When I first came to London from Yorkshire in the late 1980s, I found the tube replete with bizarre novelties. Among them was the way most trains required me to sit sideways to the direction of travel, as on a fairground waltzer. Directly opposite me was another person or an empty seat, and while I knew not to stare at people, I did stare at the seats – at their woollen coverings, called moquette. I have since written two books about them, the first nonfiction, Seats of London, and now a crime novel, The Moquette Mystery.
I was attracted to moquette firstly because it, like me, came from Yorkshire (most of it back then was woven in Halifax), and whereas many foreign metros have seats of plastic or steel, moquette made the tube cosy. Yet it seemed underappreciated. The index of the standard history of the tube, for instance, proceeds blithely from Moorgate to Morden.
Barman moquette fabric, featuring London landmarks, on the Northern line. Photograph: Alicia Canter/The Guardian
A moquette might last a decade or more on a particular vehicle, coinciding with a Londoner’s formative years, the design evoking forever after those tube rides to triumphs and disasters. For generation Z, the resonant one is likely to be Barman, introduced in 2010 to replace a range of moquettes deemed too diffuse. Therefore, our two-hour moquette tour begins on one of the many lines to use Barman: the Northern line, from Leicester Square to Charing Cross.
The landmarks depicted seem suffused in a haze of blue rain, and the harder you stare, the more the top of Big Ben becomes Battersea Power Station
Barman is named after Christian Barman, publicity officer to Frank Pick who, as vice-chair of London Transport in the 1930s, commissioned the roundel symbol, the tube map, Charles Holden’s subtly modernist station architecture and many posters and moquettes. Barman was designed by Wallace Sewell (Harriet Wallace-Jones and Emma Sewell) and, unusually for moquette, it’s figurative; but it’s also mysterious. The landmarks it depicts seem suffused in a haze of blue rain, and the harder you stare, the more the top of Big Ben becomes Battersea Power Station – and is that Southwark cathedral looming ghostly behind the dome of St Paul’s?
At Charing Cross, we change on to the Bakerloo, which has a darker version of Barman, the same landmarks at night, perhaps. The sombre black, grey and brown colour scheme suits the crepuscular mood of these elderly trains; it is also historically valid. In the early 1920s, the first moquette widely applied on the underground – called Lozenge – was the colour of dried mud, a capitulation to the dirtiness of clothes in those days before widespread dry-cleaning.
A memorial at Piccadilly Circus to Frank Pick, who commissioned many moquettes. Photograph: Alicia Canter/The Guardian
In the late 1930s, Frank Pick commissioned brighter moquettes from leading textile designers, including Enid Marx and Marion Dorn. He favoured red and green – red symbolising the town, green the country – and he considered green serene. My novel is set in this golden age of the underground, epitomised by the lambent glamour of Piccadilly Circus station concourse, which features a sort of shrine to Pick, showing his watchwords in brass on the marble wall. These range from “Utility” to “Beauty”, and moquette has usually been filed under the first word, but the second applies to the best of it.
We go from Picadilly Circus to Green Park on the Piccadilly line – Barman again, but with a richer blue than on the Northern line. It reflects the line colour and the dark blue of the Underground roundel bar, which a transport designer once described to me as “the reassuring colour of an old-fashioned police lamp”.
The Victoria line moquette uses multiple V-shapes, evoking she who was not amused
At Green Park, we take the Victoria line to Oxford Circus. This unnamed moquette uses multiple V-shapes, evoking she who was not amused. The Vs are white, which shows the dirt, but the radiated light suggests diamond facets and alleviates the claustrophobia of this line which never comes above ground.
At Oxford Circus, we observe some Central line trains, waiting for a lucky break. Most have Barman, but some refurbished trains have a new red, black and grey moquette called Tuppenny, the Central having once been “the Tuppenny Tube”. It is reminiscent of a Central line moquette of the late 80s, my “home” line back then, when the red and black seemed consoling, like a coal fire.
The new Elizabeth line seats have about eight colours. Photograph: Alicia Canter/The Guardian
I suggested to Paul Marchant, head of product design at Transport for London, that Tuppenny was “retro”. “Yes,” he said, “I was on holiday when it was commissioned!” A joke (I think), but moquette is meant to keep pace with London; it is not supposed to be retro. Currently, only two Central line trains have Tuppenny, so the odds are against our sitting on it while heading west to our next stop, Bond Street.
Here, we board the Elizabeth line for Paddington. Most moquettes have four colours, but on the luxurious, hi-tech Lizzy line, it has about eight. The designers (Wallace Sewell) were briefed to incorporate royal purple, a strident shade unlikely to be “serene” if emphasised. So it’s subsumed here amid others, representing connecting lines and suggesting train movements digitally represented in some futuristic signal box.
At Paddington, we board a Circle or Hammersmith & City line train heading east. We are now on one of the “cut-and-cover” lines just below street level. If you don’t know which lines are sub-surface, the moquette on those trains tells you. The colours of the small rectangles set against a black background denote the Circle, H&C, District and Metropolitan lines.
Moquette cushions at the London Transport Museum. Photograph: Alicia Canter/The Guardian
Moquette has a pile – tufts – that can be left as loops or cut for a more vivid colour and a velvety texture, and this sub-surface one is entirely cut, so it is not as hard-wearing as others. The seats near the doors (the most popular ones) are badly worn, with the backing fabric “grinning through”, to use the technical term. I am assured there are “big plans” to address this.
At King’s Cross we head south on the Piccadilly line to Covent Garden and the London Transport Museum. In the cafe, we sip the museum’s excellent coffee while sitting on seats covered with their own special moquette, which is red and green in homage to Frank Pick. In the museum shop, moquettes past and present are for sale as bags, cushions, pouffes and so on. That Londoners are willing to pay to have a symbol of public transport in their homes is a tribute to the legacy of Pick. As the man himself said: “The quality of our surroundings contributes to the quality of our own lives.”
Andrew Martin’s novel, The Moquette Mystery, is published by Safe Haven. To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply
