A heart-warming story of macaroni cheese.

A little while ago I wrote a blog ( Camper Van Ethics) about a homeless person who, for a little while, lived in our camper van. 
Even though our van was parked less than 10 metres from our front door, none of us noticed - which says a lot for our observation skills.
And when we did find out, when we discovered, amongst the overflowing  makeshift ashtrays and dirty crumpled sheets,  the tiny collection of personal possessions that was all that we had to identify our unexpected guest, it wasn't anger or violation that I felt, but a deep and haunting sadness.

But even sadness has its up-side.
And for me it happened when my friend Cath read my blog and, understanding my guilty conscience at the thought of a camper van standing empty through long, cold winter nights, told me that she had always wanted to volunteer in our local homeless shelter and wondered if I would like to do it with her.
I am normally a person of many good ideas and very few real actions.
But there is no more powerful motive than the thought of letting down a friend. And so it was that Cath and I found ourselves sitting next to each other in a meeting, signing up for cooking dinner once a month for ten people who have fallen on hard times.
And that is truly who they are.
A cross-section of people from all walks of life who are battling with all their might to stop themselves from falling any further.  
And as we chop wilting vegetables and open tins and race against the clock with whatever peculiar collection of ingredients we are using, we listen to their stories.
And each month I am struck by how easily it could be any of us.
One unlucky shake of the dice, one financial loan too many, one escape from an abusive partner, one dream that didn't lead where it was meant to. 

"What would you like us to cook next time?" we ask, dubiously eyeing our latest creation of slop poured over pasta.
For a moment there is silence.
It seems to be a question that is not often asked.
"What I would really like," says one young tattooed man, staring dreamily through his dinner, "what would be really delicious is macaroni cheese.'
I think of the complicated dishes we have tried to create, the spicy chicken we have served one time too many because there is so much of it in the freezer, the all day breakfast that used every pan, dish and plate in the building....macaroni cheese seems too easy.

But the next time we are there, we boil up the pasta, mix the flour into the melted butter and cheese and create our dish.. 

"What's for dinner?" asks our tattooed friend.
"Macaroni cheese" we say.
I stir harder, trying to stop the sauce from turning into lumps.
He stares at us, eyes wide, remembering.
"Last time you were here," he says, "last time you were here you asked us what we wanted and I said macaroni cheese"
We nod worriedly.
Perhaps he had been joking.
"I said macaroni cheese," and  a smile begins to shine from his so-often-disappointed eyes, "and you've made it. You've made macaroni cheese because that's what I said I wanted."
The disbelief in his voice is almost tangible. like shards of ice that are beginning to melt.
And walking back towards his room, he seems to have gained a pride in his step, to have grown somehow taller, to fill more confidently the space around him. 

And it makes me wonder.
Wonder why being homeless makes you voiceless.
Wonder how quickly you stop expecting people to listen.
Wonder how long it takes before you start believing that your words are worthless.

We serve up the macaroni cheese.
A plate full of the past, 
A meal of comforting memories.
A taste of better times when the world felt almost safe.

And I realise that it's always the simple things.

That sometimes something as plain as a plate of macaroni cheese will be the "simple thing" that gives someone back their voice and make them believe that what they say is worth listening to. 

My friend and I start walking  towards the door.
" What are you going to make next time?" 
We turn.
"What would you like?" 
There's a pause.
And then a man, sitting at the end of table,  who rarely smiles, looks up at us for just a moment, eyes full of suffering and shattered dreams.
"Any chance of shepherds pie? he asks.

.........don't go


                                                                   ..............                                                        


A guest blog by my amazing friend (and fellow volunteer) Cath

                    

On macaroni cheese, and engaging in the conversation.

Reading Becky’s post about our volunteering at Stonepillow night refuge made me feel both proud and uncomfortable. It is a beautiful account of a shared experience, but I’ve also found it a tricky subject to discuss with friends, particularly the complicated, emotionally charged bits that Becky is so good at confronting. If it comes up in conversation, I stick to what I’m comfortable with - the practicalities of what we cook, where the hostel is, how many people live there, and so on. So Becky’s post put us well and truly out there, and suddenly lots of mutual friends are interested in what we’re doing. 

-----

Like many people, I was intrigued by Becky’s story about a homeless person living secretly in her campervan. On our street! It is the ultimate illustration of how invisible a homeless person can be to the people living around them.

