A Taste of the Future

We made our living by busking in those days. Eyes played her flute and did well, while Man juggled elsewhere in town. He wasn't much good at it, to be honest, which is why me and Eyes always made more money. After disproving the theory that this was because of my cute puppyhood by swapping dogs for a day or two, Man finally conceded that it was simply down to greater skill on her part, a fact which was to prove important when things started to go into decline later on. At this point, however, he was still trying, with varied success. With his ubiquitous top hat and tails and purple dreadlocks, he certainly looked the part.

Salisbury was still at that time something of a centre for the New Age community, and many of the travellers from surrounding sites would pass through to either sign on or make their money by street performance, as we did. Eyes often teamed up with a local fiddler to play frantic Irish reels, whilst Man eventually met Chas, who was similarly incompetant but took himself far less seriously, something which could only be a positive influence.

They made quite a pair, 6ft-something Chas in his combat trousers and Mohawk, and 5ft 8' Man in his flamboyant attire. They both juggled as a team - or tried to - dropping clubs and balls everywhere and laughing as they failed. They made money by being cheerful. Since Man was prone to black and cruel moods - something else which would come to the fore further down the line - this friendship ensured our family stayed a happy one, if only for the time being.


Back then there was a large Travellers Site just outside Shaftesbury in Dorset, about half an hour's drive from Salisbury, and this was where Chas lived in his 14ft trailer. He had a ratty old car with which to both pull the caravan and get himself to the surrounding towns to busk.

Being "on site" was something both Eyes and Man talked about, a dream and a potential way out of their current homeless situation. The skippering and squatting communities had close ties with the travellers in rural areas like this, so it was the obvious way forward - both in terms of perceived status and security, albeit of the usual temporary nature. At least when travellers got evicted they took their homes with them, rather than having to pack it all up and hope for the best. They were rarely without a roof completely.

It will therefore come as no surprise that the day came when we were invited back to Chas's place for the night, and that we jumped at that offer. As we all piled into his tow-car, the excitement in the air was electric - at last we were going to see where we were headed, where our future lay.

Reopening the Carpet Skipper

I forget where exactly we spent the next few nights, truth be told. I know that the first was under a railway arch just around the corner from the Railway Skipper - a wide open area which offered no protection or privacy whatsoever, and hence very little sleep for any of us. A couple more were spent on a friend's floor, Eyes having pulled strings and used local contacts, just as she had when we moved into the hut. I have a scar on my nose to this day from launching myself headlong out of the shopping trolley in an abortive attempt to chase a duck, on the way to the flat.

The same thing happened again with the arches next to the river,DHSS office and Playhouse, a skipper Eyes had used for many weeks in the past - to the point that she still had an old mattress hidden in the bushes there. It was well hidden and well covered, and the wind blew through it at just the right angle to make an open firepit inside a realistic proposition - many a night was spent burning scavenged pallet wood and watching the flames light up the low tunnel walls as we dozed off in the warm woodsmoke. Sadly, this too came to an end after unseasonably rainy weather made the river rise enough to flood us out, so on we moved again.

As I think I've said before, Mick was always someone around whom there was an atmosphere. Eyes alternated between relaxation and fear, whilst Man veered from open hostility to over-compensating friendliness, both of which Mick himself saw straight through. He seemed to consider Eyes' reaction totally normal, it was Man who he engaged in an ongoing game of one-upmanship, and invariably Mick won. Whatever the history was, it was this loud, toothless, middle-aged Scotsman that even Man was forced to thank when he announced with fortuitous timing that he had re-opened a favourite old skipper of years gone by and invited us to join him in it. If you head out of Salisbury town centre along Fisherton Street you will come to a gap in the facades, on the corner of which is a yellow-painted shop selling carpets, next to a Chinese Restaurant - or at least there was then. Head along the side of that building and you came to a small two storey warehouse with no obvious means of entry. Along the far side was a board, and was this that Mick had loosened in order to reclaim the squat known since time immemorial as the Carpet Skipper.

Obviously approaching the place past the shop and owners' flat above was a no-no, so we got there from behind, scrambling over rough ground, squeezing past the end of another building and under or over a barbed wire fence before slithering down the final bank to approach the building. The contentiousness of this particular spot meant that stealth was paramount - we only ever entered or left under cover of semi-darkness, and if you were in during that day that was it, you stayed in until twilight. On the plus side, once you were actually in, no-one could tell you were there, which meant that lazy Sundays at home became a reality for the first time since I left my mother.

