John and George

Last autumn, artist John Dolan put on his first gallery show, just across the street from where he had sat and sketched for three years. It sold out. As John likes to say, it took him three years to move ten yards. Without George, it never would have happened.

John had spent a long time living rough, trying his best to get by. His early life was marked by neglect and abuse, and his childhood gift for drawing was stamped out by the tough realities outside his front door. As he grew older, he found himself turning to petty crime and ended up in prison. On coming out, with a record and no trade, he soon found himself on the streets, surviving day-by-day, living hand-to-mouth.

It wasn’t until he met George, a tearaway Staffy, that his life changed for the better. To begin with, George was a handful: he had been abused himself and was scared of human contact. But in a matter of weeks, John and George had become inseparable. It was then that John decided to pick up his long-forgotten gift for drawing, sitting on Shoreditch High Street for hours at a time, sketching pictures of George which he would sell to passers-by. With his best friend by his side, and a pencil in his hand, John suddenly found his life’s calling.

About the Author

John Dolan is a critically-acclaimed artist living and working in Shoreditch, east London. For the past three years he and his dog George have sat out on Shoreditch High Street, while John sketched the world around him. Some of his sketches formed part of John’s first solo show, George The Dog, John the Artist, which was a sell out in September 2013.

Prologue

‘HOW MUCH MONEY do you reckon I’ve made you today, John?’ It was Griff, and he was grinning from ear to ear.

I was sitting on the pavement of Shoreditch High Street, drawing the buildings around me, just as I had done every day for the last three years.

My fingers were freezing cold and I was thinking about whether I could afford to get a cup of tea and a sandwich to keep myself going.

George was next to me, as always, wrapped in a coat and with a paper cup in front of him for passers-by to drop change into.

I liked the sound of this. The cup contained just a few pound coins, a handful of silver and a bit of copper, even though we’d been sitting on the street for a good couple of hours. Whatever Griff had made, he’d done better than me and George had that day.

Griff was buzzing. I could feel the energy sparking off him, but I was trying not to let it rub off on me.

Suddenly I was up on my feet, laughing, frowning and scratching my head in disbelief.

‘Straight up? You’ve made me fifteen thousand pounds? Today? How you done that?’

I knew Griff was telling the truth but I couldn’t take it in, not straight away. Good things like this just didn’t happen to me.

‘John, it’s absolutely true. Five pieces sold. Fifteen grand in total sales.’

George was sitting proud and still as usual, his front legs stretched out before him and his head held high. He began sniffing the air and looking at me expectantly, waiting for my command.

He sprang onto all fours and pushed his head into my outstretched hands as I crouched down to talk to him.

I’d been worrying myself to death about losing the roof over my head, but in that split second my fears dissolved. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

I don’t think George could either. He pricked up his ears and tilted his face from side to side, the way he always does when he’s listening carefully. His jaw looked set in a satisfied smile and his eyes were shining.

‘When do I get my half ?’ he would have said if he could, because he’s a cheeky little git like that. ‘Seriously, good on you, mate,’ he’d have added, or I’d like to think he would. ‘You deserve a break. Just don’t forget where your luck came from . . .’

It was spring 2013 when this happened. I was 41 years old and selling those pictures was only the second lucky break I’d had in my entire life.

The first, the really big one, was meeting George a few years earlier. I didn’t know it at the time but he was my lucky charm; the dog who would turn my whole world upside down.

Without George I wouldn’t have picked up my pen and started drawing again after decades of neglecting my talent, and I would never have met Griff, a.k.a. local art dealer Richard Howard-Griffin. I’d either be lying in the gutter, banged up in jail or buried six feet under, and that’s the honest truth.

Instead I’ve collaborated with some of the world’s most famous street artists, my pictures are hanging on walls from New York to Moscow, and I have a sell-out London show under my belt. Getting to where I am now has been one hell of a journey. When I met George I’d been trapped in a revolving door of homelessness, crime, prison, depression and drugs for many, many years.

It was George who finally stopped the door turning, and it was George who made the artist in me stand up and step out of the darkness.

That’s no mean feat for a young Staffordshire bull terrier, especially one who’d had a hard life himself before we met. George is my universe. I love him to bits, and this is the story of how he changed my life.

