A Gift From Bob

  Bob must have been shaken by it as well because he jumped down and started pacing around, as if worried about the guy’s welfare. He was right to be concerned, of course. It was so cold, he could easily freeze to death if he stayed here for too long.

  The Centrepoint that had taken me in no longer existed but I knew charities like Crisis at Christmas had taken over schools and empty buildings for the duration of the holidays. They were offering clean beds and decent meals for the coming few days. They probably had outreach workers on the streets looking for people in this guy’s position as we spoke. He needed to find one of these people and get to one of their shelters.

  I was pretty sure the guy wasn’t on drugs; he just looked like he was exhausted and sleeping. I gave him a gentle nudge in the ribs. At first he didn’t respond, which worried me, but fortunately after a while he responded, groaning.

  ‘Uuuh. Whaaadya want?’

  I looked in my pocket. I didn’t have much, about £20 or so. I knew I had a little bit more cash saved up at home so I slipped £10 into his pocket.

  ‘Hey, mate, there’s a tenner, go and get a cup of coffee and get yourself to a shelter.’

  He groaned again, but eventually acknowledged me.

  ‘Yeah, man. OK.’

  ‘Seriously, you won’t make it through the night if you stay there. It’s just too cold.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘OK, look after yourself,’ I said before heading off.

  As Bob and I headed down the road, I kept turning around to check whether he had moved. I had a feeling he’d just tried to appease me. To my relief I saw him gathering together his stuff. As I approached Seven Dials, Bob and I watched him disappear in the other direction, a ghostly figure shuffling along in the snow.

  Bob and I got the Tube to Baker Street. It was mercifully quiet on the train; the commuters and last-minute shoppers were thin on the ground. The countdown to Christmas was almost over.

  The Lost Property Office was next door to the entrance to the Tube. I saw immediately that it was closed. There was a sign saying that they would be open again on the first working day after the holidays. That was going to be the following Tuesday. My hopes of retrieving the earrings were gone.

  I wasn’t the only disappointed customer. A young guy in a baseball jacket walked up to the glass door, giving it a tug as if he expected it to open. His head dropped as he read the notice.

  ‘I don’t believe this. Someone told me it was open until 4.30 p.m. today,’ he said.

  ‘Same here, mate,’ I said.

  He picked up his mobile looking like he was close to tears. He then trudged off, crestfallen. He just kept muttering,’ I don’t know . . . I don’t know.’

  I was disappointed. Part of me felt optimistic that the package would turn up at some point. It would only be a few months until Belle’s birthday, I told myself. I can save it until then. I had a tenner in my pocket so I took a quick scout around the stores on Baker Street but there was precious little. Most of the shops belonged to chains and were selling bland, mass-manufactured stuff. That really wasn’t Belle’s cup of tea at all. Even worse, it would look like I’d just grabbed something at the last minute. That wasn’t what I wanted.

  The weather was looking ominous again, so rather than catch the bus I decided to jump back on the Tube and headed back up to Tottenham. Suddenly it was surprisingly busy with commuters as well as people who had probably been down on Oxford Street doing some last-minute shopping. The sight of the smart gift bags dotted around the carriage reminded me of my stupidity.

  The atmosphere was very lively. People seemed to be having fun. A group of Australian lads got on at one point that were clearly in the party spirit and singing away. It wasn’t a very Christmassy song. It was a funny version of that old song ‘Ten Green Bottles . . .’ – ‘Ten Kangaroos Sitting on the Fence . . .’. At first the carriage was reluctant to join in but there was something so infectious and silly about the song and the young guys that others were soon singing along.

  Even I couldn’t resist and mumbled along to a couple of verses.

  ‘And if one kangaroo, should accidentally fall . . . there’ll be three kangaroos sitting on the fence.’

  It took me back to my childhood in Western Australia where the sight of kangaroos was really common. I couldn’t remember seeing one sitting on a fence though.

  As we emerged back into the fading light, Bob started getting agitated.

