The room becomes a hush of embarrassment as people stare intently at the paper they’ve been handed and studiously avoid eye contact with anyone else around them.
‘Deterrent measures?’ Marshall asks casually. He’s the only one, it seems, brave enough to say something. ‘Are these those so-called anti-homeless spikes people were up in arms about in London recently?’
‘I give money to Big Issue sellers,’ Sebastian suddenly declares. Colour rises to his cheeks, his eyes widen and his body becomes rigid, ready to defend against any and all sorts of attacks. ‘I understand it can be hard to be out there in all weathers, when you’ve got a drink or a drug problem and you don’t have a hope in hell of getting clean, but let’s be honest, most of those “people” don’t want help. They want to live out there, where they can drink wherever they want, take drugs whenever they want, and that’s fine. I’m a liberal man. I can understand the need to be free and to live without rules. But why do they have to do it on my doorstep? Your doorstep?’ He holds up his piece of paper, shakes it with conviction. ‘I, for one, don’t mind saying the things most of us can’t say nowadays because of all this blessed political correctness. Something needs to be done. And because the police won’t help us, we need to do it ourselves. These are just an idea. Something for those of us who care about our homes, who want to protect and preserve what is ours, to think on, to consider and to weigh up against those “people’s” rights to be free and ours to live in nice properties.’
‘Mate, all I asked was if these were those so-called anti-homeless spikes. That’s all,’ Marshall says. That isn’t all, and he knows it. We all know it, apart from maybe Sebastian, who has spectacularly shot himself in the foot. Marshall’s question has shown that Sebastian’s first motivation is to satisfy his deep hatred for a group whose humanity he wants to ‘air quote’ away.
What Marshall has done is to show others in the building that yes, they may have concerns about homeless people hanging around near their building – as homeless people hang around most buildings, to be fair – and the residents are well within their rights to be pissed off about it and to call the police to see what can be done, but agreeing to things like anti-homeless spikes would be hanging very large question marks over their compassion and basic human decency.
‘Look, no one has to decide anything right now,’ Sebastian says quickly. He’s unsettled by the lack of support for what he has said – no one is nodding, no one has applauded what he has said. They may agree, but his ranting has prevented anyone from showing the slightest bit of agreement. ‘All I ask is that you think about it and let me know what you think. When we’ve reached a decision, I can always get some quotes on prices, just so you know what we may possibly, possibly, be signing up for.’
I glance around the room again, sketching in the expressions on people’s faces from the overview I had earlier. As I take in all the people in the room, I wonder what they’d think, what they’d say if I stood up right now and said: ‘For the last ten years of my life, I was homeless.’
Roni
London, 2016
I should really be going home, but I can’t move.
Most school staffrooms seem to be the same: easy chairs that have seen better days, usually arranged in some kind of circular formation that always puts me in mind of group therapy. The walls are neutral, a noticeboard is crammed with pinned-up different-sized and different-coloured pieces of paper, and there are often teachers pacing around looking as though they could do with a fag and a drink.
It’s the end of the day and I sit in my easy chair by the fridge watching the comings and goings of the teachers who belong here, who have a vested interest in keeping their jobs, who know and love the children, who are so wrapped up in the fabric of the school their whole lives revolve around the place. Everything is winding down, and even though I am a supply teacher, I cannot bring myself to leave this place yet. Teaching was never my idea, although I have grown to love it since I was assigned the role.
Coventry, 2000
‘Novice Grace, we have decided that convent life is not for you,’ Mother Superior told me. ‘We have prayed on it for a long time, and we have come to see that your time would be better served elsewhere. As a teacher. We will enrol you in a university in Liverpool which you will attend for four years, with one year for teacher training. There is a place for you in the Light of the Virgin Mary convent, which is attached to a school, so you will be able to work there. It will be a lot of work because you will also be studying for your final vows but I know you will be able to handle it. Our Sisters at the Light of the Virgin Mary are looking forward to welcoming you to their community.’
I had not been expecting this when I sat down in her office. I had been expecting to be told that I maybe needed to spend a bit longer on my duties, that it wasn’t a race and that I didn’t need to be in a constant rush. Instead, I was essentially being asked to leave.
‘But Superior, I like this life.’
‘That may be so, Novice Grace. We see, though, that you struggle with the silence of monastic life.’
I wasn’t sure what she meant. God was in the silence. I was always searching for silence, for a way to dampen down and then erase the noise in my head. I knew in here, once I had found the silence that the noise put in there by what had been happening since I was young, would disappear I would find God.
Observing the no-speaking rule and constant prayer was a liberating chance to revel in the stillness of my mind that came from following the strict structure of the convent’s day. I had not been expecting the languid stretches of peace I had experienced when I had finally been allowed to begin my training as a novice. Now it was being taken away from me. ‘I do not struggle with not speaking, Superior,’ I said. ‘Not at all.’
