A Street Cat Named Bob Page 14

  It started with snide remarks.

  ‘Floating around again today,’ one vendor said to me sarcastically as I passed his pitch one morning. At least he was vaguely civil about it.

  Another vendor, around St Martin’s Lane, had been much more direct.

  ‘Whose sales are you and that mangy moggie going to steal today?’ he had snarled at me.

  Again, I tried to explain the situation but I might as well have been talking to the wall. It was clear that vendors were gossiping to each other, putting two and two together and coming up with five.

  I hadn’t worried about it that much at first, but it had then escalated a little.

  Not long after the incident with Geoff, I started getting threats from the drunk vendors. Big Issue vendors aren’t supposed to drink on the job. That is one of the most fundamental rules. But the truth is that a lot of vendors are alcoholics and carry a can of extra-strength lager with them in their pockets. Others keep a flask of something stronger and take a little nip from it every now and again to keep them going. I have to hold my hands up: I’d done it myself once, on a particularly cold day. But these guys were different. They were blind drunk.

  One day Bob and I were walking through the piazza when one of them lurched at us, slurring his words and waving his arms.

  ‘You f***ing bastard, we’ll f***ing get you,’ he said. I wish I could say that this only happened once, but it became almost a weekly event.

  The final clue that all was not well had come one afternoon when I’d been hanging around the coordinator’s pitch in Covent Garden. Sam’s colleague Steve would often do her afternoon shift for her.

  He was always good to Bob. I don’t think Steve liked me much, but he would always make a fuss of Bob. On this particular day, however, he had been in a foul mood towards us both.

  I was sitting on a bench minding my own business when Steve came over to me.

  ‘If it was up to me you wouldn’t be selling,’ he said, real venom in his voice. ‘As far as I’m concerned you’re a beggar. That’s what you and that cat are doing.’

  I was really upset by this. I’d come such a long way. I’d made such a huge effort to fit into the Big Issue family in Covent Garden. I’d explained time and again what was happening with Bob, but it made no difference. It would go in one ear and straight back out the other.

  So, as I say, I wasn’t entirely surprised when Sam broke the news about my having to go to head office. But it still left me reeling.

  I walked away from Covent Garden dazed and not a little confused. I really didn’t know what to do now that I was on the ‘Naughty List’.

  That night me and Bob ate our dinners then went to bed early. It was getting cold and, with the financial situation looking bleak, I didn’t want to waste too much electricity. So while Bob curled up at the foot of the bed, I huddled under the covers trying desperately to work out what to do next.

  I had no idea what the suspension meant. Could it mean that I would be banned for good? Or was it simply a slap on the wrists? I had no idea.

  As I lay there, memories came flooding back of how my busking had been unfairly brought to an end. I couldn’t bear the thought of being denied a livelihood by other people’s lies a second time.

  It seemed even more unfair this time. I hadn’t got into any trouble until now, unlike a lot of the Big Issue vendors I’d seen around Covent Garden who were often breaking rules and getting told off by Sam and the other coordinators.

  I knew about one guy who was notorious with all the sellers. He was this big, brash cockney geezer, a very intimidating character; he would growl at people in a really threatening voice. He’d frighten women, in particular, by going up to them and saying: ‘Come on, darling, buy a magazine.’ It was almost as if he was threatening them. ‘Buy one, or else . . .’

  Apparently he used to roll the magazine up and then slip it into people’s bags as they were walking past. I’d also heard that he would then stop them and say: ‘That will be two pounds, please’ and then follow them until they gave him money to go away. That kind of thing doesn’t help anyone. Most of the time the victims would simply toss the papers into the nearest bin. It wasn’t even as if the money was going to a good cause. This brute of a man was said to be a gambling addict and other sellers said that all he did was pump it straight back into fruit machines.

  He had obviously broken so many of the basic rules it was ridiculous, yet as far as I knew, he’d never been disciplined.

