Shaping the Ripples

by Paul Wallington

  “Good morning, Jack,” she smiled. “ready for another action packed day?”

  Barbara was George’s first appointment before the Centre opened for business, and it must have been one of the easiest decisions he’s had to make. She has a presence about her that makes you feel calmer just by being in the same room as her. She looks like everyone’s idea of the ideal grandmother, slightly plump with grey hair and smiling eyes, but I’ve heard one or two of the Council housing staff describe her as “the Rotweiler” after meetings when she felt they weren’t being as helpful as they could.

  Each day one of the three advisors deals with emergency calls and visits, while the other two co-ordinate our appointments to make sure that someone is always by the phone. Barbara and I sat down now to plan out the day. She had quite a few home visits to make, so I agreed to have a day guarding the phone, updating the files and handling any visitors who called in. In truth, after my meeting with Jennifer, I wasn’t at all sorry to be having a rather lighter day.

  Barbara finished her coffee and headed off to begin her appointments. I poured myself a glass of mineral water from the bottle which I always keep in the fridge and wandered down the hallway to collect the files I needed from the office. There was no sign of George which almost certainly meant he was off somewhere trying to get a donation, but the door to consulting room one was closed, and the soft murmur of voices came from behind it. Katie had obviously picked up an early emergency.

  I spent the next hour and a half on the riveting task of writing all the details of my most recent visits into the relevant files. “Keeping proper records” is one of George’s great themes, because we can’t always ensure that the same person sees someone every time. The door behind me opened and I caught a glimpse of the back of a small dark-haired woman as she went out into the city. After another minute or two, Katie came out into the reception area.

  The decoration of the centre is increasingly worn and shabby. I once teased George that he had chosen to appoint Katie Dixon as the third counsellor at the centre because she made the place seem much brighter just by being in it, without him having to pay for paint. She’s the youngest of our team at 28, and has only been working here for four months, but it’s already hard to remember, or imagine, the place without her.

  She was wearing her usual outfit of a T-shirt and blue jeans, and sighed slightly as she looked at the front door.

  “Another one who isn’t going to leave until she gets badly hurt.” She observed, running her fingers distractedly through her shoulder length light brown hair. Her green eyes, which usually sparkled with life, were somehow paler.

  “You can only help someone as much as they want to let you.” I said, as if this old cliché was going to make everything alright.

  “I know,” she responded, “but it doesn’t stop you feeling you should have done more when you know something terrible is going to happen to them.”

  I tried a different line;

  “A book I read once described two parents were watching their daughter in the sea jumping over some big waves. The father noticed how anxious the mother was as she watched and said to her, “You can’t jump over every wave for her, you know”. The same thing’s true for our clients”

  She looked at me with a quizzical expression and smiled. “Yes, O wise one. Of course, I’d be even more impressed if I didn’t know that you get just as churned up abut the ones we don’t manage to help.”

  I couldn’t help but smile back at her, “Clear off and get yourself some lunch before you corrupt me completely.”

  She span around, and headed for the door. “You don’t have to tell me twice. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  About 20 minutes later, the front door opened again. In came a slightly nervous looking woman with short blonde streaked hair. I recognised her as someone who had arrived at the centre in great distress, about a fortnight previously. I’d managed to get her a bed in the woman’s refuge, and some emergency money from social services. My brain whirred, and managed to come up with her name – Ali Jackson.

  “Hi, Ali,” I greeted her, “How’s it going?”

  She managed a tentative smile.

  “Not too bad.” She replied, “They’ve been great at the refuge, but I guess it’s time for me to start getting on with life on my own.” She fell silent for a moment and then continued, “You said that when I was ready to look for work you could help me.”

  I tried my most reassuring look. “No problem. We’ll ring round and see what’s available.”

  The phone in reception only works for incoming calls on our crisis line, so I lead her down the corridor and into the second consulting room. One of the benefits of York’s current boom is that there’s quite a lot of businesses and shops looking for extra staff, and over time quite a few of them have learned that the people they get from us tend to be very dedicated and reliable. An hour or so and quite a few phone calls later, Ali left for the first of her three interviews, considerably happier than when she had arrived.

  Katie was obviously back and occupied in the other consulting room, but a rather dejected George was sitting in reception.

  “No luck?” I asked him.

  “No.” he sighed “Five businesses and not a penny out of any of them. They all seem to be working off the same script – “I’m sorry but we already have a number of charities that we support and we’re not looking to add to the list at this time, particularly with the economy as it is”. What we need is some sort of way in.” He looked as tired and dispirited as I’d ever seen him.

  “I keep trying to get someone from the Executive’s Club to sponsor us, but no-one wants to know,” He continued. “If things don’t turn around soon, we’re going to have to seriously think about whether we can afford to keep going with three counsellors.”

  The Executive’s Club is a little out of my social circle. Membership is by invitation only, and invitations only go to the most prominent of the city’s businessmen and women. George’s theory was that if he could convince one of the leading members to endorse the Crisis Centre, he’d find it much easier convincing businesses to send some of their charitable donations our way. Unfortunately, nearly every other local charity had exactly the same idea.

