‘Hello, James,’ a female voice said behind me. I recognised it straight away.
‘Hello, Billie,’ I said.
Back around the year 2000, when my life was at its lowest ebb, Billie and I had become friendly, helping each other out and keeping each other company. We hadn’t met until after the demise of Cardboard City and had huddled up against the cold together at the cold-weather shelters that charities like Centrepoint and St Mungo’s used to put up during the winter months.
It turned out that Billie had turned her life around too. She’d had an epiphany one night when she was sleeping rough in central London and was disturbed from her sleep by a Big Issue seller. At first she’d been annoyed at being woken up by him. She hadn’t even known what the magazine was. But she’d looked at it then and grasped the idea. She had then rebuilt her life and, a decade later, was now a ‘poster child’ for The Big Issue Foundation.
We reminisced about the bad old days over a cup of tea.
‘Remember that pop-up at Admiralty Arch during that really snowy winter?’ she said.
‘Yeah, what year was that? 1999 or 2000 or 2001?’ I said.
‘Can’t remember. Those days are all a blur aren’t they?’ she said with a resigned shrug.
‘Yep. Still, we are here, which is more than can be said for some of the poor sods we were with then.’
Goodness knows how many of the people who had been on the streets with us had perished in the cold or from drugs or violence.
Billie was very committed to this walk.
‘It will give people an idea what we had to go through,’ she said. ‘They won’t be able to slip off home into a warm bed, they’ll have to stay out there with us.’
I wasn’t quite so sure. No one, no matter how well meaning, could really understand what it was like to live on the streets.
Billie, like me, had a companion these days. Hers was a lively Border Collie called Solo. She and Bob weighed each other up for a few minutes but then decided there was nothing to worry about.
Just before 10.30pm John Bird, the founder of The Big Issue arrived. I’d encountered him a few times and found him a charismatic character. As usual, he was good value, and fired everyone up with an inspiring little speech about the difference the magazine had made during its 18 years. By now 100 or more people had gathered there along with a couple of dozen vendors, co-ordinators and staff. We all filed out into the night, ready for John Bird to do the countdown.
‘Three, two, one,’ he shouted and then we were off.
‘Here we go, Bob,’ I said, making sure he was positioned comfortably on my shoulders.
For me it was a real journey into the unknown. On the one hand, I was really worried about whether my leg would stand up to 18 miles of wear and tear, but on the other I was just delighted to be off my crutches and walking normally again. It was such a relief not to be going ‘clonk, clonk, clonk’ down the road all the time, having to swing my legs in front of me every step of the way. So, as we set off on the first leg around the South Bank and across the Millennium Bridge, I told myself to simply enjoy it.
As usual, Bob was soon attracting a lot of attention. There was a real party atmosphere and a lot of the charity fundraisers began taking snaps of him as we walked. He wasn’t in the friendliest of moods, which was understandable. It was way past his bed time and he could feel the cold coming off the Thames. But I had a generous supply of snacks as well as some water and a bowl for him. I’d also been assured there would be a bowl of milk at the stop-off points. We will give it our best shot, I said to myself.
Bob and I settled into a group in the middle of the procession as it worked its way along the riverside. They were a mix of students and charity workers, as well as a couple of middle-aged women. They were obviously genuine people who wanted to help in some way. One of the ladies started asking me questions, the usual things: ‘where do you come from?’, ‘how did you end up on the streets?’
I’d told the story a hundred times before during the past decade. I explained how I’d come to London from Australia when I was 18. I’d been born in the UK but my parents had separated and my mum had taken me with her when she’d moved down under. We’d moved around a lot in the following years and I’d become a bit of a troublemaker. When I came to London I had hopes of making it as a musician, but it didn’t really work out. I’d been staying with my stepsister but had fallen out with her husband. I’d started sleeping on friends’ sofas but had eventually run out of places to crash the night. I’d ended up on the streets and it had been downhill from there. I’d experimented with drugs before but when I became homeless it became a way of life. It was the only way to block out the fact that I was lonely and that my life was screwed up. It anaesthetised the pain.
While we were talking we passed a building near Waterloo Bridge where I remembered sleeping a few times. ‘I didn’t use it often,’ I told the lady, pointing it out. ‘One night while I was crashing out there another guy got robbed and had his throat slashed while he slept.’
She looked at me ashen-faced.
‘Did he die?’ she said.
‘I don’t know. I just ran away,’ I said. ‘To be honest, you just worry about making it through the night yourself. It’s every man for himself. That’s what life on the streets reduces you to.’
The woman stood there just looking at the doorway for a moment, as if she was saying a brief, silent prayer.
After about an hour and a half, we made it to the first stopping off point – the Hispaniola floating restaurant on the Embankment on the north side of the Thames.
I helped myself to some of the soup on offer while Bob lapped up some milk that someone had kindly sorted out for him. I was feeling pretty positive about the whole thing and was already totting up the miles that I’d done – and how many more were to come.