  Whatever misdemeanours I had supposedly committed, it didn’t compare to that. And it was the first time I’d been accused of anything. Surely that would count in my favour? Surely it wasn’t a question of one strike and you’re out? I simply didn’t know. Which was why I was beginning to panic.

  The more I thought about it, the more confused and helpless I felt. But I knew I couldn’t just do nothing. So the following morning I decided to head out as normal and simply try another coordinator in a different part of London. It was a risk, I knew that, but I figured it was one that was worth taking.

  As a Big Issue seller you learn that there are coordinators all over town, around Oxford Street, King’s Cross and Liverpool Street, in particular. You get to know the whole network. So I decided to chance my arm over at Oxford Street where I’d met a couple of people in the past.

  I arrived at the stall mid-morning and tried to make the situation as low-key as possible. I flashed my badge and bought a pile of twenty papers. The guy there was wrapped up in other things so barely registered me. I didn’t hang around long enough to give him the chance. I simply headed for a spot where there was no sign of anyone else selling and took my chances.

  I felt sorry for Bob in all this. He was quite nervous and seemed disoriented, and understandably so. He liked routine, he thrived on stability and predictability. He didn’t take kindly to chaos once more re-entering his life. Nor did I, to be honest. He must have been wondering why our normal routine had been so suddenly and inexplicably changed.

  I managed to sell a decent number of magazines that day - and did the same the following day. I moved locations all the time, imagining that the Big Issue outreach team was on the lookout for me. I knew it was illogical and slightly mad, but I was paranoid, terrified that I was going to lose my job.

  I had images of me being hauled in front of some committee and being stripped of my badge and cast out. ‘Why is this happening to us?’ I said to Bob as we headed back on the bus one evening. ‘We didn’t do anything wrong. Why can’t we get a break?’ I resigned myself to having to spend the next few weeks taking my chances in other parts of London, hoping that the coordinators didn’t know I was persona non grata.

  I was sitting under a battered old umbrella on a street somewhere near Victoria Station late on a Saturday afternoon when I finally told myself that I had made a mistake. Well, to be honest, it was Bob who told me.

  It had been hammering down with rain for about four hours and barely a person had slowed down to stop and buy a magazine. I couldn’t blame them. They just wanted to get out of the deluge.

  Since we’d started selling early in the afternoon, the only people who had shown an interest in me and Bob had been the security staff of the various buildings where we’d stopped to try and take shelter.

  ‘Sorry, mate, you can’t stay here,’ they’d said to me with monotonous regularity.

  I’d found the umbrella discarded in a bin and had decided to use it in one last attempt to avert another mini-disaster of a day. It wasn’t working.

  I had been managing to get hold of papers from various vendors around London for about a month now. I had been careful about who I approached and wherever I could I got other vendors to buy papers for me. A lot of people knew who I was. But there were enough who didn’t know I was on the suspended list who picked up batches of ten or twenty papers for me, to get me by. I didn’t want to get them into trouble, but if they didn’t know I was banned then no one could criticise them. I figured it was safe a
nd after everything I had been through over the past few months, I just wanted to make a living and take care of myself and Bob.

  It hadn’t been going well though. Finding the right pitch was a real problem, mainly because most of the places I’d set up shop weren’t actually licensed. Bob and I had been moved on from various street corners around Oxford Street, Paddington, King’s Cross, Euston and other stations. One day, after being asked to move on three times by the same policeman, I got a semi-official warning that next time I’d be arrested. I didn’t want to go through that again.

  It was a real catch-22 situation. I’d made sure to steer clear of the main pitches and tried to pick places that were a bit off the beaten track. But as a result I’d found it really hard to sell the magazine, even with Bob. The Big Issue hadn’t designated its prime sales spots by accident. They knew exactly where papers would sell - and where they wouldn’t. These were the spots I’d found myself occupying.

  People were still drawn to Bob, of course, but the locations just weren’t right. Inevitably, this had hit me in the pocket, and it had become much harder for me to manage the business side of the Big Issue. Tonight I was going to hit rock bottom in that respect. I had about fifteen papers left. I knew I wasn’t going to sell them and by Monday they would be out of date when a new edition came out. I was in trouble.

