by James Bowen
I immediately found myself in a sea of people. There were weary-looking office workers heading down the tube at the end of a day’s work, early evening revellers arriving for a night ‘up West’ and, as always, loads and loads of tourists, some with rucksacks, others clutching streetmaps, all looking a little overwhelmed at finding themselves at the beating heart of London. I had to bob and weave my way through them to even get to the entrance to the tube station. Inevitably, I bumped into a couple of people, almost knocking over one lady.
It was impossible to see anything through the constant wall of people that was moving towards me, but as I finally got to the bottom of the steps inside the concourse, things began to thin out a little bit. It was still heaving with people, but at least I could now stop and take a look around. I got down on my haunches and looked around at floor level. One or two people gave me strange looks but that didn’t concern me.
‘Bob, Bob, where are you, mate?’ I shouted at one point, immediately realising how futile that was with all the noise in there.
I had to make a guess and head in one direction. Should I go towards the barriers that led to the escalators and down to the trains or move towards the various other exits? Which way would Bob go? My hunch was that he wouldn’t go down the tube. We’d never been down there together and I had a feeling the moving escalators would frighten him.
So I moved towards the exits for the other side of Piccadilly Circus.
After a moment or two, I got a glimpse of something, just the faintest flash of ginger on one of the staircases. I then saw a lead trailing after it.
‘Bob, Bob,’ I shouted again, squeezing myself through the crowds once more as I headed in that direction.
I was now within thirty feet of him but I might as well have been a mile away, the crowds were so thick. There were streams of people coming down the staircase.
‘Stop him, step on his lead,’ I shouted out, catching another glimpse of ginger in the evening light above me.
But no one was taking any notice. No was paying any attention.
Within moments the lead had disappeared and there was no sign of Bob. He must have reached the exit, which led to the bottom of Regent Street and run off from there.
By now a million thoughts were flashing through my head, none of them good ones. What if he had run out into the road at Piccadilly Circus? What if someone had seen him and picked him up? As I barged my way up the stairs and reached street level again I was in a real state.
Truth be told, I could have burst into tears, I was so convinced that I’d never see him again.
I knew it wasn’t my fault, but I felt awful. Why the hell hadn’t I fixed his lead to my rucksack or on to my belt so that he couldn’t run any further than the length of his lead? Why hadn’t I spotted his panic when the Ripley’s guy had first appeared and moved somewhere else? I felt sick.
Again I had to make a choice. Which way would he have headed on hitting the streets? He could have turned left towards Piccadilly or even headed into the giant Tower Records store there. Again I trusted my instincts and guessed that he would have basically headed straight on – down the wider pavements of Regent Street.
Still in a complete panic, I began making my way down the street in the hope that someone had seen him.
I knew I must have been looking absolutely crazed because people were looking at me askance. Some were even moving out of my way, as if I was some deranged gunman on the rampage.
Fortunately, not everyone reacted that way.
After about thirty yards, I asked a young girl who was walking down the road with a bag from the Apple store at the Oxford Street end of Regent Street. She’d obviously walked all the way down the street, so I asked her if she’d seen a cat.
‘Oh yeah,’ she said. ‘I saw a cat weaving along the street. Ginger. Had a lead hanging behind it. One bloke tried to stamp on the lead and catch it but the cat was too quick for him.’
My immediate reaction was joy. I could have kissed her. I just knew it was Bob. But that quickly gave way to paranoia. Who was that bloke who’d tried to catch him? What was he planning to do with him? Would that have frightened Bob even more? Was he now cowering somewhere where I’d never find him?
With all these new thoughts bouncing around in my head, I carried on down Regent Street, sticking my head into every shop I passed. Most of the shop assistants looked horrified to see this long-haired figure standing in their doorways and took a step back. Others just flashed me blank expressions and slow shakes of the head. I could see what they were thinking. They thought I was some piece of dirt that had just blown in off the street.
After about half a dozen shops, my mood began to swing again, this time back towards resignation. I had no idea how long it was since Bob had run off. Time had seemed to slow down. It was as if it was all happening in slow motion. I was close to giving up.
A couple of hundred yards down Regent Street, there was a side street ahead leading back down to Piccadilly. From there he could have headed in any one of a dozen directions: into Mayfair or even across the road down to St James’s and Haymarket. If he’d gone that far then I knew he was lost.
I was about to give up and head down the side street, when I stuck my head into a ladies’ clothes shop. There were a couple of shop assistants there looking a bit perplexed and looking towards the back of the shop.
They turned to see me and the moment I said the word ‘cat’ their faces lit up.
‘A ginger tom?’ one of them said.
‘Yes, he’s got a collar and lead.’
‘He’s round the back here,’ one of them said, gesturing for me to come in and shut the door.
‘That’s why we shut the door,’ the other one said. ‘We didn’t want him to get run over.’
‘We figured someone was looking for him because of the lead.’
They led me towards a row of open wardrobes filled with fancy-looking clothes. I noticed the prices on some of them. Each one cost more money than I’d make in a month. But then, in the corner of one of the wardrobes, curled up in a ball, I saw Bob.
