by Anya Peters
But things had got so bad that this time I was prepared to sleep there, at least for a night, just for a break from the car. I couldn’t do it any more. I had been living in my car on the streets of Brighton for almost a month by then, and I’d been driving past the shelter for almost a week, trying to pluck up the courage to go in.
I spent a lot of time in churches during those weeks, sitting there, passing the hours, using them almost as safe-houses. One day I spoke to a priest who phoned the shelter for me and booked it. I arrived late, having spent hours outside in the car crying, wrestling with myself, telling myself that I shouldn’t set foot in the place, that I didn’t want them to recognise me the way I now imagined all the men who saw me in the day-shelter might.
I now wished I’d looked up at the men when I came out of the shower. The hardest thing was not knowing who they were. In the previous few days and weeks, when I’d been overtired, overwrought and slipping further and further off the radar, my mind played tricks on me and I looked at all men suspiciously, as if they were them. I started to fear them all indiscriminately—an almost hysterical, irrational fear.
The one time I’d been out to visit Mummy in Spain, my uncle had grown a long, scruffy beard. He was grey by then and even in the sun looked old and shabby and vague, like the men I now saw lurking in the doorways and shelters on the seafront. They all reminded me of him, and the knowing look he gave me the last time I saw him. That same look seemed to be in the eyes of all the men I soon hurried around Brighton trying to avoid, all saying ‘This is what you get for telling.’ I felt trapped in my own personal nightmare.
I was hungry and thirsty and couldn’t bear another night in the car with my knees bent, jammed up against the steering wheel column all night, my neck forced into an almost broken position against the door, but I was still too frightened to go in.
I remembered doing advice work in Citizens Advice Bureaux and law centres, and working with the Mother Theresa Mission in Calcutta. I worked at Crisis at Christmas in London as well for a couple of years, partly because I didn’t want to let my flatmates know I had nowhere to go myself at Christmas. I’d enjoyed the sense of camaraderie and community. I knew that most people who had ended up in that position had been hurt enough to have their hearts blown right open and would probably be the most compassionate, most understanding people.
But now everything felt different. What if I was wrong? What if I was putting myself in danger by being with them? Full of irrational fears, I felt too fragile and vulnerable, too alone and still too naive in many ways to take that risk.
I watched the night close in, the last of the light fading and the streets emptying. I was stiff and cold and dreaded lying down again. I tried not to lay my head directly on the car seat at night, knowing it was full of dust and crumbs and goodness knows what else, as my eyes got infected repeatedly: bloodshot and itchy from conjunctivitis. I worried they would get worse and affect my vision for driving. That would have been the end.
I still couldn’t force myself to go inside the night shelter, though, and decided to sleep where I’d parked, partway down the steep street. I leaned over and lay across the seats, too shattered even to go through the most basic washing and changing clothes routine. I just pulled out the sarongs and the long brown cardigan from the yellow carrier bag on the floor and arranged them over me.
Within minutes I heard footsteps pass and then stop. I never heard them leave again and sensed someone was there. My heart raced. I tried to still my breathing in order to listen, terrified of raising my head to check. Finally I did, to find there was nobody there. I looked around at the silent unlit houses, and watched the wind through the trees fanning eerie shadows across the parked cars smeared with grey-gold street light. Until then I’d never really got that close to feeling fear about sleeping in the car. I was doing it on automatic pilot. I’d always parked up around the quiet terraces and crescents in mostly well-off areas once I found them, and didn’t allow myself to think about the risks. This road felt too exposed and, despite my exhaustion, I was too nervous to sleep. I was about to drive off to a safer spot when I remembered the place booked for me at the night-shelter. At close to midnight I changed my mind. Tired and drained, my infected eyes dripping with pus, I decided to go in.
I buzzed the security door and spoke through the intercom to one of the night-workers. The CCTV camera swung round noisily to focus on me. I kept my voice low, wary of being overheard, and turned away from the camera, still trying to be invisible, even as locks clanked and the man I’d been whispering to through the intercom came to the main door to speak to me.
