I am sitting here in Caffe Nero in Piccadilly across from Waterstones ("Europe's largest book store") doing what any spirited coffeeshop visitor does - drinking coffee or a smoothie - in my case both.
My pilgrimage started with a 17:32 WAGN service out of Hatfield, arriving at King's Cross around 18:10. It was the slow train, and I hadn't been to London since the bombings. But the first thing I noticed happened earlier at the ticket booth in Hatfield. In response to my question: "What sort of service is running between King's Cross and Hatfield today?" the guy behind the glass's answer was a curt "A normal Sunday service is operating sir." That in fact was one of the few normal things about my train ride today. For one, the waiting area on the platform was practically empty. Is it always this empty on a Sunday afternoon? It is funny how all of a sudden everything takes on a new significance. Soon after - I barely had time to read the first stanza of a poem in my Blake's Complete Writings - the same guy of the ticket booth comes and says hi. He chats a bit, smoking his cigarette. "You live in Hatfield?", I ask "Yea, yea" "Me too" "What was it like on Thursday, were the services affected" Turns out services from Finsbury Park still went on every half hour during the day. People wanting to travel to London got sent home though. No trains at all going in then on Thursday? I didn't ask, but I guess not.
As the train appeared on the furthest curve of the length of track he excused himself, stubbing the cigarette with his foot after it hopped once on the platform. Here was another novelty - he'd come outside with a purpose: he and another rail worker now positioned themselves on either side of the train as the passengers embarked and disembarked. Security has been stepped up! I felt comforted.
The notice board clearly stated that Underground services at King's Cross are closed, but that the Piccadilly Line is running from Finsbury Park. Lo and behold, not only is the train pretty empty but the bulk of people get off the carriage at Finsbury Park. This is almost eerie, but not as eerie as the emptiness at King's Cross. It's surreal. One of the busiest stations in London - busy even on a Sunday - still moving with people but with a distinct lack of something. I'm suddenly aware of the large white space above the doorway where, if you look, you would see platform 9 3/4 of Harry Potter. Indeed I do look back to see a few people striking a pose with a trolley, for a picture. But still, the usual activity at the edges of my awareness is subdued. I am aware of empty spaces. I persevere with a friendly face as I walk around and find a reciprocated sense of heightened awareness all around me. Here and there I sense a bit of tension as well. Later at the makeshift memorial I can see the deference in the eyes of the officials standing around. They've seen a lot of sadness today.
I make a quick stop at the memorial - a notice directs people to put their floral contributions in the "garden" next to the station. There's plenty of television crew and some reporters around. Determined to place my own bunch of flowers there my quest for a floral ode starts. Up Gray's Inn Road and then back and on down Euston Road , up and down a side road, eventually as far as Euston where at Marks & Spencer to my surprise I find a bunch of lilies in a glass vase, among others. I was almost convinced everything in the area was going to be sold out.
Armed with my prize I walk back all the way to King's Cross, still donning my friendly countenance. This time I draw a few looks, and it is as if people are wearing their emotions more thinly veiled than usual. I pick up a bit of friendliness, a bit of "oh I don't want to be reminded", and more tension. At regular intervals the pictures of missing people with their names and some details and a number to call are posted against the buildings and the portable walkway walls. They become familiar to me, ordinary people smiling at the camera. I've seen their faces on the web as well.
The memorial area is full of flowers, full of diverse messages of hope, support, condolence, and defiance. I place my vase toward one wall, then change its position as the slant bothers me. I am kindly asked not to take pictures inside the memorial. Fair enough, I should know better.
This picture shows King's Cross from Gray's Inn Road. The memorial is to the right of the building (slightly left of middle in the picture), where people are congregating.
Finally the last leg of my pilgrimage. I need to catch a tube train, and do something normal. That is why I'm here in the West End, now at Leicester Square across from The Hippodrome having dinner. The train definitely seems emptier than usual, and it's alsoas if some passengers are more aware than usual. But not all. The bloke opposite me hangs his head back and closes his eyes - out like a candle until he suddenly gets up two stops down. In the same isle another, younger chap simply looks morose. Intense, but typically gruff. You can get away with that at 21, the fallout of sheer physical energy can still get you to the next stage.
Here in the West End it is slightly quieter than usual, but it's not just that: there is something in the air. Many people act completely normally but I also notice a reflection of that tension I sensed elsewhere - a faint nervousness that would usually be disguised amidst idle chatter and more confident shop talk. There is too little depth in the bustle tonight. It is not the numbers, they are only somewhat less than I would expect - it is more like a playful presence has retreated behind a brave but slightly wary reserve. That startling awareness of empty space is the experience of an unexpected collective mental vacuum. Are people emotionally reaching out, seeking anonymous closeness when the usual habit is to ignore others? This is London, and that habit is a general trademark ... so the strangeness is perhaps only a lifting of the veil.
But maybe the point is moot, because they are here after all, and so am I. And around us at Haymarket Lillywhite's and Piccadilly, at Leicester Square and across Charing Cross Road up all the way to Covent Garden the ageing buildings rise in huge granite like silent guardians, reflecting the last light of day. They remember much more than I will ever know.
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