Very few households had a car, which meant that transport was limited to either travelling by bus or walking. Returning from shopping expeditions laden with produce people tended to use the back-lane entry to their homes in preference to the front which required a longer walk. Bruno, a large mongrel dog, changed all that. He was the pet belonging to the teacher’s sick sister and when he grew too big and lively to be kept indoors he started to spend most of his time outside. There he resided alone, without any attention for his need for proper exercise or to learn the skills of acceptable behaviour. After a brief reconnaissance Bruno decided that the street was ripe for take-over. To achieve this he positioned himself halfway up the cobbled strip in line with the residence of his owner. To all who dared now to venture up or down the lane this commanding position became known as ‘Checkpoint Bruno’; it could not to be breached except at risk of personal injury.
Very few people dared to confront the ferocity of Bruno’s warnings and several neighbours reckoned themselves fortunate not to have been bitten. If anyone deigned to ignore his barks Bruno would charge at them until they were chased away. Such was the alarming situation into which I walked late one afternoon on my return from school. Bruno and I came face-to-face for the first time. His first furious onslaught of barking and growls had no effect since I just stood in front of him completely dumbfounded at the belligerence of this dog in my backstreet.
‘What do you think you are doing?’ I said, keeping my voice as calm as I could.
Bruno, somewhat taken aback by my response, sat down and glared at me. Then he switched back into aggressive mode and charged at me until I was backed up against the wall at the side of the street. Having dealt with me he trotted off to resume his control point whilst I paused to review the situation. I was adamant on one point. I would not be domineered by a dog.
Having a quick think I recalled a story told by one of my father’s brothers, Tony, a railway engineer who had lived and worked in South Africa while helping to establish the country’s national railway system. One day when he was visiting the family, he came into my bedroom to chat to me and we sat by my room’s small gas fire. He was a large man with big hands, a red face and thinning blond hair. He had undoubtedly summed me up accurately as something of a nervous, shy kid and I think he went out of his way to tell me a true story about a lioness in an attempt to toughen up my little-boy character. I remember looking at him and thinking that nothing on this earth would daunt this man who resembled, in the flesh, any one of my heroes from the pages of John Buchan’s novels. The way he talked about his work brought Africa alive for me.
He told me that one day, while he was engaged in supervising the native work gangs building the South African railway, a lioness with two cubs approached their work camp and just sat and watched the activities. At the sight of the lions the workforce fled and hid in the bush yelling for my uncle and the two armed security guards to kill them. My uncle approached the lioness cautiously but noted that she showed no sign of aggression and simply sat up and watched as he drew near whilst the cubs prudently huddled against her side for protection.
‘She was hungry,’ my uncle said. ‘With two growing cubs to feed she needed plenty of game and there wasn’t so much available in that area. Besides which, lions are lazy animals and no doubt she could smell the cooking from the camp and was expecting to find some leftovers; perhaps she’d already benefited from other railway workings and was not afraid to take a chance on a free meal.’
What my Uncle Tony did next astounded his native gangs and showed the mettle of the man. ‘I slowly walked towards her, holding the back of my left hand out facing her and without making eye contact, which can cause a fight response. I offered my hand to her face. She shifted her stance ever so slightly and then, as I’d expected, reached out with her enormous tongue and slavered all over my hand; she was just like a big dog.’
He then called the cook to bring whatever was left from the impala meat they had eaten the night before. Since the black African cook had a deep respect for the power of lions, he would not come very close, so my uncle gathered up the food and spread it out for the lions. ‘To say that the lioness and her cubs relished the meal would be an understatement,’ he continued. ‘She followed our workings and visited us each morning as we pushed ever forward with the railway line. One morning, after about ten days, we looked out for her but she was gone and we never saw her or her cubs again. They had moved on, as we were doing, laying the rails and hacking a way through the bush.’
I remember his parting words to me: ‘Let nothing daunt you. You can be and you can do whatever is necessary as long as you respect other living things but you need to believe in yourself first.’
As he said these words to me I reflected on how different my father was from some of his brothers. In his youth Uncle Tony had been a local champion snooker player, which wasn’t the sort of thing I could imagine my father ever being. ‘It’s all a matter of knowing the angles, kid,’ he said to me. ‘Learn your geometry well and it will win snooker and billiard matches for you.’
Now the memory of my Uncle Tony’s encounter with the lioness flashed through my mind as I faced the situation with Bruno. I decided in trepidation to try my uncle’s ploy with the lioness. The big dog looked somewhat startled as I began slowly walking towards him and when several warning growls failed to deter me he resorted to loud barking, just the way bullies – of either the canine or human varieties – tend to do. I could tell from the bright yellow flecks showing in his eyes that he had expected me to run from his barking. Since I had now almost reached him he wasn’t sure what to do.
Trying to control my fear I steadily began to extend the back of my left hand towards him. He watched my hand all the way to his muzzle and his eyes crossed in consternation and puzzlement. I stood firm although my heart was racing. Then, in a marvellous confirmation of my Uncle Tony’s words, he reached out and licked my hand. My relief was palpable and I stroked his massive head and neck and spoke soft words to him. From that moment on he was mine. The big dog was getting what he had wanted all the time – affection and attention. By calling his bluff I had exposed his ordinary dog nature, the side that yearned for companionship and control.
