when we saw ghosts. It didn't happen often enough for it to become a common occurrence, but enough to be disconcerting. They would drift sadly by, a feeling more than an expression of utter loneliness about them, and some seemed to be in a state of shock, as if they had been torn brutally from 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.
Page 45
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
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.
Page 45
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
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