He said there was no record of a phone call made to them earlier about me, or anyone else.
’All the places are taken,’ he said.
He let me in so he could check his logbook, even though he said he was almost 100 per cent sure. I followed close behind him to the main reception area. He poured me a coffee, and I looked around as he leafed through his notebook. It was all new blonde wood, brightly lit with a silver anglepoise lamp, clean and organised. It looked just like any other modern office area, not what I’d expected at all. It felt warm and safe and peaceful. Whatever happened, now that I had finally taken this step, I didn’t want to leave: I couldn’t bear the idea of going back out there. Inside, away from the dark and the traffic racing past, it was bright and quiet and smelt recently cleaned—nice cosy smells of furniture polish, hot coffee and what smelt like fresh-cut flowers. Maybe it was the tiredness, or the contrast after the previous few weeks, but I felt safe for the first time in months.
’Nope, definitely; nobody passed on any message,’ he said, snapping his book closed before shuffling loose papers about on his desk. ‘Anyway, it would be too late now. Last check-in is nine o’clock. Nobody can be checked in after that.’
’I just want a place until I get on my feet again.’
As I stood there, the plan I’d been fostering for weeks seemed possible again. I could live in a place like this, find a job and work during the day until I’d saved enough money to get a deposit and a month’s advance to rent a room somewhere.
’Or just for the night,’ I said, looking at his blank face. ‘There’s only a few hours left…Pleeeease,’ I heard myself say.
He shook his head and said he couldn’t; he wasn’t allowed. I’d hit a wall of tiredness that had been catching up with me for months. I tried not to focus on the heaviness in my legs and wasn’t sure if I was hallucinating when he pushed aside an empty plate smeared with yellow egg yolk, with a juicy grilled tomato at the edge. I swallowed hard and looked away.
I could feel tears running down my face and hear myself pleading. I felt humiliated doing it, especially when I saw the way his eyes lit up, almost as if he was enjoying my predicament. He leaned back on his chair and swivelled around to face me, his arms folded behind his head, looking me up and down as he told me the others were asleep now and that it would be wrong to disturb them by letting me in at this hour, even if he could.
’Anyway, they’re mostly men, all sleeping on mattresses in the main body of the church. There are a few women in another part but they’re long-term residents, recovering addicts who are here under a strict programme. We can’t just let anyone in there with them for the night.’
I wanted to argue that I didn’t do drugs or alcohol and wouldn’t disturb them, that I’d never cause any trouble, that I wasn’t just anyone. But of course I was—he didn’t know me from Adam.
For weeks, as I’d driven past into Brighton, I’d seen men gathering by the front door in the evenings, milling about outside, waiting to be let in. I’d put my foot down as I drove off at the lights so that none of them registered me.
’Most of them are regulars,’ he said, ‘and men,’ he repeated.
’You’re being prejudiced,’ I told him. ‘You’d never treat your sister or your mother like this if they turned up here.’
’They’d never be in your position, not in a million years,’ he
replied, banging staples from his stapler against the edge of the desk.
Eventually he offered to let me sit in a chair in the small interview room, which was off at the side of the reception area where he would be all night. He offered to make me another coffee, saying I could get a few hours’ sleep sitting there and he’d wake me in the morning before they changed shifts.
’It’s the best I can do,’ he said. I shook my head. I didn’t want to sit up all night.
’Maybe I could find you a sleeping bag,’ he said. ‘We get deliveries of them to hand out, and I think there might be some left somewhere.’
I thought of the people I’d seen sleeping rough, huddled in sleeping bags in doorways first thing in the morning when I drove off to one of the hotels to wash. I didn’t want to end up like that. I wouldn’t…I told him how dangerous it was out there, that there must be something he could do for me, that I was utterly exhausted and just wanted to sleep.