  ‘Not again, Bob, you’ve been once already,’ I said.

  He was adamant, however. I knew that he’d only get more grouchy if I didn’t let him do his business so I went on the lookout for a suitable spot.

  The walk home took us past a large building site. The workers had knocked off for the day, probably for the Christmas holiday. Their dump trucks and concrete mixers stood silent. The site was deserted. I spotted a gap in the fencing and squeezed through with Bob. He had already spotted a large area of loosened soil so I let him get on with it.

  I noticed a pile of broken masonry or concrete. It looked like a pavement or a wall had been demolished and left in a huge heap. For the first time in days, the sun had shown its face. In among the carnage, something caught my eye. I was sort of glinting in the dying light. I leaned down and picked it up.

  It was a piece of concrete, roughly the size of the palm of my hand. It was smooth on one side but rough and broken on the other. What was really interesting about it was that the exposed bit was studded with multi-coloured stones, some of them crystal-like. The flat surface was coloured too; it looked like it had bits of graffiti on it. It could easily have been a piece of modern art in a gallery.

  ‘Hmmm,’ I said to myself. ‘This is kind of cool.’

  I was still holding the stone up to the light when Bob reappeared, ready to go. He looked at me standing there with a random piece of rock and gave me what looked like a quizzical stare. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he was saying, ‘What’s that thing in your hand?’

  I was about to drop the concrete back on to the pile of rubble when the thought came to me.

  ‘Belle will love this,’ I said to myself.

  ‘Hold on a second, Bob,’ I said, then I unzipped my rucksack and popped the concrete inside.

  We were safely installed in the flat by 4 p.m. It felt good to shut the door on the world, for a few days at least. I had a long hot bath and made us some dinner. I cooked the gammon which I ate with some potatoes and carrots. It was lovely. I even gave Bob a couple of pieces of the gammon, which he snaffled down. We then settled down for the evening.

  There was very little that I wanted to watch on the television. The schedule was full of movies I’d seen before or special editions of series that I didn’t really like. But I had other plans anyway . . .

  I spent half an hour working on a present idea that I had for Belle. I also had a little wrapping paper left so I used it to cover the piece of concrete, then tied a little bow around it. When I placed it with the other presents in the small stack under the tree, Bob immediately jumped up to explore. I couldn’t help laughing as he repeatedly tried to nudge it but each time it stubbornly refused to move. He must have made a dozen attempts to shift it before he finally gave up.

  I couldn’t help smiling to myself. It was such a simple pleasure. I thought: Who needs Christmas Eve television when you can watch such an endless source of entertainment as Bob?

  Chapter 8

  A Gift from Bob

  Waaauuwahhh.

  I opened my eyes to see Bob had placed himself on the bed next to me with his face no more than a foot away from mine. His bright green eyes seemed to have an extra twinkle in them. It was nonsense to even think it, but it was as if he knew it was Christmas Day and was eager to get proceedings under way.

  I had set the heating to come on early, just to warm the place up a bit. It was such a relief to get out of bed and find a little less of a chill in the air, especially given my poor circulation. I appreciated the warmth eve
n more when I drew back the curtains to see the sky was still leaden and the trees once more coated with a layer of snow.

  I put the kettle on and laid out some food for Bob. I then flicked on the little radio I had in the kitchen. It was playing suitably seasonal stuff – from Bing Crosby to Band Aid. It wasn’t really my type of music but, without thinking about it, I found myself humming along. I was obviously in the mood.

  The two of us had our own little routine on Christmas morning. Boxing Day with Belle was another affair, but today belonged to us. After breakfast, we began by popping outside to do his business.

  I pressed on the lift button but nothing happened. Typical, I thought, of all the days to break down.

  I could tell Bob wasn’t happy walking down five flights of stairs. He knew that what went down had to go back up again.