He followed me to my back door and, when I turned to face him and ordered him to sit and wait, he didn’t resist. He seemed willing to demure to my every command. It seemed like a miracle to me, although I expect it is something that all dog trainers know. I realized that Bruno had just been feeling lonely and neglected. He needed to be walked and given loving care and that is what I determined to give him as far as I could, although I did not dare take him into our house for obvious reasons. I hurried inside, deposited my school bag, filled my pocket with cornflakes and shouted hello to my mother who I could hear doing something upstairs.
Then, with Bruno following me, I called on his owner, a sickly looking young woman who stank of cigarettes. She responded enthusiastically to my request to exercise Bruno and gladly supplied me with a strong metal lead and a muzzle. She told me that since her husband was working away, Bruno had got out of control and she felt unable to do anything about it. I think she was one of the many people who acquire a lovable little puppy that grows into a dog that is far too large for them to control. Life can become a misery for everyone concerned, not least the dog. She warned me to be careful because he could be aggressive so I thanked her.
Once outside, watched by more than a few anxious neighbours, I attached Bruno’s lead, causing him to start leaping for joy, and we set off together on our first walk, which I decided would be along the banks of the Tyne by the old racecourse. He was itching to be off and yet I detected in the way he walked to the lead a semblance of the discipline that someone had spent time schooling in him in the past, probably his lady-owner’s husband who was no longer there for her or for Bruno.
As we got underway Bruno’s eagerness for exercise consumed him and he began to tow me along the road as if I was in one of the A
laskan husky dog races I had seen on the big screen at the cinema. He was almost too much for me to restrain even though I shortened the lead and pulled him back to walk to heel. At last we reached the green pastures of the old racecourse, which was bordered by the clean upper waters of the River Tyne. Unable to curb his fervour any longer, I unclipped his lead from the body harness and told him, ‘Go, boy, go.’ He took off like the wind and was soon out of sight. It wasn’t long before he came closer again, though, bounding his way towards me.
I walked in a sombre mood along the river banks, crunching my dry cornflakes. Haunting memories of a dog called Monty were heavy on my mind. Bruno, meanwhile, was busy pounding his way around me in ever decreasing circles until at last he collapsed at my side, with his tongue out and gasping for air. I had brought a small bottle of water with me and a large tin lid in anticipation of Bruno’s needs. He noisily slaked his thirst with his newfound gusto for life. I felt sorry for his sickly owner, but I paused to think how misguided it was to leave a dog, and a big dog at that, stuck in a back lane with no other exercise than to harass passers-by. For the rest of the evening Bruno and I got along fine and, after an invigorating two hours of fresh air, we were both ready for home.
Bruno’s owner thanked me on our return and I was glad to see that she had a large bowl of dog meat ready for him. After a hastily gulped meal of cold egg and chips which had been left out for me – my own fault for missing suppertime – I got stuck into my school homework, feeling on top of the world.
Whenever I could spare the time from school work I spent it with Bruno. We walked the hills, riverbanks and woods together and I showed him all my secret places. I took him walking on most evenings, weather permitting, and he was always likely to provide some excitement, especially if I unbuckled his lead for a while to allow him freedom to roam as I rested just to enjoy the view. Sometimes it was necessary to hasten to the aid of someone accosted by him. Even though I regularly fixed his muzzle when we were out together he could still present a formidable presence. Once, with his growls and fierce disposition, he cornered two terrified workmen who were taking a short cut home through the woods and I was called to the scene by their sounds of alarm. Sometimes in these situations, he would even snarl at me but usually my matter-of-fact attitude soon had him under control and once more attached to his lead.
He was great company and I soon realized what a bright and friendly dog he was. I ran errands for the neighbours to earn pocket money and, whether it was early morning or evening, I took Bruno with me. There was a dual purpose to this. Some of the older boys at my old school, St Joseph’s Elementary School, would wander the backstreets looking for kids to rob and I had fallen prey to this in the past. But with Bruno at my side none of them dared to bother me. He proved to be a good friend and we shared many happy moments together as we divided a meat pie between us from the bakery shop or lay on our backs on a verdant hillside watching silver wisps of cloud chasing each other in the big blue sky.
Bruno, I realized, shared my own needs for love and attention and we were fortunate to have discovered each other. On one special evening, which I shall remember forever, I was resting on a slope of the riverbank, enfolded in the warm sunshine of a late summer evening. Bruno, meanwhile, spent an hour chasing black-headed gulls and huge gannets by crashing into the river over and again, simply for the fun of sending the birds shrieking and wheeling away from their feeding patches. The birds would then soar majestically over him, emitting their soulful cries that were so much the sound of the coast that lay just five miles downriver. When at last he finished his jollification he bounded back to where I was lying and shook himself all over me, drenching my T-shirt. It soon dried in the warm air and I didn’t mind at all. The big dog was expressing his delight in being alive and free, just as we all need to do now and again.
