by Les Cowan
“Does that mean anything to you, Alison?” David asked. Alison shook her head, then, just as David was about to ask another question an idea struck her.
“Raúl? Is that a Spanish name? She’s been talking about somebody called Raúl. It just sounded like a football player to me so I never paid any attention. Maybe he’s a boyfriend or something?” David and Juan exchanged glances.
“Well, that might all be very interesting,” Mrs MacInnes announced, sitting very upright and drawing her handbag in tight. “But there must be thousands of young people taking these drugs and dozens of these ‘gangs’ about. If the Scotsman is to be believed. How on earth are we to find out who they are and if anybody knows anything about Jennifer?” Nobody spoke for several seconds, then Gillian broke the silence.
“Soup,” she said. “What about soup?” There was a mystified silence as they looked at her blankly.
“I help with a soup kitchen on Friday nights,” she explained. “They go to Muirhouse and Pilton sometimes. They get lots of young people and homeless folk that need something to warm them up. Maybe somebody there might know something.”
Chapter 11
Drylaw
Dr Gillian Lockhart got in from a frantic day’s teaching, marking, tutorials, and board meetings, made a quick pasta tea and ate it alone reading proofs of her paper on “changing vowel sounds in West of Scotland under 35s”. The Radio Scotland six o’clock news chattered in the background. She quickly scanned the paper, noted one or two typos, added an additional footnote, then ran a bath. She turned the radio off, put Blood on the Tracks on her iPod then cleared away, tidied up the living room, undressed and took the latest McCall Smith through to the bathroom. Only when she had added some bubble bath, frothed it up a bit, closed the door, sunk into the bath and picked up her book did she realize that she hadn’t stopped to think for a second all day. Then she remembered it was Friday and that Friday night was van night. They were hoping to run into someone who knew something about some missing teenager. She realized how keyed up she was but then noticed that it wasn’t just about the kids on the street, the fights that sometimes broke out, the hostile drunks that pestered them or even the depressing, litter-strewn neighbourhoods. David Hidalgo was on her mind.
One week ago she had been quietly getting on with things, doing her job, trying to pursue a career, and telling herself divorce was not a failure. These things happened. Marriage had just been the wrong choice at the wrong time. Or maybe the wrong bloke at the wrong time – no more, no less. It was time to move on. And there were new interests to pursue, like improving her Spanish. Well, it had certainly turned into more than just a new interest. But how much more? She’d always thought meeting someone “quite unlike anyone I’ve ever met before” was a very nice idea for cuddling up with in the land of Mills and Boon but just not realistic in the real world. In fact “realistic” had become a bit of a comfort word. It helped you deal with one disappointing date after another. There’s nothing wrong with me, she told herself resolutely. And nothing in principle wrong with the succession of blokes across the table at Prestonfield House or some other equally pretentious grazing spot. I’m just not being realistic. There was a very good reason why all her girlfriends in the “recently divorced – now looking around again” club used to grumble again and again about “the nice ones all being taken”. But if you heard that long enough and then you came across what certainly looked like a nice one, not currently taken, it did make you suspicious.
She’d managed to piece together the basic plot partly from what he’d said, partly from what he’d not said, partly from Juan’s hints, and partly from a bit of web sleuthing. Anglo-Spanish, brought up in Edinburgh, made his career in Spain. Got religion – seriously. Ended up a pastor in some sort of drugs rehab thing in a thriving church just outside Madrid. Then lost his wife. Just exactly how, she still wasn’t sure, but it seemed to have been sudden and traumatic. So he came home to Edinburgh to try to put the few remaining pieces back together again. She’d come across “religious” people before of course – even one or two friends were a bit that way inclined. What she couldn’t get a grip of was someone who really did seem genuine and open – hurts, heartaches, and all – but who still took seriously this other dimension to life. In fact it didn’t feel like religion at all, more like just another normality. When he spoke about God he didn’t seem embarrassed or ironic like most of her set. He spoke about things many people would probably see as coincidental or serendipitous or the power of positive thinking, but he thought they were miraculous. God, he seemed to be suggesting – fed up with being confined to the pages of philosophy essays or Sunday Supplement reviews of the latest Dawkins or Hitchens – was engaging in real people’s lives and changing them for the better, his included. At least until recently. He may have been (probably was) sincerely deluded but he did not seem to be either a nutter or a crank. He wasn’t proposing they live in a tent on the Meadows awaiting the second coming or hand out flyers on Princes Street. He was just a guy who had been doing what he thought was right, helping those that needed it, who had been brutally deprived, but was now somehow being asked to get back on the horse again and make some sense of what faith he had left. It couldn’t be easy.