But then, as we were heading off the ship, we had a bit of a setback. Perhaps because he’d been refuelled or perhaps because he knew that my leg still wasn’t 100 per cent, Bob had decided to walk off the boat. As he padded his way down the ramp, right to the end of his lead, he walked straight into another The Big Issue seller who was coming up the walkway with a dog, a Staffie. It instantly went for Bob and I had to jump in front of it with my arms and legs out to stop him lunging at Bob. To be fair to the other guy, he gave his dog a real dressing down and even gave him a slap on the nose. Staffies do get a bad reputation for being violent, but I don’t think this one was. He was just being curious, not evil. Unfortunately, however, it freaked Bob out a bit. As we resumed our walk he wrapped himself around me tightly, partly through nervousness but mostly because it was his way of insulating himself against the cold. There was a bone-chilling mist rising off the Thames.
Part of me wanted to call it a night and take Bob home. But I spoke to a couple of the organisers and was persuaded to carry on. Fortunately, as we headed away from the river, the temperatures lifted a little bit. We wound our way through the West End and headed north.
I got talking to another couple, a pretty young blonde girl and her French boyfriend. They were more interested in the story of how Bob and I had got together. That suited me fine. Walking around London like this brought back so many memories, many of them too dark and distressing for words. As a heroin addict living on the streets, I was reduced to doing some hideous things just to survive. I wasn’t in the mood to share those details with anyone.
For the first six miles or so, my leg had been fine. I’d been too distracted by what was going on around me to think about it. But as the night wore on, I began to feel a throbbing pain in my thigh, where the DVT had been. It was inevitable. But it was still annoying.
For the next hour or so I ignored it. But whenever we stopped for a cup of tea I could feel an acute shooting pain. Early on I had been in the middle of the procession, walking along with the largest numbers of fundraisers. But I had been falling further and further behind, eventually reaching the back of the line. A couple of fundraisers and a g
uy from The Big Issue office were bringing up the rear and I tagged along with them for a mile or so. But I’d had to take a couple of breaks to let Bob do his business and have a cigarette. Suddenly I realised that we were now cut loose from the rest.
The next official stop was up in Camden, at the Roundhouse pub, a few miles away. I really didn’t think I could make it that far. So when we passed a bus stop with a night bus that headed in our direction, I made a decision.
‘What do you think, Bob, shall we call it quits?’
He didn’t say anything, but I could tell that he was ready for his bed. When a bus loomed into view and opened its doors, he bounded on board and on to a seat, bristling with pleasure at being in the warm.
The bus was surprisingly busy given it was well after 3am. Sitting towards the back of the bus, Bob and I were surrounded by a cluster of clubbers, still high from their night out in the West End or wherever it was they’d been. There were also a couple of lonely looking guys sitting there as if they were on the road to nowhere. I’d been there and done that, of course. I not only had the t-shirt, I had a wardrobe full of them.
But that was the past. Tonight it felt very different. Tonight I felt rather pleased with myself. I know walking a dozen or so miles might not have seemed much of an achievement to some people, but to have made it that far given the state my leg had been in weeks earlier, was – for me, at least – the equivalent of running the London Marathon.
I’d also been reunited with some familiar faces, in particular, Billie. It had been a joy to see her again and to see how well she was doing. All in all, I just felt like I’d done something positive, that I’d given something back. I’d spent so many years taking from people, mainly because I had nothing to give. Or at least, I didn’t think I had anything to give. Tonight had shown me that wasn’t necessarily true. Everyone has something to contribute, no matter how small. Sharing my experiences tonight, for instance, I’d felt like I’d connected with a few people and, maybe, I’d opened their eyes to the reality of life on the streets. That wasn’t to be dismissed. It was worth something. And so, I began to quietly tell myself, was I.
Chapter 10
Tales of Two Cities
As I drew back the bedroom curtains and looked out across the north London rooftops, it was obvious the Wintry weather the forecasters had been predicting had finished its journey from Siberia or whichever frozen wasteland had sent it in our direction.
Thick banks of iron-grey clouds were stacked up overhead and I could hear the wind gusting and whistling outside. If ever there was a day to stay at home and wrap up warm, today was that day. Unfortunately, that wasn’t a luxury I could really afford.
Things were particularly tight at the moment. Both the gas and electric meters needed topping up so the flat was icy cold. Bob had got into the habit of snuggling up close to the bed at night, hoping to soak up some of the heat that I generated under the duvet. For now, at least, the bottom line was that I had to keep selling The Big Issue and I couldn’t afford to take many days off – even if the weather looked as unpleasant as it did today.
So as I got my rucksack sorted the only question was whether Bob was going to come with me. As always, it was going to be his decision. I knew it was a decision he generally got right.
Cats – like a lot of other animals – are very good at ‘reading’ the weather and other natural events. Apparently they are very skilled at predicting earthquakes and tsunamis, for instance. The most likely explanation I’ve heard is that they are sensitive to air pressure. So it follows that they can also detect the changes in the air that predict bad weather is coming. Bob had certainly shown an aptitude for detecting that rain was in the air. He hated getting wet and had often curled up and refused to come out when the weather had been seemingly fine outside only for the heavens to open an hour or two later when I’d taken to the streets on my own.