Chapter One

IT WAS THE winter of 2009 when George came into my life, and I was living alone in a temporary council bedsit above a newsagent’s on Royal Mint Street, down the road from the Tower of London. I’d been fortunate enough to have been there for two years on and off, which was about the only good thing I had going for me. I was struggling in just about every way a person could struggle: I had no job, I had no income, and I had no control over my drug problem. The one thing I did have was the house, and I’d been homeless and slept rough often enough over the years to know how lucky I was to have any kind of roof over my head. As my mum, Dot, had shown me growing up, charity starts at home, and if I met people on the streets less fortunate than myself, I’d sometimes offer to put them up for a night or two. That’s how I came to meet Becky and Sam.

I met them outside Tower Hill tube station. They were a nice young couple in their early twenties who were sat begging for change. They, like most other homeless people with their hands out, looked fed up and in need of a break. They had a sheepdog with them who reminded me a bit of a dog I used to look after in my youth, and that’s how we first got talking. Over a period of a month or so I got to know Becky and Sam quite well because, as ashamed as I am to admit it, I was begging too; I didn’t know what else to do. I used to say to people that I was ‘financially embarrassed’ but it was much worse than that. I was really struggling to look after myself. I was penniless, and I felt I had no other option but to go cap in hand, asking passers-by if they could spare a bit of change for a hopeless bastard like me. Anyway, whenever I saw Becky and Sam, we’d try to cheer each other up, fetching the odd cup of tea for each other to keep out the cold, or swapping stories about what the punters said to us.

‘That fella told me I had a nice smile, gave me a fiver and said I deserved some luck,’ Becky would say.

‘That geezer told me I was a disgrace to the human race and should throw myself under a double-decker bus,’ I’d joke. It wasn’t far from the truth, but the only way to deal with it was to laugh it off or you’d just give up.

It was coming up to December and the cold was really starting to set in. I knew from experience what a depressing time that is to be on the streets, so I told Becky and Sam they could stay with me for a while if they wanted. They’d been sleeping rough for two years and unsurprisingly, they jumped at the chance, even though I warned them my bedsit was definitely not the Ritz. It was damp, cold and cramped, with just enough room for my sofa bed, but they were really grateful and happily squashed in, sleeping huddled together with their sheepdog beside them. They told me they’d rescued the dog from a homeless shelter after seeing someone kicking the living daylights out of him, which really got to me. I’d witnessed plenty of acts of senseless abuse and violence over the years, and I’d taken plenty of knocks myself when I’d been down.

‘You’ve done a really good thing,’ I said to Becky. ‘That’s what life’s all about.’

A couple of days into their stay, Becky ran up the stairs to the flat looking hassled. Breathless, she asked me if it would be ok to bring another dog in. I was slightly taken aback. When you’re homeless, it’s important you don’t take on too much responsibility. It’s difficult enough getting through each day just finding the money to feed yourself. How do you cope with two dogs?!

‘Well, it’s a bit of a strange story,’ she replied, getting her breath back.

It turned out that a drunk Scotsman had staggered up to Becky at the tube station and asked her if she wanted to buy his dog.

‘Don’t be silly!’ Becky had told him. ‘You can’t sell your dog for a can of lager!’

She looked at the dog who was sat peacefully at the Scotsman’s side, minding his own business. He was a young, handsome and very alert animal, and it was clearly an insult to swap him for the price of a can of lager, strong or otherwise. Becky didn’t think the Scotsman deserved to have the dog if that’s all he thought it was worth, and so she emptied her pockets to see how much money she had on her.

‘Tell you what, I’ll give you £20,’ she said. ‘Take that, but don’t be coming back now, d’you hear me?’

‘Aye, pet. Understood,’ he’d replied counting his money. ‘By the way, his name is George.’

The Scotsman stumbled off, and Becky was left holding George’s worn old lead, wondering what she’d done and hoping I wouldn’t mind having him in the flat too.

‘Why not?’ I said after hearing the story. ‘It sounds like this fella needs a break too. Go on, bring him in.’

Becky went back downstairs to fetch him. And a couple of minutes later the door opened again, and in walked George. I was immediately surprised by what a lovely-looking dog he was. Dogs of homeless people aren’t always that well cared for, and some can look a bit bedraggled and weak, but although he looked a little nervous I could tell how lively he was. There was something very appealing about the dark patch around his left eye and the fact he had one dark ear and one light one. There was a nick in one of his ears, like he’d been in a fight, but there was no denying what a handsome dog he was.

