Elephant and Castle
A postcard from London in lockdown.
I’m on a platform in the bowels of London, waiting for my Tube to a reality that nobody asked for. I am alone. The carriage will be empty. The elevator that eventually spits me back up to earth will be empty.
I’m lucky to be out of the house, I try and convince myself.
“Mind the gap,” is the response I get.
My face itches beneath my mask but I don’t adjust it. I wear a blue lanyard that signals my right to travel but also means I must be on best behaviour at all times. There’s a new morality that cause us to doubt and double check ourselves, pinned to rules that change by the day. We feel the prickle of being observed even when we aren’t.
The rattle of the Northern Line builds to a piercing howl as it tunnels across the river. It’s the soundtrack to my working life, right now my only life. No headphone blocks the noise.
Brits are known for worshipping their National Health Service and in the spring of 2020, this reaches fever pitch. Its unassuming temple is Skipton House, tired and marble clad behind Elephant and Castle station. Plans to redevelop the building were approved years ago but nobody knows what its fate will be.
For now, it hosts people making decisions that are life or death. It hosts the army and a command room, succinctly labelled the National Incident Coordination Centre by some bureaucrat. I wave at some colleagues who are smoking as I walk in, the irony of their choice not lost on me. Continuous coughs are all we think about.
I won’t talk about the work because I’d rather give you a sense of place. This essay is bleak enough already. Or maybe I find it hard to type out the letters C-O-V-I-D without wincing more than most. When the pandemic shortened the distance between those that govern and those that don’t, London was a hollow imitation of itself. I was just a pen pusher caught in the husk.
No Elephant nor Castle surrounds the office, just an enormous roundabout which takes half a lunch break to cross. It’s a concrete jungle named after a Victorian pub I’ve been told to avoid if it ever reopens. High-rises gleam above housing estates, their cold contribution to the area’s ‘regeneration’. The few people who are out seem to shuffle aimlessly, keeping their heads and masks low.
“Elephant and Castle was completely obliterated during the Second World War which is why when it was rebuilt, high density housing was the priority.” Phil says. We wait for the lights to turn green.
On a good day, I grab fifteen minutes to sit in the gardens of the Imperial War Museum and shut my eyes to the sun. On a really good day, I force my boss to step away from his desk and get some air too. As everything spins off-axis he is the person that keeps me steady. We’ve spent countless hours working together and still never shook hands.
“And you see that building over there,” he points, “it was an office called Alexander Fleming House, until it became apparent that it had sick building syndrome.”
“What on earth is sick building syndrome?” I ask.
“It’s when living or working in a certain building makes people unwell over time. Headaches, dizziness, nausea…” Phil is at his best when he tells an anecdote and there’s a punchline. He doesn’t lose a beat. “Bear in mind, the Government Department of Health used to work there.”
It’s not that funny but we laugh like idiots anyway. Dark humour is the order of the day.
“Bloody hell, not even buildings are safe these days.” I say.
“They’re flats now.” He tells me. “People still live in them.”
When everything gets redesigned, rebuilt, reshaped, where do those who already belong here go, I wonder. We bring our coffees back to the office, small respite in our afternoon.
Sometimes I walk part way home along the river, the city’s monuments laid out just for me. If I do cross someone, they spot my badge and make sure I notice their acknowledgement, a nod or a warm smile. I can only assume they think I’m a nurse which makes me feel even more of a fraud. This feeling is buried, however, when using all the shopping discounts.
Today I take the underground and don’t see anyone, except a man with his sleeping bag having a wee against the tiled walls. He sings a song only he understands, his dick a slug in his palm. This world is so surreal that I am immune to surprise. He doesn’t see me as I walk up the stairs to the platform, trying not to think how long it’s been since somebody undressed in front of me by choice.
It is people who give identity to a city, without them it’s just a skyline. I missed the brawling, eclectic, suited, sweaty Londoners who master the art of observation on public transport without catching anyone’s eye. Each with their own story to tell, but you’d be too angry at someone pressed against you to wonder what it was. Too busy inhaling your own.
I wanted the stories that spring. I wanted to be near others without fear.
Stamps of approval
If you’re ever in Elephant…
There are tonnes of excellent food stall choices at Mercato Metropolitano which are perfect for dates, groups or even a quick lunch alone. It’s a ten minute walk from the tube station.
Theo’s pizzeria is also on Elephant and Castle’s enormous roundabout. It’s a relaxed and very cute setting where you can eat outside, sit in or takeaway.
Diogenes the Dog is an award-winning wine bar that will take you round the world with its extensive menu and lovely staff.
