DELIVER US FROM BOBBY
This is a story sent to us from former sign-writer and illustrator, David Holroyd (a well-known dolphin trainer from the 1970s) of Swinton, Lancashire, telling the amazing tale of a sea lion who comes to his keeper’s rescue after a row over a parking space is a true story. “You couldn’t make it up!” said David, who hopes to get his first book published next year.
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Manchester Evening News 1971 – David lands ‘a dream of a job’. My first taste of fame: I was the lucky lad chosen to represent a leading company working as a presenter of dolphin shows. Little did I realise that this opportunity would set me on the path of training the Perfect Pair – Europe’s top performing dolphins. So it seems strange that the first of my many adventures took place, not with a dolphin, but instead with a huge Californian sea lion, named Bobby.
Bobby and I met by chance after he was stealthily whisked away from his zoo home, following a horrific attack on a member of the public. To avoid destruction, he was transported to the training pool where I was based; and with nothing more than two penguins, aptly named Smelly and Worse, to keep us company, he and I soon became good friends. However, his fearsome reputation always commanded respect.
One morning, I had to pick up a crate of herring from the fishmonger’s, and as the pool was situated near the local colliery, I set out early to dodge the morning traffic. Only one road led from the village to the pit: it ran up a steep hill, passing the pool about three quarters of the way up and, thirty minutes before a shift change, got very busy.
I didn’t fancy lugging heavy slabs of fish any great distance, so instead of parking in my usual place round the side of the pool, I found a more convenient spot on the main road, a short way from the front entrance. After dumping the fish in the sink to defrost, I began to clean up the usual overnight mess left by Smelly and Worse. Filling a bucket with hot water and bleach, I strode into the poolroom, calling cheerfully to Bobby: “Hello, lad, how you doing, my son?”
It was important to greet the big fellah properly: God knows, it must have been a bleak life for him locked up in this place 24 hours a day with nothing but two stinky penguins for company. Bobby, messing in the water, responded to my shout by lifting his massive head, snorting a plume of droplets into the air, and solemnly regarding me with those big, green eyes. A blink of acknowledgement, then he dived to continue his sub aqua meanderings.
I picked up the deck scrubber, walked to the far end of the poolroom, and started to scrub the floor. Smelly and Worse had been particularly productive overnight, leaving a fair number of stinky white pools for me to deal with. Suddenly, the main doors to the poolroom banged open, revealing a miner: early thirties, becapped and dressed in the usual drab garb of the village men.
“Hello, can I help you?” The doors hadn’t even swung shut behind him before he started yelling abuse of the most remarkable colour. A potent Shire accent delivered four-letter words with the efficiency of a machine gun, and as I stood there gaping, I managed to grasp something about… my car… HIS space… and get it shifted NOW!
It seemed the man was aggrieved because I’d parked in his spot – no small offence in the village, where the ownership of a spot was of paramount importance. The village was so small and intimate that almost every square foot was deemed to belong to someone: be it a parking space, a lamp-post to lean on, a wall to sit on, or a stool in the pub. I’d transgressed seriously, and the man was determined to let me know it.
Like all the miners, he was short in stature, but wide and muscular in build, with a chest that looked solid enough to stop a small nuclear warhead. He rather put me in mind of a vertically-challenged Minotaur. His small, steely eyes flashed beneath his cap, the corners of his mouth twisting grimly downwards, then he pounded towards me across the tiled floor, fists clenched.
“Are yer listenin’ to mi, or what? I said, are yer listenin?” He was very, very angry. But he wasn’t the only one: the training pool was supposed to be a high security facility, strictly out of bounds to the public. It galled me no end that this guy had had the nerve to even breach the main entrance, never mind intrude as far as the poolroom.
“Ay, you – you *******! Get that ******* car out of my space!” Before my eyes, the red mist started to form, and I struggled to steady myself and speak calmly. “You shouldn’t be in here.” “Get that ******* car out of my space!”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” I demanded, throwing the deck scrubber aside and stepping forward. “I said get that ******* car out of my space!” “Or what?” So enraged was I by his foul-mouthed assault, I could hardly breathe, never mind speak. Everything around me seemed to fade away as all my attention focused on this nasty, bullish man, and my overwhelming desire to pound him into the ground. I launched myself at him, determined, dangerous and blinded by anger.
He had no intention of backing off, either, and if we’d ever reached each other, I dread to think what might have happened. But we didn’t reach each other, because a terrifying thought suddenly popped into my mind and all but paralysed me. Bobby! Where’s Bobby? Distracted, I turned to see him: his massive, black head in the centre of the pool, immobile and watching.
Then, ever so slowly, it swivelled round so that his big green eyes locked onto mine. For the oddest moment, it seemed as though I were looking in a mirror; then I felt all my aggression seeping away, and saw it – actually saw it – filling up in those big green eyes. Bobby’s head snapped back round to look at the man; then he dived. There was nothing left in me now but panic, blind panic. “Run!” I screamed. “The sea lion! Run!”
The man froze in bewilderment, sensing my terror. “What? What do you mean?” “Just get out! The sea lion!” My voice had deteriorated into a shriek. He stood there, jaw dropping foolishly, then whimpered, “Why, does it bite?” By this time, the torpedo which was Bobby had almost reached the deck, a plume of water in its wake.
“Go, go!” I screamed; but the man was already gone, a pair of swinging doors the only evidence that he’d ever been there. Bobby shot from the water like a ball launched in a pinball game, a loud, hoarse bark reverberating off the walls. He hit the tiles with a dull thwack, then slid headlong through the swing doors, sending them crashing off their hinges.
As he disappeared into the dark corridor, I grabbed the deck scrubber and chased after him. “No, Bobby, no… come back!” Down the narrow, winding corridor, he pursued his quarry, galloping clumsily and ineffectively like… well, like a sea lion out of water. By this time, the man had made it out of the building, down the steps and onto the road, and might have believed – mistakenly – that he’d reached safety; but the avenging Bobby motored on.
“Stop, Bobby! You can’t do this!” Still bellowing his ear-shattering war cry, he burst through the main entrance, slid down the steps, and galloped along the pavement, oblivious to the crawling traffic and gaping drivers. But he managed only five or six yards before his rampaging pursuit slowed to a half-hearted slither. His prey had escaped, and Bobby just wasn’t built for manoeuvring along pavements. He flopped to a stop, then lifted his head to regard me apologetically. Sorry, Dave; he got away.
By this time, the traffic had come to a complete halt as the men intended for the early shift stopped to watch. How could this be happening in a tiny, unrecognised backwater like this? A sea lion? Most of them had never seen a sea lion, except in pictures. But this? A sea lion on a road in the middle of the village?
Bobby ignored them. He was dejected, exhausted. I blinked at him kindly, as he had so often blinked at me, then gently manoeuvred him round with the deck scrubber. “Come on, Bobby. We showed him. Now let’s go home.” Bobby sighed heavily, then began the laborious journey back to the pool, hauling himself up the steps and through the entrance, still maintaining an audience of open-mouthed motorists.
As for the aggressive miner, we never saw him again.
David has been writing a book for the past two years – THE PERFECT PAIR – THE ENCHANTED MIRROR – which he hopes to release this year. However, in September, he entered the prestigious Manchester Evening News Literary Competition with this chapter from his book, called DELIVER US FROM BOBBY – and won first prize!!!
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