  As the light faded and the rain continued to fall, I told myself that I’d try a couple more pitches in the hope of shifting these papers. I hadn’t figured on Bob, though.

  Until now he’d been as good as gold, a real stoic even on the most desperately grim day. He’d even put up with the regular splashings he got from passing cars and people, even though I knew he hated getting soaked in the cold. But when I tried to stop and sit down at the first street corner I’d spotted, he refused to stop walking. It was extremely rare that he pulled on the lead like a dog, but that’s exactly what he was doing now.

  ‘OK, Bob, I get the message, you don’t want to stop there,’ I said, simply thinking that he didn’t fancy that particular location. But when he did exactly the same thing at the next spot and then again at the next spot after that, the penny finally dropped.

  ‘You want to go home, don’t you, Bob?’ I said. He was still walking along on the lead, but on hearing this he slowed down and tilted his head almost imperceptibly in my direction, giving me what for all the world looked like a raised eyebrow. He then stopped and gave me the familiar look that said he wanted to be picked up.

  In that instant I made the decision. Until now, Bob had been a rock, sticking loyally by my side despite the fact that business hadn’t been so good and his bowl had consequently been a little less full of food. It just underlined to me how loyal he was. Now I had to be loyal to him and get us back on track with the Big Issue management.

  I knew it was the right thing to do. The Big Issue had been a great step forward for me. It had given me the biggest boost I’d had for a long time, well, since Bob had come into my life, in fact. I just needed to clear up the situation with them. I couldn’t avoid facing the music any longer. For Bob’s sake as much as mine. I couldn’t keep doing this to him.

  And so it was that the following Monday morning I had a good wash and put on a decent shirt and set off for Vauxhall. I took Bob with me, to help explain the case.

  I really wasn’t sure what to expect when I got there. The worst-case scenario, obviously, would be that I’d be stripped of my badge and banned from selling the magazine. That would have been grossly unfair. But I knew there would have to be some kind of punishment if they found me guilty of ‘floating’. My best hope was to convince them that I hadn’t been doing that.

  Arriving at the Big Issue office I explained the situation and was told to wait.

  Bob and I sat there for about twenty minutes before we got to see someone. A youngish guy and an older woman led me into a non-descript office and asked me to shut the door behind me. I held my breath and waited for the worst.

  They gave me a real dressing down. They claimed I’d broken a couple of the cardinal rules.

  ‘We’ve had complaints that you’ve been floating and begging,’ they said.

  I knew who had made the complaints but didn’t let on. I knew I mustn’t turn it into a personality clash. Big Issue vendors were supposed to get on with each other and if I sat there slagging off a list of other vendors it wasn’t going to do me any good. Instead I tried to explain to them how difficult it was to walk around Covent Garden with Bob without being offered money for the magazine.

  I gave them a couple of examples, one involving some blokes outside a pub who had stopped to admire Bob and offered me a fiver for three copies. There was an interview in there with an actress they all fancied, they told me.

  ‘Things like that happen all the time,’ I told them. ‘If someone stops me outside a pub, to refuse to sell them a paper would just be rude.’

  They listened sympathetically and nodded at some of the points I made.

  ‘We can see that Bob attracts attention. We’ve spoken to a few vendors who have confirmed that he’s a bit of a crowd puller,’ the young guy said, with more than a hint of sympathy in his voice.

  But when I’d finished defending myself, he leaned forward and broke the bad(ish) news. ‘Well, we’re still going to have to give you a verbal warning.’

  ‘Oh, OK. A verbal warning, what does that mean?’ I asked, genuinely surprised.

  He explained that it wouldn’t prevent me from selling, but that the situation might change if I was found guilty of floating again.

