Packing up. Heading for town, just like a normal day but with more bags. After the day's work, we don't catch the bus out to Woodford as usual, instead heading out of town along the river. Scrambling through a hole in a fence and up an embankment, then dragging everything along to a small hut next to the railway.
I am set down on the ground with Yellow Dog, who I now know is called JD. We are told to "stay close". I have no idea what that means, but I won't go far from Eyes anyway. JD explores the ground, sniffing but never straying. I follow him and dip my oversized puppy paws in oily puddles, leap over chunks of wood, roll blissfully in clumps of wild grass inhaling even wilder scents.
The hut itself is small and brick built, about 8 feet by 12 feet in size. The inside was obviously painted in a cream colour at some point in the past, but it is dirty and peeling now. We are not the first to move in here - Eyes told Man about it's whereabouts, after past acquaintances opened it up last year, before I was born. It is known as the "Railway Skipper" - a "skipper" being an all purpose word for anything to do with the details of the homeless and their homes in this part of the world. We "skippered" together because we were all "skippering" in this "skipper", if that makes sense.
The door is in one end of the building, to the right-hand side, and is green and weatherworn. Weeds and nettles grow up around the door and the back of the hut, which is surrounded in long grass, dry from the previous year's growth. At a glance, it is impossible to tell that anyone has entered for years. With careful planning, it will remain that way, safeguarding our existence here. There is a window to the front, facing the line. It is small, and has a frame but no glass. A rusty stack pipe pokes out of the pitched roof, where a potbelly stove was once fitted to keep the men who worked on the line warm on winter nights. The stove has gone, as has the sink, pipework, and any other kind of convenience. The hut is just a shell, but it is now to be ours.
It is not an empty shell, however, for inside it is full with the bare springs that have been ripped out of the bench seats in Second Class carriages. I gingerly climb on top, and the whole room bounces underfoot. My paws slip between the wires, and I think I am stuck until Eyes hoists me up into her arms and we bounce around the room together, laughing. Man looks on from the doorway, a warm smile playing across his features, which peep out from under the top hat he is rarely seen without. Eyes removes her headscarf and the row of dreadlocks across the front of her close-cropped head flail wildly as she jumps, giggling with delight.
Eventually I am turfed back outside, where JD is still exploring. We both lap from one of the cleaner puddles, the water tasting a little brackish but cool and fresh in our parched mouths. Eyes and Man are dragging things about inside the hut, and I set up guard by the door, whimpering for their attention. Eyes hangs a pink blanket across the window, whilst Man stacks springs against one wall, leaving a neat rectangular pile in the centre of the floor to serve as a bed. Sleeping bags are opened out and zipped together. More blankets are spread on top, and at the foot of the makeshift divan. Dog bowls are set out and filled, and as twilight falls, candles are lit. JD and I are called in and the door pulled shut behind us, with another rag secured with more rusty, scavenged nails to block out the light. From the outside, no-one can tell we are here.
A single ring stove is lit and tins of food heated and eaten. Dog food is crunched, and long joints are rolled. Our breath warms the room, and the light of the candles is further softened by the smoke hanging lazily in the air. I curl up with Eyes, at first on top of the bed, then later inside it. I rest my head against the warmth of her body and absorb the beat of her heart and rhythm of her breath as her belly retreats and expands against me. The tiny flames sputter and die, and as I fall asleep a train rumbles by into the nearby station. I dream of her heartbeat, and only stir to check it is really there. It always is.
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