  I had written a card for Edna, the ‘cat lady’, who lived in a house across the road. She was always taking in waifs and strays and we often exchanged a few words, much to Bob’s disgust. There were always a couple of cats perched on her wall or window ledge and he would often get agitated at the sight of them, arching his back as he stood on my shoulders.

  It was too cold for them to be out today, however, so I popped the card through her letter box then headed back inside when Bob was finished.

  The block of flats was as quiet as the grave. On the way back up the stairs I saw a guy who lived on the third floor, a bit of a rock ‘n’ roll sort of character with long hair and a leather jacket. He was obviously heading off somewhere for the day so we exchanged ‘Merry Christmases’. Otherwise there wasn’t a soul in sight. Clearly some people were home because I could smell the aroma of turkeys cooking in the ovens drifting up the stairwell. Bob smelled it too and started heading towards the landing of the fourth floor at one point, sniffing the air as he went.

  ‘What’s going on, Bob? Are you saying my cooking’s not good enough for you?’ I said, pulling a mock disappointed face.

  Back in the flat Bob bounded up to the Christmas tree. It clearly needed to be inspected, in case it had miraculously moved or acquired an unacceptable new decoration while we were out. Once he’d satisfied himself that all was as it should be, he started sniffing around the presents. He studiously avoided Belle’s piece of concrete this time, concentrating instead on the one that I’d wrapped in a special cat-themed Christmas paper.

  ‘Well spotted, Bob,’ I said, reaching in to extract it from under the tree then placing it next to me on the sofa.

  He bounded down and was beside me in a flash. His eyes were on stalks as I waved it around, his tail swishing around like it did when he was excited. When I put it next to him he began tearing at the paper and the ribbon, ripping them off the cardboard. I opened the box to reveal a wind-up toy with catnip inside that I’d been given by a regular in Covent Garden after we’d finished busking on Christmas Eve. He gave it a cursory look then picked up the cardboard box, held it briefly in his jaws, tossed it on to the floor and jumped down to play with it. It was a scene that, I was sure, was being re-enacted not just by cats but also by little children in many homes around the world.

  ‘Who needs a present when the box is far more entertaining, eh?’ I laughed.

  Belle had given me a present to open on Christmas Day. From the shape of it, I guessed it was a second-hand video game that I’d been dropping hints about for a while. I knew that, unlike the new games which cost an absolute fortune, it was pretty inexpensive and that she could afford it. I opened it and was so excited that I spent the next hour or so setting it up and playing it a little. Bob was determined that I didn’t get too involved, however. He was soon clambering over me and threatening to repeat the trick he’d pulled on a previous occasion where he switched the Xbox off altogether.

  ‘OK, I get the picture, mate. It’s time to get the Christmas dinner on.’

  Bob’s favourite thing to eat on Christmas Day is ‘pigs in blankets’, sausages wrapped in bacon. I love them too. So I put a packet of them in the oven to begin with. The distinctive whiff of cooked bacon was soon drifting through the air. I then peeled a few potatoes and stuck the small turkey crown I’d bought for myself in alongside them.

  Bob had decided to take a brief nap by the radiator but the smells soon snapped him out of his slumber.

  ‘Patience, mate,’ I said, as he stuck his face a little too close to the oven door.

  I brought out the ‘pigs in blankets’ first, placing the hot tray on the worktop. The sight and smell of them sent Bob into a complete frenzy. His tail was swishing around so fast that I wondered whether he might take off. He loved the bacon bits best so I dangled them in the air above him, teasing him a little as they cooled down. He was far too agile and quick for me, however. At one point he snatched a small rasher of bacon from my hand in the blink of an eye.

  When everything was ready, I served the meal up on plates which I then put on a tray so we could eat on the sofa in front of the television. Bob always gobbled down his food as if there was no tomorrow but today he had competition in the speed-eating stakes. I don’t think it took more than two minutes for both of us to clear our plates. The turkey was really tasty.

