Джеймс Боуэн - A Street Cat Named Bob

Inevitably, Bob and I had also got a bit of attention from other Big Issue vendors in the area.

I wasn’t so naive as to think that everything was going to be all sweetness and light with the other vendors and assorted street workers. Life on the streets wasn’t like that. It wasn’t a community built on caring for each other, it was a world in which everyone looked after number one. But, to begin with, at least, most of the other Big Issue sellers reacted warmly to the sight of the new guy with a cat on his shoulders.

There had always been vendors around with dogs. One or two of them had been real characters. But, as far as I was aware, there had never been a Big Issue seller with a cat in Covent Garden – or anywhere else in London - before.

Some of the vendors were rather sweet about it. A few of them came up and started stroking him and asking questions about how we met and what I knew about his background. The answer, of course, was nothing. He was a blank slate, a mystery cat, which seemed to endear everyone to him even more.

No one was interested in me, of course. The first thing they’d say when they saw us again was ‘How’s Bob today?’ No one ever asked how I was. But that was OK, that was to be expected. I knew the air of bonhomie wouldn’t last. It never did on the streets.

With Bob at my side I discovered that I could sell as many as thirty or even fifty papers on a good day. At £2 a paper, as they were priced back then, it could add up quite well, especially with the tips that some people gave me – or, more usually, Bob.

One early autumn evening, Bob was sitting on my rucksack, soaking up the last of the day’s sun, when a very well-heeled couple walked past the tube station. To judge by their outfits they were heading for the theatre or maybe even the opera. He was wearing a tuxedo and a bow tie and she had a black silk dress on.

‘You two look very smart,’ I said, as they stopped and started drooling over Bob.

The lady smiled at me but the guy ignored me.

‘He’s gorgeous,’ the lady said. ‘Have you been together for a long time?’

‘Quite a while,’ I said. ‘We kind of found each other on the streets.’

‘Here you go,’ the guy said, suddenly pulling out his wallet and removing a twenty-pound note.

Before I could even reach into my coat to fish out some change, he’d waved me away. ‘No that’s fine, keep it,’ he said, smiling at his companion.

The look she gave him spoke volumes. I had a feeling they were on a first date. She had clearly been impressed by him giving me that much money.

As they walked off I noticed her leaning into him and wrapping her arm into his.

I didn’t care whether it was genuine or not. It was the first time I’d ever been given a twenty-pound drop.

After a few more weeks of trying out the spot at the tube station, I realised that - far from being a ‘bad’ pitch - the tube station was actually ideal for me and Bob. So I was disappointed when Sam told me that having finished my probation period I would be moving to another pitch at the end of the fortnight.

It wasn’t exactly a surprise. The thing about being a member of the Big Issue vendor community is that everyone can see how well each other is doing. When the vendors go to the coordinator they can see who has been buying what quantities on a list that’s there for everyone to see. You can read it and spot who has been buying papers in batches of tens and twenties and how many batches they are buying. So during that first fortnight, they would have seen that I was buying a lot of magazines.

It soon became obvious that it was something that had been spotted by some of the other vendors. In that second week I noticed a subtle but definite change in the attitude towards me.

I wasn’t at all surprised when Sam told me that I’d ended my probation and would now be moved to a different pitch. Our new location wasn’t a long way from the tube station, on the corner of Neal Street and Short’s Gardens, outside a shoe shop called Size.

I got the distinct feeling that the older hands had taken a dislike to me and Bob and hadn’t taken too kindly to us doing so well out of what was supposed to be a bad pitch. For once, however, I buttoned my lip and accepted it. Choose your battles, James , I counselled myself.

It turned out to be good advice.

It was a cold and wet autumn that year. The trees were soon being stripped of their foliage as the cold winds and heavy rains began to build. On one particular morning, as Bob and I left the block of flats and set off for the bus stop, the sun was once more nowhere to be seen and a light, fine drizzle was falling.

Bob wasn’t a big fan of the rain so at first I assumed it was to blame for the lethargic way in which he began padding his way along the path. He seemed to be taking each step at a time, almost walking in slow motion. Maybe he’s got second thoughts about joining me today , I said to myself. Or maybe it was true what they said about cats being able to sense bad weather in the air . As I cast an eye up to the sky, a giant bank of steely, grey clouds were hovering over north London like some vast, alien spaceship. It was probably going to be like this all day. There was almost certainly some heavier rain on its way. Maybe Bob was right and we should turn around, I thought for a second. But then I remembered the weekend was coming and we didn’t have enough money to get through it. Beggars can’t be choosers - even if they have been cleared of all charges , I said to myself, trying to make light of the predicament.

I was never happy to be working on the streets of London but today it seemed an even bigger pain in the butt than usual.

Bob was still moving at a snail’s pace and it had taken us a couple of minutes to get a hundred yards down the road.

‘Come on, mate, climb aboard,’ I said, turning around and ushering him up into his normal position.

He draped himself on my shoulder and we trudged off towards Tottenham High Road and the bus. The rain was already intensifying. Fat, heavy drops of water were bouncing off the pavement. Bob seemed fine as we sploshed our way along, ducking under any available shelter as we went. But as we settled into our bus journey I realised there was more to his low spirits than just the weather.

The ride was normally one of his favourite parts of the day. Bob was a curious cat. Normally the world was an endlessly interesting place to him. No matter how often we did it, he would never tire of pressing himself against the glass. But today he wasn’t even bothered about taking the window seat - not that he’d have seen much through the condensation and streaks of rain that obscured our view of the outside world. Instead he curled up on my lap. He seemed tired. His body language was droopy. Looking at his eyes he seemed a bit drowsy, as if he was half asleep. He was definitely not his normal, alert self.

It was when we got off at Tottenham Court Road that he took a distinct turn for the worse. Luckily the rain had eased off a bit by now and I was able to splash my way through the backstreets in the direction of Covent Garden. It wasn’t an easy process and I kept hopping around to sidestep the bigger puddles and the giant umbrellas that flew at me every now and then.

As we walked down Neal Street I was suddenly aware that Bob was behaving oddly on my shoulder. Rather than sitting there impassively as normal, he was twitching and rocking around.

‘You all right there, mate?’ I said, slowing down.