I’d long had vague intentions to help out at Stonepillow and knew that they needed evening cooks at the night hostel, but I’d put it to the back of my mind due to the doubts that arose when I thought about actually going through with it. What if the people were scary, or I felt unsafe around them? What if I heard distressing stories that I couldn’t un-hear? What if I ran into clients when I was around town with my two small children and felt awkward?

But I knew from Becky’s unique response to her camper van squatter that she’d be up for joining me, so we thought we’d give it a try, after all there was nothing to lose.

So, we’ve been doing it. It is pretty low maintenance volunteer work – 2 hours, once a month, playing a bizarre version of Ready Steady Cook with donated ingredients to feed pleasant, interesting people with good appetites.  

My fears were unfounded. The hostel has a stable, warm, quietly hopeful atmosphere. Residents feel really fortunate to have a place and it represents a stepping stone away from the street to something better – a flat, rehab, work, whatever. The ground rules are crystal clear, and the price of breaking the rules is high - to give up the coveted place, the chance of something better, to someone else.

----

On the evening that Becky described, it is clear to me that I was far less engaged with the events happening around me than Becky, which is why I was pleased  that Becky wrote about it and articulated so beautifully what she gets out if it. Her honesty and awareness cut through my concerns and also gave me the chance to consider my own level of involvement.

My main impressions of that evening were:

·       I arrived late and felt stressed.

·       They liked the macaroni cheese. A lot.

Really, that was it.

I was so absorbed in my own internal to-do lists that I had entirely missed the subtle connections that were happening around me.

Now I look back, I do remember a particularly upbeat mood around the table, and also that I laughed (as did everyone in the room) at the way that the cheeky chappy of Becky’s original story asked for second helpings:

“That’s filled one bollock. Now can I have some more please!”

----

We were told in our induction that volunteers are hugely important to residents because they are a powerful sign that local people see them, accept them, and care what happens to them.

The work has also given me insight into how our community treats its most marginalised members, and overall I’m really encouraged. Chichester seems to be kind to its homeless, and that’s important.

----

I’ve concluded that tuning in to the subtleties would be beneficial. But the bottom line is that I show up and feed people, and enjoy it, and I’d recommend the work to anyone.

Now Stonepillow have read Becky’s piece and their Chief Executive has invited us to their AGM to give the volunteers’ perspective. So we’re joining all sorts of conversations that wouldn’t have happened without her blog, and I feel excited to get more involved.

And maybe next time, while we’re making Shepherd’s Pie, I’ll pay more attention to what’s really going on.

Camper Van Ethics

Sometimes something happens and without you quite realising, it changes how you feel about the world, . 
Not the horror of religious extremism and hatred that seems to be flooding our world at the moment.
Nor the current epidemic of killing, bombing and terrorising.
They create an unavoidable ever-present whisper of fear that we are all trying to ignore.
They are all too huge somehow, too terrible, too incomprehensibly inhuman to think about.
But this week something happened, something small and tangible and utterly unsettling. 

It started with the milk.

Three times a week we have our milk delivered by a milkman ( a quaint English habit that we can't quite kick}.

On Monday, Wednesday and Friday, we wake up and our milk is waiting for us on the doorstep.
But last week,it wasn't.
 I opened the door to a frayed  doormat and an empty space where the milk bottles should have been.
Outraged we phoned the dairy who apologised, explained it was probably a new milkman who hadn't quite learnt his round yet and gave us a refund.
But it wasn't the milkman.
On Saturday we found our milk bottles, and even some that belonged to our neighbours.
It was the evening, already full of November darkness, and Ninesh (my husband) and I, were piling bedding into our camper van.
We were spending the night with my sister and her family because my niece was having an 18th birthday party and, much to our surprise, she had invited us "oldies," as well as our teenage children.
But since we are at the age where the thought of sleeping on the cold floor amongst empty beer cans and smouldering cigarette butts fills us with horror, we'd decided we would sleep in the relative comfort and splendid isolation of our van.