Confusing as all that might be, clearly there were also some personal implications – no point in denying it. But was it realistic to think this could have any bearing on her life, which in almost every respect seemed so different from his? In every respect except for one tiny little detail – they were both adrift and wondering what would come next. Had they been on a date? Surely not. Was there a possibility of “going out” with a minister? Ridiculous. But concluding it just wasn’t realistic made her feel strangely disappointed. She did want to see him again – and not just to improve her Spanish conversation. Why? So she had found herself strolling down South Clerk Street, a mile and a half from home at eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning, when she was normally in bed leafing through the Sundays and enjoying a second round of tea and toast. Tiptoeing up the stairs and creeping in at the back of the hall had felt like infiltrating a secret society. Then that extraordinary sermon – if you could call it that. A mixture of confessional and exposition of a morality tale but actually applied as if it was supposed to change how you actually behaved in real life. Finally, to cap it all, when they had no idea what to do next, she had given them a suggestion that would draw her in even more deeply. Again – why?
Bob Dylan was singing “Simple Twist of Fate” as she climbed out of the bath, wrapped a towel around her, and went through to the bedroom to dress. It was often bitterly cold on the van so she usually wore thick jeans, an old work shirt of her dad’s that she thought still smelled of him, a fleecy top, and a hill-walking jacket. Tonight she felt like a change. She might be venturing into the urban jungle but that wasn’t any reason to look like a commando. Maybe some nail varnish too. An hour later, in black corduroys, a charcoal top from Next, and a puffy pink ski jacket, she was ready. She grabbed a pair of gloves, matching hat and scarf, locked up, and ran down the common stair. Her heart was beating a little too strongly to be from just the exercise. She stamped her feet and breathed smoke into the night air. Maggie and Jeff wouldn’t be long. The temperature was falling fast.
The ancient Soup Dragon van, loaded up for a night’s work, just managed the turn from Melville Drive into Marchmont Road, rattled up the hill, and squealed to a halt outside the delicatessen on the corner. The little man in the driver’s seat seemed to consider wrecking the suspension a personal challenge. With his wispy van Dyke, earring, tattoos, and neckerchief, Jeff looked like a refugee from Dexys Midnight Runners. Maggie – big, blond, and brassy in a huge sheepskin-lined denim coat and shapeless jeans – sat next to him. Known to the regulars as “Big Maggie”, she had patience with strugglers but the wasters and hangers-on got short shrift. Some wag from Granton had labelled her the “Soup Dragon” and it had stuck to the point that they paint
ed it on the van. Maggie liked the joke, though she wouldn’t admit it.
“You’re all dolled up,” she said, leaning back and taking a good look. “The punters’ll no appreciate it y’know.” Gillian rolled her eyes.
“I know,” she said. “But you’ve got to make the effort.”