I stroked the top of George’s head and said ‘Hello,’ but I didn’t make a big fuss of him because I could see he was a bit twitchy and unsettled. I guess it was hardly surprising. It must have been hard enough for him to be in a strange bedsit with new owners, but God knows what sort of life he’d had with the Scotsman.

Becky shrugged. ‘I haven’t got a clue, but I don’t think George is very old.’

I agreed. He wasn’t a puppy, but he didn’t look much older than, say, eighteen months.

George sat very quietly on the floor, watching and listening, his body unbelievably still. He trained his eyes on whoever was speaking and his ears shot up at the slightest noise coming from outside the flat. Even though he was clearly on his guard, he seemed to have a deep calmness about him. To tell the truth, there was something a little bit mesmerising about George. I liked him right from the start.

‘Can you look after George for us for a few hours?’ Becky asked a couple of days later. ‘I wouldn’t ask, only it’s really important.’

She and Sam had a meeting with a social worker who was trying to get them off the streets, and Becky explained they didn’t want to show up with two dogs. I knew their sheepdog went everywhere with them and I was happy to help. George had been as good as gold in the couple of days I’d known him. He hardly ever barked, he kept himself to himself in the flat, and his calming presence really put me at my ease. He was turning out to be a very welcome guest.

‘It’ll be my pleasure,’ I said. ‘You’re a good boy, ain’t you, George?’

He looked at me and bobbed his head. I didn’t think I’d have any trouble with him at all. In fact, I didn’t think full stop.

Becky and Sam were gone for ages, and I found myself feeding George with the half a tin of Tesco dog food they had left by the kettle, and giving him a bowl of water. It might have been a very long time since I’d looked after a dog, but even I could work out I’d have to take him outside if they didn’t get back soon. I waited as long as I could, until it was just beginning to get dark, and then I gave in. I could tell how bored he was, and it didn’t feel right to have a young dog like him sat stewing in my tiny flat. George looked excited when I eventually clipped on his lead, and when I opened the front door, he darted off, pulling me down the stairs like a husky with a sledge.

When we reached the street, I got a very tight grip on him and walked him round the block. I was fretting because with my dodgy arthritic ankle, I knew he was strong enough to pull me over, but I tried not to let it worry me. I just wanted to concentrate on how good it felt to be walking a dog again. It must have been around fifteen years since the last time I had. In fact, it seemed like the first time in fifteen years I’d walked anywhere with a good, honest purpose.

As we meandered through the park, I remembered back to when I was a kid, walking my childhood dog Butch, a beautiful black mongrel, all around the streets of London, wondering what lay ahead for me. What a bloody long time ago that was, and what a massive disappointment my life had turned out to be.

‘Life don’t always turn out how you expect, does it, mate?’ I said to George, who suddenly turned around and licked my hand.

He nuzzled my leg and it instantly cheered me up. It was like he was trying to say thank you for the walk, and for looking after him. He needn’t have. He was the reason I was outside, taking a walk, breathing in the fresh air rather than being stuck in my miserable little flat, thinking about ways to forget my situation. As much as he owed me, I owed him.

Still, walking George was a bit unnerving because I wasn’t used to having any sort of responsibility at all, and it had been a hell of a long time since I’d looked after a dog. As we were walking out of the park, George tipped his head on one side and looked at me intently, as if he was really trying to work me out. I felt like I had to say something to him, to answer the questions in his eyes.

‘You’ll be all right with me, son,’ I told him. ‘You have a lie down. Don’t you worry about a thing.’

He wrinkled his brow and gave me a withering look. I sat down on a street bench, George lying at my feet, and picked up an old copy of the Evening Standard and started flicking through the pages. There was a story about benefit cuts that caught my eye, and I began reading it. One of the many reasons I was in such a state was because my benefits had been cut. It certainly wasn’t the whole story – I carried my fair share of the blame – but it was definitely part of the reason why I had ended up begging on the streets, even though that was the very last thing I wanted to do. I desperately needed a break, but with my track record and all the complications I had in my life, nobody in their right mind would have given me a job. I couldn’t see any way out of the black hole I had dug for myself; I’d resigned myself to the fact that my life was never going to get any better. It was most likely going to get a lot worse.

