Chapter Thirty-Six - Ragged-skirted Philanthropists

Wednesday 6th December

 Paula glanced towards the door of the Community Café as the first regulars arrived for lunch.  One was her son, Shane.  He stood in line, talking unselfconsciously with a couple of the older homeless men and with Martin Connolly, who was grabbing an early meal ahead of afternoon tribunals.  Paula smiled at how dramatically Shane had changed from a bored kid with vague ambitions of first sporting, then musical greatness, to a committed and compassionate young citizen, keen to listen, learn and support others.  He no longer needed to hide behind a guitar and microphone to speak his mind or to set his thoughts to a tune.  She was far prouder of him than she could possibly tell him.

'Irish stew, chicken korma or veggie spag bol, Vinny?' Paula asked the first in the line.

‘Nothing foreign, thanks love.’

‘So, does Irish stew count as foreign?’

‘Of course not.’  Vinny pulled a creased meal token out of his coat pocket and, knowing the system well, put it in the box.  ‘I’ll have that.’

He shuffled off with a bowlful and the largest chunk of bread from the basket.

‘Funny how people don’t think of Ireland as another country, isn’t it?’ Paula remarked to Martin, as she served him a small helping of the pasta dish.

‘The north isn’t, is it?’ Shane argued from behind Vinny’s mate Jack.

‘It’s still a different country to England,’ Paula answered.  ‘And the south’s been a separate state for almost a hundred years.’

‘I suppose it’s because they speak English,’ Jack suggested.  ‘It’s not like their properly foreign.’

‘Ireland is an anomaly as far as Social Security law is concerned, too.’ Martin explained to Shane.  ‘Irish citizens have extra rights over other EEA nationals, due to the Irish Republic being part of the so-called Common Travel Area.  I’ll go through it with you one day as it can make a big difference to a claimant’s rights.’

‘Is that why they’re getting stuck on what to do with Brexit and the border?’ asked Jack.

Paula didn’t get to hear Martin’s answer, as he and Jack moved off, still talking.

‘What about you, Shazza?’

‘Veggie spag bol please, mum.’  He rummaged around in his pockets for his meal token, eventually tracking it down in a back pocket of his jeans.

‘You’re in early.’

‘Economics was cancelled.  Tutor’s got flu.’

‘Don’t let Martin spend too long explaining that Common Travel thing to you.  He’s got to go shortly.’

‘I wasn’t going to sit with them.  I was hoping to see someone else.’

‘Who?’

Shane looked around the café.

‘No-one.’  He wandered off with his lunch.

Paula guessed Shane had been hoping to catch up with Ashley over lunch.  If so, he was out of luck.  No sooner had he found a seat, apart from Martin and the homeless guys, than his grandmother came wheeling through the door from the advice area, assisted by Hilary, and parked herself alongside him.   

Hilary came over to check the menu for Lyn.

‘Have you had any more thoughts about my idea?’ she asked quietly.

‘Not really.  You know how things are with councils just now.’

‘I suppose so.’

Hilary returned to her table to take Lyn’s order.

Paula returned her attention to her next customer, one of two support workers who regularly dined at the café as part of their brief to help the town’s growing number of homeless people.  If Hilary was still determined to do her Lady Bountiful routine, she could do worse than have a few words with them, as their project was more likely to have the political will – and infrastructure – to support her initiative than the Council.  Paula had tried to dissuade Hilary from throwing her own savings at the problem of rehousing the homeless women who slept in the café’s winter shelter.  She could understand why Hilary wanted to do something but, realistically, there were plenty of potential philanthropists with greater assets than Hilary who chose to walk by on the other side.  She reminded Hilary that she had devoted her working life to improving the lot of vulnerable people.

‘You’ve got nothing to feel guilty about, Hils,’ Paula told her, when Hilary had cornered her over a coffee on Monday morning.  

‘It isn’t about feeling guilty,’ Hilary insisted.  ‘I happen to be in a position to help some of these women and others like them, but I need an independent body to audit what we do and, where possible, recover funds from landlords when our women move on from their tenancies, so we can recycle it.  My first thought was that your Housing Benefit team at the Council might assist.’ 

Paula couldn’t imagine anything less likely to happen, especially now that Richard Parker and Andy Burrows had moved on.  She told Hilary so.  As for the officers dealing with homelessness, Paula’s warning was that, in her opinion, they would swiftly tear through any gift of Hilary’s to improve their statistical performance, with no long-term plan for the fund, little thought for which of their clients were in greatest need and no capacity to chase deposit returns.

‘If we try to set something up here, from scratch, it’s extra admin for Father Cornelius and the other volunteers,’ Paula continued, heading off what she expected Hilary’s next suggestion might be.  ‘And, again, there’s no system for collecting any money back in.  It’s a lovely idea, Hilary, but it’s not practical, except as a few one-off gifts to people you can chose to help.’

If Hilary was feeling benevolent, she could make a generous donation to the night shelter and foodbank, of course.  Paula didn’t want to say that directly; she hoped Hilary would figure it out for herself.  That she had asked again whether the Council could assist at all was disappointing, even annoying.

Paula took a break at the end of lunch service.  Her mother-in-law was still sitting at the table she had shared with Shane, Hilary and, after poor Shane had gone through to help set up the IT clinic, Ashley the Goth Girl.  Paula joined them.

