Open Writing

It is said, although we all have plans for the future, these plans seldom coincide with those the future has for us. Until a few months ago, I would have vehemently disagreed. As far as I was concerned, fate had nothing to do with the way one's life developed.

Through sheer determination and a lot of hard work, my husband, Charles and I held high profile jobs in the city. We were a golden couple, members of the ‘in crowd’ whose comings and goings were mentioned in society magazines.
Together with our 16 year old daughter, Lucy, and son, Josh we lived in a large home, in an upmarket suburb. Our financial success enabled us to employ a housekeeper, a cook and a gardener. We socialized on a grand scale and holidayed abroad each year. Life was good.

If I had a plan for the future, it was to carry on our extravagant lifestyle, accruing more and more of the assets of success.

Cocooned in my ivory tower, I denied the harsh realities of life many others had to deal with. I sneered at those who did charity work. If a job was worth doing it was worth payment. When my path crossed that of somebody with a collection box, I looked the other way. I paid my taxes and saw it as the government’s job to look after those institutions deemed charities. I convinced myself the homeless people who lived in the local underground station were either ‘professional’ beggars or ‘no hopers’ who would spend any money given to them on drugs, so when they pleaded for my spare change I ignored them. That was until I met Daniel.

It was a bitterly cold evening, the stillness of which suggested dawn would greet us with a frost. I’d rushed to the High Street on my way home from work to catch the shops before they closed. He was sitting on the pavement outside the supermarket. His thin denim jacket and ragged jeans doing little to protect him from the cold. His feet were shoeless and his toes had turned blue. He was holding a piece of cardboard on which he had written; Homeless, Cold and Hungry. Please help me.

He reminded me so much of Josh with curly blond hair, fair complexion and cornflower blue eyes. Except Josh had a warm loving home and never went hungry. A wave of sympathy washed over me. I had to help him. But how? Should I throw a few coins at his feet? Ring the Social Services? What? I squatted down to his level. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Daniel,” he replied.

I heard myself say, “If you come with me I’ll buy you something to eat.” He looked at me with eyes that were full of hope, smiled and without a word followed me into the nearby diner. I ordered him a meal and myself a cup of coffee. I sipped my coffee and waited while he scoffed the food. When his plate was empty he belched, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and said, “Thanks, Mrs that was great!”

“What happened to your shoes?” I asked.

“Swapped them for two meat pies”, he said as if it was a perfectly natural thing to do.

“Don’t you have any family who could help you?”

“What’s with all the questions, lady? Just because you bought me a meal it doesn’t give you the right to my life story.”

“I was only asking out of concern,” I snapped, “but if you’d rather I left now, I will.”

“No, please don’t go. It’s the least I can do to repay your kindness.” He cleared his throat and proceeded to tell me his story. Until six months ago he’d lived in the north. His parents had been killed in a road accident and he had no other relatives. They’d left him a little money and he decided to come south to the Capital to make his fortune. “My father always told me you don’t make any real money unless you work for yourself,” he continued, “so when I met a guy who offered to go into business with me I jumped at the chance. He said I could double my money in three months. I handed it over like a lamb to the slaughter. I never saw him again. I feel so stupid. Things have just gone further and further down hill since then. I can’t find a job and I can’t apply for the dole without a fixed address.”

“Where will you go tonight?” I asked.

“Wherever,” he said shrugging his shoulders. “Maybe the underground.”

I could see I’d got myself into a bit of a bind. How could I leave him to the cold of the night while I went to my comfortable warm home?

“Right,” I said decisively, “you’re coming with me.”

Charles was not pleased to see me arrive home with Daniel. “And who is this?” he asked.

“This is Daniel,” I said as I hastily ushered him up the stairs, “he’ll be staying here for a while.”

I found him some of Josh’s clothes, showed him where the shower was then returned to face the wrath of Charles.

“We need to talk,” said Charles, guiding me towards his study so we were out of earshot.

“What on earth possessed you to bring that wretch into our home?” he hissed.

“He needed help. I couldn’t just leave him sitting on the pavement outside the supermarket.”

“So ring the Salvation Army. I want him out now!”

“Charles, it’s bitterly cold outside. The poor lad’s nowhere to go. He’ll freeze to death. Do you want that on your conscience?”

“Out! Now!” he shouted.

Knowing he wasn’t as tough as he pretended, I held his gaze willing him to back down.

Finally, he somewhat sheepishly relented. “Okay, he can stay for tonight, but he’s out of here in the morning. And I don’t want him left alone with Lucy.” As a parting shot he added, “Be sure to lock up your valuables or you’re likely to find he’s scarpered with them during the night.”

Next morning, I phoned my secretary and had her cancel my appointments for the day.

“Come on, Daniel,” I said, “we’re going shopping. I think new shoes should be the first item on the agenda.”

“Why are you doing this for me?” he asked. “My parents would be so ashamed of me taking charity. I promise I’ll pay back every penny one day.”

"Nonsense, Daniel,” I said, “I’m quite enjoying playing the Good Samaritan. When all’s said and done, I’m only spending money I’ve neglected to put into collection boxes for years.”

I reasoned, if I bought him warm clothes, found him somewhere to live, to enable him to apply for a benefit to tide him over until he found a job, I’d be able to walk away with a clear conscience.

However, things never panned out that way. Something had happened to me. Wherever I went I saw homeless people. I felt as though they were looking at me accusingly. They haunted me day and night. When I cuddled down in bed, I had visions of them cold and alone, sleeping in shop doorways, on park benches, under bridges or wherever they could find some shelter. When I ate a meal, I thought of them with no idea where their next mouthful would come from. I couldn’t get them out of my mind. Just as I was on the point of consulting a therapist, I had an Epiphany and I knew without doubt what I had to do.

I wrote a letter of resignation from my job. I rang contacts I had on various local newspapers and alerted them to the plight of the city’s homeless. Then I flicked through the Yellow Pages until I found a charity involved in rescuing homeless people from the streets. I phoned the number. “I’d like to be a volunteer,” I said.

“Wonderful”, replied the anonymous voice at the end of the line, “How many hours a week can you give us?”

I hesitated. Taking my hesitation as meaning I wasn’t intending to help out every week, the voice said, “Perhaps you’d rather work for us on a monthly basis.”

“Actually”, I stammered, “I was wondering if I could work full time.”

It’s six months now since I started volunteering and I’ve never felt more content and fulfilled. Life certainly moves in mysterious ways.