by Patsy Whyte
I walked back to the flat in my bare feet feeling like the whole world was against me, cursing Doreen and her fancy man with every breath. I pushed the key in the lock as usual. But it wouldn't turn, no matter how hard I tried. The lock was changed. In a panic, I flew around to the back of the flat to discover my old run down shoes standing next to my brown suitcase. The landlord had thrown me out.
Chapter Twenty
Summer colours were turning to autumn shades. My grubby jumper badly needed a wash. It was all I had to stop me from freezing to death in the cold winds which were beginning to bite. As I sat and waited to see a social worker, I didn't need to paint a picture. One look at me told the whole story. Tom, a young social worker, introduced himself. He said he had good Christian neighbours who lived downstairs from him.
"They're really nice people. I'm sure they'll help you out", he said.
He spoke softly, with a well defined English accent. Under different circumstances, I would have steered well clear of him. But I kept thinking about what the policeman said. The policeman told me to go and see a social worker. The words kept turning around in my mind and I was at rock bottom. There was no one else to turn to.
"Thank you", I replied, trying hard to fight back the tears.
If he had shown me any more kindness, I'm sure I would have broken down. I wasn't used to such compassion. He took me to a run down housing estate filled with drab and squalid tenements. I was surprised a professional like Tom lived there amid the broken boarded up windows and dark dingy closes strewn with rubbish. He told me it was all he could afford at the moment because he had just qualified. It didn't seem fair.
Tom was right about his neighbours. Jackie was from South Africa. Although living in such a poor area, she struck me as someone who came from a very privileged background. Slightly plump with short black hair, Jackie spoke well and seemed highly educated and appeared very comfortable with who she was. Her friend Helen was also well educated and didn't have the strong deep South African accent Jackie had. She was tall and slim and her platinum blonde hair hung down to her shoulders.
They said they were pleased to put me up. But I would have to share a room with Jackie. I felt relaxed and happy chatting away to them. They told me they were missionaries and planned to stay in Dundee for a year. Jackie suggested I should work as a community service volunteer. It didn't pay a lot, no more than pocket money, but accommodation and food were provided. She had some contacts who would get the ball rolling.
Jackie was passionate about cooking. At mealtimes, there was always a different South African delicacy ready on the table, waiting for us to enjoy. The aroma was mouth watering. They took it in turns to say grace and then we tucked in. Religion was never a talking point at the table, although they could easily have rammed God down my throat. But they didn't.
There was no radio or television in the flat which felt cold and damp. Tom popped by on his way to work one morning and offered me some of his cast off jumpers which I gratefully accepted. I promised to give them back once I had a job and could buy my own. Jackie and Helen held meetings most days in the flat with their missionary friends. So I usually made myself scarce. I went out for long walks or visited a young single mum living across the road. She was struggling to bring up her toddler son on very little money and had no one to talk to.
While walking through the Hilltown, suddenly I saw Frankie, Mick's friend, heading towards me. I didn't know which way to run to get away. But before I could do anything, he was standing in front of me with a mean look on his face, his voice low and threatening.
"Don't turn up to court."
I was lost for words. He pointed a finger to within an inch of my face.
"We know where you live. Turn up to court and we'll kick you in, maybe worse."
He walked away then turned and shouted.
"Remember, we're watching!"
I knew this was all Mick's doing and Frankie was just the messenger. But he succeeded in scaring me. There was no way I was turning up at the court. Not now. It wasn't worth it. I felt uneasy the rest of the day, edgy, always looking over my shoulder. How did he know where I lived? That night I couldn't sleep. Frankie's threats kept playing over and over in my head until Jackie's voice broke through.
"Can you see the light?"
"What light?", I said, peering in the darkness of the bedroom. I couldn't see a thing. What was she talking about?
"No", I said.
The next night, just as I was dozing off, she asked me again, "Can you see the light?"
What is she going on about? I stared hard into the darkness to see if I could see this light she was getting all excited about. There was nothing but darkness.
"No, I can't", I replied.
For a third night in a row, she asked me the same stupid question. I was beginning to think she wasn't right in the head, some kind of religious nut. She was never going to let it drop. Instead of saying no, I decided to play along.
"Yes, yes, I can see the light. It's over there!", I exclaimed. Jackie's voice boomed out and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
"Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Praise the Lord. She sees the light!"
Now satisfied her prayers were answered and my soul was saved, she went back to sleep. Thankfully, she never disturbed me again.
