Cleckheaton Street had probably been very posh in its day and all the houses had steps leading up to grand front doors. Now they were all split into apartments with rows of buzzers at eevry entrance. Many of the houses had cellars with open curtains whcih looked so warm and cosy particularly to a homeless bear with stomache ache from eating too much black pudding.
Some three hundred of Spotty’s paces down the road, or to put it another way, thirty metres, there was a break in the railings outside these houses and the pavement widened in front of a double fronted shop which was in semi darkness. At first it appeared to Spot that the shop was called Cadbury’s as this was painted in large swirly golden letters where the proprietor’s name would normally be. But in smaller letters at the side of the Cadbury’s bit, it said James MacDonald Newsagent Established 1937. ‘A newsagent’s, maybe I’m home at last,’ thought Not Spot to himself.
He takes up the account in his own words again.
‘The front door of the shop was recessed and both this area and the bits under each window were beautifully tiled and really old by the look of them. Some piles of magazines tied with rough string were piled in the doorway and I remember thinking that if the worst happened I could always wrap myself in the newsapapers for warmth and sleep the night in the doorway. But something in my stuffing encouraged me to press on.
A massive letterbox was set low in the shop door. I tested it and found to my relief that it was not too strongly sprung. The shop itself was as quiet as the Benefits Office in Mayfair. I pushed gently on the flap of the letterbox and it moved. I pushed some more and to my releif no alarm sounded. I lifted my leading leg and swing it through the flap. As always happens the reast of me followed because the rest of me is stitched to this leading leg. My rucksack followed on last until, there I was, standing inside this shop dusting myself down. It was a good deal warmer than it had been outside.
I sniffed the air. What a mixture. I could smell pipe tobacco, licorice, newsprint and wax polish among other smells which hung around the shop counter. I waitede while my eyes grew accustomed to the light then cleared my throat and asked in my most polite voice that I save for occasions like this.
Good evening. Anyone at shop?’
I heard a stirring in the shadows and a syruppy rather educated voice replied, ‘That rahter depends on who’s doing the asking. Come over here so I can have a better look at you in the light.’
‘What light?’ I asked squinting into the gloom.
A tall refrigerator door opened and a triangular shaft of light shone on me like a spotlight. Myeyes adjusted to this new level of light and I beagn to make out the outline of my interrogator and my word what an imposing figure he cut. First of all this teddy bear whoever he was towered above me even in his monogrammed maroon carpet slippers. He wore a brown waistcoat with a contrasting yellow check in the pattern which really went with his grey velvet trousers. Across his chest he wore a gold pocket watch and chain and he wore a pair of gold framed readig glasses that perched on the end of his nose. He looked me up and down which admittedly doesn’t take long and offered a paw.
‘A very good evening young amn. My name is Bartholemew and your name is…?’
‘Blowing around the Suex Canal somewhere.’ I stammered.
‘Well they’re giving out some stupid names these days but that takes the biscuit.’
‘No No, @ I protested. ‘ I don’t know whay my name is I lost it somewhere arounf the Suez Canal. It was tied to my wrist but somehow it came undone. So I’m stuck for a name.’
‘Somerset House,’ shouted a disembodied voice from the shadows.
‘Sorry, ‘ I said. ‘Didn’t quite catch that.’
Somerset House. That’s the place to go for names. It’s choc a bloc with every name you’ve ever heard of and plenty you haven’t. They’ve got names leaking out their leterbox.’
‘Now now, dont exagerrate,’ warned Bartholemew as a dark figure emerged to examine me. ‘This is The Professor,’ Bartholemew told me. A black gown opened and a paw came out. He was wearing a T shirt that said OXFORD UNIVERSITY along with denim jeans stained with his most recent meals and a pair of suede desert boots. With his mortar board he seemed every inch the academic and I was impressed.
‘The Prof’s corect about Somerset House as it happens,’ Barholemew conceded. ‘But then the Prof’s right about most things aren’t you old fellow?’
‘Abslotely Barty old thing. One of my first degrees was in Always Being Right. Got a first in it as a matter of fact. Seem to remember I had to write a long story and do a three hour exam for it. Revise all night the night before and kept going onMars Bars and Prop Plus. Ah happy days.’
‘Yes yes, you’ve told us all before a thousand times,’ Batholemew stopped him in his tracks and anotehr voice shouted ffrom the gloom ‘For goodness sake don’t get him started or we’ll all be up all night.’
‘I suppose you’re looking for somewhere to sleep are you. You’re in luck there’s space up on the tiop shelves with Casper.’ I could have hugged Bartholemew there and then but I don’t think he’d have thanked me.