London Tube

I. ALDWYCH-1

I. ALDWYCH

Mary Chapman rummaged nervously through the pockets of her camel-haired coat, looking for her small leather purse. She took out a twenty pound note and gave it to the tall thin girl. Mary gave her a shy, sideways look. The girl was trying to count Mary’s change while at the same time she was giving her the bouquet she had chosen. It was a small bouquet made up of yellow and pink flowers. Mary was not sure what the flowers were called; gardening had never been her strong point. For her, flowers were tokens. Tokens of friendship, love, passion, mourning. They were reminders of anniversaries, celebrations and premieres. This bouquet was beautiful, small and modest. She held it with one hand while she received the two pound change. She stuffed the coin hastily into her purse and she gave another quick look at the flower-girl. She was not British. This was obvious from her pronunciation and her general appearance. Another immigrant searching for a better life in a foreign country. There were so many of them nowadays. They came from all over the world, chased by poverty, by political situations far beyond their control. They were constantly arriving in search of a better future. They were staying in bedsits in north and west London. They shared kitchens and bathrooms with other tenants: students, provincials and other immigrants. They were undertaking any job they could find: waiting, cooking, shop assisting. If they did not cause any trouble and if they were lucky enough they could remain for the rest of their lives in this foreign country, they could marry, have children and keep sending money to those unlucky ones that remained behind. Mary looked at the girl again, she smiled, thanked her and she left. In her mind she wished her “good luck” with the life she chose.

Charring Cross tube station was full of people who were hastily walking in all directions. Mary held the bouquet tenderly in her arms; she got out of the station and started walking along The Strand. It was early in the afternoon and the traffic was heavy. On the opposite side of the street some tourists were posing for photographs in an effort to gather memories. Mary glared at them absent - mindedly and a thought occurred to her; maybe this was the most important thing in life, to gather memories. Time moves so fast, nothing is left behind. Time has a magic way of healing everything. Besides, this was the reason for her being here this afternoon. Because of her memories. Mary was not a London resident anymore. She abandoned the capital thirty years ago. She had chosen the more provincial tranquility of Luton. She was married to a quiet man. Together they had chosen a small two-storey house near Luton airport. It was a convenient, nice house with a small back yard. For Mary and her husband that was perfect. The cost of living was cheaper in the countryside and the quality of life much better. They did not have any children, but they lived in harmony, the years were passing by peacefully in calm happiness. Mary had two dogs, two beautiful labradors and every afternoon just before dusk she was enjoying staying in her garden in the company of her dogs. Mary and her husband rarely visited London, just a couple of times per year. They went there rarely, to see a play or to buy something that they could not find in Luton.

Mary kept on walking along The Strand; thinking this day trip was more of a pilgrimage to her childhood. A pilgrimage to honor her long- deceased mother. A pilgrimage to a tube station that did not exist anymore.

She was sitting comfortably in her living room in her little house in Luton and she was watching the news on T.V. She couldn’t remember which channel, channel 4 or BBC, it didn’t really matter! It was then that she heard for the first time that Aldwych tube station on Piccadilly line was going to close down for good. She froze in her seat, looking aimlessly at the T.V. screen without really listening. It was much later that she realized that she was actually crying. When her husband got home, he found her sitting there with an empty look on her face, holding a glass of whiskey. Then, that evening in that living room, with the light of the TV screen barely visible in the darkness, Mary let herself travel back fifty years to, when she was a little girl and she told her husband the whole story.

Months had passed since that night, but Mary felt restless, she could not regain her usual tranquility. Doing her housework, feeding and playing with her dogs, making love to her husband, doing all the same things, but something had changed. Something had marked her.

And suddenly, without any previous thought or planning, while she was squeezing an orange, or was it while filling the dogs’ bowls with water, the idea of visiting London popped into her mind. The tube station had been closed for four months, since 3rd October 1994. It was a date she would never forget. She had it marked with a fountain pen on the calendar that hung on her kitchen wall. But the place was still there, The Strand was still there, Surrey Street was still there. This could not change. And she could go there and see the area. It would be a homage to her childhood memories.

One cold day of March, she found herself at Charring Cross station, picking a bouquet of flowers and now, her feet were getting her closer and closer to the place where once Aldwych station used to be.

Mary had never shown any interest in history; events, both local and international, held little meaning for her. She had a simple way of thinking; it was difficult for her to understand how a simple parliamentary rule had the power to cause hundreds of deaths in a far away unknown land! But she knew one thing well; and that was the history of Aldwych station.