She smiled at me, serene and understanding; she regularly smiled at me like she could see deep into my heart and know what I was really thinking whenever I spoke. It was unsettling, as though she had a power given to her by God to know the truth about most things. ‘Silence is not simply the absence of speech. Silence is also a time to think and reflect and pray, to feel closer to God. Is that how you experience silence, Novice Grace? Or is silence a means of escape for you?’
‘I feel closer to God when there is silence,’ I explained to her. ‘I feel Him when I am praying, when I am working, when I am carrying out my chores. This is the life I have chosen, this is the life for me.’
‘Monastic life is not an escape, Novice Grace. This is why we believe you struggle – you are not here purely because the simple life is something you are committed to – we believe you are trying to escape, to hide,’ she explained. ‘You are dedicated, we can see how much you have devoted yourself to God, to the life of praying for the world, and you would make an excellent Sister, but not a nun. Not when you are hiding.’
‘I’m not so sure I would make a good teacher,’ I replied. ‘I’m not sure I’m cut out for that.’
‘Obedience, Novice Grace, is one of the most important tenets of choosing to dedicate your life to the Lord. I have told you that several times, have I not?’
‘Yes, Superior.’
‘It is very difficult for novices to understand why we require obedience, but somehow you seem to have particular trouble embracing it fully. Do you know why that is?’
I stared at Superior and wondered if that was a trick question. I was not good at answering questions correctly, trick or otherwise. I had this knack for entirely missing the point in these sorts of conversations. I also suspected that Superior was, having told me that she knew that I had been trying to hide by coming here, questioning my commitment to this life. She knew as well as I did that I was not someone who had seen The Sound of Music too many times (I couldn’t stand the singing in it, for one, which kind of negated the whole point of the film), because I had worked so hard for over two years to be accepted. I was dedicated, I did want to be here and I knew I would get there with the silence, that I would not be searchin
g for God in the silence – at some point, I would go to Him in silence.
‘Fear,’ I confessed in answer to her question about my struggles with obedience. ‘I am scared to simply trust what I am told is what is for the best.’
Superior beamed at me. ‘That is a remarkable moment of self-insight and reflection. Do you know why you were able to show that at that moment?’ she asked.
‘Because I said the first thing that came into my head?’ I replied. ‘I mean, apart from momentarily thinking about Maria from The Sound of Music.’
Mother smiled at me again, her lips showing her perfect white teeth. ‘Contrary to what you may believe, I do not want to dampen the natural exuberance you have, Novice Grace, simply direct it. Obedience in a novice, in us all, is about trust. To have trust, you must have faith. I have faith in you to find the right way along this path that God has chosen for you. The path needs to deviate slightly from the one you thought you were on, but we believe this next section of the path is the right one for you.’
‘To be a teacher?’
‘To be a teacher,’ she confirmed.
But what if you do not know what it is to trust any more? What if your ability to have faith, to let go and simply be, doesn’t work? Are you supposed to go against everything you feel to simply obey and trust God’s will be done?
‘Yes,’ Superior said.
‘Did I say that out loud?’ I asked.
‘Your face did,’ she said. ‘You have a very expressive face – it’s a good thing you don’t gamble. Novice Grace, relax. You will make mistakes, we all of us make mistakes, but that is what growing is all about. Will you be a good Sister? I firmly believe so. Will you be able to continue until you take your final vows in seven years? I am not sure. But I have faith that you will be the best you can be. You are a natural Sister, if not a nun, and through that you will offer the world of teaching so much. I suspect, also, that you will always find a way to resolve your somewhat liberal approach to obedience, and that may not be a negative thing.’
‘Yes, Superior.’
I did not tell her, as I got up to leave, how terrified I was of leaving the silence of life behind the convent walls, and re-entering the world where everything was noisy, chaotic and a reminder of where I had come from.
London, 2016
It feels odd to be interacting with people and to be dressed like everyone else. I feel underdressed, slightly vulnerable. At the time, when I would dress as a Sister in my skirt, blouse and veil, it had never felt like armour, like a protective shell that stopped the outside world encroaching on who I was. If anything, it made me stick out but in an invisible way. People never saw me, they saw the veil, the crucifix and not much else. A lot of Sisters dress quite casually, nowadays, some don’t even wear veils, but I enjoyed the anonymity of the veil, of the sober clothes, the way people would look at me and then look through me because I wasn’t anyone of note.
The man who has just dropped himself into the seat beside my chair has on a navy-blue V-neck cricket jumper with a logo on its right breast. His black hair is slicked back, and his trousers of choice are brown cords. I’m assuming he has left his tweed jacket with its elbow patches in his locker. Most of the teachers dress smartly and could be mistaken for office workers, while this man seems to buck the trend by going retro.
‘Hi, I’m Cliff,’ he says. He leans over in his seat to stick out his hand.
‘Pleased to meet you, Cliff.’ I shake his hand. ‘I’m Veronica, or Roni, as most people call me.’
‘How are you finding it?’ he asks.
