all in this together. (We are?). I catch the rising irritation at the myriad of blunt orders. I acknowledge it. And I breathe.
The irritation floats off. I take a seat on the train. Press play (Joni Mitchell). Observe the people on journeys. The sleepers and the starers. The tap tap tappers on laptops. The frenetic texters, the manic scrollers, the disconsolate scanners, the Insta junkies greedily devouring the next update and the next and the next. So much stuff. So little time. I resist the temptation of taking out my own phone to check whether I’ve had any emails since I left home 20 minutes ago (it’s only a smart phone in the hands of a smart user).
Next stop Acton Town. We stay stopped. Wait for our new driver. There’s shifting and sighing and watch-checking. Ah good, he’s here… But oh no, he’s stopped for a chat with the outgoing driver. Feet are tapping and shoulders are rising. In he gets. Hiss goes the train, in a hopeful sort of way. But still we stop. Bleep bleep bleep go the doors a few moments later. Hiss, hiss, goes the mechanical sigh of relief. The doors close and at long last our (5 minute) wait is over. We’re off.
“The next station is closed. The next station is closed. The next station is... The train won’t be stopping at South Kensington until Spring 2022.” A man with headphones on, eyes closed, pulls his baseball cap down. Trying to be somewhere else when he can’t be anywhere but here. A few weeks ago I experienced a rush of indignation that replacing five escalators was to take over a year. But I’m over it now. Joni sings to me about her old man (he’s a singer in the park, a walker in the rain, a dancer in the dark). I’ve always loved Joni. She has a way of capturing the human condition in few words.
Green Park. A suited man strides with purpose along the tunnel to the Jubilee Line. Gets stuck behind a couple dawdling, holding hands. Human obstacles. He makes his anger felt by tut-tut-tutting. Swerving round and cutting directly in front of them at the gap in the barrier. Oblivious to their transgression, they kiss. There’s an overwhelming smell of alcohol as the suited man stops at the hand sanitising station to spend the moment he just saved.
I board my new train. A young Asian guy threads rosary beads through the fingers of one hand while the other taps his phone. A woman with ultra-long lash extensions clutches the handle of her handbag, white knuckled. Fear, irritation, stress bounce around the carriage virus-like. Infecting anyone who is up for catching them. I don’t want them. So I close my eyes and still my mind. When I open them, I catch the eye of the man opposite. I smile. He smiles. Such a little thing. But it changes everything. For him and me at least.
Westminster. People off. People on. A tall, thin, pale man assesses the seat situation. Anxiously scanning for one with gaps either side. Not easy. It’s busy (for semi-lockdown times). But he finds one. At the last minute a woman boards with many bags. And sits next to him. He tenses. At Southwark he trips over one of the bags as he heads for the door. Rights himself. No damage done. He glares. She glares. They take their exchanged glares to work. To pass on to their colleagues.
London Bridge (10 minutes to spare). I walk to the river. Look at HMS Belfast (how did that huge iron hulk ever get up here?). I love every bit of the Thames, whatever the weather (today it’s grey and drizzly). It brings me joy.
Across the concourse to platform 2 (always platform 2 or platform 4). “I am on a lonely road and I am travelling, travelling, travelling, travelling. Looking for something, what can it be?” (Joni again. I hope she found it. Whatever it was.)
Above ground speeding past London City Mission (a Victorian institution in a sixties building). I spot a Children Crossing sign on a 5th floor balcony (stollen? Or the property of a crossing lady with not much storage space?). Then the legs of a shop dummy in a garden (what happened to the top?).
The 6 minute journey ends and I step off the train. Smell the fish (surprises me every time). Walk towards The Mouse’s Tail where a few caffein addicts brave the drizzle for some of the best coffee in London (in my opinion).
I stop and plonk my bag on one of their tables to hunt out my earphone case. The man behind me stops and plonks a length of rubber tubing on the table. We smile. He answers his phone. Polish accent. “No, no, no. It’s tread of screw. Eeez fucked up…. You no worry… We do thees…. I make call now... Right now.” And off he goes. Without making call.
I take his smile with me across the road and into Resolution Way. Pass it on to the man from the African textile outlet, who is just opening up. Spot a fellow client grunting under the weight of a sandbag he’s carrying to the end of the street and back – a Herculean task. Feel a stab of nervous excitement as I wonder what will be asked of me today. More than I ever ask of myself.
Journey’s end - The Commando Temple. I tap in the door code and pull the door. Revel in the blast of heavy metal. Smell the energy. Feel the love.