Ninesh slid open the door and climbed inside .....and that's when he almost fell over the milk bottles.
Cursing under his breath, he turned on the lights..... it wasn't just milk bottles.
The roof bed had been pulled out and covered in a now-grubby sheet. 
One of our torches lay on top of it and every surface was covered in a thin film of tobacco dust, cigarette ends and joints.
At first Ninesh and I just stood there, speechless.
How could it be that a few yards from our front door, a complete stranger had been living in our camper van?
How many times had we walked past and not noticed him?
How many times had he watched us enter and leave our house?
How many times had he watched the living room window as the daily mundanity of our family life unfolded? 
How many times, under cover of early-evening and late-morning darkness had he climbed in and out of our van?
And how had we not heard the door sliding shut? ( We never manage to do that without waking everyone up!)
We felt shocked, violated, indignant.
How dare he...
We started looking around more closely.
Opening cupboards, pulling out drawers, checking for more evidence, wondering what he had stolen.
But the truth was, he hadn't stolen anything.
Instead, he had left his phone charger, his pen knife and his grinder lying around.
One of our neighbours wandered over
" Has someone been living in your van?" he asked, peering through the door. 
" How did you know," asked Ninesh.
" Oh, we just saw a young man wearing a hoodie leaving it," he said." It was only about 5 minutes ok. Shall I help you chase after him.  I know which direction he went in?" 
For a moment I followed his gaze through the street-lamp lit darkness.
Then I turned and looked at the penknife and the phone charger and the grinder, probably everything he owned in the world. 
I looked at the crumpled sheet and the lonely torch.
" It's ok,"  I said.
" But he broke into your van and lived in it," said our neighbour.
" But he's gone now," said Ninesh " and he didn't steal anything and we're taking the van away tonight."
And suddenly I imagined it.
A young, homeless man turning the corner onto our road late that night, and staring at the space, where his temporary home should have been.
And just like that my sense of indignation and violation evaporated.
And all I felt was a sense of overwhelming sadness.
We cleared away the milk bottles and the cigarette ends.
We opened all the doors  and windows to get rid of the smell of cigarette smoke.
I collected the sheet and put it in the washing machine and we folded away the roof bed.
In the end all that was left of our van's temporary inhabitant was a small pile of his possessions.
We drove to the party, trying to process what had just happened and not to notice the scent of tobacco that lingered in the air.
" I feel bad keeping his stuff," I said, " it's probably all he's got.  What shall we do with it? Shall we just leave on our wall and hope he comes by to pick it up?"
" Good plan," said Ninesh, " we'll just leave a phone charger and a sharp knife outside our house! No one else would be interested in those!"
" Perhaps we could leave a note," I suggested.
" Right," said Ninesh, " to the person who broke into our camper van and has been living there illegally-
 Please knock on the door and we will return your possessions!"
I sighed, he was right.
The price he had paid for living in our empty camper van was the loss of everything he owned.
" At least he still has his phone," Ninesh pointed out.
I thought about that.
Wondered how someone who has nothing can afford a phone.
Wondered why you would choose a phone over food.
There is a cynical explanation, that the phone was stolen that he was dealing drugs, that he needed to stay in touch with his contacts.
And I know that's the most likely answer.
But a part of me wants to believe something different.
I want to believe that at least, with a phone, he could pretend he wasn't lonely.

We danced the night away amongst devils and angels at my niece's " Gods and Monsters," party and when the night was over we climbed wearily into our van.
We reclaimed it as our own. as the movable holiday home it is.
But emotions are never that simple.
He haunted our dreams, this homeless man.
It's easier not to face the truth, to hide behind our belief that we are, at heart good people who give money to charity and believe in freedom and justice and equality.
But perhaps believing is no longer enough. 
Because there is something so undeniably unjust and unequal about living in a world where some of us have empty bedrooms and empty vans and food to spare while all around us our world is filling with people who have nowhere to sleep and nothing to eat.
So now our lives have been divided into the time before our stranger in the camper van story and the time after it. 
Before it happened I could convince myself that " just caring ,"was enough.
Since it's happened my illusions of personal goodness have been shattered.

I phoned and registered our spare room as a space for asylum seekers with the council but apparently Chichester is not one of the places they are fleeing to.
Perhaps we should leave our van door permanently open and a supply of food and milk inside.... but somehow we can't bring ourselves to be that altruistic.
In this world of constant change and fear, it's hard not to cling even more tightly to what you hold dear.
I find myself looking searchingly at " The Big Issue," sellers and the empty-eyed hooded figures slumped on benches.
" Is it you?" I want to ask them," did you sleep in our van?"
But I know I never will.
The truth is, I don't have the courage to cross the bridge from thought to action. 
And so I live with the knowledge that our camper van will never feel quite like ours again.  That staying in it will always make us feel just a little bit guilty.
And every time I lie down on its comfortable cushions, I will see the lost face of a complete stranger who, for a very short time, had a place that he could call home.