‘It’s fine. I’m only here for a few more days, but it’s been fine. Great, actually. The staff have been helpful and the children haven’t been too trying. What do you teach?’
‘I’m Head of Maths and Year Ten form tutor.’
‘Head of Maths? I see. Is that why you dress like a teacher?’ I say to him. To be fair to him, I do dress like a Sister – skirt, blouse, cardigan – because those are the only clothes I have. Even though I don’t wear my larger cross outside of my clothes any more, I can’t bring myself to take it off – it has been a part of me for half my life, I would be naked and vulnerable without it.
I’m pleased when Cliff grins at me, then I realise how rude that sounded. How much like Uncle Warren that was. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘That was actually quite rude and unnecessary. I simply noticed you don’t dress like most people around here.’
‘No, I don’t. But it’s fine,’ he says with a laugh. ‘It was only a little banter.’
‘I dislike that word so much.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘It’s simply a way for people to get away with being rude. And I was rude, and I don’t even know you. I’m sorry.’
‘You’re the nun, aren’t you?’
‘I’m not a nun any more,’ I say. I’m going to be saying that for a long while to come, I suspect.
‘Does that mean if I ask you out for a drink you’ll be able to say yes?’
I frown deeply. ‘Are you asking me out on what the youngsters call a date?’ I reply.
‘Yes,’ he says with an amused smile and a short nod of his head. ‘Any time you fancy. But the sooner the better, if you’re not going to be around much.’
I haven’t been asked out on a date … ever, I don’t think. When I made the decision to become a nun, I stopped drinking, I stopped taking drugs and I stopped going out clubbing. In fact, I had stopped most of that when I made the decision, but that was only because Nika wouldn’t speak to me and I had no one to go out with. I’d tried apologising and she would act as though I wasn’t there. Without her, I didn’t seem to be able to do it alone. Once I had found my focus, I didn’t notice boys, men or any of that. I was on my journey and I did not need my head turning, my attention diverting by anyone else.
‘Erm, that would be lovely. I must warn you, though, I don’t drink.’
‘That’s fine. When would you like to go out?’
Mum’s face shimmers into view. Last night she smugly told me that Dad doesn’t like shepherd’s pie and was tight-lipped when he proceeded to eat it all; her mouth was practically concave by the time he asked for seconds. ‘Tonight?’
‘Excellent. If you give me your mobile number I’ll text you the time and place.’
‘I don’t have a mobile,’ I say.
‘No need for it in the convent?’
‘No, other Sisters had mobiles but I didn’t feel the need. I saw a pub down on the high street, The Forbidden Grapes or something? I live over in Chiselwick so we’d need to meet there at eight so I’ve time to go home and change.’
‘Sounds great. Meet you at eight … You wouldn’t think I was a maths teacher with such rhyming skills, would you?’
‘No, no, I wouldn’t. I’d better get going if I’m going to get back to you in time. I’ll see you later at eight.’
‘Yes, see you later.’
Nika
Birmingham, 2004
Carefully, I wrapped up the slick bar of soap in a small clear sandwich bag and placed it back into the gaping hole of the large clear sandwich bag on the sink of the toilets in Birmingham Library. Next, I carefully wrapped up my damp blue flannel in another sandwich bag and placed it beside the soap. Hopefully I’d get a chance to dry out the flannel later so it didn’t become slimy and mouldy, but for now, I had to keep it in a plastic bag so the other things in my bag stayed as dry as possible.
I felt a little better now that I’d had the chance to brush my teeth and have a wash, change my underwear and generally ‘freshen up’ after another night spent walking the streets. When I’d got off the coach, I had followed the crowd as much as possible, assuming they were heading for the city centre. I had passed over a canal and had paused to watch the waterway disappear in both directions. Like the trains at Victoria station, I loved watching rivers and canals, seas and oceans. I loved the idea of them bringing people near and taking them far away.
I’d continued
down, walking quickly to try to catch up with the people who had got off the coach. The numbers had dwindled, people branching off in different directions, heading somewhere they needed to be, seeing people they wanted to see, pressing on with the plan they’d had when they’d got on the coach. My plan had consisted of getting away from London before Todd could track me down, and that was it.
The first time I’d run away from home I had planned it meticulously and I’d known where I would be going. I had saved so hard for nearly two years, every single penny that I’d earned, I’d saved. I had walked to school instead of buying a bus pass, I’d delivered papers before school, worked lots of shifts in cafés at the weekend, got a supermarket job for evenings I didn’t have ballet class or individual lessons. I had been organised, focused only on escape.
This time, I’d had no plan, no idea where I was. I’d chosen Birmingham because it was a big city and in all the time I’d been with Todd, we’d never gone there. Brighton, Liverpool, Leeds, Manchester, Glasgow, Aberdeen, York, we’d been and stayed there, had gone out with friends there. But Birmingham, we’d never so much as gone through, so I’d known that was the place to be. He was less likely to know people there and I was less likely to bump into anyone either of us knew. That was my hope, anyway.