Stories on the Underground

An urban shortie

“Due to a person under a train at Green Park, there are severe delays on the Jubliee Line. Customers are advised to take the Metropolitan line and change where necessary. London Underground wishes to apologies for the disruption caused to your journey this morning”.

A general groan filtered through the crowd on the platform at Dollis Hill. By now it was three deep and stretched to the far end of the station. At eight thirty in the morning the Jubilee line was already a heaving mass of sour flesh. The third consecutive day of cold British rain only ensured that the journey was yet again, unbearable. When a tube finally materialised, the rain had created sodden coats that breathed their unwashed odour into the cramped carriages. The staleness clung to the air, evaporating any surplus oxygen. Sacha couldn’t understand why so many people had to smell that nauseating so early in the morning. She rationalised that soap was cheap and water almost free, so there really was no excuse.

Under normal circumstances, a tube this full would be crawling its way to Bond Street without her. However as she was already late, the struggle of make a living in London had to start at Wembley Park. The interview at the London Mayor’s office in [Waterloo] as a communications researcher was in less then fifty minutes times. Sacha had hoped to use the travelling time to write down a few intelligent questions to ask her interviewer. But with someone else’s armpit against her nose and Miss Two Bags hitting her in the ribs from one angle and the buttocks from the other, chances of even surviving, much less writing, where slim to none.

Her thoughts had wondered to the “person under a train”. How desperate do you have to be to jump in front of train first thing on a Monday morning? That’s taking a cry for help a step too far. Must have been a rough weekend. Unless they were pushed. Maybe the platform was full and they were too close to the yellow line. Perhaps they stepped back to put some distance between them and the on coming train. Mashed a foot. Got shoved. It’s over. Tube rage was a real thing. And by Willesden Green, Sacha could fully understand how tube rage came about, as she would gladly have treated Miss Two Bags to 1000 volts of live rail track. Miss Two Bags had chosen the rush hour to transport three weeks worth of gym clothes, avec towels, shower sundries and Nike cross-trainers, in a large bright red rucksack. The other bag, a fair-sized, black rectangular handbag, with silver-tipped corners, carried all the usual paraphernalia. With both straps of the burdensome rucksack slung over her left shoulder, and the handbag balancing on her right, Miss Two Bags performed a convincing impersonation of “The Little Donkey” on the rocky road to Bethlehem.

Now in all fairness to Sacha, who was immaculately dressed in business attire, and trying to remain composed for her interview, she did make it all the way to Swiss Cottage before finally losing the power of self-restraint. Miss Two Bags gave Sacha a mighty blow in the back while trying to muscle more room for her own personal comfort. “Ooow! Jesus woman! Are you blind or am I invisible”? Sacha’s voice was loud enough for people towards the far end of the carriage to hear. Newspaper’s rustled as the seated chosen few, discretely lowered them to observe the fracas amongst the standing cattle class. “Sorry!!” said Miss T.B sarcastically, tossing her blond hair in Sacha’s face, “I didn’t realise you were so close”, she hissed. Sacha was outraged at this woman’s lack of remorse for almost paralysing her from the waist down. And although she normally carried her self as a consummate professional, this morning she unleashed the ‘rude girl’ in her and was ready to salt and pepper Miss Goddamn Two Bags. “S’what? Am I not black enough and big enough for you to see me? Listen! Tek your handbag out of my backside, before I find a permanent place for you to stick it!” she warned.

Silence fell on the whole carriage. All eyes where on Sacha and Miss Two Bags. The man with the sweaty armpits gently released his grip on the yellow ceiling rail and turned his body away from the commotion, obviously not wanting to be the next in the line of fire. A few opened mouthed people shamelessly stared at Sacha, while others darted their eyes between the two women wondering if there was going to be a come back from the blonde lady. For that moment, it seemed as if Swiss Cottage station had turned the volume down on the train noises, and pumped the volume up on the silence. The musty clothes smell grew stronger as the motionless train was drained of the remaining stale air that had been circulating. The carriage was caught in suspended animation. Sacha eyed Miss Two Bags with a stern glare. Miss Two Bags glared back, contemplating a response while calculating how many stops she had before she could safely escape this scene. Then the tube doors gave their warning beeps as they steadily closed trapping her in the carriage until at least the next station.