At the point where Surrey Street intersects with The Strand, Mary turned right. She was at the centre of the biggest European capital, the streets were swarming with people and still no one even thought, just for a second, to leave a bouquet of flowers on the cold pavement, in front of the building that once hosted Aldwych tube station.

She stood there looking at the emptiness. In this impressive, red bricked building, once, many years before Mary’s birth, many years before Mary’s mother’s birth, there used to be the Royal Theatre of The Strand. How many performances must have been held in there? How many actors must have been tested, how many of them must have experienced triumphs and agonies? How many dazzling and successful premieres must have taken place? How many kings and princess must have enjoyed, comfortably seated in their royal box, lines by Shakespeare and Moliere?

Mary wondered how many people passed by this place every day: Londoners, Englishmen, immigrants, tourists, students, politicians, actors, all kinds of people were crossing the road on their way to work. How many of them knew the story of this building? In 1907 in the same building which used to be the Royal Theatre, opened the Strand tube station. It was in the heart of West End, a heartbeat from Covent Garden and it was convenient for all the theatre lovers of the time. A few years later, the station was renamed Aldwych.

Mary did not care about history but she knew everything about this station. It started getting cold; she instinctively raised the collar of her coat. She looked at the flowers she had left in front of the red bricked building for a last time. The wind would sweep them away sooner or later if passersby didn’t step on them first. All that did not matter to Mary. For her the flowers were just a symbol; and nothing more.

Totally exhausted from the cold, the trip and the burden of her own childhood memories, Mary went into the first pub she found, ordered a pint of Guinness and sat at an isolated table. The pub was half full. It was very pleasant to hear the carefree voices of the regulars. She took off her coat and rested her body against the back of her seat.

And only then did she let the door to her feelings open up for the first time in fifty years. She felt her little hand holding tightly a bigger hand, that of her mother. She felt her little legs running hurriedly into the dark streets of The Strand and Surrey Street. She could clearly hear the voice of her mother urging her to run faster.

“Come on Mary, just a little further and then we will be safe! Come on darling, you can do it! Run!”

The sirens were howling all around them. Unknown people were running in panic, without fully understanding where they were actually going. Mary’s mother was running steadily and determinedly towards Aldwych tube station. She was pushing the people around, with a force that only the survival instinct can give. It was the third night in a row that sirens had been heard. It was the third night that Germans had bombarded London. It was September 1940. Mary’s mother was holding firmly the tiny hand of her daughter; she was almost dragging her violently. She knew that their only hope of surviving was to reach the station and to bury themselves deep inside its underground tunnels before the beginning of the raid. They had to arrive before the others. Aldwych station was big, but no matter how big it was, there were still limits to its capacity. Thousands of people hid in there every night. They had to be among the first, they had just to find a corner to spend the night. They had to fit!

Mary’s mother was running through the dark streets, stumbling from time to time, she was out of breath, but she kept on going towards the safety of the tube. She had to save her child. She had to have the strength to endure. There would be an end to the nightmare sooner or later. Her husband, Mary’s father had remained at home. He was an invalid, he was suffering from diabetes and his vision was getting worse every day. He could not go to war. He stayed at home and did not follow his wife and daughter to the safety of the tube. Either way he would not have been allowed to enter the station. He was a man. The management of the tube and of London Transport had filled the streets with posters. Their message was clear: “Be a man. Women and children have more need to get into the underground tunnels”. So, he had remained home, praying for his life to his Creator.

The situation was getting worse and worse. People were complaining. There had been rumors that the politicians had organized their own safety. There were talks about underground tunnels especially made for the royal family. Everybody knew that war with Germany had been inevitable since 1938. Some people had sensed it even earlier. Still the disaster caused by the air-raids had taken them by surprise. There had been some efforts to construct underground shelters, but unfortunately those shelters had turned out to be totally ineffective. It took only a minor attack by the German bombers to destroy them. They had been incapable of providing the slightest safety.

It was then, that the common people, the crowd, without any further thought, decided that the tube was the solution. The London tube was the only safe place. The whole city had underground tunnels used by the tube services. This complicated system of underground junctions and stations had one purpose only, to transport people quickly and effectively within their constantly expanding city. From 1940 another use of these tunnels arose, a use much more vital. They were transformed into safety capsules for thousands of citizens.

At first the management of the tube and the government had not taken kindly to the constant flow of crowds at the stations every night. Many of them had strongly disagreed with this new use of the underground tubes. Their arguments were mainly about basic hygiene principles which were almost impossible to maintain beneath the surface of the city, with the humidity, hunger and flies that could easily spread among the dirty bodies.