Inside, the initial view was not encouraging. An inky black space was filled entirely with indeterminate junk, with no available clear floor to camp on. But over in the corner was a pool of light, and careful picking through the debris revealed it to be a staircase. Climbing up was a precarious feat, as so many steps were unstable or had rotted away completely, but it was worth it, because the first floor room was as close to paradise as we were ever likely to find. The room was warm and weatherproof, and on split-levels, which protected the main area from stairwell drafts. The pitched roof was open to the beams, with a ledge running around the top of the walls where a ceiling had once been. To the left was a decent sized window, complete with intact glass. It faced onto the back of the Chinese, so no-one could see a light up there, and the constant hum of the catering fans gave the illusion of cozy heat (the weather had in fact improved by then) and provided a comforting audio backdrop with which to block out the world and relax. It was obvious why this place had been the scene of so many fights and arguements, and had persistently been reopened despite the owner's best efforts to board it up and abandon it to the ravages of time.

Mick and Dog had the right hand side of the room, and we had the left, with all dog bowls on the lower level area by the top of the stairs. There was room for our stoves and other personal tat in the middle, and candles were placed on the various ledges and the windowsill. No skipper is perfect and I suppose it was inevitable that we would not be the only living creatures to seek refuge here. At night you could here scratching and scattering around the top of the room, and dark shapes darting about, even running across the main beam which traversed the space above our heads. JD went mad trying to work out where the noise was coming from, and after a couple of days our new neighbours became bolder and took to the floor. Our staple diet was Gilpa Value (Value Mix), and any which was not eaten the night before would be gone by morning. We soon learnt to eat it or lose it.

Things came to a head when I woke up early one morning five or six days after we arrived, to hear a Eyes emit a kind of strangled squeak. Tunnelling up to the top of the bedding, I saw the startled look on her face and turned to the wall as she had, only to see an enormous black rat which had emerged from a hole in the brickwork there. It was up on it's hindquarters less than three inches from her face, chattering it's yellowed teeth and rubbing it's forepaws together as if in glee. At this point I finally found my voice, and my first ever bark (although it was more of a yap) was heard in our joint defence. The rat vanished back into the wall, the hole was boarded up to prevent a repeat performance, and I was the tiny hero of the day at all of ten weeks old.

Once animals and humans alike had agreed on which bits of the skipper belonged to who, we settled into a pretty harmonious peace - even Mick and Man called a truce for the duration of our stay. The benefits of good sleep and warm nights soon showed themselves in all our faces as we marched brightly into town to the Library Steps together each morning, and life's gentle routine ticked on, unencumbered by bags and trolleys once more.

Paradise Lost.

It's incredible how quickly we accumulated more "tat" now we had somewhere to put it, even in such a short space of time. Nothing fancy, just extra blankets, hard earned and bought dog bowls and proper candlestick holders. The shabby hut was only a squat, but it was our squat, and we loved it. It had walls and a door, and was somewhere we could call home. It was understandable that we forgot how insecure it was - after all, if we could just walk in and claim it and it's contents, so could anyone else who passed by. Railways need maintaining, and railway engineers get bored and go poking about in derelict huts during their dinner breaks. To this day I have no idea if that is indeed what proved to be our downfall, but it seems like a fair guess.

It was in the middle of a fairly average kind of an afternoon that Eyes led us away from the others and back to the hut. This was unusual, as we never normally ventured home until the day's business was over, and I have no recollection of why we did this, only that we did. We followed our usual route - along the river path until we reached the railway bridges, where I was scooped up, carried across the road and set down in front of the empty office block, at the far end of which I darted under the wire fence and then waited for Eyes to climb over and catch me up. As we scrambled up the muddy bank I froze, unfamiliar engine noise and voices having filtered down through the bushes to greet me. Hoisted up to shoulder height, I peered out and saw the distinctive yellow engineering train and orange coats before hearing a deep sigh in my ear. We turned tail and went back to town, thinking nothing of it - just bad timing on our part. We hadn't been seen, of that I am sure.

Later that night, the whole family returned to find the hut door wide open, and our tat disturbed. Nothing was missing, but it had clearly been thoroughly rifled. There was nothing to find, after all. Hushed whispers passed between Eyes and Man, and we two dogs lay alert, ears pricked, sensing the discomfort in the air. Candles were blown out more quickly than usual and we settled down to a fitful doze, half an ear open, noses twitching.

