By the Piccadilly Line

Martin was running slightly late on schedule. As he stood on the platform, he tried to position himself as close as possible to where he estimated one of the carriage doors should arrive. He planned to stand just inside the door, so he could be first out and running for the stairs when the train arrived at Knightsbridge, two stops down the line.

At the same time as he made these calculations, shifting to and fro and side to side, he was reviewing the little opening statement he intended to give at his interview, this final interview that would determine whether he would or would not get the job. He was frowning with concentration, his long face looking almost disconsolate, his head thrust forward and his shoulders hunched.

It was quarter-past ten in the morning, so the platform was not crowded. In any case, he took no notice of the other people and did not observe Caroline. Standing a few yards away from him, she was on her way home from a talk on rugby, her new-found sport. She, however, had certainly observed him. Indeed, she was watching him fixedly.

“Yes,” she said to herself, “he’s one of them.” She had been reading an article about suicides on the underground, how they can be identified, how even the simplest intervention by another passenger can be enough to save a life.

“Yes, he’s going to throw himself under the train. Oh! Here it comes!”

Martin stepped forward slightly, his foot crossing the yellow line. Caroline knew her duty. She ran towards him then, determined to beat the train, launched herself at him. She was unpractised and it was not a great flying tackle, although historians later said it was the only one that had ever been recorded at Gloucester Road station, but it brought him to the ground.

At first, he thought he’d been mugged. Then he saw it was only an apparently demented girl gabbling at him.

“What the hell do you think you’re up to?” he shouted.

“It’s all right,” she said, “things are not as bad as you think. Let’s go somewhere where we can have a quiet chat.”

“Are you crazy? You are the very last person in the world that I would conceivably want to have a chat with. Now get out of my way and let me catch my train.”

That afternoon, Martin emerged from the station and popped straight into the Stanhope Arms for two pints of London Pride. Then he went to the big Sainsbury’s, almost skipping as he walked. He had been late for his interview, somewhat dishevelled and bleeding slightly, but he had managed to turn the contretemps into a nice little comic anecdote and everything had gone exceedingly well. In fact, he had got the position.

In Sainsbury’s he made sure he grabbed a bottle of wine and a Lancashire hot-pot for his celebratory supper and then he danced around the supermarket filling his trolley with assorted necessities. He felt as light-footed and elegant as Gene Kelly, although he looked more like a galumphing elephant. He gave the trolley a little push, and the wicked imp who inhabits all supermarket trolleys took over. The machine rolled away, gathering speed as it went. A young woman was just rounding the end of the aisle and it caught her squarely betwixt wind and water.

“Oh, my God,” cried Martin, “it’s the mad woman. She’ll think I did it on purpose, out of revenge.” He ran and helped her to her feet.

“I’m sorry, so sorry, I didn’t mean to. Look, can I buy you a drink by way of apology?”

“Are you crazy?” responded Caroline, “you are the very last person in the world that I would conceivably want to have a drink with.”

The following morning, Martin, still ebullient about his new job, was bounding cheerfully up the stairs from the platform to the lift and naturally went around the top corner on the inside. Meanwhile, Caroline, determined to get herself fit for rugby by running everywhere, was cantering from the lift to the top of the stairs. She naturally went around the corner on the inside. They crashed into each other.

“Oof,” said Martin, “This must be destiny. I’ll agree to the chat if you’ll agree to the drink.” She did, so off they went to the Stanhope.

He returned from the bar carrying his pint and her gin and tonic, a large one, as promised. The carpet was slightly rucked up, he tripped over it and decanted gin and tonic neatly into her lap.

“I can’t stand any more of this,” she said, “I’m off.”

“Well,” he called, “at least leave me your telephone number. Please.” She hesitated on her way to the door.

“OK, then.”

“While you’re at it, I might as well replace the G & T.”

Their life together since then has been sensuous, cheerful and on the whole uneventful, except for the day after their return from the honeymoon when she dropped a pan of boiling water on his foot. He had to go into hospital for a few days, but he never doubted that she loved him, and she never doubted that he loved him.