From the Outside

by Clare Johnston

  Some of the kids who came in needed a bit of career advice, others needed intensive psychological counselling to build enough self-confidence just to get through a job interview. For me, the tougher the challenge the greater the buzz.

  When I finally got my solicitor and accountant together to write the will, they both looked relieved. It was simple enough to begin with. The bulk of my estate would be left to Sarah, but I made a considerable allowance for Dad to allow him to enjoy the rest of his retirement in style. The business would take care of itself as it had become a PLC three years ago. Sarah would retain a 20 per cent stake and could take on a non-executive director role, but otherwise there was nothing for her to worry about – if she chose, she would never have to work another day in her life and would still remain an extremely wealthy woman.

  So that left Ben and the Melville Centre to take care of, and it seemed like the most obvious thing in the world to lump the two things together. It certainly killed two birds with one stone; I was loath to leave a large sum to Ben which could simply end up – via the off-licence – down his throat, and I needed someone who I thought would understand the whole ethos behind the place to pick up with running it. Ben had never taken much interest in my business affairs – but he’d always asked about the work of the foundation and, call it what you like, I had a very strong feeling that he had a role to play there. Pairing them together would allow me to support Ben financially, while giving him something to restore his self-respect. He would have hated a hand-out. If I’d left him a million he would have taken it as a final insult. Living off his brother’s money. This way, I hoped, he’d feel like he was doing me a favour.

  Of course, I hadn’t imagined that less than five weeks after I’d finalised the will, my requests would be actioned. Now here I was, watching Ben squirm as he braced himself for a first day in which he’d either sink or swim.

  Dad would be there to introduce him, and that, to me, was a good sign. The two of them had reached a strange understanding after years of practically viewing each other as the antichrist; Dad bemused by Ben’s creative and introverted leanings, and Ben angered by Dad’s seeming refusal to try to understand or accept him for who he is.

  Ben hadn’t heard his alarm in years – and now he remembered why he kept the damned thing off. The screeching, beep, beep, beep, could have been used by intelligence officers to extract information. The clock said 7.30am and he had to be at the Melville Centre for 9am so he guessed he’d better shift himself. His stomach lurched at the thought of facing all those people, but he knew he was going to have to go through with it.

  Sixty percent of him desperately wanted to go, but there was a very noisy forty percent that was screaming ‘NO’.

  Once showered and dressed – jeans and a T-shirt would have to do – he drank the final dregs of his cup of tea and grabbed a plastic carrier bag out of the cupboard, sticking it in his jacket pocket just in case he threw up. Old habits die hard after all.

  It was only a ten-minute walk, but it took Ben twenty as he deliberately dragged his heels the whole way. It was a glorious Spring day and he wished he could just head down to the harbour and dream the morning away as he usually did.

  Taking a shortcut along the cobbles of Main Street and Fishmarket Square, Ben allowed himself to be transported back in time for just a few seconds to imagine the hustle and bustle of fish merchants noisily trading in bygone days. From the corner of the square, Ben could see Newhaven Lighthouse, a landmark that usually brought him strange comfort, but today only served to increase his anxiety as he realised he was nearing his destination. He turned onto the main road running along the shore towards Leith and was promptly forced to swap his imagined days of the past for the stark present as the vast multiplexes now assembled along the front consumed his vision, changing the skyline – and the future – forever.

  Finally, he reached the front door of the Melville Centre, housed on a quiet residential street close to the notorious Fort estate, from where many of the young people who entered the building hailed, the others usually coming from nearby Granton and Muirhouse. The first thing he noticed was the large sign in the front window: ‘If you have a dream, step inside.’ Cheesy, thought Ben.

  His stomach lurched again and he felt for the plastic bag in his pocket. This just wasn’t for him. He’d never been able to achieve a single one of his own ‘dreams’ so how could he possibly tell other people how to do it?

