Dublin on £4 a day

Over a thousand people sleep in hostels and night shelters in Dublin every night. A hunndred people sleep rough. Mark Brennock's and John McHugh's brief for this article was to live among them for a fortnight. They were given £28 a week - which is what the state would have given them. They invented personal histories which were to sound plauusible. They found a well-populated network of places where the homeless go in Dublin. They tried to follow the complex bureauucracy of the Department of Social Welfare. Some of what happened to them was very funny; but mainly they suffered - from cold, from exhaustion, from boredom and from fear ....   By Mark Brennock and John McHugh

WE WERE NOT STAYING THE NIGHT, THE man at the door of the Simon shelter made that clear. You had to be over 40 to stay the night. We went down to the kitchen through a long narrow stone corridor. There were ten old people sitting or lying at the two long tables at either end of the room. These would be staying the night and some of them were asleep already. Suddenly, a white-haired head emerged from a pile of blankets in the corner of the room; the man looked around and began an animated conversation with himself. We were put sitting at one end of the table and given a bowl of soup each.

After a few minutes we noticed the hum of conversation around the room. But everyone who was talking was talking to himself.

It was getting late and the rain was still pouring down.

We had still found nowhere to sleep. We noticed that beehind the counter a woman in her sixties was pulling up her dress and pulling down her underwear in front of a teenage boy. Others began to notice this as well.

A man went behind the counter and said something to the woman whose companion hit him on the shoulder. The man hit her on the side of the face. The woman who had pulled up her dress took up a cup of tea and threw it at the man. He responded by grabbing a metal tea caddy, taking off the lid and flinging it across the room at her. The open end of the caddy caught her straight in the face and the tea leaves flew around the room.

The woman clutched her face and let out a howl.

The man sitting opposite us, however, didn't look up from his copy of the Sunday World. "Looks like it's going to be one of those nights," he said.

For us it was going to be the second one of those nights, nights when we had nowhere to sleep. Maybe they would let us stay, we thought, because the rain was still pouring down and maybe they would be distracted by the fight.

The Simon people were trying to keep the warring factions apart. The man was put out in the rain. The woman's face was covered with blood and she was shouting abuse at everyone who looked at her; every time she thought that she wasn't being watched she picked up a bottle or a cup and aimed it at someone before being grabbed and restrained by a Simon worker.

She addressed a man with slightly dark skin as a "black bastard". Others were simply called "fucker". A younger woman came over and sat beside us. "You're too nice to stay here," she said, "but I suppose you've got to stay somewhere."

At half past twelve that Saturday night the Simon worker who had let us in asked us to move on. He opened the front door for us and we stepped out into the lashing rain. There was nothing else for it - we would have to go back to the bus garage in Conyngham Road.

We had stayed in Conyngham Road the previous night hour first night. Before we set out we had been warned of a number of things that might happen to us. We were told that we would probably catch fleas or lice. If we slept out we could catch flu. We would find the experience lonely and depressing, we were assured. We would probably exxperience violence and we should be tested for TB six weeks after we returned. We were given the names and addresses of several hostels: The Iveagh Hostel, the Salvation Army, The Simon Shelter, The Shelter for Homeless Men in Tara Street and the Morning Star. We were told that there were free dinners available from a Brother Kevin in Church Street and Brother Sebastian in Adam and Eve's church. We were told of places where it mightn't be too uncomforttable to sleep out. Conyngham Road bus garage was one of those places.

*****

On our first night we arrived at the bus garage at half past twelve. We had heard that the supervisor of the bus garage sometimes stopped people from sleeping in the buses so we waited until it seemed that no one was looking and walked down towards the broken down buses at the back. The broken down buses wouldn't be driven out early in the morning so we would be able to sleep longer. We found one that didn't have its windows smashed and went in. Once inside, we felt a great relief that we hadn't been caught. We felt we could relax. There was a blanket at the back of the bus. It seemed very dirty so we decided not to use it. We both had overcoats and we felt that they would keep us warm enough. We lay down on the front benches opposite each other and went asleep. It was uncomfortable without a pillow.

After about an hour we were woken up by two men coming into the bus. We thought that they had come to tell us to get out but it turned out that we had been sleeping in their regular bus. They took out a blanket from under a seat, told us to go back to sleep and left.

During the night we were woken up several times by the sound of buses being driven around the garage. Each time we woke up it was colder, especially on our legs. So even though it smelt of stale sweat, oil and vomit, the dirty blanket helped keep the cold out.

*****

The rain poured down on us as we walked to Conyngham Road from the Simon hostel for a second night. When we got to the front gate there were a number of CIB workers waiting in a porchway for a bus to bring them home. We waited in a doorway at a distance watching them. The wind was really strong. The rain was still swirling around and we wondered were we wasting our time waiting. Perhaps these CIB men wouldn't mind if we went in anyway. Water was leaking into our shoes, the ends of our trousers were damp, and our overcoats were heavy with the wet.

The cm men left and we went up to the gate of the garage. As we approached the entrance we saw two men standing in the centre of the yard. They saw us. One of them shone his torch and pointed us out to the other man. We weren't going to be let in, that much was clear. We turned and walked away. We had nowhere to go and the rain was still pouring down. It was nearly two o'clock in the morning.

