‘The blankets soak up the very souls of the previous occupants. The ghosts of the guys haunt the bedding’
Around 1,000 people from across the Lothians help at the Bethany Winter Care Shelter, which offers a bed and a hot meal to rough sleepers. Here, Stewart, a volunteer, shares his experience of supporting those in desperate need
Dedicated to George, mentioned in the story, a longtime volunteer who passed away in February
The night shelter does what it says on the tin – it offers the homeless a roof over their heads. It runs every night from September to May of the following year.
Traditionally, the venue is a different church hall every night in an attempt to lessen conflict with the neighbourhood around the church. The church hall will be kitted out with 60 mats with two blankets laid at the foot of each bed.
The ratio of workers to clients is approximately 1: 12. Males outnumber the women vastly. The women do not sleep in a separate room but a small area is delineated by a row of chairs. It is a weird definition of privacy. In the scale of things it is safer than the streets.
Nobody foresaw the need for showers in a church hall.
It is impossible for the guys to keep clean, impossible to keep the tidal wave of dirt from their backs. The gathering of dirt on clothes, fingers, faces, lungs means that the guys suffer from a range of ailments. Chest colds, painful feet, sores, and, worse than that, the inescapable deterioration of internal organs.
It is 6.15pm and the kitchen is busy with chopping and chipping. The big gas burners roar into life. Huge pots are filled with potatoes and frozen vegetables. Chicken breasts are placed on oven trays and settled into the fiery furnace. It is a world of busy, purposeful movement. Backs are bending, fingers are stretching. Utensils are dunked into soapy water and George begins the process of washing and recycling. He has a smile on his face and knows there is a long way to go. It is no time to be dithering.
And, on cue, at 8pm the hall doors are flung open and the workers announce their arrival, a blast of cold air at their backs and flopping blue mats over their shoulders. The five workers, who man the night-shift for its nine month duration, know what they are doing. The minibus is full to bursting with the equipment for the evening.
Blankets are heaved into the hall in huge, blue Ikea bags and distributed two at a time at the foot of each of the beds, but make it clear, make it abundantly clear, that nothing I have said gives a clue to the assault on the senses that the bedding sets off. The blankets soak up the very souls of the previous occupants. The ghosts of all the guys haunt the mat and bedding. You need to be hardened against possibilities; after all, on any particular night, you rest your head two feet away from an unknown number of strangers, some of whom are loud, some of whom are downright dangerous.
At 8.45pm the team of workers call the volunteers to a table. After a shifting and settling of chairs, a quiet respectfulness descends. The team leader introduces himself and names are exchanged. The procedures for the night are run through. These are the details which will make all the difference. We are informed of the likely numbers and are reminded that we must reveal only our first names. It is as though we are on a dangerous mission. The leader is a heavily built man who speaks in a strong Glasgow accent. He is making clear it that he is nobody’s fool.
“I know you have all been here before,” he continues. “Our first principle is to keep everybody safe and that applies to you more than anybody else.”
He pulls a Bible from his jacket pocket.
Tonight’s extract is from the Gospel of Matthew.
“Let us pray,” he continues. “If anybody wants to join in, please do so.”
I can’t concentrate. I am waiting for the pause in the rhythm, dreading that I might open my mouth and upend the situation, throwing a spanner in the works. I wonder how the rest are feeling and then he stops, he stops and, like the instruments in a quartet, another voice picks up the theme.
I can hear the lady playing with a chain round her neck as the words unfold.
I want it to stop. I feel uncomfortable with people so used to speaking to God in some shared manner, picking up the threads of meaning and running with them into the distance.
At last it is over. “Amen.”
It is time to move. Chairs are pushed back.
“Who has the key for the bus?” I ask.
“Are you tonight’s driver?” asked the team leader.