’You can’t just send me back out there; there must be something you can do, some responsibility you have towards people like me.’ My own words shocked me: people like me? Who were these people like me?
He shook a cigarette from his pack and lit it, repeating his offer.
’I’m just a nightshift worker. I don’t make the rules, I just follow them,’ he said.
My legs were heavy and it felt like there were bits of glass under my eyelids when I blinked, but I refused the offer and said I’d prefer to go back out to the car. He shrugged, his hands flying out in an apologetic take-it-or-leave-it gesture, but he seemed to take offence, picking up his keys and getting up abruptly to let me out, saying, ‘Suit yourself.’
Chapter 43
Two weeks after I’d tried to get into the night-shelter I was still in Brighton, still sleeping in my car, still trying to be invisible and not to fall any further. But I felt myself spiralling out of control. My life was just about survival then, and I couldn’t think beyond it. I felt trapped—detached and disorientated and exhausted but still trying to pretend I wasn’t. I’d been two days without food, and had no idea where to turn.
The name of the vicar who ran the night-shelter flashed into my head and I vaguely remembered that his telephone number was up in small letters on the board outside. I went up to check, and when I called him he said to come up and have a chat.
It’s awful to go to churches just for the tea and the hope of a plate of biscuits but that was on my mind as much as anything as I walked up the hill past all the big Victorian houses.
While he went off to make a pot of tea I sat in his big, airy front room looking out at the street, almost shocked at the quietness. I tried not to look at the settee or focus on how much I wanted to lie flat out on it. Photographs in silver frames of smiling blonde children and teenagers were on show on the lid of a shiny black piano and across the white walls. I found myself wishing it was me, not them, who lived in this calm, safe, happy atmosphere, with someone like him to cherish me.
Half a dozen light-blue leather suitcases and holdalls were standing in the doorway to the hall.
’We’re off on holiday for two weeks in the morning,’ he explained, coming back in. ‘So there’s probably not a whole lot I can do for you at this stage. But tell me briefly what it is.’
He set a tray of tea things noisily onto the table. I stared at the packet of chocolate biscuits. ‘It’s okay,’ I said, ‘it doesn’t matter. I just wanted a chat really.’
I didn’t know what else to say. There seemed no point telling him what had happened, that I’d ended up living in my car. There was nothing he could do if he was going on holiday. I didn’t know what else I was prepared to risk saying.
’I just don’t know if I believe in God any more,’ I heard myself say, snapping a biscuit in half.
For a moment he stopped stirring his tea, narrowed his eyes and looked me straight in the eye, as if I was wasting his time completely. But then he poured the tea, shook biscuits from the packet and chatted amiably about faith and what God meant to him. A white kitten rubbed itself against my leg and all I really wanted to say was that if I lived in a big, warm, cosy house like this, I would probably believe in God again too.
I hated the bitterness creeping into my thoughts, hated the person I was becoming. I don’t know how long I sat there with my head hanging down, but he reached across the table and pressed an almost weightless hand over mine.
’Whatever you might think of Him, God will never stop believing in you. Never forget that.’
I was stunned at the warmth and softness of his hand over mine, and how protected it made me feel. I never wanted him to remove it, but I knew any second he would, so I nudged it away and rattled my cup back onto the saucer. I saw him looking anxiously at his watch and made a move to go, but then I glanced out through the large bay window on to the cold grey street. I knew there was no one else I could go to and that I wouldn’t be able to come back here to talk to him for at least another two weeks. I couldn’t survive another two weeks of this. My heart started thumping and I quickly blurted out that I’d just remembered there was something else I was going to ask him.
’What’s that?’
I told him about living in the car, trying not to make it sound as bad as it was, and asked for his advice. Could he see anything I wasn’t seeing, any solution to it?
’No wonder you’re so stressed,’ he said, advising me to go back to the shelter and talk to the case-workers there.
The word ‘case-worker’ sent shivers through me, making me think of the legal advice I used to give people. I didn’t need a case-worker! I just needed a way back in and a rest, so that I could do it for myself. He asked if he could phone them for me and see if they could book me in for a chat later that afternoon.
