The World According to Bob: The further adventures of one man and his street-wise cat (18 page)

Garry and I were determined that the book wouldn’t just be about my life with Bob. We wanted it to offer people some insights into life on the streets. I wanted to get across to people how easy it was for people like me to fall through the cracks, to become forgotten and overlooked by society. Of course, in order to do that, I had to tell my ‘backstory’ as well.

I really wasn’t looking forward to that part of the exercise. Talking about myself wasn’t something that came easily to me, especially when it came to the darker stuff. And there was a lot of that. There were aspects of my life as an addict that I had buried away in the farthest corners of my mind. I’d made choices that I was deeply ashamed about, done things that I didn’t want to share with anyone, let alone put in a book. But once we began talking, to my surprise, it was less painful than I’d feared. I couldn’t afford to see a psychologist or a psycho-analyst but there were times when talking to Garry was as good as talking to a shrink. It forced me to confront some painful truths and was strangely cathartic, helping me to understand myself a little better.

I knew I wasn’t the easiest person to deal with. I had a defiant, self-destructive streak that had consistently got me into trouble. It was pretty obvious that I’d had a childhood that had messed me up. My parents’ divorce and my peripatetic years, flitting between the UK and Australia, hadn’t exactly been stabilising forces. I’d always tried really hard to fit in and be popular as a kid, but it had never worked. I’d ended up trying too hard – and become a misfit and an outcast as a result.

By the time I was an adolescent my behavioural problems had begun. I was angry and rebellious and fell out with my mother and stepfather. For a period of around two years, between the ages of 11 and 13, I’d been constantly in and out of the Princess Margaret Hospital for Children outside Perth. At one point I’d been diagnosed as either bi-polar or manic depressive. I can’t remember exactly which it was. They seemed to come up with a new diagnosis every week. Either way, the upshot was that I was prescribed various medications, including lithium.

The memories from that time were mixed.

One vivid memory that sprung to mind was of going into the surgery at the Princess Margaret for a weekly blood test. The walls of the surgery were plastered in posters of pop and rock stars so I had the blood tests done while staring at a picture of Gladys Knight and the Pips.

Each time the doctor assured me that the injection he was about to give me wouldn’t hurt. ‘It will only feel like a scratch,’ he’d say, but it was always more than that. It was kind of ironic, I suppose, but I’d had a phobia about needles for years after that. It was a measure of how deep my drug addiction had been that I’d somehow forgotten this and happily injected myself on a daily basis.

On a happier note, I remembered how, after leaving the hospital, I had wanted to give something back and had begun donating boxes of comic books. I’d managed to get myself some work experience in a comic book shop nearby and had persuaded the boss to let me take boxes of unsold magazines for the kids at the hospital. I’d spent many hours playing air hockey and watching video games in the activity room they had in the children’s ward so I knew they’d all appreciate something decent to read.

In the main, however, the memories of that time were pretty grim. They opened my eyes to aspects of my youth that I’d never really examined before.

At one point, for instance, we were working on the book on the day after I’d watched a film by the documentary-maker Louis Theroux about how parents in America were using more and more psychoactive medication to treat their kids for disorders like ADHD, Asperger’s and bipolar disorders.

It occurred to me suddenly that this was exactly what had happened to me. And it struck me that being treated like this must have had a huge impact on me when I was young. It made me wonder what had come first. It was a chicken and egg question: had I been given the drugs because I was acting up? Or did I start acting up because of all the visits to doctors who convinced me that there must be something wrong with me? Perhaps most scary of all, what effect did all that medication have on me and my young personality? As a young kid I’d considered myself quite a happy-go-lucky character, but since that time I had been what I suppose you’d call ‘troubled’. I’d struggled to fit into society and suffered from depression and mood swings. Was there a link? I had no idea.

What I did know, however, was that I couldn’t blame the doctors, my mother or anyone else for the way my life had gone since then. Yes, they had played a role, but the buck stopped with me. No one told me to develop a drug problem. No one forced me to drift on to the streets of London. No one made me take up heroin. They were mistakes that I made of my own free will. I hadn’t needed anyone’s help to screw up my life. I’d done a perfectly good job of that on my own.

If nothing else, the book was an opportunity for me to make that crystal clear.

For a moment my dad was lost for words. The expression on his face was a mixture of disbelief, happiness, pride – and mild apprehension.

‘That’s a lot of money, Jamie,’ he said after a couple of moments, putting to one side the manila coloured cheque I’d just handed him.

‘You’d better be careful with that.’

The reality of what had happened hadn’t really sunk in until now. Not just for my dad, but for me either. There had been meetings with publishers, contracts signed, even articles in the newspapers. But it hadn’t been until I received this cheque for the advance that it finally struck home.