  After clearing up I gave my family in south London a quick call on my mobile. Unfortunately it was just too complicated and difficult to get through to my mother in Australia but I spoke to my father for a few minutes. We weren’t great conversationalists when we spoke on the phone. We wished each other a happy Christmas and asked each other about our plans for the day and the presents we’d been given. None of that took very long, in my case, at least. Being British, of course, we spent a sizeable chunk of the time talking about the weather. My father’s van had got caught in a snowdrift the previous week, apparently. He’d had to dig his way out of the drift with his bare hands.

  We talked for less than five minutes, but doing so made me feel better. The memory yesterday of that Christmas when he’d refused to talk to me had hurt. We probably weren’t ever going to be the closest of fathers and sons. We rubbed each other up the wrong way, probably because we were so alike in many ways. He didn’t like my lifestyle, I didn’t like the fact that he constantly nagged me to get a haircut and ‘a proper job’, whatever one of those might be. But at least we had a relationship of sorts again and I was pleased about that.

  Bob and I spent the rest of the day much as we’d spent the previous night, curled up on the sofa, me playing my new video game while he snored gently alongside me. Around the world millions of other people were probably enacting their idea of a perfect Christmas, maybe playing games, making music or simply eating, drinking and watching television. That was their idea. This had become ours. On a scale of 1 to 100 of contentment, Bob and I were at 101.

  Boxing Day was, in many ways, the real Christmas Day for Bob and me. Just before lunchtime Belle arrived laden with four bulging supermarket bags full of food. The lift still wasn’t working so when she rang the buzzer I walked down to help her carry the bags up. Bob trailed us all the way up the stairs, frantically trying to stick his head into the bags.

  When we got back into the kitchen he jumped up on to the worktop to watch the unpacking.

  ‘Here you go, mate,’ Belle said, producing a slice of delicious-looking Spanish ham.

  He grasped it in his teeth then lobbed it down on to the floor where he ate it in seconds, wagging his tail excitedly as he did so.

  Belle loves cooking and especially loves cooking a big Christmas roast then watching as everyone enjoys eating it. My kitchen wasn’t the best equipped, but she soon had a small chicken, some roast potatoes and vegetables under way. It wasn’t long before a new set of tasty aromas were wafting into the living room.

  Every time Belle opened the oven Bob would sit bolt upright, sniff the air then scurry off into the kitchen, opportunistically looking for food.

  ‘Not yet, mate,’ she would say, closing the door again.

  He would linger for a moment or two before giving up the ghost and limping
back into the living room. It wasn’t long before he was rewarded. There were soon bits of nicely cooked chicken being dispensed in his direction.

  There was also a lovely smoked salmon starter for me and Belle along with some other nibbles. It felt like a five-star hotel.

  It was around mid-afternoon when we finally ate, although we’d all been grazing on the various treats that Belle had brought for a couple of hours already. A lot of the stuff was excess from her mum and dad’s Christmas Day meal, which was always a huge and lavish family affair. Today we ate on the small, fold-up table that I kept in the living room and Belle had dressed it up beautifully with serviettes and crackers. She’d laid three places, of course.

  Bob didn’t like the sound of the crackers so Belle and I pulled them a safe distance away from him as he lay on the living-room floor. We both put on a paper hat then Belle used some scissors and Sellotape to customise a hat for Bob so that he wasn’t left out. We must have looked quite a picture, the three of us in our hats with our serviettes around our necks. It felt like we were a family, an unconventional one, but a family nevertheless.

  I’d bought a small bottle of cava to toast the meal.

  ‘Cheers,’ I said, raising a glass to Belle. ‘And thank you, for being such a great friend to Bob and me.’ Bob sat on his chair unimpressed, far more interested in the small bowl of chicken that Belle had placed there for him.

  I love Belle’s cooking and I ate so much I could have burst. We had talked about going out for a walk, just to get some fresh air, but those plans were quickly discarded. Besides, it was colder than ever outside. We were far better off indoors.

  I did the washing up and clearing away. By around 4 p.m. we were ready to sit down and open our presents.