  George saw my concerned expression and did his best to sound more positive,

  “Don’t worry, Jack – it won’t come to that. You know I always manage to come up with some more money at the eleventh hour. I’ve got three more appointments this afternoon and evening; maybe one of those will be the one. See you later – and please don’t mention this to the others.”

  With that he was gone. The rest of the afternoon passed fairly uneventfully. Barbara returned from her visits and I managed to persuade her that as it was her turn to be on call that evening and night, she should go home early to try and get a few hours with her family. Best of all, Ali Jackson called back in, wearing an enormous smile, to tell me that she’d got a job working in one of the big bookshops in the city.

  Just before six, Katie came out of the consulting room, and put on her coat. I said goodnight, and watched her go. It occurred to me that I had no idea whether she was going home to someone, or anything at all about her life outside work. I could have asked George, I suppose, but I knew that would guarantee me weeks of being teased.

  As I was about to get ready to follow her out, the door was thrown open with some force. A youngish, stocky man in a leather jacket and jeans rushed in.

  “Where’s my wife?” he demanded. His fists were clenched, and his eyes wild and staring.

  These sorts of visits happen from time to time, and in my experience the first moments are always critical. “Either sit down and calm down,” I responded evenly “or get out.”

  The internal struggle was clearly visible on his face, and for a split second I thought I’d misread him and was about to get thumped. Suddenly, he let out a huge breath, deflated like a leaky tyre, and almost fell into the armchair next to him.

  �
�Tell me what’s happened.” I invited.

  Over the next minutes he told me that his name was Ryan Clarke, and that he had been married for almost 18 months. His job as a self-employed haulier had become more and more difficult over recent years as fuel costs kept on climbing. More firms were trying to use other forms of transport, and the jobs he did get made almost no money. His answer had been to try and blot everything out, drinking more and more, while his wife Linda had tried to juggle the ever-growing pile of final demands.

  He continued the story, “About three months ago, something snapped. I’d been at the pub, and when I got home, Linda was waiting. She’d got all the bills out, and started on about what was I doing wasting our money on booze, when they were threatening to throw us out of the house.”

  He stopped, clearly finding the next words difficult ones to get out. “Anyway, I just lost it. I told her to shut up, but she wouldn’t – she just went on and on,” he paused again, looking very uncomfortable, “so then I hit her. I knew what I’d done as soon as it happened, but it was too late. I kept saying sorry over and over again, but she just cried. I slept on the couch and had to go to work early the next day. I thought we’d sort it out that night but when I got home, she’d gone.”

  His voice rose in volume again, “It was just a mistake, I lost it for a second. I’d never do it again.”

  I knew he was underplaying the damage that he had done to his wife, as I’d been on duty when Linda Clarke had arrived at the Crisis Centre, carrying a small suitcase. She had the most enormous swollen and split lip, and both her eyes were heavily bruised. She had steadfastly refused to let us contact the police, which is fairly common, but he’d obviously hit her several times.

  Ryan’s version of events continued, “I was drunk most of the next week, but then I realised I had to get some help. I went to the doctor, and he passed me on to a specialist. They’ve been helping me with my drinking and with what they call “anger management”. Then this week, this arrived.”

  He held up a letter, “It’s from Linda. She says that she still loves me but that she’s never coming back, that you lot have helped her start a new life.” His voice became more desperate, “But I know that if she knew I’d changed, she’d give me another chance. I’ve written a letter back to her, asking her to let me try again – but she didn’t put her address on the letter. So I need you to tell me where you’ve put her.”

  His voice had hardened with the last sentence, but then broke slightly, “I need her back. I can’t manage without her. You’ve got to tell me where she is.”

  He sat forwards in his chair, his eyes fixed on mine, waiting for my reply. I let him wait for a moment and then spoke;

  “You’ve got to understand that there’s no way I can tell you where Linda’s living now. If she’d wanted you to know, she would have told you.” The fire behind his eyes seemed to relight at these words, but before he could interrupt, I continued, “But if you want to give me the letter you’ve written to her, I’ll make sure that she gets it.”

  There was silence for a time as he considered this offer. Eventually, he obviously decided that this was the best he was going to get and, reaching into his pocket, held out a white envelope to me.

  “When you give her this, you’ll tell her?” he asked. “ You’ll tell her that things are different now – that I’m getting help and so on?”

  “I’ll tell her what you’ve said.” I promised as I took the envelope off him. “But what happens next will be up to her. If she decides not to see you, then there’s nothing I can do.”

  He nodded, and walked abruptly to the door. He turned briefly, muttered “You’d better hope that she does.”, and was gone. I put away the files I had been working on, and then locked all the internal doors, before setting the alarm. Locking the front door behind me, I stepped out onto the already dark street, and began my walk home.

  Chapter Three

  My flat is almost directly opposite the Crisis Centre, on the other side of the river. The walk home takes me through a small park area, called St. George’s Gardens, and over the Skeldergate Bridge, and is usually a good way of relaxing and letting go of the events of the day. Today though, I was still wound tightly as I got to the entrance of the apartment block and went up the stairs to my home.