When it had first flopped through the letter box a couple of days earlier, I had opened the envelope and then simply sat there looking at it. The only cheques I’d seen in the past decade had been from the DHSS. They were for small amounts, £50 here and £100 there, never anything with more than a couple of noughts on it.

Compared to some people, especially in London, it wasn’t actually that large a sum of money. For a lot of the commuters walking past me each day on their way to the City of London, I guess it wasn’t even a month’s salary. But for someone for whom £60 was a very good day’s wage, it was an eye-watering amount of cash.

The arrival of the cheque, though, had brought two immediate problems. I was terrified of frittering it away but, even more of a worry, I didn’t have a bank account into which I could pay it. I’d had an account years ago but hadn’t managed it very well. I’d got used to living on cash and for the last few years had taken all my cheques to a ‘cash converters’. Which was why I’d travelled to my father’s house in south London.

‘I was hoping you could look after it for me,’ I’d asked him over the phone. ‘I can then ask you for money as and when I need it.’

He’d agreed and I’d now had the cheque endorsed over to his name. (Not a huge change because we shared the exact same initials and surname.)

Rather than meeting as usual at Victoria, he’d invited me over to his neck of the woods. We went for a couple of drinks in his local and chatted for a couple of hours.

‘So is this going to be a proper book?’ he asked me, the scepticism he’d displayed ever since I’d told him about it resurfacing once more.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, is it a picture book or a children’s book? What is it going to be about exactly?’ he said.

It was a fair question, I suppose.

I explained that it was the story of how I met Bob, and how we’d helped each other. He looked a little nonplussed.

‘So will me and your mother be in it?’ he asked.

‘You might get a mention,’ I said.

‘I’d better get on to my lawyers then,’ he said, smiling.

‘No, don’t worry. The only person that comes out badly in all this is me.’

That made him change tack a little.

‘And is this going to be a long-term thing?’ he continued. ‘You writing books.’

‘No,’ I said, honestly. ‘I’m not going to become the next J.K. Rowling dad. There are thousands of books published every year. Only a tiny minority of them become bestsellers. I really don’t think a tale about a busker and recovering drug addict and his stray ginger cat is going to be one of them. So, yes this is going to be a short-term thing. It’s a nice windfall, and no more.’

‘All the more reason to be careful with the money then,’ he said, seizing the opportunity to give me some sensible fatherly advice.

He was right, of course. This money would ease the stress on me for a few months, but not much longer. I had debts to clear and my flat was badly in need of some refurbishing. I knew I had to be realistic which meant that I had to keep my job with
The Big Issue
going. We talked about this for a little while, but he then went off into a lecture on the relative merits of various investments and savings schemes. At that point, I did what I had so often done when my parents spoke to me. I tuned out completely.

Chapter 12

The Joy of Bob

Being with Bob has been such an education. I’d not had many mentors in my life and had spurned the few well-meaning people who had tried to guide and advise me. I always knew better than them, or so I imagined.

It is a bizarre thing to admit, but with Bob it has been different. He has taught me as much, if not more, than any human I’ve come across. Since being in his company I’ve learned important lessons about everything from responsibility and friendship to selflessness. He has even given me an insight into a subject I thought I’d never really understand – parenthood.

I doubted whether I would ever have children. I wasn’t sure whether I’d be up to the job and, truth be told, the opportunity hadn’t really presented itself. I’d had a couple of girlfriends over the years, including Belle, to whom I was still really close and thought the world of. But starting a family hadn’t ever been on the horizon. As Belle once succinctly put it, I was too busy behaving like a child myself most of the time.

Caring for Bob has, however, given me a glimpse into what it must be like to be a father. In particular, it has made me realise that parenthood is all about anxiety. Whether it is fretting over his health, watching out for him when we are out on the streets, or simply making sure he is warm and well fed, life with Bob often feels like one worry after another.

It actually chimes with something that my father had said to me after I’d been missing in London for a year or so. It had been at the height of my addiction and both he and my mother had been beside themselves with concern about me.

‘You have no idea how much a parent worries about his or her child,’ he had shouted at me, furious at what he called my selfishness in not being in touch with them.

It hadn’t meant much at all to me then. Since being with Bob I have begun to appreciate what hell I must have put my parents through. I wish I could turn back the clock and save them all that grief.

That is the bad news. The good news is that, in amongst the anxiety and worry, ‘parenthood’ brings with it a lot of laughter too. That is another thing Bob has taught me. For far too long I’d found it hard to find much joy in life. He has taught me how to be happy again. Even the slightest, silliest moments we share together can bring an instant smile to my face.