  I felt a bit silly afterwards. A verbal warning was neither here nor there. I realised that I’d panicked completely and, typically, jumped to the worst possible conclusion. I hadn’t understood what was going to happen. I had been terrified that I was going to lose my job. The images I had of me being hauled in front of some committee and being stripped of my badge and cast out were just a figment of my imagination. I didn’t realise it was not that serious.

  I headed back to Covent Garden to see Sam, feeling slightly sheepish about what had been happening.

  When she saw me and Bob, she smiled at us knowingly.

  ‘Wasn’t sure whether we’d see you two again,’ she said. ‘Been into the office to sort it out?’

  I explained what had happened. I then gave her the piece of paper that I’d been given at the end of the meeting.

  ‘Looks like you are back on probation for a bit,’ she said. ‘You can only work after 4.30p.m. and on Sundays for a few weeks. Then we can put you back on a normal shift. Just make sure to keep yourself clean. If someone comes up to you and Bob and offers to buy a magazine, say you haven’t got one, or if it’s obvious you have, say they are promised for regular customers. And don’t get involved.’

  It was all good advice, of course. The problem was that other people might want to ‘get involved’. And so they did.

  One Sunday afternoon Bob and I had headed to Covent Garden to do a couple of hours’ work. Given the restrictions on us, we had to take whatever chances we could get.

  We were sitting near the coordinators’ spot on James Street when I was suddenly aware of a large and rather threatening presence. It was a guy called Stan.

  Stan was a well-known figure in Big Issue circles. He’d worked for the company for years. The problem was that he was a bit unpredictable. When he was in the right frame of mind he could be the nicest guy you’d ever met. He would do anything for you, and frequently did.

  He’d bailed me out and given me a couple of free papers on a couple of occasions.

  However, when Stan was in a bad mood or, even worse, drunk, he could be the most objectionable, argumentative and aggressive pain in the arse in the world.

  I quickly spotted that it was the latter Stan who was now standing in front of me.

  Stan was a big guy, all of six feet four. He leaned down over me and bellowed: ‘You aren’t supposed to be here, you are banned from the area.’

  I could smell
his breath; it was like a distillery.

  I had to stand my ground.

  ‘No, Sam said I could come over here on Sunday or after 4.30p.m.,’ I said.

  Fortunately another guy who worked with Sam, Peter, was there as well and he backed me up, much to Stan’s annoyance.

  He lurched back for a moment then move backed in, breathing whisky fumes all over me once more. He was looking at Bob now, and not in a friendly way.

  ‘If it was up to me I’d strangle your cat right now,’ he said.

  His words really freaked me out.

  If he’d made a move towards Bob I would have attacked him. I would have defended him like a mother defending her child. It’s the same thing. He was my baby. But I knew that would be fatal, from the Big Issue’s point of view. It would be the end.

  So I made two decisions there and then. I picked up Bob and headed elsewhere for the afternoon. I wasn’t going to work anywhere near Stan when he was in this mood. But I also made the decision to move away from Covent Garden.

  It would be a wrench. Bob and I had a loyal customer base there and, besides anything else, it was a fun place to work. The inescapable truth, however, was that it was becoming an unpleasant and even a dangerous place to work. Bob and I needed to move to a less competitive part of London, somewhere where I wasn’t so well known. There was one obvious candidate.

  I used to busk around the Angel tube station in Islington before I went to Covent Garden. It was a good area, less lucrative than Covent Garden but still worthwhile. So I decided the next day to take a visit to the coordinator there, a great guy called Lee, who I knew a little bit.

  ‘What are the chances of me getting a good pitch here?’ I asked him.

  ‘Well, Camden Passage is pretty busy, as is the Green, but you could do outside the tube station if you like,’ he said. ‘No one fancies it much.’

  I had a feeling of déjà vu. It was Covent Garden all over again. For other Big Issue sellers in London, tube stations were reckoned to be a complete nightmare, the worst possible places to try and sell the paper. The way the theory went was that people in London are simply moving too fast, they don’t have time to slow down, make the decision to buy one and dip into their pockets. They’ve got to be somewhere else, they are always in a hurry.