their earthly bodies. Rumbo and I would freeze at the sight, but we’d never bark as other dogs might. My companion would warn them to keep away from us with a low growling, but we were of no interest to these spirits and they would drift on without even acknowledging our presence. On one occasion — it was in broad daylight — four or five ghosts, bunched tightly together, wandered through the yard like a small, drifting cloud. Rumbo had no explanation for the phenomenon and forgot about it as soon as it had passed, but it puzzled me for a long time afterwards.
The comings and goings of more mortal beings into the yard began to increase. There were normally two or three full-time overalled men working in the yard, breaking up the junks, and a steady stream of customers looking for cheap parts. Gigantic lorries (gigantic to me) would be loaded with crushed car bodies by the yard’s crane, then disappear through the gates with their valuable metal. Vehicles battered beyond repair or too old and tired to run anymore were brought in and dumped unceremoniously on top of precariously balanced scrap piles. But it was a different increase in activity that aroused my curiosity.
The Guvnor began to have frequent visitors who had no interest in the yard itself, but would disappear into his office and remain there for hours on end. They arrived in twos and threes and left in the same numbers. They came from different areas, mostly from Wandsworth and Kennington, but others from Stepney, Tooting, Clapham, with a few from nearby outlying counties. I knew this because I’d listened to their conversations as they waited outside the hut for the Guvnor’s arrival (he was often late). One or two would even play with me, or torment me in a friendly way. Rumbo frowned upon my childishness with these men, for they never offered food nor were they relevant to our life-style (Rumbo was choosy about offering his friendship), but I, like any other pup, wanted to be loved by everyone and anyone. I didn’t know what their business with the Guvnor was (I noticed they treated him with a lot of respect), nor did I care much; I was just curious because they were outsiders and I could learn more about the other places from them — not just the surrounding area, for I knew enough about that — but other parts further away. I was looking for clues, you see, clues about myself. I felt the more I discovered — or rediscovered — about the world outside, the more chance I had of solving my own riddle.
It was on one such occasion, in fact, that I earned my permanent name. Some of the workmen in the yard had taken to calling me Horace (God knows why, but it seemed to tickle them), and it was a name I detested. They used it in a mocking way and usually — unless they were offering something (which was rare) — I ignored their calls with a nose-up dignity. Even Rumbo, in moments of sarcasm, would call me Horace rather than ‘squirt’. In the end, even I was beginning to get used to it.
However, the Guvnor had never bothered to give me a name — I was never important enough to him for that — and he really didn’t have much cause to refer to me anyway after our initial meeting months before. I was grateful, at least, that he hadn’t picked up this awful nickname from his workmen.
So this is how I got a proper and appropriate name.
A small group of the outsiders had gathered in front of the Guvnor’s office — hut — and were awaiting his arrival. Rumbo was away on one of his ‘bitch-in-season’ jaunts and I was wandering aimlessly around the yard, sulking at being left behind again. I trotted over to the group to see if I could overhear anything of interest (or perhaps to beg for some affection). One of the younger men saw me coming and crouched low, a hand outstretched, to welcome me. ‘Ere, boy. Come on.’
I bounced towards him, pleased to be called. ‘What’s your name, then, eh?’
I didn’t want to tell him I was called Horace so I kept quiet and licked his hand.
‘Let’s ‘ave a look at you,’ he said, pulling my collar round with his other hand. ‘No name on this, is there? Let’s see what we’ve got for you.’ He stood up, reaching into his overcoat pocket and my tail began to wag when he produced a small green tube of sweets. He levered a sweet out and held it up for me to see. I went up on my hind legs immediately, mouth gaping for the treat to be dropped into. The man laughed and let the little round sweet fall and I caught it deftly on my tongue, crunching and gulping it down by the time my front legs touched ground again. I jumped up and put my muddy paws against him, asking politely for another; they had a nice minty flavour to them. He was a bit annoyed at the mud on his coat and pushed me down again, brushing at the marks left with his hand. ‘Oh no, if you want another one, you’ve got to earn it. ‘Eeyar’, catch it.’ He threw the mint high into the air and I jumped up to meet it on its downward journey, catching it smartly. The young man laughed and his bored companions began to take an interest. They had been lounging against the car they’d arrived in, a maroon Granada, stamping their feet to keep the circulation flowing, their coat collars turned up against the cold.
‘Let’s see ‘im do it again, Lenny,’ one of them said.
The one called Lenny tossed another sweet and again I caught it in mid-air.
‘Do it a bit ‘igher next time.’
Lenny tossed and I jumped. Success once more.
‘You’re a clever old thing, aren’t you?’ said Lenny.
I had to agree; I was feeling quite pleased with myself. As Lenny poised a mint on his thumb and index finger I prepared to repeat my performance.
‘ ‘Old on, Lenny.’ A different man spoke this time. ‘Make it do somethin’ more difficult.’
‘Like what?’
The group of men thought hard for a few moments, then one spotted a couple of tin mugs standing on the hut’s windowsill. ‘Use them,’ he said, pointing towards the mugs. ‘The old ball-an’-cones trick.’
‘Do leave off! It’s only a bleedin’ dog, you know,’ Lenny protested.
‘Gorn, see if it can do it.’
He shrugged and walked over to the mugs. The regular yard workers used these for their tea-breaks, but I don’t think they would have offered any objection to these men using them for other purposes. In fact, I had noticed that the Guvnor’s regular employees kept well away from the business acquaintances of their boss. Lenny placed the two mugs upside-down on an even piece of ground while I nuzzled him for more sweets. He pushed me away and one of the men took hold of my collar to hold me back.
Lenny levered out a little round mint again and, in exaggerated motions, showed it to me, then placed it under one of the mugs. I pulled against the restraining hand, eager to get at the sweet.
Then Lenny did a puzzling thing: he placed a hand on either mug and whirled them in circles around each other, never letting their lips come off the ground. He did it slowly, but even so it was confusing for a mere dog. He stopped and nodded for the other man to let go. I bounded forward and immediately knocked over the mug which held the strong scent of mint.
I couldn’t understand the group’s cries of amazement and Lenny’s delight as I gulped down the sweet. I accepted Lenny’s friendly thumps on the back with a wagging tail, pleased that I had pleased him.
‘Aah, it was a fluke. The dog couldn’t do it again,’ one of the men said. He was grinning though.
‘Oh yes it could. It’s a clever old thing, this pup,’ Lenny retorted.
‘Let’s ‘ave some money on it, then.’
The others agreed enthusiastically. It’s funny what a group of bored men will find to amuse themselves.
Once again I was held back while Lenny went through his hand-holding-mint ballet. ‘All right. A oncer says ‘e does it again.’ I was no longer an ‘it’ to Lenny.
‘Right.’
‘You’re on.’
‘Suits:
And suddenly four pound notes appeared on the ground. The four men looked at me expectantly.
Lenny went through his mug swirling again and one of the men told him to speed it up. He did, and I must admit he had a definite flair for this sort of thing: the movements were baffling, to the naked eye. But not to the sensitive nose. I had knocked over the mug and swallowed the sweet within three seconds of being released.
‘Fantastic! ‘E’s a bloody marvel.’ Lenny was delighted as he scooped up the four pounds.
‘I still say it was a fluke,’ a disgruntled voice muttered.
‘Put your money where your mouth is, Ronald, my son.’
The bets were placed again, this time one of the men dropped out. ‘He’s sniffin’ it out, I reckon,’ he grumbled. This stopped the action; they hadn’t thought of that.
