As the line stretched its limbs beneath London, it became a canvas for the city’s evolving narrative.
Waterloo Station. Mid-morning, August 2nd. The crowds rush and scramble. The last wave of commuters emerge from the trains and disappear into the Underground. They have come from the south of London; from Runcorn and Rye, Pokesdown and Portsmouth, Aspley Guise, Thatto Heath, Dover, Deal and Sandwich. From Waterloo, they pour like water into the crevices and runnels of the city. The tunnels of the Jubilee Line, the Northern Line, the Waterloo and City Line and the Bakerloo Line channel them into every corner of London.
I stand beneath the passenger information display: a part of the crowd and yet, totally apart from it. I have only been in London for a few hours but I already feel at home. It’s as if I have reawakened from another life and found myself in familiar territory.
Our daughter is on a train bound for Paddington. We had originally planned to meet here on the concourse at Waterloo. But I have the time, and the knowledge to get to Paddington before she arrives. The arcane mysteries of the Underground hold no secrets from me. I know exactly what to do. I swipe my Apple Watch against the turnstile screen and step down into the tunnels of Bakerloo Line.
Since its inception in 1906, the Bakerloo Line has been more than a mere conduit for weary London commuters. It has also become a time passage, a connection running through the lives of countless people…including mine. The Bakerloo Line, with its deep tunnels, yellow and brown colour palette, and raffish charm has a grubby-fingered, working-class feel: like a steady workmate in the city’s neverending hustle and graft.
For me, the Bakerloo Line is a time passage back to the days when we worked in Lambeth and the Lambeth North underground station was the place where we began and ended many of our London adventures. During the winter of 1989-90, when we worked at The Red Lion on the corner of Westminster Bridge Road and Lower Marsh Road, the Bakerloo Line — along with the Number 12 bus — was our go-to transport option. We rode it to and from Embankment, Picadilly Circus, Baker Street and Paddington. Whenever we arrived back in London after our journeys in Turkey, England, Greece or Europe, the Bakerloo Line would faithfully convey us back to Lambeth where we could earn our keep for a night or two at the pub.
The Bakerloo Line was born out of necessity. This deep line, connecting the centre of the metropolis to the burgeoning suburbs south of the Thames, was a response to the ever-swelling tide of London’s population and the consequent demands on its infrastructure. Its peculiar name is a portmanteau of ‘Baker Street’ and ‘Waterloo.’ It encapsulates its original journey, connecting these two vital points in the heart of the city. The line was envisioned as a thread that would weave together the disparate parts of London, a task it has performed with quiet dignity since the first train rolled out of the station.
In the early days, the Bakerloo Line was a marvel of engineering and ambition. The challenge of burrowing underneath the teeming city was met with innovative solutions and relentless determination. Each station along the line — from the grandeur of Baker Street, the bustling hub of Piccadilly Circus and on to Waterloo and beyond — was crafted not just as a stop on a journey, but as a gateway to the myriad experiences that London has to offer.
As the line stretched its limbs beneath London, it became a canvas for the city’s evolving narrative. The stations, with their distinctive Leslie Green-designed oxblood red façades and elegant Edwardian baroque architecture, are living monuments to a bygone era. And just like every passenger who rides the Bakerloo Line, each station has a unique tale to tell. Baker Street, steeped in the lore and legend of Sherlock Holmes, offers a glimpse into the London of literature and legend. Embankment, a stone’s throw from the Thames, whispers of the river’s silent watch over the city’s fortunes.
And there is a darker side to the line as well. The Elephant and Castle Mob were a street gang active in London’s underworld during the interwar years. Based in the rough streets of Elephant and Castle, the Bakerloo Line’s southern terminus, the gang were rivals of the Clerkenwell-based gang led by Charles “Darby” Sabini, and of the Jewish mobster Alf Solomon: names that fans of Peaky Blinders will instantly recognise. Allied with the Birmingham Boys gang led by Billy Kimber — another name synonymous with Peaky Blinders — and the Camden Town gang, the Elephant and Castle Mob contested Sabini for dominance in London’s West End and on racecourses.
Their reign, marked by battles for control over bookmaking and extortion of bookmakers, lasted from the 1910s to the 1930s under the leadership of the McDonald brothers. However, the gang’s influence waned by the end of WWII, outmanoeuvred by Sabini’s use of Sicilian mafiosi. Wag McDonald, one of the leaders, later moved to Los Angeles, working as a bodyguard for Mafia boss Jack Dragna and celebrities like Charlie Chaplin.
And it wasn’t just the boys of South London who were having all the gangster fun. The Forty Elephants was an all-women gang that operated in London during the early 20th century. Also hailing from the mean streets of Elephant and Castle, the gang were known for their audacity and skill, primarily engaging in shoplifting and pickpocketing across the bustling streets and markets of the city.
Dressed in the garb of ordinary citizens, they adeptly blended into the crowds, fingering valuables with a finesse that often left their victims unaware until it was too late. One of their favourite modus operandi was to “put on the posh” to distract the staff of exclusive West End shops while accomplices made off with furs and silk which were high-value commodities between the wars.
The gang’s leadership and structure were shrouded in secrecy, with members bound by a code of silence that made their operations all the more elusive to law enforcement. Their leader, Alice Diamond, loved fast cars, diamond rings and partying. And although they never married, her long-term boyfriend was Elephant and Castle Mob king-pin Bert McDonald.
Today, the Bakerloo Line, with its distinctive brown hue on the Tube map, continues to serve as a vital link in the ceaseless rhythm of London. The trains, though modernised, reverberate with the echos of the past. While many of the newer lines gleam with technology and sleek new designs, the Bakerloo Line has the feeling of an old South London gent: rough around the edges but worldly-wise, carrying stories in every wrinkle, a survivor of eras that have come and gone.
As I descend into the depths of Waterloo, I too am becoming immersed in a sensory symphony unique to the underworld of this historic city. There’s a palpable shift in the atmosphere as I approach the northbound platform. I feel a sense of anticipation and the sensation that I am at one with the subterranean echoes of lives in transit.
And then, it begins. An unmistakable pulse of air heralds the arrival of a Bakerloo Line train. The gust sweeps through the station with the force of an urban zephyr, stirring newspapers and tousling hair. It is warm, carrying the heat of the ground through which the tunnels are bored, a breath of movement in the stillness underground.
As the train glides into view, there’s a moment of alignment, of potential energy poised on the brink of motion. The doors slide open and the disembodied voice I know so well intones: “MIND THE GAP.”
The carriage is new. The seats are clean and the perspex windows are unscratched. Nevertheless, some illicit dauber, scurrying in the depths, has scrawled some illegible message in spray paint on the door. The commuters spread out inside the carriage as if moved by some form of inherent Brownian Motion, pushed an equidistant amount apart from one another by gravitational force.
The doors slide shut with a sibilant hiss. There’s a slight judder and the train begins to move. The platform lights and posters begin to strobe, blurring together as the train picks up speed.
And with departure comes the sound: a distinctive fffrrreeeeeesssshhhrrrrinnggggg of steel wheels against steel rails. It is the sound that seems to encapsulate the very essence of travel on the Bakerloo Line. It’s not just mechanical noise. It’s the audible signature of the line, a sound that resonates with my memories of the city.
This auditory hallmark, the friction-born song of steel on steel, carries with it the weight of the countless journeys I have made on this line. The train disappears into the darkness of the tunnel, leaving behind a lingering vibrato in its wake.
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