Once my grandmother told me a story about a nearby family in which the man of the house took a serious dislike to the black cat that belonged to the family. He swore that he would kill the cat. An old lady who lived there, the family’s maternal grandmother, told him, ‘If you attempt to kill a black cat then you will yourself die by the same means. Be very careful because all cats have nine lives and black cats, in particular, are said to have been gifted with power from the Dark Side of Nature.’
But the man only grinned and made jokes of the old woman’s words.
In November of that year the nights were wintry cold, which was when the man took his chance to kill the black cat. He placed the cat along with a heavy stone in a hessian bag and secured the bag with a rope tied around the open end. He then went to Scotswood Bridge and threw the bag into the deepest waters of the Tyne. He walked home and gleefully began telling the family what he’d done when he noticed the cat, soaked to the skin, sitting on a stool by the fire and licking itself dry. No one knew how the cat had got out of the bag but from that time on the man was terrified of that cat and would go nowhere near it.
About a week later, on a Saturday night after a drinking session in the public houses along the Newcastle Quayside, the man caught the last train home. However, he did not disembark as expected at Blaydon railway station where his younger brother was waiting to help him home, knowing that he would be the worse for wear due to the amount of alcohol he regularly drank on these occasions. The man was not on the train. In fact, he was never seen alive again.
Some days later his drowned body washed up on the Newburn side of the river. The police believed that he had attempted to leave the train when it had stopped for a short while on the railway bridge over the river before pulling into the station. It was suspected that he had fallen into the waters and drowned.
After relaying this tale my grandmother sternly told me to always greet black cats with respect and never to hurt one. But, of course, she didn’t know then how deeply I would come to adore all cats and that I would spend a great deal of my life caring for them – and one singular cat called Toby Jug in particular. I have met and befriended many black cats in my life and they have always acknowledged my salutations with a muted cry or a cordial flick of the tale.
There are many other tales involving drowning in the river by Scotswood Bridge, both accidental and deliberate. At times the river surface assumes a sort of dark sheen that looks hostile and very dangerous. I never relished the thought of crossing the bridge at the best of times, but the thought of crossing it in the dark after work, in the company of a man whom I knew hated me, made me particularly nervous. I decided that if we were alone on the bridge, I would go ahead of my father to be out of his reach in case he tried to throw me into the river.
For two weeks I worked at the Co-operative for three nights a week between seven and nine o’clock. I fetched and carried tools and wood for my father as he worked. Each night as we walked home not a word was exchanged. On two of the nights the bridge was shrouded in fog as we walked home and on each foggy night I ran ahead and waited for him at the other side. I was glad when the job was over. He never again asked me to help him when he worked overtime, which left a suspicion lurking in my mind as to why he had asked me in the first place.
Mr Grange, the store manager, made a great deal of fuss over me and on the last night he gave me half a crown – a lot of money to a boy back then – for being such a hard worker. On one of the nights, he called me over and asked if I liked cats. I said that I did but my father did not allow them.
‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ he said, booming with a loud voice that was in keeping with his large size.
Then he ushered me along a corridor to a store cupboard, which he opened to reveal a litter of snow-white kittens. I loved them all at first sight. The kittens were about five weeks old and Mr Grange said I could choose one and take it home if I liked. I told him again that much as I just adored the kittens I was sure my father would not allow me to keep one. At this Mr Grange said, ‘Well, let’s go and ask him.’
With that he charged along the corridor to where my father was working. Taken aback by Mr Grange’s hearty manner my father was at first at a loss for words. It was then that I had a sudden inspiration. Knowing that he wouldn’t indulge my liking for pet animals I blurted out, ‘My mother has always said she would love to have a white cat!’
My father looked at me and then at Mr Grange, who was grinning from ear to ear.
‘Very well, then, pick a kitten to please your mother and we’ll take it home as a surprise for her.’
I hurried back to the store cupboard and knelt down beside the box holding the kittens. They were all lovely but one little male kitten stood out from the rest. He looked as if he wanted to be the leader of the pack. I chose him and Mr Grange brought a cardboard box of just the right size to fit him into, along with some straw to keep him warm for the journey home.
On our arrival my father said to my mother, ‘He has a present for you.’ She looked mystified.
I presented her with the box, which was fastened shut with some string tied around to keep it secure. When she opened the box and saw the white kitten a look of delight crossed my mother’s face as she exclaimed ‘What have we here?’
Apprehensive of my father standing there, I interjected hastily, ‘You always said you would love a white cat didn’t you, Mother?’
My mother gave me a sharp look and quickly appraised the situation.
‘Well, yes I did. Thank you both for this lovely present. He’ll always be safe with me.’
She wanted to reassure me that the kitten would be safe from my father.
‘Now, what shall we call him?’ she continued. ‘Help me pick a name for him.’
At this juncture my father disappeared and I was left with my mother who worriedly whispered, ‘Has he been all right with you?’
I nodded and didn’t say more for fear of being overheard. The white kitten was now out the box and lying comfortably in true cat fashion on my mother’s lap as she sat in her chair by the fireside. I tried to think of an appropriate name for the kitten. I came up with Blanco, Chalkie and Snowy, trying out the names on my mother to see what she thought of them.
