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Gimme Shelter

By Rob Crossan

11 Months Ago

“You’ll never be able to get in here, mate — not a chance. Not ever,” the jocular man, bedecked in a long, black all-weather fleece jacket tells me, before manoeuvring his sizable frame back through the green door that has stood for over a century in deepest, lushest, Chelsea.

‘Never’ seems a long time. But that would, after much research, the occasional stifled laugh and more than a few incredulous expressions, have to accurately be called my correct chances of ever going inside what might just be the most inaccessible members club in London.

Dear reader, I have used my charm, wit and not inconsiderable powers of mule-like stubbornness over the years to achieve access to members clubs in London that are normally off limits to anyone who wasn’t a direct descendent of Thomas Fairfax or doesn’t reply with the quip ‘which one?’ when asked about the FTSE 100 company to which they are a notable potentate.

But the green door I want to walk through here in Chelsea doesn’t belong to Boodles, Whites or even the private office of Sir Paul McCartney. Ingress, let alone egress, is restricted to a select group of individuals who claim entry based on their continued ability to be able to locate, without satnav or street map, anywhere from a bordello in Barnet to a butcher’s in Balham without pause, hesitation or stopping for fuel or sandwiches.

London’s Hackney Carriage drivers are the only people allowed into these racing green coloured sheds, of which there are 13 scattered around central London from Embankment to Warwick Avenue.

A cosy space, about the size of a Morris Minor, has bench seating with one central table in the middle. The cabbies squeeze in like an assortment of damp fruit in a stretched carrier bag; devouring colossal full English breakfasts. Behind them on the walls are ancient carriage clocks,
an out-of-date calendar, newspaper cuttings so old they have turned the colour of nicotine stains.

There isn’t much talking. Many of these cabbies have been on the road for seven hours or more and simply want to be among their own people; hidden from London for 20 minutes or so. The atmosphere, or at least what I can see of it from my non-member stance by the delivery hatch, is one of sedate contentment; a respite from the farrago of London to be enjoyed, discreetly, in the comfort of men and women who know this city better than any police officer or tour guide.

Maria has been working in the kitchen of the Ponts Road shelter for 17 years. She was married to a cab driver for many years who died in 2014. Her husband had many friends in the famously tight knit London Hackney Carriage community. So she keeps on coming in, five days a week, from 7 am until early afternoon, to feed and water the often exhausted taxi drivers who are permitted to sit inside the shelter, and to provide snacks to shelter devotees like myself from the side hatch.

The Ponts Road shelter is typical. Crossing Sloane Street and leading to Belgrave Square, the shelter opened close to the long row of large, red brick, gabled houses in 1875 with the present structure dating back to 1892. With its tiled pitched roof and a quirky campanile on top, the cabin was more in demand in late Victorian times than it is now, with over 11,000 licensed carriage riders trotting around London on either hansoms or ‘growlers’ — the latter taking five passengers and the former with room for two.

Laws at the time dictated that drivers were bound by law to stay with their horse and carriage, regardless of weather, appetite or bladder capacity. If a driver wanted a drink, he would have to (and some regularly would) pay a passer-by to guard the horse and carriage while they stepped inside a boozer

With all the talk among the cabbies being about the spate of gruesome murders of sex workers in Whitechapel, Ryan exclaimed to the small crowd gathered in the warmth of the shelter, “I’d gladly give a good deal if I could only find the fellow who did them.”

The stranger, looking into Ryan’s face, quietly replied, “Don’t you know who committed the murders? I did them. I’ve had a lot of trouble lately. I came back from India and got into trouble at once. I lost my watch and chain and £10.”

Offering the men a swig from a bottle of brandy concealed in his coat, the drivers and Mr. Ryan declined, explaining the shelters rules of abstinence before asking him to sign the visitor’s book. He complied, identifying himself on paper as “J. Duncan; doctor; residence, Cabman’s Shelter; Sept. 30, 1888.”

Asked to also fill out his place of residence, the man uttered to the now silent shelter, “I have no fixed place of abode at present. I’m living anywhere.” After eating his chop and again offering the drink, he disappeared, uttering, “I could tell a tale if I wanted to.”

Whether this man was the Ripper or not will never be known, but hearing this story made me feel a little more comfortable about the harsh reality of never being able to gain access to that U-shaped table and those narrow benches in the back room of the shelters. At least it goes some way to explaining how the rules of ‘cabbies only’ are adhered to more strictly than in Mr. Ryan’s time.

Loitering myself (though not asking for a chop, it should be affirmed) outside the Warwick Avenue cabman shelter, I fall into conversation with Brian, a veteran cabbie of 27 years’ standing who has his own concerns about the life of a London taxi driver in the current decade.

“Uber has been killing us for years,” he admits, brandishing a sausage and bacon roll the length of my forearm.

“We’ll always keep going somehow. We’re providing a service and we’ve got the history to back us up. But it’s harder than ever. My son doesn’t want to be a cabbie. He doesn’t see the point in studying for The Knowledge for three years when you have satnav. I try to explain to him that no technology can compete with actual human knowledge of this city but I don’t think he’s interested.”

Brian climbs back into his cab and smiles at me while pointing to the shelter. “This place will be here long after we’re all gone — that’s for certain.”

He’s probably right. It’s strange how such an ostensibly flimsy structure can look so permanent — it’s almost as if the current city of London has been built around these shelters, which seem more suited to a pre-industrial Revolution village green than one of the biggest and noisiest cities in the world.

I turn and walk away as another black cab pulls up and the green door closes tight, protecting another generation of London cabbies from the city they serve.