As I was reading the story, George sat up between my legs and stuck his nose in the newspaper. ‘Cheeky bastard,’ I muttered as I pulled the paper away, and roughly started rubbing his head, which he seemed to enjoy, and for the first time I had a good long look at him. I looked deep into his eyes, and he stared right back, unblinking and proud. There seemed to be a connection there between us. There was a great depth in those eyes, an underlying ease, and I remember a feeling of calmness wash over me as we shared that moment. It was the first time in a long time I’d felt anything akin to peace.

Becky and Sam were buzzing when they got back to the flat later that afternoon, and I could see straight away that they were desperate to tell me something.

They were obviously ecstatic about something, but when she started to speak, Becky sounded a bit nervous.

‘The thing is, John. Well, it’s like this. We’ve been offered a flat, but . . .’ She looked at George, who appeared to be hanging on her every word.

‘That’s fantastic!’ I interrupted. ‘Congratulations! Well done to the pair of you.’

I looked over at George, who was sat quietly, staring down at the floor. God, I felt sorry for him. I knew exactly how it felt to be the one who wasn’t chosen, the one who got left behind. I knew there was no way Becky and Sam could turn down the chance of a roof over their heads after sleeping rough for so long. Of course their sheepdog would go with them. George would be the one left without a home.

‘Never mind, mate,’ I said, walking over and ruffing George’s head. ‘Handsome bloke like you, you’ll find a new home no trouble.’

‘Er,’ Beckly blurted, and started rubbing her hands together nervously, ‘John, I’ve got something else to ask.’

I stared down at George, thought back to our afternoon in the park and knew there was only one answer.

‘Course. He can stay with me for as long as you like until you find him a good home. I’d be glad to have the company for a little while.’

Becky smiled but I could tell that she was wasn’t quite finished. ‘Er, I don’t mean just in the short term . . .’ she continued, her eyes flitting between George and me. ‘I mean, do you want to keep him? Will you take George on?’

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I hadn’t been trusted with anything by anybody for as long as I could remember, and here was Becky offering to give me this beautiful creature.

‘Yes . . . that’s if you want him. We’ve seen how you’ve looked after him. You’re a genuine guy, John. Me and Sam have seen that. We know you’d take good care of him, or we wouldn’t ask.’

When you beg for a living, it’s not often that you get many compliments, so I was really touched by what Becky was saying. She could obviously tell how well me and George were getting on, which gave me the confidence I needed to say what I said next.

‘Really? Well, when you put it like that – flattery will get you everywhere, sweetheart!’

And just like that, it was decided. I slapped my hands on my thighs. ‘Come here, George! Come on, boy.’

‘What did I tell you? Life don’t always turn out how you expect, does it, mate?’

Becky and Sam moved out that night and it was very late when I went to bed. In those days I wasn’t sleeping well at all, but after making up my sofa bed and settling George down on the floor I fell into a deep sleep really easily. The next morning I opened my eyes to see George lying in the crook of my leg as I lay on my side. I thought I was imagining things for a second. He looked completely relaxed, curled up as if he’d always been there. It took me a minute or two to properly wake up, and when I did my very first thought was: ‘What the hell have I gone and done?’

All the confidence I’d had the day before was gone. I was a wreck. No job, no money, no direction. I couldn’t even look after myself, let alone George. He was a big dog for God’s sake. This was total and utter madness; I would never be able to cope. I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the problem. I hated mornings and was never fit for anything before midday. Normally, from the moment I woke up, I’d start thinking about how I was going to get through the day, or if I’d even survive it at all. I was living on the edge already and having to worry about a dog was the kind of thing that could tip me over. Becky would understand, and if I had to find a new home for George myself, I would.

George stirred and pushed his face right up to mine, making me blink my eyes open again. He was inches away from me, eyeballing me. The flat was freezing cold and he was panting warm clouds of white breath in my face.

His brown eyes were shining. He looked alert and excited – the complete opposite of how I was feeling.

I picked up my mobile and rang Jackie, my sister. She was the only member of my family I still spoke to, though we could go for six or nine months at a time without talking, and I hadn’t seen her in a few years.

‘What’s up, John?’ she asked, because she knew from experience that whenever I called I either had a problem or needed a favour.

As always, there was a note of sympathy and concern in her voice, even though she must have been bored stiff of dealing with her good-for-nothing little brother.

‘Well, I can think of worse things you could have gone and done. What’s the dog called?’

He had gone for a nose about, but when I said his name, George came padding back over to me, an expectant look on his face. I realised he probably needed to go outside. All I needed was more sleep, more time to get my head straight and work out my next move.