Miss Two Bags thought better of challenging this angry black woman. Safety in numbers was not a practiced concept in London. The fact that the train was bulging with people didn’t actually guarantee your personal security. Besides she had heard how violent these yardie types could be. So instead of continuing the stand off, Miss Two Bags just tutted a weak disapproval as her only response to Sacha’s warning. Sacha, adrenaline pumping, and wishing she had kept her big mouth shut, was glad that Miss T.B had not taken it any further. The odds were against her. There were too many white people to come to the defence of the helpless weightlifter blonde, who was obviously under threat against her, the black sister with an attitude. However, to save face and through genuine annoyance, she kissed her teeth in a manner that would have made her mother ask her if she was trying to “draw me tru’ dem”.

The tube moved off slowly and Sacha silently prayed that it wouldn’t stop suddenly and send her flying into her opponent. The other tube passengers resumed their previous poses. In a seat, diagonal to the dispute a young black man smiled in Sacha’s direction, with a touch of admiration for her courage, and hint of attraction at her style. Sacha noticed him, but was too embarrassed to acknowledge his subtle support.

By Deborah Harper, © 2004

Note to self...

Note to Self
An urban story

Memory being what it was, she was always forgetting things: where she put the hair brush; the window measurements for the blinds; the last time she weighed 10 stone. Hence the ‘notes to self’ grew longer and longer. Time evaporated. The cycle continued.

A glimpse of summer sunshine had inspired a visit to the £7 hand carwash in Wembley Park. One thing to tick off the To Do list. Now with car gleaming, windows down and sunroof open, the urge to sing along to "A little bit of Love" was too great. Her errands had taken her to Ladbroke Grove, enroute to High Street Ken. For the time of day the road was unusually clear, and with 25 mph feeling like a 100mph, she pushed the new Gucci sunglasses closer to your brow and her foot further to floor and sang "I met a man today, who cannot change his life". She had forgotten to indicate at the Barlby Road roundabout but where the black Audi TT came from was a mystery. The reflex emergency braking still left her skidding into an intimate encounter with this car, whose insurance was more than the total value of her little jelopy.

"Sh*t!". "F*ck".

Before she could focus enough to turn the radio down, he was in front of her, tugging at the car door handle. Instinctively she rushed her hand to the central locking, although she always locked the door before putting on her seatbelt. “The action of his ways is paved with so much strife”. He had jumped out of the driver seat and over to her car with such vigour, she was convinced he was about to haul her from the vehicle and shake the blame out of her then and there.

The damn power windows refused to respond to her desperate attempts to close them and protect herself. When she felt his hand on her wrist her other instinct for self defence at all costs, made her thump him repeatedly with her heavy "I'm a single girl, buy my own fake diamonds" ring. It was only when she heard him say "Well she's alright then", that she realised he had come to make sure she wasn't hurt.

Looking up, tentatively, at the man now rubbing the diamond indented spot on the back of his hand, she saw his concern, his jet black brow, jealously bold against his chocolate completion; his soft angled jaw; the fleshy pink lips a jewel in the crown of his neat goatee framed mouth... mmmm, his just enough buff chest.

New instincts kicked in: damsel in distress. “So what you’re thinking of, should maybe start today”


She unlocked the door and allowed him to open it for her. Happily today was a day that she had made an effort. The hair was still fresh from last nights four hour perfect grooming stint at Michael’s Style salon in Willesden. The deep blue denim jeans hugged and loved in the right places. Her blue-black silk waist-length khaftan concealed the ripple effect of the belly, while revealing the magnetic effect of the cleavage. The bell sleeves exposed the smooth flesh of her arms, accented with a chunky onck bangle. Make up! Thank God for rear occasions. Today it was applied and appropriate.

Now all that remained for her to apply was a charming demean a. Veiled in a mildly apologetic, subtly accusatory tone, of course. Heck this was live bait after all. “A little bit of love, can go a long, long way”

"Are you alright?" he asked.
She touched her neck delicately, leaning her head to one side then the other. This had dual purpose: (a) to prolong the conversation with the fine looking brother (b) where's the blame, there's a claim. And as her insurance would most certainly not cover this collison, she would have to find another way of upgrading to the ’08 Fiesta. Cup is always half full.