  Convinced he needed more time to think this through, he turned on his heels and was about to set off for home when he heard a voice from the entrance behind him: ‘Come on in my boy. There are some people here who can’t wait to meet you.’

  Get ready to be disappointed, thought Ben, who smiled meekly before heading into the centre, Dad leading the way.

  Sarah paced around the cigarette pack on the coffee table in front of her one more time. She knew if she took just one out and smoked it she’d be straight back to a 20-a-day habit, but what did she have to lose? Sure, I would have been devastated, but I wasn’t there to care any more. No one cares if she has a cigarette, she thought, and so what if she dies early, what else was there now anyway? At least have some little pleasures along the way, she told herself, searching for a lighter. The stand-off didn’t last long once it was located. Within seconds she was inhaling her first cigarette in eleven years. As she drew the smoke back into her lungs her body retaliated with a coughing fit. That’s the warning to stop right there, she thought, but it was too late now. She took her next drag and this time her lungs submitted as she enjoyed the familiar feeling of warm smoke circulating her airways before she slowly exhaled again.

  Looking around the living room, she noticed how she’d let things go. When I’d been there not a single thing was out of place – like Ben, I’m obsessively tidy and demanded a clean home. This was her little rebellion that she was supposed to enjoy. The cleaner I had employed annoyed her so much with her endless chattering that she’d paid her off a week ago, a decision she was now regretting.

  One month had passed since my death, yet the day it happened is never far from Sarah’s mind. She had been searching for her car keys as she prepared to head to a lunch meeting, when the doorbell rang. She knew it was bad when the policeman she found at her door wouldn’t tell her anything until they had sat down. But nothing could prepare her for the pain of what followed as the poor constable tried to explain what had happened.

  ‘Your husband was involved in a car accident earlier today on the eastbound carriageway of the M8.’

  At first, Sarah’s thoughts instinctively turned to figuring out what I’d been doing on the motorway between Edinburgh and Glasgow, but then she remembered I’d had a meeting in Livingston that morning and must have been on my way back into town.

  ‘No other vehicles were involved, and it would appear from our initial investigation that your husband lost control of his vehicle and hit the barrier at the side of the road.’ The officer looked expectantly at Sarah, clearly expecting an outburst of grief or at least a set of frantic questions; instead she’d stayed absolutely quiet, her eyes fixed intently on his, urging him to continue.

  ‘I’m afraid he sustained very serious injuries in the crash and the ambulance crew, despite intensive efforts, were unable to revive him. I’m very sorry to have to inform you that he was pronounced dead at the scene of the accident at 11.15 this morning.’

  She slumped forward in her seat, clutching her hair with both hands and tugged at it as hard as she could. She wanted to feel a physical pain that could block the emotional agony, but there was nothing that could counter the surge of horror that filled her in that instant.

  It was a pain that continued to eat into her soul day by day, and instead of gaining some kind of peace or understanding, she was becoming more and more angry.

  She wanted a glass of wine. It was only one o’clock in the afternoon but, sod it, she thought. If I can’t indulge myself now when is it okay to let go a little?

  Sh
e took a bottle of red from the wine rack we kept in the cupboard under the stairs. It was a merlot – I’d bought a box of six. Even that thought plunged another dagger into her heart. I’d only drunk one bottle, she despaired, but now I’d never taste that wine again. Bloody good thing too. It was so light and fruity, I might as well have been drinking Ribena. I was always trying to teach Sarah about wine, urging her to pour a little into the glass and slosh it around before taking a good moment to taste it fully. Today, she didn’t pause to take in the aroma, or even to let the liquid settle in the bottom of the glass. Instead she hastily poured and then slugged back the contents before going back for a second measure. It could have been Vimto for all she cared. It was the effect and not the taste in which she was interested.