‘They are very good names,’ she said. ‘Any one of them would do.’ And then she had an inspiration. ‘Do you recall there was an item in the newspapers lately about a baby polar bear that was born at London Zoo? Do you remember what it was called?’
‘Brumas!’ I almost shouted as the memory of the picture of the cuddly little white bear came back to mind.
‘Then his name shall be Brumas,’ my mother said, smiling.
Meanwhile, the kitten, who still retained the blue eyes of kittenhood, looked on and appeared quite content to have been given a special name.
As I stood up to go for my supper I heard a creak of the floorboards in the hallway as someone moved. Undoubtedly my father had been listening surreptitiously to what we had said. I was pleased that he had overheard my mother choosing the name for the little white cat – it made the kitten seem more obviously hers. Perhaps then Brumas would be safe in this house. I decided to be very careful not to attach him too closely to me, because that could put his life in danger.
I offered my mother the half-crown that Mr Grange had given me because I knew she was always short of money. She thanked me with a lovely smile but said that I should keep it to save for something that I would really like. What I really wanted was a bicycle. I had yearned for one for years but the timing never seemed to be right to ask for one. I thought perhaps this year I could ask for a bicycle for my birthday, especially if I raised some of the money towards its cost.
Brumas proved to be an exceptional cat and lived with my mother for seventeen years. Although he was allowed to roam free he managed to avoid the fate of many of the other cats in our area, who were run over on the busy roads. I loved him, but as I had promised to myself, I kept my distance. I was right to
be wary of my father’s continuing cold-heartedness towards animals. On a summer morning soon after Brumas had arrived, I saw him go up a ladder to drag out a starling’s nest, complete with fledglings, from a gap under the roof of our house. I was filled with despair to see the nest and its occupants hurled into the back lane and to hear the distressed cries of the mother bird as she circled the smashed nest. Unfortunately there was nothing I could do to save them. As far as I know, though, my father never turned his hatred towards Brumas – making sure that he was never thought of as my cat seemed to work.
My life at home, school and church during my early boyhood generated a yearning for a happier, normal sort of life which I hoped to able to live one day, but I knew that to attain it I would have to get away from the circumstances in which I was presently trapped. This endeavour was now a preoccupation of my mind. Gaining a place at grammar school opened up new vistas for me, which I was determined and happy to pursue, but the secret place in the woods would never be far from my mind and I would still retreat there whenever I needed to embrace nature in all its myriad forms.
At weekends when my homework was finished and the weather was pleasant I would steal away to languish by the lake near the slim wooden bridge, which afforded me a close-up view of life at the water’s edge. It was here, on a long, sunny day in spring, that I took to watching a stickleback in the water. He wore his mating plumage, with dark stripes and spines on his back and an iridescent turquoise underside, as he skilfully weaved his nest of water weed. He was very meticulous in his attention to detail, trying to create as attractive a nest as possible so that a female would come to lay her eggs there for him to fertilize. Once this had been accomplished, his role would be to spend much of his time guarding the nest containing the young from predators, like a really loving father. Eventually the young would leave the nest to begin a new life and he would retire and die.
Meanwhile, he spent a great deal of time and concentration selecting only the freshest looking greenery and pulling together the strands of weed. Watching him, which I did for well over an hour, I could tell that he was exercising careful judgement as to whether each piece of weed seemed right for one particular spot or should go somewhere else. I was convinced that I was viewing a natural work of art in the making. This elegant tiny creature, created and designed by the evolution of nature, was an inspiration to behold. It was soulfully uplifting to observe him attending to his decreed purpose, his destiny if you like, without any need for guidance from external sources. He knew what to do because it was what he’d been created to do. If he did it well then he and his offspring would survive. If he didn’t do it well, if he made a hash of it, then his survival and that of his species might or would be in jeopardy. This was his moral code, his responsibility for the continuance of his kind – so simple to understand and follow.
If I had voiced any such thoughts to my father, to teachers at my school or to the priest at our church, I would have been condemned as a heretic for ascribing responsible sentience – the ability to perceive or feel things – to a being other than a human. Yet I knew it to be true because I had seen it happening with my own eyes. Of course, cynics might accuse me of anthropomorphism – projecting human qualities on to animal behaviour. But I have always believed that such a charge is invalid since my observations have always led me to recognize that animals, especially mammals and birds, feel pain and experience anxiety, have concerns about survival and need to mate, much as humans do. Pet animals often express sentiments of loving affection and even sympathy for their human guardians. Those people who do not believe that animals are really aware or can feel things can give themselves the licence to do anything they wish to an animal, including vivisection.
Much of what I think about nature to this day was worked out in those childhood times in Axwell Park, observing the rhythms of nature in so many different forms. I loved the animals and birds of the wild wood and lakeside, which had become a kind of second home, and one far preferable to my other one. And because I loved them, I made the effort to understand them, just like I would try to understand the thoughts and needs of my friendly little cat, Toby Jug, in later life. In ancient Chinese philosophy man (and no doubt woman, too) was considered to be part of the natural world and able to benefit from its wisdom and exist totally in harmony with it. I didn’t know much about Chinese philosophy back then, but I came to the same conclusion.
