39 mins
Somebody’s child
FEATURE
I FIRST met this man so many years ago I can’t remember a time when he was not a part of my life. From the very first I was struck by his bizarre resemblance to the image of Jesus Christ we have been fed over two thousand years of iconography. My rough sleeper is tall with long, fair hair and a beard. He has eyes that have suffered and a quiet voice which has always made me think more deeply about things. One stubborn tooth clings to the front of his mouth. I have no memory of the names of the people I have met over the years.
Jason is the exception that proves the rule.
I am reminded of the story told of a woman who worked in a soup kitchen in New York. One day a co-worker commented on the fact that this woman greeted every stranger who came into the soup kitchen with such clear, open joy; her words came from the heart. The woman replied that she firmly believed Jesus would return to earth and having no precise information about the where and when of his reappearance, she was taking no chances.
She knew he would come back to be with the hungry and wouldn’t it be sneakily smart of him to turn up at her soup kitchen himself. I have always tried to remember her words when I meet a client.
Over the years he has remained at the same pitch in the Grassmarket, his back to a door, sneakily close to an ATM. I don’t know if a set of statistics exists that proves that one particular pitch will induce the passers-by to a greater degree of generosity than another. I tend to think that closeness to an ATM might only infuriate the evening reveller – the contrast between the notes in his hand and the change being collected in the plastic cup making the state of guilt just too hard to bear and I can imagine the hand might hang all the more tightly to the notes; after all it will be a rarity for a ten pound note to be floated into the paper cup.
I can still recall our first meeting. I have no idea why I took hold of one of his hands but I did and the degree of coldness is hard to describe. I’m sure we all have a collection of scarves and gloves at the ready for the first cold snap of the year. A part of us probably looks forward to the winter day when you don’t look out of place wearing so many layers of clothing you resemble Mr Blobby. We might be forced during this battle against the elements to release a hand to dig out a bus pass or to re-tie a lace or wipe a child’s runny nose and how we enjoy that reassuring cosiness when fingers and glove are reunited. This poor man’s bare fingers deserved a scientific scale of their own to measure the degree of cold snapping at his bones. I wondered if a trickle of heat would ever run through his veins to reach the tips of his fingers.
In our rehabs people can detox safely and then start to come alive again, building themselves up with a healthy diet, engaging in community living, working through issues with staffor in counselling and often volunteering to give back.
Across his legs lay a rag of a blanket. He wore a thin, dirty jacket which was worse than useless.
“Wait a minute,” I said.
I ran back to the van, having remembered that a friend’s son, who worked in student accommodation, had had a clear-out of the cupboards which were bulging with the clothes the students had left behind. Last season’s gear was of no value. One item in particular sprung to mind. It had passed the evening bulging out of a black bag, crying out to be used. The item was a long winter coat with a hood and zip that ran from the knees to the neck and the special blessing was that it was lined with that wonderful, fluffy sheep-wool-like material.
It was one of those precious moments when client need and donated item come together in a glorious union.
I stood “Jesus” up and slipped his arms into the coat; I am a little squirt and it must have looked especially odd my fitting the coat on to that beanpole of a man. His face beamed.
As an encore, I went: “De-dum,de-dum for my next trick…” and pulled a pair of gloves from my pocket and slipped them over his blackened fingers.
For years he and I have met on the streets of Edinburgh in exactly the same spot. His indoor life consists of the occasional offer of a sofa for the night. How he must long for those nights, when the rain and wind can jostle against a window pane and he is snug and dry. He likes milky coffee with two sugars. Two cups, please, and a little pile of custard creams. Now that Leslie and Anne, my co-volunteers, bring Mars Bars to the van, an enormous smile breaks out on his face as his expectations are fulfilled.
I have no idea how he has survived the season, pinned to the door by the sleet and snow. The cold is bad but the rain in winter is even worse. It is very rare for me not to come across him and on those occasions I have to work hard to be positive about his absence. I know so little about this man. He must be somebody’s child. He must have known a birthday party, the excitement of Santa Claus.
Recently, he told me a story that tickled me. His benefits had been re-assessed and he was deemed fit for work. I can’t wait for the day when I come across him at the deli.
I hope he remembers to polish that tooth of his. A winning smile is such a useful quality for a deli assistant.
Strangely, I met him on George Street, Edinburgh just the other month so far from his usual pitch. It was almost a shock to see him vertical. I was so used to looking down at his bent figure.
“What’s happened?” I asked.
He shrugged as I wrestled him into the warmest of ski jackets.
“A fresh start?” I suggested.
I have no idea how long a warm, waterproof jacket lasts on the streets. How quickly does the fabric give up the ghost? I am sure that quality control does not include 24/7 pounding by the elements.
He must be made of a rare material, this man who has passed a lifetime on the streets. Does he look older? Of course, but haven’t we all changed? However, I believe that the deep changes in a person’s psychology and physical well-being can be hidden from the casual observation of someone who knows them. I remember my visits to Kilmarnock to spend a few hours with my old mother. She would manage to put on an act while I ate a fish supper and blethered, I have come to accept, more at her than with her. In her front room she seemed not to have lost movement or memory but when I stayed over for the weekend I would start to notice the differences in her behaviour and speech.
Likewise with Jason. For the fifteen minutes I was with him, following the routine of coffee, biscuits, clothes, he seemed the same but I am sure if I was with him for a significant time I would be aware of the changes. After all, thinness under a big coat gives little of itself away. Unfortunately, the weaknesses in his old bones, the bronchitis stirring in his lungs, the dissolving of his organs are obvious to the trained eye and, in the end, cannot be hidden.
And I am kidding nobody.
I know it will only take a particularly bad night, when the elements rage, for Jason to be consigned to the status of another statistic. The loss of life amongst the homeless is horrendous. In spite of the hard work of many engaged charities and paid workers, eighteen people died on the streets of Edinburgh during 2017.
Will anybody shed a tear at this loss of life? I have a picture in my mind. A Church of Scotland minister stands by himself on a cold hill and speaks of the sad loss. Even a minister, who must be used to thinking on his feet, will find it difficult to say something positive over the loss of a human being whose name he doesn’t know, whose life can only be spoken of in guessed platitudes about the human race.
A Wilfred Owen poem describes how life is wasted in wars and how the sun cannot, even with all its powers, bring back life to the young men killed on the battlefield. I think of the wasted lives on the streets of our city in a similar way.
The poem is called “Futility”.
This article appears in the June 2018 Issue of Life and Work
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