A few hours later I felt JD's head jerk up, and a growl creep from his lips. Man sat straight up and reached towards him, a whispered hush thrown in our direction. I hadn't crept under the blankets that night, unsettled as I was by the atmosphere earlier on, but seeing this I shuffled a little further up from the end of the bed, towards safety and a warm embrace.

Voices. Indistinct, but obviously speculating about us - "I reckon there's someone here, I told you that earlier" and other mutterings - at which JD tries to bark but finds his jaws clamped shut by Man's hand, causing him to bite his tongue and yelp softly instead. I haven't learned to yap yet, and am far too scared to start now, so I burrow down inside the covers and listen to my protector's hammering heart. More voices, even more muffled by the blankets, continue, as do the low growls. Curiosity eventually gets the better of me and I poke my head out just in time to hear something about "police" and "in the morning" and "sorting it ourselves". Then there are footsteps. Then silence, broken only by the sound of our collective panting. We sit motionless for what seems like hours, before JD is released, at which point he gives full voice to his objections, barking his warning out too late to scare anyone. The candles are relit and we stay like that, frozen in the moment, until dawn's light creeps around the door and window drapes, and we begin to relax.

A short while later, Man and JD head off, and I am let out to stretch by the railway lines. Eyes is frantically gathering things up, folding and stuffing things into bags and rolls, securing bedding with orange plastic string found clinging to the undergrowth. When the pair return, we throw everything into the shopping trolley that has appeared with them. I am placed on top. And so we carry on, just as before, but homeless again. Tonight's sleeping place is tonight's problem. We are safe, and together, and that is what matters.

Patterns and People

The pattern of those days was always the same, and gave some shape to what was soon to prove an unstable existence.

Every day we'd rise, and head down the embankment into the town. The hut had instilled in us a false sense of security, so we left most of our meager belongings there and made our daily trek unencumbered. The first place we headed for was the Library Steps, where all the street people would gather. It was here that I received my name - the drinkers would always be found there, and although they were normally supping "Black Budgies" (Kestrel Super), every now and again there would be the odd bottle of a lurid sweet liquid thrown in for variety's sake. As an innocent pup, I didn't understand what Mad Dog 20-20 was, nor did I know why so many of them threw it up when it was imbibed on top of a belly full of lager. What I did know, however, was that it tasted good - first or secondhand - and that the more I was dragged away from those sickly green and orange pools, the more determined I became to get my fill. Up until this point, I'd just been known as "the pup" (but never "puppydog" - that was reserved for JD, even though he towered above me). One day one of the crowd started calling me Mad Dog after the vile liquor that I was so taken with. Eyes was young enough to think this was a great idea and the moniker stuck, much to my - and later, her - regret. These days, in fact I prefer to answer simply to Dog or Dogger...but then we have both grown up.

The man who made this fateful proclaimation was Scottish, and went by the name of Mick. There was always a tension between Mick and Eyes, and to this day I have a feeling something went on - something not good - between the pair of them before I entered her life. He was middle-aged and she was young, but his eyes roamed over her as a former possession, whilst she alternately leant towards him as an anchor and shrank away with disgust on a seemingly random basis. Man wasn't happy with this, I could tell, although the full story is one I will never be privy to. I suspect that's a good thing.

Mick had a dog called, simply, "Dog", an aloof black and shaggy thing who wore his Collie Alsation breeding like a threat. He paid no attention to anybody or anything except Mick, and the nearest he got to the rest of the dogs was to sniff us out every now and again to make sure we knew he was top of the tree. There were quite a few of us canines drifting about with our owners - Socks and Mutley stick most in my mind, the latter being the mother of the former, but there were others from day to day, depending on who was passing through.

After the morning's greetings we'd head off our seperate ways to earn our keep - Eyes and I worked alone, in the long tunnel which ran to the side of the Library linking it with the bridge over the river and shopping area behind. Eyes would get out her Flute and I would curl up in her cross-legged lap with my nose on her knee, keeping warm whilst she filled the rich and echoing acoustics of the passage with a well-rehearsed repertoire. There was passing trade plus regular visitors - many of whom got to know my name and brought me my favourite treats, which I would devour on the spot. We would make our money fairly quickly, maybe in three or four hours, so we'd pack up and seek out Man and JD. Man was a juggler, but only a very basic one, which is why they didn't earn like we did - although he swore it was simply because of my puppy face, a claim which was disproved later on when we swopped owners for the day as an experiment. I don't know why he cared anyway, as he always took our money from us and packed up his own pitch the minute we appeared. He'd then disappear with JD for an hour or two, whilst Eyes and I would wait with the others back at the library until he returned with lumps of spicy smelling resin to roll into joints. If we were very lucky, he'd give us some pennies back and Eyes and I would head across the square to the bakery, where she'd buy us something hot and steamy whilst I waited with my nose pressed against the glass.