  Standing at the kitchen table, wine glass in hand, she started to sob uncontrollably. It happened at least three or four times a day. Often it wasn’t even a thought that triggered her crying, but more a wave of emotion that seemed to come from nowhere – like her soul had suddenly remembered. She felt alone and desperate as she poured herself a third glass of wine and lit a cigarette before slumping into a chair by the table. As she hurriedly drank, her senses dulled and she started to feel the release she had been craving; her mind now muddied and her grief diluted. Much better, she thought.

  Ben felt so rigid with fear as he walked into the meeting room that he could hardly put one foot in front of the other. He wondered if they noticed that he’d lost all fluidity to his movement. Did he look as weird as he felt?

  There was little clear floor space in the office where they’d managed to squeeze a couple of filing cabinets in along with a meeting table and chairs and a book case filled with career pamphlets and brochures from various colleges and universities. This room, like the main entranceway and recreation room he’d managed to glance around on the way past, was clean but functional in its décor with plain white walls covered in posters and notices, and dark wooden floors.

  Ben managed to squeeze out a smile as he reached to shake the hands of three people who had anxiously awaited his appearance. The first to greet him, Dave, was the 28-year-old centre manager, who I always described as the ‘heart and soul’ of the project.

  Dave had left a violent and unhappy home at fifteen and spent four years on the streets before starting work as a seller of a homeless magazine. Within a year he was one of the best sellers in Scotland, shifting twice as many copies each day as the average street trader and, as a result, was soon enlisted as a trainer. After a couple of years in the job he spotted an ad for a team leader for the Melville Foundation. We had been up and running for six months by that point and it was time for me to take a step back and find someone else to run the ship. He replied and two days later we met in a coffee shop in Leith. Thirty minutes after we sat down, I offered him the job. Becoming leader at the centre had been the hardest thing Dave had ever done. Much harder than living rough. Kids would turn up thinking it was just a place to play pool – or in the worst-case-scenario, to shoot up. Some of the states we found the toilets in will never leave either of us and for a while we doubted we’d ever get the local kids to take us seriously. But we never gave up, believing that eventually the message would get through that we meant business. It took time, but after we cracked down on drugs in the premises and laid down some hard and fast rules, things started to change.

  Dave was both personally and professionally devastated by my death, believing the foundation could no longer continue without me. He was, therefore, incredibly relieved to hear I had a twin brother who was willing to pick up as the major driving force behind the centre. He had imagined Ben to be a carbon copy of me, with the same charisma and charm – and yes, ego – of his former boss. He was surprised then, if not a little concerned, to see the incredibly nervous, dishevelled and awkward character that now stood shaking in front of him.

  Ben grasped Dave’s hand and mumbled something incoherent that Dave took to be ‘nice to meet you’ before moving on to meet the next person in line who happened to be Sonja, the centre’s team leader. Like Dave, she came from humble beginnings and had become a heavy drinker by the age of 16. Facing a grim future she made a decision that marked a maturity way beyond her young years, and gave up alcohol for good, went to college and got herself some qualifications. Three years ago she had been working as an administrative assistant with a youth charity when she saw an advert for a support worker job at the Melville Centre and, tired of sitting behind a desk all day, decided to apply.

  She’d been impressed by my sense of purpose and ended up practically begging me for the job. Now twenty-nine, the thought of working anywhere else just didn’t even occur to her. That’s why my death had shaken them all up. Suddenly, their cosy, safe environment was under threat and they were going to have to fight for their future. Now, more than ever, they needed strong leadership and Sonja wasn’t convinced that the terrified man who had just walked through the door would be able to give them that.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ she said to Ben, shaking his hand while looking him up and down, barely able to hide her disappointment.

  Lastly, Danny, one of the senior youth workers, introduced himself. He was a former visitor to the centre who was later recruited to do for others what had been done for him. He was only twenty-one, but was already great at handling some of the tougher kids who came in. He managed to calm even the most heated situations and often was the one to get through to the kids who were proving hard to reach.

  Ben smirked awkwardly as he shook Danny’s hand.

  Dad gestured for them all to sit down but, once seated, a painful silence followed while they all waited for Ben to say something. Finally, Dad stepped in.

