Джеймс Боуэн - The World According to Bob

Unbelievably, she used this as an argument against me.

‘Ah, look, see, he’s angry,’ she said, pointing at Bob and addressing the half dozen or more people who were watching events unfold.

‘He’s angry because you just picked him up without his permission,’ I said. ‘He only lets me pick him up.’

She wasn’t giving up that easily. She clearly felt she had some kind of audience and was going to play to them.

‘No, he’s angry because of the way you are treating him,’ she said. ‘Everyone can see that. That’s why he should be taken away from you. He doesn’t want to be with you.’

Again there was a brief impasse while everyone held their breath to see what happened next. It was Bob who broke the silence.

He gave the woman a really disdainful look, then padded his way back towards me. He began rubbing his head against the outside of my leg, and purring noisily when I put my hand down to stroke him.

He then plonked his rear down on the ground and looked up at me again playfully, as if to say, ‘now can we get on with some more tricks?’ Recognising the look, I dipped my hand into my coat pocket and produced a treat. Almost immediately, Bob got up on his hind legs and grabbed hold of my arms. I then popped the treat into his mouth drawing a couple of audible aaahs from somewhere behind me.

There were times when Bob’s intelligence and ability to understand the nuances of what’s going on around him defied belief. This was one such moment. Bob had played to the crowd totally. It was as if he had wanted to make a statement. It was as if he was saying: ‘I’m with James, and I’m really happy to be with James. And anyone who says otherwise is mistaken. End of story.’ That was certainly the message that most of the onlookers got. One or two of them were familiar faces, people who had bought magazines off me in the past or stopped to say hello to Bob. They turned to the woman in the tweed suit and made their feelings plain.

‘We know this guy, he’s cool,’ one young man in a business suit said.

‘Yes, leave them alone. They’re not doing anyone any harm and he looks after his cat really well,’ another middle-aged lady said. One or two other people made supportive noises. As various other voices chipped in, not one of them backed up the lady in the tweed suit.

The expression that had formed on her face by this point told its own story. She was, by now, even redder than ever, almost purple in fact. She spluttered and grumbled for a moment or two but made no real sense. Clearly the penny had dropped and she realised that she had lost this particular battle. So she turned on her heels and disappeared once more into the crowds, this time — thankfully — permanently.

‘You OK, James?’ one of the onlookers asked me, as I kneeled down to check on Bob. He was purring loudly but his breathing was steady and there was no sign of any injury from when he was dropped to the ground.

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I said, not being entirely honest.

I hated it when people implied I was using Bob in some way. It hurt me deeply. In a way we were victims of our circumstances. Bob wanted to be with me, of that I was absolutely certain. He’d proven that time and time again. Unfortunately, at the moment, that meant that he had to spend his days with me on the streets. Those were the simple facts of my life. I didn’t have a choice.

The downside was that this made us easy targets, sitting ducks for people to judge. We were lucky, most people judged us kindly. I had learned to accept that there would always be those who would not.

It was a balmy, early summer afternoon and I had decided to knock off from work early. The sunny weather seemed to have put a smile on everyone’s face and I’d reaped the benefits, selling out my supply of magazines in a few hours.

Since I’d started selling The Big Issue a couple of years earlier, I’d learned to be sensible, so I’d decided to plough some of the money back into buying some more magazines for the rest of the week. With Bob on my shoulders, I headed over to see Rita, the co-ordinator on the north side of Islington High Street on the way back to catch the bus home.

From a distance, I could see that she was having an animated conversation with a group of vendors in red bibs who were huddled around something. It turned out to be a bicycle. I got on well with Rita, so knew that I could gently take the mickey.

‘What’s this, Rita?’ I joked. ‘Riding in the Tour de France?’

‘Don’t think so, James,’ she smiled. ‘Someone just sold it to me in exchange for ten magazines. I really don’t know what to do with it to be honest. Bikes aren’t really my thing.’

It was obvious the bike wasn’t in prime condition. There were hints of rust on the handlebars and the light at the front had cracked glass. The paintwork had a few chips and nicks and, just for good measure, one of the mudguards had been snapped in half. Mechanically, though, it looked like it was in reasonable condition.

‘Is it roadworthy?’ I asked Rita.

‘Think so,’ she shrugged. ‘He muttered something about one of the sets of brakes needing a bit of attention but that’s all.’

She could see my mind was working overtime.

‘Why don’t you give it a try, see what you think?’

‘Why not?’ I said. ‘Can you keep an eye on Bob for a second?’

I was no Bradley Wiggins but I had ridden bikes throughout my childhood and again in London. As part of my rehabilitation a few years earlier, I had been briefly involved with a bicycle building course so I knew a bit about cycle maintenance. It felt good to know some of that training hadn’t gone to waste.

Handing Bob’s lead to Rita, I took the bike and flipped it upside down to inspect it properly. The tyres were inflated and the chain looked like it was well oiled and moving pretty freely. The seat was a little low for me, so I adjusted it up a little. I then took the bike down on to the road and gave it a quick workout. The gears were a tad on the sticky side and, as Rita had warned me, the front brakes weren’t working properly. I had to apply maximum pressure on the handle to get any reaction and even then it wasn’t enough to bring the bike to a halt. I figured there was a problem with the wire inside the cable. It was easily fixed I suspected. The rear brakes were fine, however, which was all I needed to know.

‘What does that mean?’ Rita said when I reported all this back to her.

‘It means it’s OK to ride,’ I said.

By now I’d made a decision.

‘Tell you what, I’ll give you a tenner for it,’ I said.

‘Really. You sure?’ Rita said, a little taken aback.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘OK, deal. You’ll need this as well,’ she said, fishing around under her trolley and producing a rather battered, old black cycle helmet.

I’d always been a bit of a hoarder, collecting bits and pieces, and for a while my little flat had been full of all sorts of junk, from mannequins to road signs. But this was different. This was actually one of the first, sensible investments I’d made in a while. I knew the bike would be useful back up in Tottenham where I could use it for short journeys to the shops or the doctors. I’d make the £10 back in saved bus fares in no time. For the longer journey to work at Angel or into central London I’d carry on taking the bus or the tube. That journey was too treacherous to cycle because of the main roads and junctions I’d have to negotiate. Some of them were notorious cycling accident spots.