So when I showed him his lead and scarf and he came towards me as normal, I guessed that his weather forecasting instincts were telling him it was safe to venture out.
‘You sure about this, Bob?’ I said. ‘I’m happy to go on my own today.’
I picked out one of his thickest and warmest scarves. I wrapped it snugly around his neck and headed out into the greyness.
The moment I set foot on the street outside the wind cut through me like a scalpel. It pinched. I felt Bob’s midriff curling itself even tighter than usual around my neck.
I dreaded having to wait at the bus stop for half an hour, but fortunately our regular service appeared within a few minutes and Bob and I were soon on board. Feeling a warmth on the back of my leg from a heater lifted my spirits briefly. But things soon took a turn for the worse.
We’d barely been on the road for ten minutes when I noticed the first flakes of snow swirling around outside. At first they were few and far between, but within what seemed like a few moments, the air was thick with chunky, white flakes that I could see were already sticking to the pavement and the roofs of parked cars.
‘This doesn’t look good,’ I said to Bob, who was transfixed by the transformation that was taking place on the streets outside.
By the time we got to Newington Green, a mile or so from Angel, the traffic had ground to an almost total standstill. I faced a real Catch 22 – I knew it was going to be tough to earn a few quid today and that conditions were going to be really challenging but at the same time, I was so short of money. I wasn’t sure I had enough to get back home, let alone put a few quid in the electricity meter over the next day or so.
‘Come on, Bob, if we’re going to earn anything today we’d better walk the last mile,’ I said, reluctantly.
We hopped out on to the pavement to discover everyone was walking at a snail’s pace, looking grim-faced as they picked their way along what was becoming a really treacherous surface. For Bob, however, this was a fascinating new world, one that he was soon eager to explore. I had put him on my shoulders as usual, but I’d barely walked a few yards before he was repositioning himself ready to clamber down to earth.
It hadn’t really occurred to me, but as I put him down I realised that it was the first time Bob had been out and about in snow, with me, at least. I stood there watching him dabbing a paw into the powdery whiteness then standing back to admire the print he’d left in the virgin surface. For a moment I imagined what it must be like to see the world through his eyes. It must have seemed so bizarre to see everything suddenly turned white.
‘Come on, mate, we can’t hang around all day,’ I said after a minute or two.
By now the snow was so heavy, it was hard to see in front of us.
Bob was still having a great time lifting his feet up in and out of the ever deepening snow. Eventually, however, it got so deep that his belly was lined with white crystals.
‘Come on, mate, let’s get you back up here,’ I said, grabbing him and sticking back on my shoulders.
The problem now was that the snow was falling so steadily and heavily that it was settling on both of us. Every few yards I had to brush an inch of fresh snow off my shoulders then do the same thing to Bob.
I had a rather knackered old umbrella which I produced from my rucksack. But it was next to useless in the strong winds so I gave up on it within minutes.
‘This is no good, Bob. Think we need to find you a coat,’ I said. I dived into a small convenience store, stamping my feet clean of snow in the doorway.
At first the owner, an Indian lady, looked shocked to see the pair of us standing there, which was hardly surprising really. We must have made a bizarre sight. But her mood soon thawed.
‘You are brave walking about in this weather,’ she smiled.
‘I don’t know about brave,’ I said. ‘Mad might be closer to the truth.’
I wasn’t quite sure what I was looking for. At first I wondered about buying a new umbrella, but they were too expensive for me. I only had a small amount of change. But then I had an idea and headed for the area where the kitchen su
pplies were stocked. I saw a roll of small, heavy duty bin liners.
‘That might do the trick, Bob,’ I said quietly.
‘How much for a single bag?’ I asked.
‘I can’t sell them as singles. I have to sell you the whole roll. It’s £2,’ she said.
I didn’t want to fork out that much. I really was broke. But then I noticed she had little black carrier bags on the counter top for customers to carry their shopping.
‘Is there any chance I could take one of those?’ I said.
‘OK,’ she said, looking sheepishly at me. ‘They are 5p.’
‘OK, I’ll take one. Do you have any scissors?’
‘Scissors?’
‘Yes, I want to make a hole in it.’
This time she looked at me as if I truly was off my rocker. But, probably against her better instinct, she dipped down behind the counter and produced a small pair of sewing scissors.
‘Perfect,’ I said.
I grabbed the closed end of the bag and cut a small semi-circle about the size of Bob’s head. I then opened the bag up and slipped Bob’s head through it. The improvised poncho fitted like a glove and covered his body and legs perfectly.
‘Oh, I see,’ the lady said, laughing. ‘Very clever. That should do the trick.’
It took us about fifteen minutes to get to Angel. One or two people shot us funny looks as we walked along, but to be honest most were more concerned with getting from A to B safely in the drifting snow.
I knew there was no way we were going to be able to survive outside the tube at our normal pitch. The pavement was thick with slushy snow. So Bob and I positioned ourselves in the nearest underpass where the bulk of commuters were taking refuge.
I really didn’t want to keep Bob out in the cold for too long, so I put some extra effort into selling the magazine. Fortunately, a lot of people seemed to take pity on us and dipped into their pockets. My pile of magazines was soon dwindling.