I lay back against the grassy bank and breathed the flower scented air of eventide. I half-closed my eyes to better savour such a blissful moment. Slanting sunbeams charged the leaves of oak saplings behind me into a bouquet of rustic gold and Bruno, having finished rolling in the grass, came and lay on me. His face was directly in front of me and his eyes shone with flecks of green and yellow. Then this supposedly savage dog began to lick my face all over in a most caring way. According to dog lore he was paying me a compliment and giving me a treat. I submitted willingly enough and appreciated the sentiment, even though it felt awful. Afterwards we lay side by side in lazy repose and whiled the day away.
Good times are never everlasting and so it proved for me and Bruno. At school I was obliged to attend a residential environmental studies course at a centre far away in Northumberland for five days. When I returned there was no sign of Bruno at his back-lane station and in response to my enquiry I was informed, as I had begun to suspect, that he was gone. He had been put to death. His crime, I learned, was that he had bitten the leg of a man delivering coal who had dared to infringe his territory. Since there was no one to plead for a reprieve, capital punishment was immediately put into effect and Bruno was quickly gone forever. He remains just a fragment of my fond memories. I missed his dominant presence in our lane although others rejoiced at his going.
It was now autumn and one cold evening I retraced the route we had taken on a fine summer’s day to lie in the sunshine by the River Tyne. The leaden, overcast skies were darkening when I approached the spot where that large, ferocious dog had licked my face with tender loving care. There were wavelets on the river and the fierce wind blew sprinkles of spray that stung my face like icy needles. I already had tears in my eyes as I whispered a prayer for Bruno, who had proved to be too much for this world to accommodate. Saddened by a sense of loss I turned homewards knowing that life would never be quite the same on my country walks without the company of my big, rumbustious pal.
A BICYCLE AT LAST
I had passed the exam to go to grammar school and my twelfth birthday had come and gone, but I still hadn’t managed to get a bike. My mother dithered about asking my father to get me one partly because she knew he would complain about the expense and partly because she was concerned about my safety – traffic on the roads seemed to be increasing every day and there were frequent reports of fatal road accidents in our area.
Eventually she asked him and wore him down until he at last conceded. One Saturday he took me to a shop in Blaydon High Street that sold shiny new bicycles. Entering the shop was a joyous moment for me. I had often lingered outside the shop, just staring at the window display of desirable machines. The prices were exorbitant but at last a basic ‘sit up and beg’ style bicycle was selected. It was a shiny black model with silver handlebars. A large deposit of my savings, with modest supplements from my Uncle John and my grandmother, was passed over the counter, and my father signed a form agreeing to pay the remaining three shillings and eleven pence each month for six months to complete the purchase. We were given a small blue book in which to record the payments and at last the deal was finalized. The bike would be available for collection on the following Monday.
Coming out of the shop I felt like I was walking on air. It was wonderful to think that come Monday I would at last have a bike of my own. My sense of mild celebration was not to last for long. Almost as soon as we had left the shop my father grabbed me roughly by the arm and snarled down at me.
‘Make sure you get that money together because I’m not paying for it. You understand?’ He then thrust the payment book into my hand and walked off.
I was shocked by his reaction and simply nodded. I realized once again what a mean and horrible man he was, totally different from the loving fathers of my friends, even those who came from homes more deprived than our own. If only I could have lived with the man I believed to be my true father, my Uncle Dan. Things would have been different and I would have had two brothers to support and play with me. My father never paid a penny towards my bike which I managed to pay for myself with a little help from my grandmother. In the meantime, he would thrust a writte
n wager on the horse races into my hands, together with a ten shilling note, and say, ‘Run along and give that to Bells the Bookie, and see you don’t lose it.’
After I had collected it from the shop, my bike made up for many things that weren’t right in my life. There were a few tools provided in a small leather bag that was attached behind the seat and it took me no time at all to make the necessary adjustments to the saddle and the pedals. I was soon able to mount my bike, thrust against the pedals and effortlessly glide away. I was ecstatic at having my own ‘wheels’ that finally gave me the freedom to go almost anywhere I liked, when I liked – it felt like I had been let out of prison. It was a momentous occasion in my life.
I cycled everywhere during the holidays. I could now do errands with greater speed and carry more shopping, strapping it on to the handlebars. I could now join up with my friends, all of whom already had bikes, and we could plan excursions. We would ride across to Rowlands Gill and Dunstan, and we often rode over Scotswood Bridge and cycled through Newburn and on to Prudhoe where we crossed the Tyne again. At this point we would stop by the green grassy banks of the river to eat our sandwiches and crisps. The waters by the upper reaches of the Tyne run crystal clear and we often plodged in the river shallows on sunny days and, removing our shirts, we splashed our faces and chests with the exuberant high spirits of boyhood. Then we mounted our bikes again and made our way down to Ryton and back to Blaydon. It was an exhilarating time to be a young teenage boy with a group of like-minded companions and to feel as free as the air we breathed.
Paw Tracks Page 10