“Ok,” Jeff shouted over the belches and bellows of the engine. “Picking up your friend. Bruntsfield, is it?” Gillian gave him the address as they pulled up the hill onto Thirlestane Road. She really wanted David to make a good impression and not come over like a nut job. He was waiting outside, right on time, dressed exactly as for Spanish class – overcoat and fedora. Gillian wondered if he didn’t have a very wide range to choose from, or maybe it just wasn’t that important. He climbed in and off they went. They updated Maggie and Jeff on as much of the story as they knew speeding through Tollcross, past the old Methodist Central Hall now back in use again and apparently thriving after being empty for years, then down Lothian Road, round the elegant facades of Charlotte Square, and finally over the Dean Bridge and out Queensferry Road. Gillian felt a peculiar cocktail of excitement, anticipation, apprehension, and something else she couldn’t quite place. They turned at the lights and plunged down Orchard Brae into the underbelly of the city.
“You haven’t done this one before, have you?” Maggie remarked to Gillian.
“No, ’fraid not. Nights I’ve been on it’s always been the Grassmarket or Leith Walk. Oh, and Craigmillar once.”
“Once is enough,” Jeff chipped in. Maggie ignored him.
“So, just to get this straight. The girl’s been living in Muirhouse for about eighteen months. We think she’s been shooting up for at least a year – in other words, plenty of time to make the acquaintance of every undesirable in the area. So there might be some connections. On the other hand we’ve no idea if she’s even in Edinburgh any more – or in Britain for that matter.”
“No, I think we know she’s still in the country,” David countered. “Her passport’s at home. But, otherwise – Muirhouse, Macclesfield, could be anywhere.”
“And there was that thing about Raúl, the possible boyfriend,” Gillian added.
“Which could be significant or a complete red herring,” Maggie replied. “I don’t want to be negative, but I’ve been asked to look out for so many runaways and so few of them turn up. At least, so few turn up where you look for them. Plenty in London if you want to go that far. But a fifteen-year-old in London isn’t going to do very well. In fact, I think as far as that’s concerned, she’s probably already in big trouble here.”
With that gloomy assessment Jeff pulled the van off Ferry Road into the long strip of parking and run-down shops that made up the Drylaw Shopping Centre.
“Well – here we are. Welcome to my world,” Maggie announced as they lurched to a halt.
“Weren’t we were going down into Muirhouse?” Gillian asked as Maggie squeezed past her into the back of the van to start getting things organized.
“Ah, well. This happy spot lets us serve as a beacon to Muirhouse, Pilton, and Drylaw – not that Drylaw really needs it. It’s amazing actually. Less than half a mile apart but in Drylaw you’ve got tidy gardens, second cars, new front doors, and nice kids. Just around the corner there’s the new Axis flats – £375,000 apiece. Pilton across the road used to have more Alsatian dogs than people. I don’t suppose the garden makeover shows go down so well here. And Muirhouse of course needs no introduction – specially if you’ve seen Trainspotting.”
“But there’s bound to be decent folk here as well,” Gillian put in.
“Of course,” Maggie agreed. “And maybe more decent than the bankers in Charlotte Square. But the fact is the area just hasn’t been a priority for years. The housing’s appalling, the kids have nothing to do, and there’s very little for families. That means that if you have higher aspirations, you don’t want to live here a moment longer than necessary. So people move out if they can, which leaves empty housing – which creates a vacuum for people that can’t go anywhere else. They call it ‘hard to let’ so you really have to be desperate if you’re willing to consider it. People that desperate often bring their problems with them. So it gets worse. Even the social workers don’t want to be here. Can you blame them? They park their cars half a mile away and walk.”
They began to get things organized. Jeff connected the gas, Gillian looked out the polystyrene cups and buttered the rolls, while David was detailed to fill the leaflet racks with handouts from Health Scotland, Social Work, and Telford College. Maggie had heard a bit about David before she’d agreed to allow him onto the van but now she took the chance to fill in the gaps. She listened closely as he described how Warehouse 66 had gone about getting kids off drugs and into jobs, houses, and relationships.
“So really it’s community living with a bit of religion thrown in?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that. Spiritual growth was the key. We found that without a change from the inside, outside things made very little difference.”
“And what exactly do you mean by ‘spiritual’?”