‘Beautiful,’ I said without thinking. ‘He’s the most beautiful dog you’ve ever seen, Jack.’ George was now jumping back up on the bed, nudging me and licking my face. ‘Look, I’ll have to go. The dog’s all over me. I’ll talk to you later.’

‘Ok, I get it,’ I said to George, pulling him off me. ‘I know you want to go out. Well, if that’s what you want, that’s what we’ll do, while we decide what to do next…’

I had no idea at the time, but right then and there I made a decision that would ultimately change the course of my life. I was going to get out of bed in the morning, not the afternoon, and I was going to take George for a walk because it was what he needed even though it was the very last thing I felt like doing.

It was about half-ten when we headed out together to a small park nearby. Even though it was a bitterly cold day the winter sun was low and shining brightly. My head felt thick and heavy and my eyes were stinging painfully. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been out of the flat so early in the morning. A young mum with a pushchair saw us walking along the pavement and gave us a wide berth. I wondered if she was frightened of dogs like George, but then I realised it was probably me who looked the scarier of the two of us. I had a habit of sleeping in my clothes because the flat was so cold, and I hated washing and shaving because I had no hot water, which made the experience really uncomfortable. I’d lost a few teeth over the years too, which didn’t help my appearance. I hadn’t looked in a mirror for a long time because I hated the sight of myself so much. On top of all that, I wasn’t exactly smelling of roses, and nor was George. I couldn’t blame the mum for getting out of our way. The state I was in, I probably wasn’t fit to be out in public, and I certainly didn’t look capable of being in charge of a dog like George.

Just like the day before, George was pulling hard on his lead, and by the time we got to the park I was really struggling to stay upright. My right ankle was feeling worse than usual and I should have been using my crutches to help me walk, as I often did when my arthritis got really bad during the winter months. But I’d left them back at the bedsit, because I didn’t fancy my chances of holding onto George as well as the sticks. That was a battle he was bound to win.

I’d found an old tennis ball in the flat and had brought it with me to the park. I let George off the lead and threw the ball as far as I could, hoping to give myself a bit of a breather from being dragged around.

He bounded off to fetch it and was back just seconds later with saliva dripping from his jaw and the ball locked firmly in his mouth.

With Butch, the dog I had growing up, that’s all I ever needed to say. ‘Drop!’ was a command he had learned early on and understood very easily, and he obeyed every time. George wasn’t having any of it though. He refused to relax his jaw, just sat there clamping down like his life depended on it. Nervously, I reached forward and began to prize the ball out of his mouth with my bare hands. That was the first time I ever tried to reach into George’s mouth, and the last. He nearly took my fingers off!

‘Oi! Watch it!’ I said to George, snatching my fingers out of his mouth. ‘I need them.’

He looked at me and seemed to roll his eyes, as if to say: ‘You don’t say.’ I’d started to notice that he always looked me in the eye when I spoke, and I was beginning to see that there was a cheeky streak to his character. I threw the ball again, and this time I had even more trouble getting it out of his mouth. He was snarling and salivating, obviously enjoying the push and shove, and just when I thought I had a good grip on the ball George growled and clamped his teeth even tighter around it. I only just escaped without a nasty bite. That’s when it hit me.

‘Bloody hell, he’s a fully grown animal!’ Those were the words that rang through my head. This was serious. If I couldn’t even get myself in order, I sure as hell couldn’t cope with a muscle-bound pet. I had absolutely no experience with Staffies, or any other similar breed of dog. All I knew was how to look after my old dog Butch, an ordinary mongrel, and that felt like several lifetimes ago.

It would be madness to keep George, utter madness. But then again, I wasn’t exactly sane – not back then I wasn’t, anyhow.

Chapter Two

BEFORE GEORGE WALKED into my flat and my life started to change, I was a different man. I had been running away from my past for so long that I had almost forgotten where I had come from. I was brought up in a council flat in President House on the King Square estate in Islington, one of many flats in a cluster of low-rise buildings. We were on the third of five floors, and if I stood on the armchair and looked out of the window, as I often did as a small boy, I could see the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral, the three towers of the Barbican, and the BP Building in the City of London.