As time had slowed down during the past few minutes, a part of me had wondered whether he was trying to get away from me. Maybe he’d had enough of me? Maybe he didn’t want the life I offered him any more? So when I approached him I was prepared for him to bolt again and run off. But he didn’t.
I’d barely whispered softly, ‘Hey Bob, it’s me’, before he jumped straight into my arms.
All my fears about him wanting rid of me evaporated as he purred deeply and rubbed himself against me.
‘You gave me such a scare there, mate,’ I said, stroking him. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’
I looked up and saw that the two shopkeepers were standing nearby watching. One of them was dabbing her eyes, close to tears.
‘I’m so glad you found him,’ she said. ‘He looked like such a lovely cat. We were wondering what we’d do with him if no one showed up before closing time.’
She came closer and stroked Bob for a moment as well. We then chatted for a couple of minutes as she and her colleague got ready to close the till and started preparing to shut up shop for the evening.
‘Bye, Bob,’ the pair said as we headed off back into the throng around Piccadilly Circus with Bob perched on my shoulder again.
When I got back to Ripley’s I discovered - to my mild amazement – that my guitar was still there. Maybe the security guy at the door had kept an eye on it. Or perhaps one of the community support officers in the area had made sure it was safe. At the time there was a mobile police unit next to us. All the police and community support people loved Bob. He had become very popular with the police. I had no idea who the Good Samaritan was but to be honest I didn’t care. I was just glad that Bob and I were reunited.
I wasted no time in gathering up my stuff and calling it a night. We’d not made enough money but that wasn’t my biggest concern. I stopped at a general store and, with most of the cash I had on me, bought my
self a little belt clip that I attached, first to me then to his lead. It would make sure that we remained connected all the time. On the bus rather than sitting on the seat next to me as usual, he sat on my lap. He could be an inscrutable chap but at other times I knew exactly what Bob was thinking. Tonight was one of those occasions. We were together, and neither of us wanted that to change.
Chapter 10
Santa Paws
During those first few days and weeks after the drama at Piccadilly, Bob and I clung to each other like two survivors hanging on to a life raft at sea. We’d both been badly shaken by the incident.
It made me think long and hard about our friendship. For a while I kept wondering whether his escape had been a signal that he wanted to put some distance between us. Deep down I knew that if he wanted to go back on to the streets - or wherever it was he came from - ultimately there was nothing I could, or should, do to stop him.
I’d even thought through what I should do if he showed any sign of wanting to run away again. If he did, and I managed to catch him before he disappeared altogether, I decided I’d give him away to the RSPCA or Battersea Dogs and Cats Home where they had a really nice cattery. I didn’t want to be his gaoler. He had been too good a friend to me for me to curtail his freedom. He didn’t deserve that.
Thankfully though, it hadn’t come to that.
Once or twice since the incident, he had elected not to go out with me. When I had got the harness out in the morning he had run behind the sofa or hid under the table to tell me he wasn’t up for it. I’d left him to it. But in the main he had been happy to come out every day. And when he had, he had been a slightly different character, more attentive to me but, in a strange way, also more relaxed.
Despite what had happened at Piccadilly Circus, he wasn’t as frightened in crowds as he had been occasionally in the past. Maybe this was because I now had him clipped to my belt and kept a tighter hold on his lead when he was out. The truth was that I think he felt closer to me now. Our bond had been put to the test - and survived. I got the impression that now he wanted to stay by my side more strongly than ever.
Of course, it hadn’t all been a bed of roses; working on the streets of London, there are bound to be moments when you feel threatened. A couple of weeks after we saw that strange inflated character at Piccadilly we were in Covent Garden when we saw a troupe of street performers on giant stilts. They were old-fashioned French performance artists and had really, garish, scary faces.
The instant he saw them tottering around above our heads, I could tell Bob felt threatened. He squeezed in close to me. I was trying to concentrate on singing, but every now and again he stopped me from playing the guitar as he flopped his tail over the fret board.
‘Cut it out, Bob,’ I said, apologising to the one or two tourists who’d stopped to listen.
Of course, they thought it was funny and part of the act. If only I could manage to get Bob to do what I wanted so easily.
As soon as the figures on stilts had disappeared it was a completely different story, of course. With them gone he was relaxed again and he moved away from me slightly. It was as if he knew that I was his safety net. I was glad to provide it.
As Christmas 2007 approached and our first calendar year together drew to a close, our life had settled into a real routine. Each morning I’d get up to find him waiting patiently by his bowl in the kitchen. He’d guzzle down his breakfast then give himself a good wash, licking his paws and face clean. Bob was still very reluctant to do his toilet inside the flat and most mornings I’d take him downstairs to relieve himself. On other occasions I’d leave him out and let him find his own way out to the grass. He’d find his way down and back up again without any trouble. I’d then get ready, pack up my rucksack, grab my guitar and head into town.
With Christmas only days away, the crowds in Covent Garden were getting bigger and bigger. So too were the number of treats and gifts Bob was getting. From the very early days, people had got into the habit of giving Bob little presents.