* * *
The court case came and went but I knew nothing about it or any outcome. I made my way to Liff Hospital to start a job as a live in community service volunteer which Jackie managed to get me. I was shown around by the middle aged doctor in charge.
When we entered ward 13, I was stunned. I could hardly bring myself to look. In front of me were rows of cots with tiny babies in them, all with huge swollen heads. My heart reached out to them. It was so sad. A little teddy lay next to each baby. The doctor said no one came to see them. I thought, Mother Nature was so cruel. The babies were unwanted, rejects, hidden away out of sight.
In the next ward were lots of happy young adults with Down's Syndrome. They all gravitated towards us as soon as the doctor opened the door. A young girl grabbed my arm and led me over to a table where they were painting. She pushed a small paint brush into my hand. They crowded around me, urging me to join in with them. The doctor was taken aback. He'd never seen them interact like this with anyone and watched amazed as we all painted together.
Later, he said he had a special job for me. The job meant I would have a small office with a telephone. I had to encourage patients to draw small triangles, circles and squares on a piece of paper. Then I had to write a report out on how each managed the task and send it upstairs to his office.
It was a good job which I enjoyed very much. Some of the patients could be violent, so there was always a male nurse on hand when they came into my office. Normally, they wore a padded leather helmet to stop them hurting themselves and others around them.
I worked alongside a young social worker whose constant moaning started to get on my nerves. The social worker complained at every opportunity that he should have been given the job and the office, not me, because he was better qualified. He nagged and fussed like an old mother hen, and even warned me not go on dates with junior doctors. They were only after one thing.
He was hard to ignore. It was difficult to believe he was even a professional because of his personal appearance, which he made no effort with. His hair was unkempt and hung half way down his back. He always wore the same scruffy jeans and jacket. Maybe that was why the doctor never gave him the job.
I never went out on any dates with the junior doctors even although they often asked me. They all appeared to come from very posh backgrounds, so I felt I had nothing in common with them. But whenever I got the chance, I borrowed some of their medical text books which I took to my room and read for hours on end. I think they were all amazed at my interest in medicine. Some of the doctors even suggested I should think about medical school. But I knew that could never happen because of my lack of education.
For the first time in
a very long time, I felt happy and settled, really enjoying the job, the room, and making lots of new friends. After work was finished for the day, my time was my own. I enjoyed going to the hospital discos in the evening and dancing with residents to the latest pop tunes.
Early one evening, while tidying up my room, there was an unexpected knock on the door. I was greeted by two policemen who said they had a warrant for my arrest. Not again, I thought, as I felt the colour draining from my face. They slapped a pair of handcuffs on me and led me down the main staircase of the hospital to the busy front entrance. I felt too ashamed and embarrassed to look anyone in the eye as the policemen ushered me into a waiting car. Before I knew it, I was sitting in a cell at the sheriff court, listening to the sound of the door slamming shut and the key turning in the lock.
The police told me I was to appear in front of the sheriff in the morning, to explain why I hadn't turned up at court as a witness. I never mentioned I was too afraid to give evidence because Mick's friends would have kicked me in. Mick scared me more than any court appearance.
Early next morning, I was led out the cell to a holding area where I was surprised to see Doreen sitting on a bench, flanked by a policeman. She never once looked in my direction or acknowledged me in any way and just stared at the floor. I sat down on a separate bench, unaware at first Mick was sitting out of sight around the corner. He heard me talking to the policeman guarding me and started shouting out how much he loved me. I heard the policeman in charge of him getting annoyed and telling him to shut up. It was only then I realised we must all have been arrested at the same time.
I was taken upstairs to the courtroom. It was empty except for the sheriff sitting on his bench, trying to appear stern and intimidating. No one explained what was expected of me as I stood in the dock. I almost burst out laughing at the sight of the sheriff's wig. If I'd taken the situation a bit more seriously, I wouldn't have argued with him either, or made up such a feeble excuse about missing the bus from Aberdeen. What a mistake. The sheriff saw right through the lie. He threw me right back downstairs again and into the same cell, where I spent the longest three days of my life.
All I had for company was two thick books. I attempted to read them, just to stop being driven up the walls with boredom. Jackie and Helen came to visit me, which was a welcome relief. But it was hard to keep the conversation going through the small bars in the cell door. I was dying for a fag.
"Do you think you can get me some?", I pleaded, in desperation.