The rest of the day would vary, the time passing with talk and sometimes fights. If Man was in a good mood he'd let us have money to buy fresh food, and we'd take it back to the skipper to cook on the one ring stove. More often, though, we'd wait in the town until late in the evening and then head across the square to a car park at the back of a row of shops, where a soup kitchen was run by the ladies of St Oswald's church. They'd ply us with cups of what was really more like stew, and fresh ham and cheese sandwiches - the leftovers of which us dogs were only to pleased to hoover down. They were always pleased to see us, and always had a kind word and a fuss for us all - especially me, being so small. Then we would return to the hut, light the candles, munch our dog food (one thing of which there was never any shortage) and crawl into the bed to keep warm, whilst the sleepy smoke curled and the trains clattered past in their usual manner. Sometimes others would visit and stay, but mostly it was just the four of us, waiting for the dawn to come so we could start to scratch our existence all over again.

SNAPSHOTS: The "Railway Skipper", Salisbury, Wiltshire. Spring 1994.

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.

SNAPSHOTS. An explanation.

You have to bear in mind that all this happened quite literally a lifetime ago, and that I was very tiny at the time. Many of my memories are hazy, disjointed snapshots. The order of things is jumbled. Life didn't make much sense to me back then, never mind to a stranger trying to look back on it through my words at this sort of a remove. I sit down to post on this memoir and draw a blank more often than not, and the teasing out of detail is a long and painful process.

There are parts of the story where I truthfully cannot picture the detail at all, just a series of events. The reasons for those events elude me, but the emotions are as sharp as if they were yesterday. At those points in my story, perhaps the best thing to do is to simply offer up the aforementioned snapshots and hope that you will reach some kind of an understanding in whatever way you see fit.

This is one of those points....

An Illusion of Heaven.

A building with steps...a tunnel full of people...a pathway with water beneath...busy, so busy...all these strange faces...and strange dogs...sniffing...people pawing at me....darkness, I'm hidden...going upwards...muffled noises...going downwards...air again...another building...pieces of paper and round metal things being handed over...another tunnel...curling up warm, my nose peeking out....strange sounds from something long and shiny...more people, throwing the round things which always miss...a familiar face, the woman from the van, the woman who brought me here and handed me over.



I'm not sure how I feel now...Do I want to go back? The woman's face is impassive. Soft, but not really caring. The face with eyes is different. Filled with something else I can't quite place. I look from one to the other and curl up tight. I'll stay here. With Eyes.



Times passes and we pack up and cross the busy places again. A big red van but with extra windows pulls up. We get on, metal and paper change hands. We sit, Eyes and the man together, the big yellow dog below us. I am wrapped tight still. As I look out, the landscape changes, urban grey to blissful green. The Eyes are smiling. This place feels good.

A bowl of food, dry but appetising. High but safe. A good long drink. Running about on the grass, the big yellow dog sniffs and then we play. Leaping and fighting, gently, gently. A noise rises in my throat, but I don't know how to let it out, so all that emerges is a squeak. Wagging tales, pup and plaything. A black and white bitch appears and sniffs, then looks on. Other people vaguely in the background, faded images in my memory now, not important.

Dusky skies. The Eyes scoop me up and we go upstairs. A bed, high and soft. Eyes and the man in the bed, me alongside them. Yellow Dog and newspaper on the floor. Darkness.

Need to go. I know I have to get to the newspaper so I slide off the bed, down a pink counterpane. Pad slowly and quietly past Yellow Dog, I hate being watched when I go. Then time to return, but the bed is high. Paws scrabbling, little squeaks emerging. Man stirs. He nudges Eyes. "Look, he went on the newspaper and got up again all by himself." Eyes is happy. I am happy. We sleep.

The pattern begins. Get up, eat, in a car to the busy place, curl up with Eyes whilst the long shiny thing makes a noise and people throw things. Sometimes they stop and talk, sometimes they give me things, good things to eat. I like that. Then back on the red van - the bus - and play until dusk. Curl up with Eyes to sleep. Life is good. If this is what life will be, I'll be a happy dog. If.....