Wilfred De’ath
On Christmas night, I was allowed the rare treat of a room to myself at a night shelter. I slept like a log, with only a couple of visits to the en suite bathroom, right through until lunchtime on Boxing Day. For the rest of my ‘holiday’, I was obliged to sleep on a sofa or on the floor.
At about 1pm on Boxing Day I descended to the ‘lounge’ to join the usual assortment of criminals, drug addicts, alcoholics, prostitutes, rough sleepers with dogs etc. They were all watching ITV. There was the most appalling smell. None of them – me neither – had any money; otherwise we wouldn’t have been there…
Dominating the proceedings was a loud-mouthed ex-druggie (she had been ‘clean’ for only a matter of weeks) named Susie. She had OCD (obsessive cleaning disorder). She was so bossy that, at first, I took her for a member of staff. Backing her up was her ‘partner’, Nick, a massive, tough Cornishman, just out of five years’ jail for aggressive burglary and other offences. This couple ruled the roost. I gave them a wide berth because Nick looked tough enough to kill on sight. But he was surprisingly bright.
I was frightened of the dogs, mostly pit bulls or Rottweilers, who fought with each other non-stop. A weedy fellow named Dave, who possessed a pit bull but wanted a Rottweiler, threatened to hit and kick me because, he said, he had seen me hitting and kicking his dog. (I wouldn’t have dared to). It was raining (and snowing) outside, as it usually is in Cambridge. Another female druggie, Tara, caught me opening my umbrella indoors and voiced the absurd suspicion that this would bring bad luck to the night shelter. So she broke it and didn’t offer to replace it. Thanks a lot, Tara.
Another fat girl, Alice, never stopped eating. I suppose this was a kind of emotional substitution for the fact that her ‘partner’, Rick, was in hospital in London, having his leg amputated for drug-related gangrene. I didn’t feel sorry for either of them.
It was not all negative. On New Year’s Eve, I met up with a little alcoholic, Joanna, in a rural church. (They have an attractive female minister, who doubles as chaplain at a London college.)
To return to Joanna, she was 38 with four sons who want nothing more to do with her. I was unusually charitable – rare for me. I took her out for some expensive glasses of wine to celebrate New Year. Big mistake. She got drunk and ‘borrowed’ the rest of my money to buy tobacco. I didn’t want to see her again.
The night shelter is staffed mainly by volunteers, a well-meaning bunch who are frightened of their own clients. Why do people volunteer? I am far too selfish to do so myself, but I would like to know what it is in people that makes them devote their days to a lot of no-hopers.