The pious, pitying look on their faces turned to one of disgust. They reminded me they were Christians.
"Smoking is evil", said Jackie, almost without thinking.
Helen nodded in agreement. I went without a fag for the three days.
I never did understand what the books were all about. I was just thankful to leave them behind me and to step into the courtroom again, for the trial. This time, there was no arguing with the sheriff. Mick was already there, dressed in a smart suit and tie. He chose to represent himself and displayed an air of self righteous arrogance which impressed no one, least of all the sheriff.
Nobody was fooled by the barrage of questions either, fired first at Doreen and then at me, as he tried to twist our evidence around to make it appear he was the innocent victim. The sheriff saw right through his antics. At the end of the short trial, he sentenced Mick to three months in prison for assault. Then the sheriff turned and looked at me and said he never wanted to see me back in his court again. If I had any sense, I would go back home to Aberdeen.
The sheriff's word were still ringing in my ears as I stood outside the courtroom, glad to see daylight and to breathe in some fresh clean air. It was four days since my arrest at the hospital. So I was desperate to resume my job and to get my life back on track. But when I got to my room, I found a hastily scribbled note which had been slipped under the door. It was from the sister in charge of the ward and sounded urgent. She wanted me to report to her office immediately, so I wasted no time going there. I nervously knocked on the door and waited. A second or two later, a high pitched voice asked me to enter.
The sister stood at the side of a large desk, her heavy frame leaning up against it for support. She said nothing at first then glanced at me up and down. It was obvious she was cross at having to deal with some minion far down the pecking order.
"Well", she said, pausing. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
She didn't wait for an answer but cut me off as soon as I opened my mouth.
"We don't tolerate such behaviour at this hospital."
"But, but...", I stammered, trying hard to get the words out.
Her voice got louder and louder and drowned out my words of explanation. It was obvious she didn't want to hear them.
"No, we would much prefer it if you left", she said, shaking her head from side to side, convincing herself it was best for everyone concerned.
She told me to pack my bags and to leave the hospital immediately. I knew it was pointless trying to explain I would have nowhere to stay. She didn't want to hear anything I had to say. I walked slowly out the hospital gates carrying my brown suitcase, unsure of what to do now or in what direction to go in. My mind was numb. There was a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I walked aimlessly for hours on end, through bustling busy streets, trying hard to think of a plan and envious of all the people passing by who seemed so sure of the direction they were going in. Evening was approaching fast and I knew I had to find somewhere to stay for the night. By now I was exhausted and hungry with only enough money on me to pay for a room at some cheap hostel somewhere. My attention was suddenly drawn to a man standing alone outside the front door of a bingo hall enjoying a cigarette.
I shouted across the road to him asking if he knew any cheap hostels in the area. Cupping a hand to an ear to indicate he couldn't hear me, he waved me across the road. He was small and stocky, aged about 50 with receding hair and wearing a white raincoat. I saw him glance at my suitcase.
"What's a lovely young lady like you wandering about with a suitcase?", he said.
"I'm trying to find a hostel", I explained. "Somewhere not too expensive."
He turned his head up to the sky and paused for a moment then shook his head.
"Sorry, I can't think of any around here."
His eyes caught mine and I smelled a whiff of alcohol on his breath.
"Are you homeless?"
"Yes", I said. "I really need to find somewhere quite quickly."
"You look like you're carrying the whole world on your shoulders."
I attempted a half hearted smile. He told me his name was John. All his kids were grown up now. So there was plenty of room in his house. He could take me up to see his wife, if I wanted. She would be more than happy to help me out.
"Can't have you wandering about with nowhere to live", he said.
John seemed genuine and kind. He was going to do his best to help me out, he said. I felt a huge sense of relief walking up the road next to him. But he had to call in at his friend's place first, just for a minute. Did I mind? I said I didn't. We climbed up the stairs of an old tenement block and then he walked into a flat without knocking. There were two men sitting on easy chairs next to an unlit fireplace. John told me to make myself comfortable next to him on the settee.
One of the two men was a taxi driver who talked about the huge tip he got from one of his passengers. He seemed uneasy, on edge. I got the distinct impression he was unhappy with John being there. He almost seemed afraid. The man sitting opposite him looked ill. He had black hair with wisps of grey showing through and was very thin. His complexion was white and pasty. He wore an old fashioned heavy green coat to keep out the cold and dampness in the flat.