’Just go to talk to them,’ he said. ‘There must be something they can do. They’ll ring around, see what’s available, especially for someone who they can see just needs a hand back into life.’
Before I left he made me promise I’d do it. Because he was so nice and had gone to the trouble of phoning the centre, I felt I should at least go in for a chat. Maybe I’d get another cup of tea too.
I walked straight past it down to the seafront, killing a few hours watching the crowds. The sun was out again and I sat on a bench and watched children splashing about in the sparkling water, the younger ones running in and out of the tide, squealing in delight at the shock of cold sea water on their bare skins.
By the time I’d summoned the courage to go back there to at least talk to them it was already after five and all the case-workers had left for the day. The guy who had taken the phone call from the vicar—a thin young Asian man in tight black jeans ripped at the knees and a long purple jumper—was called to come and have a chat with me. He dragged another chair into the small side room, propped the door open, and asked what he could do for me. I didn’t know where or how to start, or even how much I was prepared to tell him. He looked too young to confide in.
’What can you do for people?’ I asked. He told me some of the things they could do, cases they had dealt with. He was softly spoken, very calm and a good listener. I felt myself regaining some of my stillness sitting opposite him and ended up telling him about my relationship with Craig, the money I’d been waiting to get back from Neil, the promise from Brendan, and how I’d started sleeping in my car and now didn’t know how to stop. He was wearing leather flip-flops under his jeans and sat there, big-eyed and nodding, as I spoke, playing with an elastic band wrapped around his fingers.
Apart from the vicar, the blonde woman in the day-shelter and the last few phone calls to Brendan when I told him not to phone again, I hadn’t spoken more than a few words to anyone for months. My voice was thin and scratchy, but this time it was a relief to talk and things came spilling out. After almost two hours of talking I felt drained and hollowed out inside. I was cold and trembling with emotion, and suddenly aware of my hunger and how long it was since I’d eaten.
He asked i
f I was hungry and I stared at the radiator and nodded, embarrassed to admit it. It was Friday and he told me sacks of Marks and Spencer’s food, just past its sell-by dates, had arrived. He took me out into the reception area to go through them, telling me to take whatever I wanted. I wouldn’t be able to talk to anyone until Monday, so he suggested I came back then.
’Take enough for the next few days,’ he said.
I pulled out a poached salmon sandwich and told him that was enough, suddenly feeling too sick to eat anything. He gave me a bowl of pasta salad, a Thai noodle salad and a bag of doughnuts and told me to keep them for the weekend. While he went to check something I tore open the wrapping and ate a sugary doughnut almost without pausing for breath, washing it down with another mug of tea that the girl on reception brought in. I could feel the life seeping back into me.
Slumped back in the chair I felt all floppy and warm and didn’t want to move. I realised I’d let my guard down a bit too far and felt raw and unprotected. It was intensely uncomfortable having people see me this vulnerable, knowing I had no family to go to. I’d pretended all my life that I had this close, loving family looking out for me, and letting the illusion go wasn’t easy; it was bringing my whole emotional scaffolding clattering down around me. Before the guy came back with the appointments book I got up and walked down the corridor towards the exit. When the door buzzed for someone to come in I slipped out, back on to the street, and walked quickly up the hill towards the car.
I drove off eating the sugary doughnuts, convinced that if I’d stayed to get help from him I would have been stuck in Brighton, lost in the system there forever. I didn’t feel strong enough yet to do it all for myself again, but I didn’t trust the system to help me put myself back together either. I needed more time to think. Being in the car one more night wouldn’t kill me.
Chapter 44
Irealised I had to stop drifting, that no one was going to look after me or do it for me. I was not a child any more, no matter how vulnerable I felt. I had to get my act together: get a job, find another home and start again. I had to forget the money from Brendan, and the dream of being part of a proper family with him. I was never going to get that now.
