fruiterers, street-traders - anyone who sold fruit, veg or flowers - came to buy their stock; where Page 27
growers and farmers brought their goods; where lorries arrived from the docks laden with food bought from exotic countries, and trucks departed, full to bursting point, bound for different parts of the country, or back to the docks where their contents would be loaded on to ships; where voices were surly as barter took place, as credit was extended - even as debts were paid.
A burly man, red-faced, bull-necked, wearing a dirty once-white smock, lumbered past us, pulling a barrow piled high with precariously balanced boxes, all packed with greenish-yellow bananas. He sang at the top of his voice, stopping only to swear amiably at a passing workmate, unaware that a hand of bananas was about to topple from the top of his load. As it did so I started forward, but Rumbo barked sharply.
'Don't you dare,' he warned me. 'They'd skin you alive in this place if they caught you stealing.'
Someone shouted and the man stopped his barrow, looking back round the stacked boxes to see the stray bananas. He cheerfully walked back to them and threw them high on to his load. He spotted us as he returned to the barrow's handles and stopped to give Rumbo a hearty pat on his back. I think the pat would have broken my spine. My new friend wagged his tail and tried to lick the man's hand.
'Hello, boy. Brought a friend with you today, 'ave you?' the market porter said, reaching out for me. I backed away; my young body was too tender for such rough treatment. The man chuckled and turned back to his barrow, resuming his tuneless tune.
I was puzzled by Rumbo's attitude: why had we come here if we couldn't sample the food?
'Come on,' he said, as if in answer, and we were off again, dodging round salesmen, porters and buyers, threading our way through the disorder, Rumbo receiving a welcome or a friendly pat now and again. Occasionally we would be shooed on, and once we had to avoid a malicious boot aimed at us, but generally my older companion seemed to be well-known and an accepted part of the scene. Rumbo must have been working at it for quite a long time, for animals - apart from rat-catching cats - aren't generally tolerated around food-markets, particularly strays.
A new overpowering smell reached my sensitive nostrils, easily defeating the tang of mixed fruit and vegetables, and much more enticing to my grumbling tummy: the smell of frying meat. I saw where Rumbo had been heading and raced ahead, leaping up at the high counter of the mobile snack-bar. It was much too high for me, and I could do no more than rest my front paws against it and look up expectantly. I couldn't see anything because of the overhanging counter, but the smell of frying wafted down over me.
Rumbo appeared quite angry when he arrived, and said through clenched teeth, 'Get down, squirt.
You'll spoil everything.'
I obeyed reluctantly, not wanting to upset my new-found friend. Rumbo paced himself back so that he would be visible to the man behind the high counter and yipped a couple of times. A skinny old head peeked over the edge of the counter and broke into a yellow-toothed smile.
' 'Allo, Rumbo. 'Ow yer doin' today? 'Ungry belly, eh? Let's see what we can find yer.' The head disappeared from my view so I rushed to join Rumbo, excitement at the prospect of food elating me.
'Keep still, pup. Don't make a nuisance of yourself or we'll get nothing,' he scolded.
I did my best to remain calm, but when the man behind the counter turned to face us, a juicy-looking Page 28
sausage held between two fingers, it was too much for me. I jumped up and down in anticipation.
'What's this, then, brought a mate along? This ain't meals-on-wheels yer know, Rumbo, I can't start feedin' all yer mates.' The man shook his head disapprovingly at Rumbo, but nevertheless dropped the sausage between us. I made a grab for it, but my companion was quicker, snarling and gobbling at the
growers and farmers brought their goods; where lorries arrived from the docks laden with food bought from exotic countries, and trucks departed, full to bursting point, bound for different parts of the country, or back to the docks where their contents would be loaded on to ships; where voices were surly as barter took place, as credit was extended - even as debts were paid.
A burly man, red-faced, bull-necked, wearing a dirty once-white smock, lumbered past us, pulling a barrow piled high with precariously balanced boxes, all packed with greenish-yellow bananas. He sang at the top of his voice, stopping only to swear amiably at a passing workmate, unaware that a hand of bananas was about to topple from the top of his load. As it did so I started forward, but Rumbo barked sharply.
'Don't you dare,' he warned me. 'They'd skin you alive in this place if they caught you stealing.'
Someone shouted and the man stopped his barrow, looking back round the stacked boxes to see the stray bananas. He cheerfully walked back to them and threw them high on to his load. He spotted us as he returned to the barrow's handles and stopped to give Rumbo a hearty pat on his back. I think the pat would have broken my spine. My new friend wagged his tail and tried to lick the man's hand.
'Hello, boy. Brought a friend with you today, 'ave you?' the market porter said, reaching out for me. I backed away; my young body was too tender for such rough treatment. The man chuckled and turned back to his barrow, resuming his tuneless tune.
I was puzzled by Rumbo's attitude: why had we come here if we couldn't sample the food?
'Come on,' he said, as if in answer, and we were off again, dodging round salesmen, porters and buyers, threading our way through the disorder, Rumbo receiving a welcome or a friendly pat now and again. Occasionally we would be shooed on, and once we had to avoid a malicious boot aimed at us, but generally my older companion seemed to be well-known and an accepted part of the scene. Rumbo must have been working at it for quite a long time, for animals - apart from rat-catching cats - aren't generally tolerated around food-markets, particularly strays.
A new overpowering smell reached my sensitive nostrils, easily defeating the tang of mixed fruit and vegetables, and much more enticing to my grumbling tummy: the smell of frying meat. I saw where Rumbo had been heading and raced ahead, leaping up at the high counter of the mobile snack-bar. It was much too high for me, and I could do no more than rest my front paws against it and look up expectantly. I couldn't see anything because of the overhanging counter, but the smell of frying wafted down over me.
Rumbo appeared quite angry when he arrived, and said through clenched teeth, 'Get down, squirt.
You'll spoil everything.'
I obeyed reluctantly, not wanting to upset my new-found friend. Rumbo paced himself back so that he would be visible to the man behind the high counter and yipped a couple of times. A skinny old head peeked over the edge of the counter and broke into a yellow-toothed smile.
' 'Allo, Rumbo. 'Ow yer doin' today? 'Ungry belly, eh? Let's see what we can find yer.' The head disappeared from my view so I rushed to join Rumbo, excitement at the prospect of food elating me.
'Keep still, pup. Don't make a nuisance of yourself or we'll get nothing,' he scolded.
I did my best to remain calm, but when the man behind the counter turned to face us, a juicy-looking Page 28
sausage held between two fingers, it was too much for me. I jumped up and down in anticipation.
'What's this, then, brought a mate along? This ain't meals-on-wheels yer know, Rumbo, I can't start feedin' all yer mates.' The man shook his head disapprovingly at Rumbo, but nevertheless dropped the sausage between us. I made a grab for it, but my companion was quicker, snarling and gobbling at the
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