Gillian was listening in. She was hoping it might answer some questions but at the same time terrified it would show David up as just another religious fanatic. Instead he spoke quietly and sensibly about the kids that came in messed up and filthy, how they lived in the rehab houses, the successes and the relapses, and the number that went on to become leaders in other houses elsewhere, cleaned up to the point of being brand new people with new families and a purpose in life for the first time. And he put it all down to spiritual transformation. No hesitation. Maggie nodded from time to time. Gillian was relieved.
“Well,” Maggie concluded when everything in the van seemed to be ready. “You’re off your chump if you think religion is the answer for the nutters, bampots, and thugs we see. But whatever floats your boat. I’ll give you this – from what you’ve said, you seem to see results. Can’t argue with that. Far too much effort and far too little results most of the time.”
“I’m curious,” David remarked, while they were waiting. “Normally a soup kitchen is aimed at the homeless. But rough sleepers are in the city centre, not the housing schemes. So this isn’t about soup at all, is it?”
“Quite right,” Maggie agreed. “That’s just for openers. We’re here to try to get to know the kids, the dealers, the pushers, the runners, the addicts. They’ll stop by for a cuppa when they’d never look twice at a welfare service. If we can gain their confidence then we can help them more when they need it.”
“And they do come for help?”
“Sure, from time to time – some of them. When they’re ready. We’re well known to the Housing Department, even some of the GPs. We can try to work the system a bit in favour of those that are ready for a change.”
“You keep saying ‘we’,” David said. “Who exactly is ‘we’? There isn’t an organization name on the van.”
“Well done. The organization is Jeff and Maggie Ltd. We used to work for University Settlement. Then the Cyrenians. Then Edinburgh Action on Homelessness. I prefer being on my own. Nobody breathing down your neck and telling you what to do.”
“And we fell out with every single one of them,” Jeff added. “The last lot let us keep the van though so that was ok.”
As they were talking, Gillian had a chance to look along the line of shops. Conspicuous by their absence were greengrocers, florists, electrical goods, and banks. Instead there was a full set of pub, off licence, bookies, criminal solicitors, two carry-outs, chemist, post office, loan agent, CAB, and a cheap supermarket – the complete opposite, in fact, from the cluster of shops at the bottom of Marchmont Road. She doubted whether her favourite delicatessen would do much business here. Not at what they charged for organic avocados and fresh pasta anyway.
Finally, Maggie gave everything the once over and seemed satisfied.
“Ok, L
adies and Gentlemen. We’re open for business!”
David looked at his watch. Ten thirty. Jeff hopped out of the back door, hooked up a flap in the side, and they settled back for their first customer. It didn’t take long. A group of giggly girls in strappy sandals and minuscule skirts appeared, apparently immune to the cold. It looked like their get-ups had come from a factory with a high-output target but not enough material to make complete garments.
“You girls out on the randan?” It wasn’t clear if Maggie was posing a question or just making an observation. Either would have fitted.
“Aye. Party at Jools’s the night,” the blondest of a blond bunch replied. “Yiv goat tae look the part, ’n’ tha’. Niven ken who ye might meet!” Even more giggling alongside some stamping and rubbing of bare arms to try to generate a little heat. One of the group produced a can of super lager and passed it round.
“Hey Maggie! Ken whit this is fur?” she said, holding a can of super lager up to the counter.
“Aye. Ah ken a’ right. It’s fur the girls on the game. Gets them in the mood.”
A responsible adult using street talk seemed hilarious and the group fell about laughing.
“Gon’ yersel’ Maggie. Yir aw right!” the skinniest at the back shouted, holding up the can like a toast and gobbling down another swally.
“So, whit’ll it be lasses?” Maggie adopted her posh voice now. “Tonight we have lentil soup, buttered rolls, buttered rolls and lentil soup. Oh aye, an’ there’s lentil soup.”
“Goat ony lentil soup?” one of the girls shouted, cracking up again.
“Sorry hen. Wir completely out. There’s lentil soup though.”
