Stories from the Front Line - Homeless and Helpless

One in an occasional series (more information here)

One night when I was a response officer, I was sent at about 1am to a report of a woman in an elderly lady’s house who was refusing to leave. Cynical as I am, I expected to find someone taking advantage of a vulnerable person.

Instead, I found a smartly dressed woman in her forties. She greeted me with “Nice to meet you,” held out her hand, and introduced herself as Susan*.

Susan told me she had lived with her parents in a large house near where she grew up. When her mum developed cancer, her dad went into debt trying to pay for her care. After her mum died, her dad was diagnosed with cancer too. He died not long afterwards. The house was sold to clear the debts, and Susan had nowhere to live.

Then Susan was diagnosed with cancer herself. She spent months in and out of hospital for treatment, while trying to find somewhere to stay. She told me the council had said she wasn’t eligible for help: she wasn’t old, infirm or pregnant. She said she was told she would be at no greater risk on the streets than anyone else.

Last night, she was discharged from hospital and found herself back on the streets. She was worried that, because of her treatment, even a small cut could become infected and make her seriously ill. She’d spent hours visiting churches for help, without success. Eventually she saw a light on in an elderly lady’s living room and in desperation knocked on the window.

She couldn't stay there. No room at the inn. I spent the next hour calling refuges, hostels and social services. Nobody could offer her a bed. The advice was to contact the council during working hours.

I couldn’t bring myself to put her back outside. So Susan spent the night on the floor of one of our interview rooms, after a fine dinner of a custody microwave meal and a cup of tea that had only briefly met a teabag.

She was grateful. Embarrassingly grateful.

But a floor for the night isn’t a solution. It’s a sticking plaster. Tomorrow, she’ll still need somewhere safe to go, and I can’t promise her there’ll be anywhere.

I joined the job to help people. That night I did what I could for Susan, but, years later, it still doesn’t feel like enough.

*name has been changed