He drops the keys into my hand. A worker is assigned to accompany me; she is the sole lady team member and I think how brave she must be. She wears lots of thick, warm clothing and I see her
“I turn around to take in the room; men bent over blankets, settling them to their shapes and needs, demarcating a personal space”
rubbing her hands together against the chill night air.
The streets of Leith are quiet at that time of the evening and I spot the golden curve of the moon above Princes Street. It only takes a few minutes to climb up to Leith Street but it is an awkward climb. Stopping and starting the bus takes up all of my powers of concentration. It is 9.15pm on the clock above the Balmoral Hotel. The pick-up spot is Waterloo Place.
The worker jumps out to greet the guys, who pour on to the bus, bumping rucksacks and plastic bags into the body of the bus. Just imagine you had to load everything you possessed on to a vehicle. You would need a removal firm and a bunch of beefy chaps to round up the settee and wardrobes.
When the bus is full, it is a different world. The heat and the relief of being inside take over.
Behind me settles a cramped, crumpled universe of bumps and bruises. As the warmth of the bus invades the spaces, layers of smells build up. The men have inhabited the city streets with its exhaust fumes and hotdog smells. They have slept in dark, cold places.
Behind my head a man has a coughing fit. It is a hacking cough coming from the depths of his soul. I imagine the germ-laden molecules clinging to my bald napper. My neck has millions of the blighters settling in for the night.
The bus pauses at the church gates, long enough for the guys to climb out and, like a herd of patient cattle seeking the warmth and rest of the byre, they make their way up the path.
Strict rules are enforced in the hall. Booze and drugs are VERBOTEN. As the guys enter their names are recorded. New arrivals fill in a form with relevant details.
I turn around to take in the room; men bent over blankets, settling them to their shapes and needs, demarcating a personal space. Then, moving slowly across the room, I recognise a client from the Leith food bank. The woman was a regular for a month or two but then she disappeared. She had lived her life on a tightrope, either side of which was an abyss of complete chaos.
On the first occasion she visited the foodbank she set off for home with a mountain of bags of food. She was very thin and society was clearly a set of rules and behaviours she couldn’t measure up to. She had the ability of a child to define and order and understand her life. I decided I had to help her home.
“In those flats there,” she said. “There are holes in my windows. Air gun pellets. They try to watch me when I shower.”
This was a different world. “I have one light bulb,” she said. “In the living room.” It was too much to bear. And there she is coming towards me. How can she possibly survive on the streets?
She smiles.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
One of those pointless things you say.
“The council threw me out. Rent arrears and other things.”
She slips past me and heads for the counter. How can she sleep in this place, two chairs the most useless attempt at privacy as if we are playing a child’s game of my house and your house?
I never saw her again. Not on the street, not on the night shelter. Never again.
The men eat and talk, groups forming and dissolving. The building has the air of relief. Outside people smoke, drink sugary coffee and mull over the day’s happenings.
The kitchen hatch is pulled shut; its loud clang signalling the end of the process of feeding the hungry.
The team leader comes towards us to congratulate us.
“The food was top quality. You have done a great job.”
We smile and step out into the cold night air. Rain is blowing past the street lights.
“You need a lift?” I ask Patricia.
“Yes, please.” Patricia and her husband, Patrick, climb into the car. The engine starts and the lights pick up the rain.
“A good bunch tonight,” I say.
And we move further away from the guys’ lives and tiptoe back into our own.
The quiet streets are a blessing. I get caught at the lights in Junction Street and find myself staring through a big window of a restaurant. Conversation. Laughter. Moments of seriousness.
What unites us is more than what divides us.
When will we ever learn? The service is run by a small team of staff and relies on around 1,000 volunteers from churches across the Lothians. They provide church venues for people who are homeless to sleep in on a nightly rota basis as well as preparing and serving a hot meal. Until 5 May, the Care Shelter will be located at Diadem (previously Stenhouse St Aidan’s Parish Church), Edinburgh.
For more information, visit www.bethany christiantrust.com