Close encounters on London Underground
Its official name is the London Underground, but everyone calls it the tube because that’s what it looks like
Its official name is the London Underground, but everyone calls it the tube because that’s what it looks like. But, actually, when you see one of the trains emerge out of a tunnel, I’d say, a comparison to toothpaste would be more apt! Anyway, that’s what I thought when I saw my first tube at the age of 16. I was at Victoria station, having just disembarked from the airport coach, with two enormous boxes on either side. Believe it or not, but the Air India flight from Delhi was two hours early and Kiran, my sister, with whom I had come to stay, was taken completely by surprise.
“Take the coach from Heathrow and then the tube to Bond Street” were her crisp instructions. “I’ll be at the other end.”
Bond Street was around the corner from Kiran’s office but for me, new to London and both excited and anxious, it was a name from Monopoly. The mass of people was startling. They seemed in a hurry but also very businesslike. Whilst the few who were lounging around, with spiky hair and broad bell bottoms, appeared disconcertingly mod. In my grey flannels and ill-fitting school blazer, I knew I looked like the outsider I felt I was.
It was in the middle of this reverie that the train appeared. A rumble from the tunnel heralded its imminence. The others recognised the sound and prepared for its arrival. Since I was new and unfamiliar, I continued to stare at things uncomprehendingly.
“Cummon mate,” someone shouted at me. The train doors had opened, and people were rushing in. But I was grappling with my boxes. When I grabbed both I had no arms left for my hand luggage. And if I tried to tuck the smaller pieces under them, I could no longer lift the boxes.
“You could certainly do with a hand,” the voice continued. “Maybe even two or three!”
It belonged to a man I presumed to be in his fifties. He had on a cloth cap, looked unshaven and his clothes were unkempt. Perhaps he also smelt. Ordinarily, I would not have spoken to him. In fact, in later years, I would deliberately move away from others who resembled his type. I thought of them as tramps and would observe them from a distance out of the corner of my eye. My distaste would have been obvious.
But on this June morning, things were different. I was young, in need of help and not yet a snob. More importantly, the man had grabbed my boxes -- and some of my hand luggage too - and hauled them onto the tube. As the doors shut behind us, he turned and smiled. His teeth were stained and several were missing.
“Did it!” he exclaimed. “But it was a close thing.”
I was gauche and still scared of strangers. He was unused to making small talk. So, we travelled in silence. But after the second stop, he looked at me and asked, “Where to mate?”
He heard my answer with a nod before turning to look out of the window. All you can see from a tube are the black walls of the tunnel, but he stared at them with mesmeric fascination.
I was dreading the end of the journey. How would I get my luggage off? But when the train approached Bond Street, I found the man had picked up the boxes before I could.
“You take the smaller stuff,” he chortled. “More your size!”
He escorted me to the end of the platform. “There you are,” he said. “Good luck.”
Then he doubled back to wait for the next tube heading in the same direction. We never met again, and I don’t think I thanked him properly. But for me, he has become an example of the sort of happy encounter one can expect on the underground. They prove that people are rarely what they seem. And, yes, that first impression can be very wrong.
Karan Thapar is the author of Devil’s Advocate: The Untold Story.The views expressed are personal
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