  ‘So Ben, here’s your chance to get to know the team and to put your questions to them.’

  More silence.

  Dave stepped in this time, helpfully adding: ‘We hold a meeting like this every Monday morning which you’d be very welcome to attend.’

  ‘I will, thanks,’ said Ben.

  At last he speaks, thought Sonja. What a revelation. And just as she contemplated the likelihood of another embarrassing silence, he spoke again.

  ‘What do you need me to do?’ he asked earnestly, as if he had rehearsed the line before coming to the meeting.

  Sonja raised her eyebrows at the bluntness of his remark, but Dave thought it was the most pertinent thing he could have asked, so decided he would be equally straight in his answer.

  ‘Your brother provided a significant amount of funding to this organisation and we have received an additional two million pounds through his will. That money will go a long way, but we need a longer-term plan and new sources of income to ensure we are a self-sustaining organisation.

  ‘We’ve been able to get some good press coverage and support in recent years, but we can’t rest on that alone. We need to be getting back out there now and raising the profile.

  ‘Also, we have to keep moving so we need you to help us plan ahead. Some of the facilities need to be upgraded this year and we need to get more businesses on board in providing mentors and traineeships.’

  Ben gulped – he hoped not audibly – at the weight of the task. After all, to date he had zero leadership experience. What use could he possibly be here? He needed to talk to Dad about finding someone else – someone who knew what they were doing.

  To his horror, he realised they were all looking at him again. Waiting for him to speak. He felt for the bag in his pocket, another wave of nausea threatening to send him running from the room. He took a deep breath and managed to get another question out.

  ‘What are the kids like who come here?’

  This time it was Danny who answered.

  ‘Most of them come from broken homes where they’ve had little or no encouragement from their parents. Most have been told they’re no good from the day they were born. One of the boys here told me that on his first day of nursery school the teacher had asked him his name and he’d replied ‘shithead
’ because that’s all his mother had called him. All this means you’re dealing with kids who have little or no self-esteem and no sense of direction. It’s our job to give that back to them.’

  Ben nodded, he knew all about lack of self-esteem and direction. He should be queuing up for help here, he thought, not giving it out.

  ‘How do you select the kids you’re going to help?’

  ‘In recent years we’ve had more young people interested in using the centre than we can handle so we have a waiting list now,’ Sonja explained. ‘We interview all the candidates who apply – and that just means all those who come in the door and ask to join – and we knock back those we don’t think are serious. It’s usually pretty easy to tell the ones who genuinely want to improve themselves and those who have come along to keep a parent or carer happy. Quite often the ones we say no to will reapply a few months, or even years later, when they’ve had the chance to do a bit more growing up.’

  Ben thought she had finished but after a moment’s pause she spoke again, this time with urgency. ‘This is a special place. It’s changed all our lives, along with those of the young people who come here. The three of us give everything we’ve got and we expect the same of everyone involved. That’s what we tell whoever walks through the front door.’

  ‘I see,’ said Ben, smiling half-heartedly at the team.

  ‘Nicely put,’ said Dad, chuckling mischievously. He could see Ben felt completely out of his depth, and he couldn’t think of anything better for him than being thrown straight in at the deep end.

  CHAPTER four

  AFTER A ROCKY START AT THE CENTRE, within a year we had our first major success story – a young guy who came from the worst of homes where he’d been verbally and physically abused all his life and told he would amount to nothing. This boy, Jimmy Donald, had a dream. He wanted to be an actor. He just had no idea how. When Dave told me about Jimmy I immediately asked to meet him. Two days later we came face-to-face at the centre; me clutching a book of famous monologues from which I asked Jimmy to choose one and read it to me. This was something Dave immediately guessed would be a problem. Jimmy couldn’t read. So, Dave recorded one of the shorter pieces onto a cassette which Jimmy then listened to for half an hour before walking back into the room and bowling us both over with an extraordinarily raw and powerful rendition.