  When I was younger, I’d always said that I’d own a house that overlooked water. I’d had in mind waves breaking on a golden beach, but I suppose a balcony facing the River Ouse is as close as I am going to get. I opened the freezer and looked at my selection of microwaveable meals for one. Taking out a chicken and pasta bake, I glanced at a notice attached by a magnet to the fridge. It was something that I’d picked up at church on one of my infrequent visits, detailing when and where the house groups were. There was one that night, on the subject of “How can there be a God while the innocent suffer?”

  I checked my watch. There was just about enough time to eat and get there if I hurried. I considered my options for the evening – another night in trying to find something worth watching on the TV or an evening talking about suffering. In the end, the thought that at least this would count as one of the two evenings out I had promised Jennifer swung it, and I gobbled down my food and got ready to go.

  The home groups meet fortnightly at the home of Samuel and Ruth Kondo. I’ve probably been to about three in the last year, but every time I turn up the two of them manage to make me feel that I’ve made their evening by being there. This time, it was Samuel who opened the door. An enormous man, originally from the Sudan, his face broke into a huge smile,

  “Jack!” he beamed, crushing my hand inadvertently as he shook it enthusiastically, “Good to see you.”

  He moved aside, and let me lead the way down the hall and into their living room. There were already half a dozen people sitting in the various chairs around the room, but Samuel’s wife Ruth jumped out of her chair and came rushing over to give me a hug. The thought briefly passed through my mind that if everyone who called themselves Christians was as loving and welcoming as Samuel and Ruth, churches might suddenly find themselves over-subscribed.

  Sat at the far end of the room, in a single armchair, Christopher Upton smiled across at me and then cleared his throat,

  “Perhaps we should make a start,” he said.

  Christopher has been vicar of St. Thomas’s church for about three years and must be nearly 40. I’m not sure he was everyone’s first choice initially, as people still seem to prefer their vicars to be married, but he’d soon won people over with his obvious sincerity and compassion. When I’d started to look for somewhere to go after Liz and I split up, for some company as much as anything, it had been listening to Christopher preach that had made me feel at home. The house groups were his innovation, and I felt slightly guilty that I didn’t get along more often to support him.

  I knew most of the others in the room, but Christopher got us all to introduce ourselves anyway. Besides Samuel and Ruth, there were four other people: Andrew Stanton, young and very intense; Fiona, a formidable lady in her 70’s who was also a lifelong member of the church; and Debbie Muir and Carol Barker, two friends in their early 30’s.

  With the introductions over Andrew started, “The problem of suffering is one all Christians have to take seriously. It’s one of the main reasons people give for not believing in God. We must never pretend that it’s not an important question. Just stop for a minute and think of some examples of unfair suffering; from the news or from your own life.”

  There was quiet for a time. The images in my head were mostly of people I’d met at the Crisis Centre – women and children with broken bones and battered faces and some of the most extreme cases with their history of torture and rape. The rest of the group looked equally sombre.

  When Christopher asked us to share our thoughts, the whole catalogue of human pain and misery was listed. Images of famine and poverty, stories of tragic accidents and wilful cruelty. Each person there had their own personal experiences of pain
to share – stories of illness and bereavement, of being helpless as others suffered.

  Finally Samuel spoke “Some of you know that Ruth and I come from the Sudan. What most people don’t know is that to be a Christian in the Sudan is to face persecution. We both have family and friends who have been tortured or executed,” his voice went quieter “and I have a sister who went missing almost two years ago. I doubt I’ll ever know what happened to her.”

  There was a deep quiet in the room, and then Christopher spoke again.

  “So with all this, how can there possibly be a God who loves and cares for us? Why doesn’t he do something?”

  Fiona Armstrong suddenly spoke, “St. Paul says that God never lets us suffer more than we can bear.”

  I really like Fiona, and I admire her especially for the fact her faith has lasted throughout her life but that she’s still open to new things like the house groups. But I just couldn’t let that last comment go. Speaking as gently as I could, I said,

  “I understand that that’s meant as a promise that when we suffer God is there to help, but I’m not sure it answers the problem. It could sound like God is there letting people suffer but only up to a limit he thinks we can stand. That could make it even worse.”

  Ruth’s eyes were encouraging “Go on, Jack – explain what you mean.”

  “Well for one thing, it isn’t always true – people do suffer more than they can cope sometimes and have a breakdown or even commit suicide. Besides which, if you tell a mother whose child has just been killed that God doesn't let you suffer more that you can bear, isn't what she hears that if she'd been a less strong person, her child would still be alive?”

  Fiona looked slightly taken aback, and Christopher tried to smooth things over,

  “Yes, you both make important points. Fiona is right in pointing to God’s promise that he will always sustain us if we look to Him when we suffer, but I think we’d agree that that doesn’t solve the problem. Let’s have a look at how the Bible tries to answer the question.”