‘Hello luvvie,’ said Paula.  ‘I was just telling Ashley about Hilary’s idea.’

Paula was surprised Hilary had confided her scheme to Lyn.  ‘It’s not very practical, is it?’ she said.

‘What makes you say that?’ Ashley replied sharply.

‘Well, how would we get the money back from landlords, for a start?’

‘That’s the easy bit.  It’s not like it’s really their money and they can stash it in their banks.  Rent deposits have to go into a Government-run Tenancy Deposit Scheme these days.  As long as the tenant doesn’t run up arrears or trash the place, they – or we - should get it back with no trouble.’

‘A couple of big ifs there, I’d say.’

‘These women are poor, not irresponsible.’  Ashley replied.

‘Some of them are both, actually,’ Paula argued.  ‘We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t care, but we mustn’t be naïve about it.  If you put some of our women – and men – in decent rooms or flats, they’d struggle to cope.  If they end up losing their tenancies due to their conduct, the landlord keeps the cash and Hilary, or her proposed emergency fund, kisses it goodbye.’

‘Hilary says all she wants to do is something to break the cycle, to give a few homeless ladies a fresh start,’ Lyn explained.  ‘She knows the money will all go, eventually, and that she can’t help everyone.  I think it’s lovely of her; she always was kind.’

‘It’ll go faster, if she starts telling everyone about it,’ said Paula.  ‘When she first spoke to me, I thought the idea was for this to be a fund of last resort to help women who aren’t priority need to the Council but are at risk sleeping rough just because they’re women.  It is a nice idea, but I don’t see how we can’t run it from here without causing trouble.  Anyway, Hilary should look at her own situation.  She’s the one with an extra six years to work before retirement.  I thought her and Tom were cutting down, work wise.  She can’t go throwing cash around.  Can’t you talk her into a small, regular donation to this place, or to giving it to the night shelter?  We can help dozens of people that way, with no picking and choosing.’

‘Short-term fixes are no good.’  Ashley insisted.  ‘All this free food, beds on frosty nights; I’m not saying it’s not well-meant, but it’s a sticking plaster when you need surgery.  This thing Hilary wants to do is looking long-term.  She knows there are thousands of us out there, sofa-surfing, sleeping in doors, on friends’ floors, on strangers’ floors, in strangers’ beds and what keeps us there, time and again, is having no money for a deposit.  With a proper address, we can get work or at least we can get benefits.  With our own front door, we can decide who comes in and who stays out.  A bed here means a man or woman doesn’t get beaten up or pissed on tonight, but they might tomorrow, or the night after, or when we stop opening the doors.  They don’t freeze this winter but next, when everyone thinks we’ll have shut, they do.  Or they go back to someone’s sofa, someone’s floor, someone else’s bed they don’t want to share.  Hilary can help you keep that record spinning for another few months, or she can give a few women the chance to sing for themselves and pay back what we loaned them when they’re sorted.’

Before waiting for Paula’s response, Ashley stalked out to the back garden for a vape.

‘Someone got out of bed the wrong side!’ Paula muttered to her mother-in-law.

‘Weren’t you listening, luvvie?’ asked Lyn.

‘Of course, I was.  I’ve heard all this before.  Martin says the same, that we’re institutionalising charity, providing a substitute service and undermining the statutory ones in the process.  Only there isn’t a statutory service that does this, is there?’

‘Didn’t you notice that she was saying we not they?’

‘She was being dramatic.’

‘No she wasn’t, luvvie.  She’s having terrible trouble finding herself a flat up here, or even a flat-share.  She’s hanging around to view another one tonight but she says they’re either too much or really horrible, or she can’t see herself fitting in with the other people.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ Paula answered.  ‘I bet she’s not that easy to live with.’

‘I don’t know, luvvie.  She’s always been nice to me and she’s got ever such a good sense of humour, though you might not think it to look at her.  I’m thinking of suggesting to Dad that she could stay with us.’

‘You’re what?’

‘She has a terrible journey, cycling in along all those main roads, and that chap she lives with, I don’t think he’s very nice to her.’

‘Don’t go falling for sob-stories, Mum.  You’re getting as bad as Hilary.’

‘That’s a terrible thing to say!’

Paula had to agree.  She wasn’t usually so cynical.  Perhaps it was the idea of having that strange girl living almost as part of the family that bothered her.  Shane had definitely taken a fancy to her but there was no way it was going anywhere.  He was too young, she was too – too weird.

‘I don’t see Dad being all that keen,’ Paula persisted, more gently but still decisively.  ‘She’s hardly likely to share his taste in music, or movies or much else, is she?  What if she plays her music too loud or has odd friends?  Anyway, who says she’ll accept even if you offer?  She might not fancy sharing with a couple of old fogeys!’

‘We’ll have to see, won’t we?’

‘Don’t rush into anything, Mum.  Get one of the gang to check your rights if it all goes wrong.’

‘I’m not daft, you know!’

Paula was tempted to argue.  It seemed mean-spirited to do so, however.  Whatever had landed Hilary with her sudden desire to save the world seemed to have infected Lyn too.  She hoped it wasn’t catching.  Then she wished it was.