Back in those days I wasn’t interested in the buildings – certainly not in the way I am today – I was more concerned with watching out for my dad, Gerry, coming home from work. Gerry was a dustman. He was up at four every morning, out before five and worked until noon, collecting bins in Camden. He always came straight home to get changed and would then go out to the Bull pub in King Square, where he’d spend three or four hours drinking Guinness before coming home again and sinking into his old Parker Knoll armchair. Supposedly he drank at least twelve pints a day, but when he got home he never looked drunk to me.

‘I’m not watching this shit!’ he’d always say, changing the TV channel the minute he walked in, regardless of what I was watching. I soon caught on to his routine, and when I heard his key in the door I’d quickly jump up and switch from BBC1 to ITV or vice versa, knowing he would turn back over and I’d end up watching my choice of show anyway. I was always very careful not to get caught because my dad, like most men of his generation, ruled the roost. If he lost his temper his voice would fill the whole flat, the booming sound echoing all around like a pantomime baddie. It put the fear of God in me.

‘My house, my rules,’ I’d often hear Gerry say. ‘If you don’t like it, you know where the street door is.’ The street door was what we called our front door, even though it was three flights of stairs away from the street. He was a strong, proud man with firm opinions on most subjects. The joke in the family was that if he didn’t have a view on a person or a topic, they either hadn’t been born yet or it hadn’t been invented.

Like any son, I looked up to my dad and admired him. He loved to read books about the war and he would often tell me stories about battles and soldiers. He was also a gifted artist and could paint anything in any medium, if he put his mind to it. His speciality was sketching portraits, and I remember him once telling me that he drew a portrait of the queen which captured her likeness so well that everyone told him he should send it over to Buckingham Palace. In the end, though, he gave it away to a mate who said he liked it. Gerry was like that – always humble and very generous with his friends. In fact, if there was a party for the locals it was usually in our flat, and if there was a bloke in the pub who didn’t have a bed for the night my dad was often the one who stepped in to help.

‘Who’s that asleep on the sofa?’ my mum, Dot, would ask the next morning.

‘Last bloke in the pub,’ my dad would reply.

She understood Gerry and never complained; my mum had a huge heart and wasn’t afraid to roll up her sleeves and help anybody out.

Throughout my childhood she was a cleaner, working every day in offices in the City. She would start early in the morning, before the offices opened, which meant I would go to a neighbour’s flat along the landing from six until ten, when she returned.

Dot would go back out again in the evening, to clean after the office workers had left, and stay until seven or eight at night before getting the bus home.

She rarely grumbled but the long days and the physical strain must have been tough at times. There wasn’t a huge amount of money around and there were five kids to take care of in the family. She had no choice – we needed every penny.

I was the youngest, and I had two much older brothers, Malcolm and David, who were Dot’s sons from a previous relationship. Malcolm was fifteen when I was born and David was seventeen and, from as far back as I can remember, they were both as hard as nails. Malcolm became a professional boxer, and David took over the ownership of the renowned Times Amateur Boxing Club in the early eighties. It was, and still is, at the centre of the community providing young people from every background with an opportunity to participate in sport. David also turned it into an Olympic-standard training facility.

My two sisters, Marilyn and Jackie, were younger than my brothers but still a lot older than me. Marilyn was sixteen when I was born, and was Gerry’s daughter from his previous marriage. I barely remember Marilyn being around as she spent a lot of time at her mother’s. In fact, I didn’t really see her as a sister at all, and I used to call her ‘Auntie Marilyn’ whenever she showed up, which wasn’t that often. My other sister, Jackie, was eight years older than me, and I loved her to bits. My first clear memory of her is when she had to go into hospital to have her tonsils out. I was only about four and I cuddled her as tight as I could and didn’t want to let go of her.

She adored our mum and dad and was always well-behaved and kind, helping them out at home and doing her best at school. She used to babysit me, and I thought everything about her was fantastic.

I can’t ever remember all five kids living under the same roof; I suppose with seventeen years between me and my oldest brother, and the fact Marilyn stayed with her mother a lot, we were rarely all together. At weekends and after school Jackie would be off with her mates, while I would spend time with my mum and dad, or on my own. As the baby of the family, Gerry and Dot spoilt me rotten. My dad in particular liked to treat me to a comic book from the newsagent when he was on his way home from the pub. At Christmas and birthdays Gerry would take me to Beatties toy shop on High Holborn and sit me on the windowsill outside, so I could press my nose up against the glass.

Doctor Who

Contents

About the Book

About the Author

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two