I started to make friends with boys who lived in the houses around Axwell Park. They had seen me in the park on numerous occasions but they weren’t sure about me at first because they suspected that I went to the Catholic school, while they were from the Church of England elementary school. The divisive effects of religion were apparent even at this early age and many were the days when I witnessed ‘Sod Fights’ taking place in the streets around the two schools. This consisted of the antagonists pulling up the clumps of weeds growing between the cobbles of the unpaved streets and throwing them at each other to the sound of accusatory war-cries such as ‘Catholic rats’ and ‘Proddy dogs’. Once the boys of Axwell Park discovered that I’d been born in the locality and that my religious views were as neutral as their own, we got along just fine.
Many of these boys became lasting friends of mine. ‘Tann’ was my best friend. His given name was Alan but no one except his mother called him that. His nickname was short for tanner, the slang term for half a shilling – his brother was called Bob, which was slang for a shilling, and Tann was only half Bob’s size. Another of my friends was called Jerry, who was an expert at climbing trees and catching baby birds, which he took from nests high in the treetops and raised himself. He had a jackdaw as one of his pets and it followed him everywhere. Our gang also included Martin and Phil, both from my class at grammar school, and together we maintained a deep respect for wildlife and nature.
In summer we would often play cricket together, while in winter we made icy slides on the fringes of the frozen lake and supped hot mugs of Ovaltine provided in the kitchens of benevolent mothers who lived in the elegant houses surrounding the lake. We were all lucky because none of us broke the ice and fell in, as adult warnings often predicted. In summer we built a raft and played out stories of adventures that we had heard read on Children’s Hour on the wireless or that we had read in books about the Famous Five.
When we tired of the woods and the park we searched for pastures new in which to act out our adventurous fantasies. We moved over the road from Axwell Park to the banks of the River Derwent and played explorers as we paddled up river from Swalwell through woodland to the area around Winlaton Mill. One of our small party, Martin, had been given a canoe by his cousin who taught physical education and games in a senior school. This really opened up our opportunities for adventurous play. One day there were four of us in this long, open, wooden canoe. Two of us, one on either side, were paddling and pretending we were trailblazers on a mysterious river through hostile country. Suddenly we heard ahead of us the strident howling and baying of a dog. Navigating a bend in the turbulent river we came in sight of a small island of sand and gravel with sparse bushes growing on it. Marooned on this spit of land was a huge mongrel dog that was nervously pacing back and forth along the edge of the islet.
We attempted to rescue the animal by beaching the canoe and trying to entice the dog to come aboard with us. However, the current kept pushing the canoe around and once we almost capsized when we were standing up in our efforts to persuade the dog to join us. At last we gave up and paddled across to the opposite bankside where we were able successfully to moor the craft against the bank. We attached a rope from the front end of the canoe to a young tree. From there we witnessed the dog going crazier and crazier while stuck on the island.
His barks became so frenzied that I could bear it no longer. Stripping off my shirt, I waded into the river and swam the short distance to the gravel spit. Two of my friends followed me part of the way but stayed in the shallows ready to help. Thank goodness I had learned to swim prope
rly when I went on holiday with my Uncle Fred and Aunt Betty. I easily reached the beach and the dog ran to me all friendly, wagging its tail and jumping up on me, wanting to be stroked. I patted and fondled him. He was young, little more than a puppy and he needed to be reassured that all was well.
Since the Derwent is a tidal tributary of the Tyne, its depth changes. I realized that the dog must have been able to cross over to the island through the shallows when the tide was low. Later, while he was busy sniffing around the bushes and boulder-strewn river debris, the river must have risen and when he encountered the fast current he must have lost his nerve and become too frightened to venture across. My coming comforted him and gave him confidence and so, grasping his collar, I led him to the river and pulled him in. Once he felt the waters around him he thrust out with me and soon we waded ashore, aided by my friends. The dog shook itself then raced off out of sight. What price gratitude?
It was a great experience for me and it raised my standing in the group. From then on I would often take the role of leader when we did things together.
It was blissful to feel a burgeoning independence, both inside and outside school now I had started at the grammar school. My health improved and I began to grow much stronger but it was chiefly my mind that was benefiting. I sensed a sort of liberation through contact with the world of arts and sciences. I felt that nothing could stop me now and I fell upon my books with a ravenous intellectual hunger.
A TERRIFYING DOG CALLED BRUNO
The backstreet culture of Mary Street, where we lived, was very diverse. Our neighbours may have been quite poor, but on the other side of the back lane the houses that fronted on to Blaydon Bank had conservatories and gardens. Some of the people who lived there were much better off than we were. At the top corner of the street lived Dr Morrison, whose large, wild garden provided a secret playground for myself and some of the other children in the street. Down from the doctor’s house there lived a well-to-do family with a commercial business of some kind and next down was the house where Mr Markham had lived. Further down the lane most of the residents could often be seen at the front of their properties as their gardens overlooked the road. One house seemed more closed off, though – it was owned by a teacher, who worked at our school, and her sister, who seemed to be constantly sick.
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