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The Borough Press
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Elizabeth: The Parade © James Smythe 2018; District: Blackfriars © Matthew Plampin 2018; Circle © Joanna Cannon 2018; Piccadilly: The Piccadilly Predicament © Lionel Shriver 2018; Northern © Kat Gordon 2018; Waterloo & City: Number Five © Joe Mungo Reed 2018; Central: Worm on a Hook © Tyler Keevil 2018; Jubilee © Layla AlAmmar 2018; Victoria: Green Park © Janice Pariat 2018; Metropolitan: My Beautiful Millennial © Tamsin Grey 2018; Bakerloo: London Etiquette © Katy Mahood 2018; Hammersmith & City: She Deserves It © Louisa Young 2018
Extracts of District: Blackfriars; Circle; Piccadilly: The Piccadilly Predicament; Northern; Waterloo & City: Number Five; Central: Worm on a Hook; Jubilee; Victoria: Green Park; Metropolitan: My Beautiful Millennial; Bakerloo: London Etiquette and Hammersmith & City: She Deserves It were all first published in the Evening Standard
Transport for London has licensed the use of its trademarks and IP with regard to the book Underground: Tales for London. Transport for London accepts no responsibility for the content of the book.
Jacket design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
The moral rights of the authors have been asserted
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
These stories are entirely works of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in them are the work of the authors’ imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008300692
Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2018 ISBN: 9780008300722
Version: 2018-08-31
For London
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Note from the Editor
James Smythe – Elizabeth
Matthew Plampin – District
Joanna Cannon – Circle
Lionel Shriver – Piccadilly
Kat Gordon – Northern
Joe Mungo Reed – Waterloo & City
Tyler Keevil – Central
Layla AlAmmar – Jubilee
Janice Pariat – Victoria
Tamsin Grey – Metropolitan
Katy Mahood – Bakerloo
Louisa Young – Hammersmith & City
Notes on the Contributors
Acknowledgements
About the Publisher
Born in 1863, the London Underground is a place where everyone comes together, from the city’s most wealthy to its homeless, old people, young people, students, residents, visitors… five million of us cram into underground carriages every day, to make our way across the city.
It is a place of endless fascination. Lives literally cross over one another. We travel in close proximity across 250 miles of underground track: we mostly stare at our feet, our phones, our newspapers, but occasionally magic can happen – a flirtatious eye caught, a small kindness exchanged. There is occasional tragedy, too, with lives lost, taken, ended.
This short story collection is a celebration of the London Underground, commissioned to mark the opening of the Elizabeth line. The twelve stories – including one memoir – explore the scope of human experience, from family misadventures to spiritual journeys, from the ends of love affairs to those just beginning. Life and death are made manifest, all on the daily commute.
The Mayor of London, Sadiq Khan, said: ‘London is open.’ I believe this message to be essential. This is a city where everyone is welcome, and as these stories demonstrate, the London Underground is the network connecting us all.
Ann Bissell, 2018
My father, who had been dead for fifteen years, was the last person to board the train. I had that singular sensation of, when looking at a crowd, being able to pick out the one face that meant something to me, to home in on it, to see every detail of it. It was my father, as if he had just been down to the shop and then returned, rather than having succumbed – that’s the word that the doctor used, when they called me to visit him: succumbed – to his death the way that he did.
But, of course, it wasn’t him. It was another man, with a suit like his and a coat like his, brushing around his knees even in the middle of the summer; only this man wasn’t dead. His face wasn’t as sallow and pallid as my father’s, at the end. He took his hat off, and I saw his face. The insides of the hat, so different to my father’s; which, I was convinced, held some secrets of the universe, because he would gaze into them when searching for moments of pause, and I would try to distract him. I stared at this man, and he met my eyes, and we smiled, because that’s what you do when something is mutually embarrassing. I looked away, then, to the platform; and the most striking memory, of my father, his actual suit and coat, leading me through