as well as his missing limb. They could not match his success, hard as they tried. He was genuine, and they were fakes.
Another black mendicant who is remembered, if only faintly, in works of social history is Joseph Johnson. He was almost as celebrated in the capital as Billy, and is credited as being the first known beggar to make use of a dog. Joseph’s canine accessory was called Toby and the inseparable couple stirred hearts to pity. Two pairs of dark, sad eyes proved more financially rewarding than one.
‘Toby’, in fact, became one of two generic names for a begging dog. The other was ‘Jumbo’, which was given to plumper, healthier-looking beasts. A skinny black beggar, with his bones showing through his flesh, would keep Jumbo by his side to show his compassionate patrons that he had neglected his own welfare in his pet’s interests. Apprentice beggars could choose between a Toby or a Jumbo before they decided to earn their living in the great outdoors.
London’s beggars are still emulating the wily Joseph Johnson today. You can see them with their dogs in doorways, outside and inside Underground railway stations, and most of the animals look pitiful. Each time I notice one I think of Circe and the melancholy expression she assumed when she was temporarily deprived of a sock or ball. Perhaps we could have amassed a tidy fortune together, similar to that enjoyed by Billy Walters or by Joseph Johnson and his succession of faithful Tobys.
Una Vita Nuova
‘Circe understands Italian,’ Vanni remarked with a grin. He had been caring for her while I had taken a week’s holiday in Egypt. ‘She’s a dumb linguist, thanks to me.’
It was true, after a fashion. In seven days she had learnt that
Vieni qui
, spoken with authority, was the same as ‘Come here’, and that
Giù
meant ‘Get down’. She understood, too, that when Vanni said
Cattiva
it was to indicate that she was behaving badly, and
Tu sei bella
, accompanied by a gentle pat, could only mean that she was beautiful and on her best behaviour. She was now, perhaps, the only bilingual dog in the park.
Vanni attended David’s funeral and stayed with me for some weeks afterwards. We had been friends, the three of us, since the spring of 1968. Earlier that year, I had been given an award for my first novel, and one of the conditions of the prize was – and still is – that the money be spent abroad. (I had planned to go to Rome, and was taking Italian lessons from an elderly man who lived in a gloomy basement flat near Baker Street. He only once spoke to me in English during the six-week course. ‘Hullo,’ he said as he opened the door when I arrived for my first lesson. ‘This is the last English you will hear.
Buon giorno
.’) But Vanni persuaded me to stay in Florence, his native city. I would meet his family and friends, and improve my Italian.
I flew to Pisa, and waited an eternity for my luggage. It was not forthcoming. An airline official told me, with a calmness I found exasperating, that the flight had gone on to Singapore, with my suitcase in the hold. I could collect it, he assured me, in three days, when the next Singapore–Pisa–London trip was scheduled. Accompanied by Vanni and another new friend, Paolo, I travelled by train to Florence, where Paolo had found me a wonderful room at the very top of the Hotel Paris on Via dei Banchi, a minute’s walk from the railway station. I stayed there for three happy months, paying a pittance for my eyrie.
I needed a change of shirt, some socks and underwear. To my amazement, the underpants cost almost as much as the shirt and socks combined. I had told the shop assistant that I required
mutande
, but did not realize until I opened the box that the
mutande
he had sold me were made of
seta
. I had bought four pairs of silk slips, all of which disintegrated in the hotel’s washing machine.
Paolo happened to be with me when the man from Alitalia phoned to say that my luggage was in Pisa,
Another black mendicant who is remembered, if only faintly, in works of social history is Joseph Johnson. He was almost as celebrated in the capital as Billy, and is credited as being the first known beggar to make use of a dog. Joseph’s canine accessory was called Toby and the inseparable couple stirred hearts to pity. Two pairs of dark, sad eyes proved more financially rewarding than one.
‘Toby’, in fact, became one of two generic names for a begging dog. The other was ‘Jumbo’, which was given to plumper, healthier-looking beasts. A skinny black beggar, with his bones showing through his flesh, would keep Jumbo by his side to show his compassionate patrons that he had neglected his own welfare in his pet’s interests. Apprentice beggars could choose between a Toby or a Jumbo before they decided to earn their living in the great outdoors.
London’s beggars are still emulating the wily Joseph Johnson today. You can see them with their dogs in doorways, outside and inside Underground railway stations, and most of the animals look pitiful. Each time I notice one I think of Circe and the melancholy expression she assumed when she was temporarily deprived of a sock or ball. Perhaps we could have amassed a tidy fortune together, similar to that enjoyed by Billy Walters or by Joseph Johnson and his succession of faithful Tobys.
Una Vita Nuova
‘Circe understands Italian,’ Vanni remarked with a grin. He had been caring for her while I had taken a week’s holiday in Egypt. ‘She’s a dumb linguist, thanks to me.’
It was true, after a fashion. In seven days she had learnt that
Vieni qui
, spoken with authority, was the same as ‘Come here’, and that
Giù
meant ‘Get down’. She understood, too, that when Vanni said
Cattiva
it was to indicate that she was behaving badly, and
Tu sei bella
, accompanied by a gentle pat, could only mean that she was beautiful and on her best behaviour. She was now, perhaps, the only bilingual dog in the park.
Vanni attended David’s funeral and stayed with me for some weeks afterwards. We had been friends, the three of us, since the spring of 1968. Earlier that year, I had been given an award for my first novel, and one of the conditions of the prize was – and still is – that the money be spent abroad. (I had planned to go to Rome, and was taking Italian lessons from an elderly man who lived in a gloomy basement flat near Baker Street. He only once spoke to me in English during the six-week course. ‘Hullo,’ he said as he opened the door when I arrived for my first lesson. ‘This is the last English you will hear.
Buon giorno
.’) But Vanni persuaded me to stay in Florence, his native city. I would meet his family and friends, and improve my Italian.
I flew to Pisa, and waited an eternity for my luggage. It was not forthcoming. An airline official told me, with a calmness I found exasperating, that the flight had gone on to Singapore, with my suitcase in the hold. I could collect it, he assured me, in three days, when the next Singapore–Pisa–London trip was scheduled. Accompanied by Vanni and another new friend, Paolo, I travelled by train to Florence, where Paolo had found me a wonderful room at the very top of the Hotel Paris on Via dei Banchi, a minute’s walk from the railway station. I stayed there for three happy months, paying a pittance for my eyrie.
I needed a change of shirt, some socks and underwear. To my amazement, the underpants cost almost as much as the shirt and socks combined. I had told the shop assistant that I required
mutande
, but did not realize until I opened the box that the
mutande
he had sold me were made of
seta
. I had bought four pairs of silk slips, all of which disintegrated in the hotel’s washing machine.
Paolo happened to be with me when the man from Alitalia phoned to say that my luggage was in Pisa,
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