After several months on the streets in Shrewsbury, I came to Manchester and, after a couple of nights in a nightshelter, was lucky enough to be given a room in a women’s only hostel – which no longer exists. I had been taken there by a worker from the Barnabus drop-in as I had never heard of the place it was located. I had an interview, filled in the forms, and was told “We’ll get back to you.” 

Sat in the car, I said, “Well I won’t hold my breath,” and the worker – I wish I could remember her name – started the engine and went to pull out of the car park. Suddenly she stopped again.

The woman who had interviewed me was running towards us shouting and waving. As it turned out, while she had been doing my interview the other staff were doing room searches. Four people were being evicted at that moment for having drugs in their rooms!

Their loss, my gain – I could move in later that day (and I vowed that I would be smarter about where I hid my weed than in my sock drawer!)

So, I moved into a smallish room (about 8’ square), but with its own shower room – which after months on the streets was heaven! After about half an hour some of the others came to welcome me and one of them asked if I wanted help to unpack. I told her I already had, and she looked around, bewildered.

She was eighteen and, as I later discovered, had been kicked out of the family home by her step-father. “But where’s your stuff?” she asked. I opened my wardrobe and showed her my three or four changes of clothes – noticing one of the others (someone more my age) grinning at me over this girl’s shoulder. 

“There it is” I told her. I had, after all been on the streets for months and had arrived with two rucksacks.

“But what about your TV? Your stereo? PlayStation? . . .” she named several other things.

I shrugged and explained my situation. She went away horrified and came back with a small portable radio. “You can have this if you want” she told me, and I accepted it gratefully.

Later that night I was laid on my bed, listening to my new radio and reading a borrowed book when a staff member who I had not yet met entered without knocking. “You’d better start packing your shit.” She thrust some papers at me. “You’re out tomorrow morning!”

I asked what she meant, telling her I had just moved in that afternoon. She started yelling at me then, calling me an f’ing liar amongst other things. This, naturally, attracted attention from some of the others, who quickly came to my rescue. She didn’t believe them, saying they were covering up for me and trying to force this sheaf of paper on me.

I refused to accept it and she started shouting again. By this time half the hostel was crowded into my room and it was quickly becoming chaos. I asked the woman – as calmly as I could – what name was on the eviction notice and she told me it was mine, obviously. I asked again, telling her my name and getting my licence out of my drawer.

She refused to look at it, just saying I should pack my “shit” as I had to leave when the day staff arrived the next morning and trying to leave the papers on my desk. Then I asked her name, telling her that when those day staff arrived I would be making a complaint against her. One of the others – Sarah*, someone who I would go on to have many memorable nights with – told me. “She’s bank staff and hasn’t been here for weeks.” She added.

By now I’d had a long, exhausting day, and I’d had enough. I told the staff member that she could do what she wanted with the eviction notice – to which some of the women had humorous suggestions – but that I was not going to accept them and asked everybody to leave. 

When they had, I had a spliff out of the window – carefully hiding my weed in my dirty washing afterwards – and went to bed.

Next morning, I was outside the office when the day staff arrived, one of whom I recognised from the day before. I told her what had happened, and the bank staff woman tried to deny that she had been rude to me. With a dozen others backing me up, however, this could not go on for long and she was made to apologise to me – which she did with a very bad grace. I never saw her at the hostel again!

Incidentally, I lost touch with Sarah when I left the hostel but bumped into her not long ago. My life has changed so much – for the better – since then, but she is still the same, heavy drinking and chain-smoking weed, unfortunately. She is 15 years younger than me – and looked it – but now looks that much older.

 

*Names have been changed.