The first one came from a middle-aged lady who worked in an office not far from James Street and would regularly stop and talk to us. She’d had a ginger tom herself many years earlier and had told me that Bob reminded her of him.
She had arrived one evening with a big grin on her face and a smart bag from a fancy pet shop. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I bought Bob a little present,’ she said.
‘Of course not,’ I said.
‘It’s not much,’ she said, fishing out a little stuffed figure of a mouse.
‘It’s got a little catnip in it,’ she smiled. ‘Not a lot, don’t worry.’
There was a part of me that felt awkward about it. Catnip was, after all, addictive to cats. I’d read all sorts of stuff about how it can drive them crazy if they get hooked on it. It was bad enough with me trying desperately to straighten myself out. I didn’t want Bob developing a habit as well.
But she was too nice a lady to disappoint her. She stayed for a little while, relishing the sight of seeing Bob playing with the little mouse.
As the weather took a turn for the worse, people began to give Bob more practical presents.
One day another lady, a striking-looking Russian, sidled up to us smiling.
‘Hope you don’t mind, but with the weather turning cold, I thought I’d knit Bob something to keep him warm,’ she said, producing a beautiful, light-blue knitted scarf from her shoulder bag.
‘Wow,’ I said, genuinely taken aback. ‘That’s great.’
I immediately wrapped it around Bob’s neck. It fitted perfectly and looked fantastic. The lady was over the moon. She reappeared a week or two later with a matching blue waistcoat. I was no fashion expert, as anyone who met me would have been able to tell in an instant, but even I could tell that Bob looked amazing in it. People were soon queuing to take photographs of him in it. I should have charged; I would have made a fortune.
Since then at least half a dozen more people - well, women - had dropped off various items of knitted clothing for Bob.
One lady had even embroidered the name Bob into the little scarf that she had created for him. It struck me one day that Bob was becoming a fashion model. He was regularly modelling some new creation a kindly soul had made for him. It gave a new meaning to the word ‘catwalk’.
It just underlined what I’d realised already: that I wasn’t the only one who was forming a deep affection for Bob. He seemed to make friends with almost everyone he met. It was a gift I wished I had myself. I’d never found it that easy to bond with people.
No one had fallen more deeply in love with Bob than my ex-girlfriend Belle. We were still close friends, probably better friends than when we were together and she would pop round to the flat on a regular basis. It was partly to see me and hang out but I was pretty sure that she was also coming over to see Bob.
The two of them would play together for hours on the sofa. Bob thought the world of her, I could tell.
It was about three weeks before Christmas that she came round with a plastic shopping bag in her hand and a big grin on her face.
‘What have you got in there?’ I said, sensing she was up to something.
‘It’s not for you, it’s for Bob,’ she said, teasing me.
Bob was sitting in his usual spot under the radiator, but perked up the minute he heard his name mentioned.
‘Bob, come here, I’ve got a surprise for you,’ Belle said, flopping on to the sofa with the bag. He was soon padding over, curious to find out what was inside.
Belle pulled out a couple of small animal T-shirts. One just had a picture of a cute-looking kitten on it. But the other one was red with green trim on it. It had the words ‘Santa Paws’ in large white letters with a big paw print underneath it.
‘Oh, that’s really cool Bob, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘That’s the perfect thing to wear when we’re in Covent Garden close to Christmas. That will really put a smile on people’s faces.’
It certainly did that
.
I don’t know if it was the Christmas spirit or simply seeing him in his outfit, but the effect was amazing.
‘Ah, look it’s Santa Paws,’ I’d hear people say almost every few minutes.
A lot of people would stop and drop a bit of silver into my guitar case, others, however, wanted to give Bob something.
On one occasion this very well-heeled lady stopped and started cooing over Bob.
‘He’s fabulous,’ she said. ‘What would he like for Christmas?’
‘I don’t know, madam,’ I replied.
‘Well, put it this way, what does he need?’ she said.
‘He could do with a spare harness, I guess. Or something to keep him warm when the weather gets really cold. Or just get him some toys. Every boy likes toys at Christmas.’
‘Jolly good,’ she said, getting up and leaving.
I didn’t think much more of it, but then, about an hour later, the lady reappeared. She had a big grin on her face and was carrying a smart-looking hand-knitted stocking, with cat designs on the front. I looked inside and could see it was stuffed with goodies: food, toys and stuff.
‘You must promise me that you won’t open it till Christmas,’ she said. ‘You must keep it under your tree until Christmas morning.’
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I didn’t have enough money for a Christmas tree or any decorations in the flat. The best I’d been able to rustle up was a USB Christmas tree that plugged into the battered old Xbox I’d recently found at a charity shop.
In the days after that, however, I made a decision. She was right. I should have a decent Christmas for once. I had something to celebrate. I had Bob.
I suppose I’d become desensitised to Christmas because I hadn’t had a decent one in years. I was one of those people who actively dreaded it.
During the past decade or so I’d spent most of them at places like Shelter, where they did a big Christmas lunch for homeless people. It was all very well meaning and I’d had a laugh or two there. But it just reminded me of what I didn’t have: a normal life and a normal family. It just reminded me that I’d cocked up my life.