“I think so. Think I just... the seatbelt might have, you know, forced my neck back suddenly. Sorry. About your hand. I…”.

She felt him staring at her intensely. It wasn’t just concern. He was making the most of this opportunity too. His half smile and dancing eyes had already memorised her features, her neckline, her iridescent brown skin. She knew the signs. “Look not sure who was in the wrong here. But your car seems to be little more dented than mine.” He diverted his attention to the kissing cars. The bumper had a fist-sized dent in it, with black marks causing painful scarring to the yellow colour-coding.

Following his gaze to the offending ding, she stood back as he took a few steps closer to examine the damage. She examined the damage. Six foot two, broad and toned, without the off-putting six-days-a-week-in-the-gym-obtaining-muscle-definition. Clearly the man worked, not just worked-out. Nice shelf bottom too. Note to self: re-instate Cannons membership.

“Is it bad? Should we exchange details? Never had an accident before, so not entirely sure of the procedure. Do we need to report it to the police or something?” Her mind raced as she tried to find ways of creating dialogue. Wit was escaping her. The usual defence of dry sarcasm was dripping in this ditzy armour.

He smiled. Adding to her confusion. She smiled back. Holding his gaze. He held on too and with a gentle deep chuckle, he lowered his head. Reaching into his back pocket to pull his wallet out, he said “Let me give you my card. We can settle this between us. No need for insurance. Cost to repair will be less than the increase in the premium”.

No insurance. Damn. Hood-rat! “Well, as long as you’re a man of your word. How do I know you won’t just disappear?” She took his business card. James Braithwait. Chartered Surveyor. She managed to stifle her look of relief and approval, while mentally she was doing a celebratory dance, wining her waist and circling her arms infront of her chest, while chanting ‘He is a fit man, with a good job, nah, nah, nah, nah-nah’.
She tried on the last name as though trying on this season’s jacket in a Karen Millen shop. No changing room required, nothing to remove. Just slip it on over current attire. Alison Grey-Braithwaite. Yes, I do!

Time to up the ante.

Turning to her car, she leaned in through the opened car door, bending over the drivers seat to retrieve her soft tan Mui Mui handbag. She kept her back to him a moment longer, to ensure he had captured a full length vision of her all woman Caribbean asset, featured in her jeans. Turning suddenly, she was pleased with her efforts, as he was duly staring directly at her. She handed him her card. “My other mobile number is on the back, in case my blackberry is off.” She offered.

“Thanks. Look, sorry for this. Although I’m not totally to blame, you know, but I will fix it. Maybe we can meet up tomorrow and I’ll take you to my mechanic for an assessment.”

“Need your mechanic to assess me too, huh?” Game on! Without laughing he said “Call me later and we can make the necessary arrangements, yeah?” Not biting the bait. Strange.

“OK. Well I’ll have to make a note of your license plate number, just to be on the safe side. You understand that right?” she asked, while walking around to examine the front grill of his car. She looked down at his license plate. Private number. JB 24 7. With a side smile she glanced up to look at him and from the corner of her eye she noticed someone in the passenger seat for the first time.

Taking a closer look, she saw her. Long, thick blonde hair, creamy-skinned, thin, shimmering glossed lip and a beauty-spot just below her nose. Open-necked, white fitted shirt, with an oversized silver necklace. Indisputably stunning. Her smile curved up at the corners of mouth, with a look of knowing certainty that there was no contest. She smiled back, relinquishing her quest to conquer.

When she looked backed at him, he felt change in the tone of her gaze. Yet her disappointment in him and disapproval of his passenger, coupled with an all too familiar tinge of defeat, went unchallenged. Either he was used to it, or mistook it for jealousy. Either way he kept smiling as he walked to his car door. “Call me, ok?”


She smiled weakly then returned to her car. Kissing her teeth she wondered how she could forget the most basic of instincts when flirting with a stranger. Note to self: make sure the roundabout is clear before speeding in.