interesting: I was experiencing things in a new way, with a different outlook; everything that happened was a rediscovery. It was like the feeling you get after recovering from a long debilitating illness: everything is fresh and often startling; you observe with more appreciative eyes. You’ve known it all before, but familiarity has dulled things for you. That’s the only way I can describe it.
Rumbo and I survived the worst winter could inflict comfortably enough. We had to travel further for our food, our surrounding area being a little too ‘hot’, but I enjoyed the excursions. We became firmer friends, since I was losing my overcharged puppy capriciousness and beginning to instigate some of our escapades rather than being led into them. Rumbo even called me Fluke now more often than squirt, for I was becoming almost as tall as him. When we weren’t hunting for food or getting into mischief, Rumbo was off hunting bitches. He couldn’t understand my lack of interest in the opposite sex and told me repeatedly I was old enough to feel some stirring in my loins at the scent of a ripe female body. I was puzzled myself, but really couldn’t muster any inclinations whatsoever towards the female of my species; I suppose my instincts weren’t yet canine enough.
Apart from that small concern and the occasional sudden flashes of my past life, the times were good; but like all good times, they had to end.
And end they did one dull and drizzly day.
Rumbo and I had just returned from the fruit market and were sniffing around a new vehicle which had been brought into the yard a few days before. It was a large dark-blue Transit van, and for some reason it had been parked at the rear of the yard. The lettering on its side had been sprayed out and I’d watched one of the workers change its number-plates the previous day. Its front bumper had been removed and replaced by a much sturdier one. Parked alongside was another car — a Triumph 2000 — and the number-plates on this had also been changed. Both vehicles were screened from the rest of the yard by the piles of wrecks. It was the smell from the van which attracted us — it must have been used to transport food at some time — but my human faculties should have made me aware of what was going on. The constant meetings in the hut between the Guvnor and his flashy cronies (meetings which had become even more frequent recently); the curious affluence of the Guvnor himself; his anger at having a policeman ‘snooping’ around some time before: it didn’t take much of a brain to figure it all out. Unfortunately, mine wasn’t even much of a brain.
We heard the yard gates being unlocked and then a car was driven into the yard. Rumbo raced through the maze of junk to find out who had arrived: to our surprise it was the Guvnor himself. It was a surprise to us because he was not an early bird, usually never arriving at the yard till mid-morning. He generally left it to his employees to open up and get on with the work by themselves.
The big man ignored us as we yapped around his legs while he unlocked the door to the hut. I noticed he’d discarded his sheepskin for his old leather jacket and underneath he wore a dark-red polo-neck sweater. He was also wearing gloves, which was unusual for him. Throwing the butt of his cigar into the mud, the Guvnor entered the hut. No food for us today, then.
Rumbo and I mentally shrugged at each other and wandered off, but it wasn’t long before the sound of more arrivals drew us back to the hut. A car pulled into the yard first and Lenny and another man got out, going straight into the hut, they too ignoring our wagging tails and eager expressions. Then three others arrived on foot.
A strange kind of tenseness had taken over the yard, making Rumbo and me nervous, edgy. The voices from inside the hut were muted, not the usual sounds of laughter or anger. This worried us even more.
After a short while the door opened and six men came out. The first four were now wearing dark grey smock-coats, the kind shopkeepers sometimes wear, and I saw they too were all wearing polo-necked sweaters. One man was just tugging the thick collar of his down from over his chin, suggesting that a moment before he’d been wearing it up to his ears. Lenny came out next, and although he wasn’t wearing a smock he had on a polo- neck sweater. The Guvnor came out last and he still wore his leather jacket. They didn’t speak as they passed, walking to the back of the yard, the nervous tension between them obvious and transferring to us, so that we became even more agitated. Lenny clucked his tongue at me and snapped his fingers in a halfhearted way, but ignored me when I bounded up to him.
We followed the six men round to the van. The back doors were opened and three of the smock-coated men climbed in, the fourth seating himself in the front. Before the Guvnor heaved his big frame into the passenger seat of the Triumph he said to the van driver: ‘Right, you know what to do. Try and keep with us in the traffic, but if we get separated, you know where to meet up.’ The driver nodded and the Guvnor turned away. Just before he slammed his door, he called out. ‘Don’t forget. You don’t make your move till you see me wave my arm out the window.’ The van driver thumbed up an acknowledgement.
Lenny was already in the driving seat of the Triumph and he suddenly gunned the engine. As the car crunched its way out of the yard, the big blue van following, I realised that for the first time I’d seen the Guvnor without a cigar sticking out of the corner of his mouth.
About an hour later the Triumph 2000 returned. It roared through the gates and drove straight round to the back of the yard. One of the yard’s workmen ran to the gates and pushed them shut, then went back to his work as though nothing had happened.
Rumbo and I raced after the car and were just in time to see the Guvnor and Lenny clambering out. They ran round to the boot, opened it, and between them lifted out a large heavy-looking metal case. It had handles at each end and the two men used these to carry it round and into the hut. They returned to the car and pulled out four or five bulky sacks, and these too were hastily taken into the hut. The Guvnor locked the office door before they returned to the car. The men pushed us away angrily as we tried to clamber over them. There was an excited haste about them now — gone was the sullen nervousness of the morning — and this too was infecting us. A sharp whack on the nose kept me away, and Rumbo also took the hint.
‘O.K., Lenny. Get shot of the motor,' the Guvnor said, taking a cigar from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. ‘Don’t worry about the smocks in the back — they don’t matter now. You can dump it as far away as you like, but don’t be drivin’ around in it too long.’
‘O.K., Guv,’ Lenny said cheerfully. Before he turned on the ignition, the Guvnor poked another cigar through the open car window.
‘ ‘Ere. You done well, boy. See you back ‘ere Wednesday — not before!’
Lenny stuck the cigar into his mouth, grinned, put the car into gear, then moved off.
The front gate was just being opened for him by the same yard worker who’d closed it only minutes before when the police car screeched into the entrance, completely blocking Lenny’s path. Doors flew open and suddenly there were blue uniforms everywhere. Another police car pulled up behind the first and more men in blue poured out.
Lenny was out of the Triumph in a flash, running for the back of the yard, his face white. The Guvnor, who was half-way back to his office when the police arrived, stood transfixed for a few seconds, then turned and bolted towards us. I can only guess that both he and Lenny intended to scale the corrugated-iron fence and make their getaway into the backstreets.
The latter didn’t get as far as the former who, in the end, didn’t get far at all. Lenny was brought down by a flying rugger tackle and was immediately engulfed in blue bodies. He screamed and cursed them but they wouldn’t let him go.
Others gave chase to the Guvnor who had pounded past us now, throwing away his cigar as he went. The police shouted at him to stop, but he wasn’t having any of it. He headed into the maze of wrecked cars.
Rumbo was both alarmed and angry. He didn’t like these blue men: he didn’t like them chasing his Guvnor. He growled at them and ordered them to stop. It did no good though — they weren’t afraid of Rumbo. He jumped up at one and got a good grip on the policeman’s sleeve, tugging and tearing at it with jerks of his body. The man went down and rolled over in the mud, taking Rumbo with him.
‘No, Rumbo, no!’ I cried out. ‘Leave him alone! They’ll hurt you!’
But Rumbo was too angry to listen. This was his territory, and the man they were after was the one he’d chosen to be his master. Another policeman kicked out at him, making him yelp in sudden pain and lose his grip on the uniform’s sleeve. A stout wooden stick cracked across his nose and Rumbo staggered away from the sprawling policeman who immediately scrambled to his feet and joined in the chase after the Guvnor again.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked as I rushed over to Rumbo.