All along the quays now the streets were deserted save for the cuddling couples standing in doorways, oblivious to the weather. The silence was broken only by an eerie chorus of clanking noises made by metal ropes being blown against flagpoles along the river by the wind. We were trying to find a sheltered doorway but nearly all of them were blocked off by metal shutters.

The doorway of the Ella shoe shop in Grafton Street had an indentation on each side of it and looked as if it might provide some shelter. We sat on the ground outside the shop next door waiting for the cuddling couple who were occupying it to leave. Our coats were even heavier and we were feeling extremely tired and wet. When the couple left we went in and lay down on the tiled floor. The floor was very cold to touch, and we used a low ledge at the bottom of the window as a pillow.

We woke many times during the night. The rain and wind howled past the doorway. Inside there was a numbing coldness which attacked the feet first, and then travelled up the legs making them first feel numb - and this was only our second night - then weak and almost sore as the night progressed. We walked down to Trinity College several times during the night to see the time and to get warm before going asleep again. The sight of the luxurious eiderdowns and pillows in Switzers window filled us with an anguished mixture of desire and despair. We woke up several times to see Gardai walking past the doorway. They didn't disturb us.

The gate was open and the light was on in Clarendon Street Church as we walked down to Trinity again to see the time. It was half past five. It had seemed like a long night. Two down, ten to go.

SUNDAY WAS GOING TO BE A LONG DAY. It still wasn't even six o'clock as we sat in Clarendon Street Church where the heating had not yet been turned on. At least we were in out of the wind that was blowing down Grafton Street.

The church had filled up with Gardai, some in full uniform, others just wearing jumpers and pants. As the mass went on we began to fall asleep and had to nudge one another awake at intervals. We realised how bad we looked when the woman with the collection tray looked at us knowingly and said it was alright, we needn't give anyything.

All morning we moved around Dublin looking for some place to lie down and sleep. We went to Heuston Station and draped ourselves across the awkward plastic seats and tried to sleep. We were soon disturbed, however, by a cleaning woman who wanted to clear the room.

We had to move. Half an hour's walk away was Busarus, which was to become a haven over the next several days. It was here that we managed to sleep. And when we woke up we began to consider the next night and where we might rest our bones.

There were options to consider and explore and the rest of the day would have to be spent at this. One night in a bus; one night on the side of the street. For the third night we deserved the great indoors.

Which was why we found ourselves banging at the door of the Dublin Shelter for Homeless Men in Tara Street. When the old man came out we asked him if there was anyone there who could decide whether we could stay or not. After a few moments another old man arrived. It seemed to us as if the spots on his face had a sort of fungus growing on them. He told us that the boss wouldn't be in until Monday morning. He also told us that it was mainly "ould fellas" who stayed in the hostel. We were too young.

He told us to go to "The Back Lane" and he gave us. directions. We went to look for "The Back Lane" and failed to find it. We had become used to wandering aimmlessly about the city.

Feeling miserable and damp we went to eat in a cafe in O'Connell Street and asked the man at the next table if we could look at a part of his newspaper. He gave it to us but wouldn't take it back when he was going. We wondered if he was being generous or if he was afraid of catching something from us.

At seven o'clock we knew we had to find somewhere to sleep and quickly. The Iveagh Hostel. We decided to try the Iveagh Hostel. So great was our fear of being turned away from the Iveagh that we began to tell the man at the counter about ourselves, how we'd slept out two nights in a row, how tired we were. But it wasn't necessary. The man just asked us for £4.35 each in a business-like way and assigned us our beds.

We were so thrilled at the thought of getting a bed for the night that we didn't pass any remarks on the cost; the alternative was Grafton Street and the biting cold.

* * * * *

The corridors of the Iveagh were lit by small strip lights and several old shabby-looking men were standing around against the walls. Inside the main TV room there was a group of about thirty men watching Bruce Forsyth's "Play Your Cards Right". That room looked very full and we went down to another one at the end of a long corridor and sat ourselves down to watch "Murphy's Micro Quiz-M" on a black-and-white television.

There was a smell of stale sweat and tobacco-smoke in the room and men were shouting up answers to the quesstions being asked on the telly. A small frail-looking man walked in and out of the room two or three times and each time the same person greeted him: "No complaints, Jimmy?" There was talk of ferries being delayed and trees being knocked down by the howling winds outside. We felt almost smug in our new found home.

Somebody mentioned that there was an Agatha Christie story on another channel and somebody else remarked that there was always a twist to those stories, "they stop the clock or something". The ads came on and one of the first was for Andrews Liver Salts. Someone shouted up from the back that you wouldn't need Andrews in the Iveagh. When the news came on there was a report on the Vincent de Paul and how they had spent a certain amount of money on the poor. This drew the bitter response: "Like fuck they did" and somebody else shouted: "Are we rich?". We found OUrselves paying more attention to the weather forecast than to the news which went before it. The presence or absence of wind and rain was suddenly important.

The occupants of this room were a group of poor old men, some stooped and hunched, some staring vacantly at the wall ignoring the TV. An apparent bend at the top of one of the men's spine meant that his natural line of vision went straight down to the ground. He wore a soft cap and a battered beige raincoat. He got up to leave and shuffled painfully towards the door with his head bent downwards all the time.

A tall young fellow with longish hair and a donkey jacket was pacing up and down the corridor outside the TV room. He seemed very agitated. There w~re two men sitting crouched at either end of the corridor listening io radios. One of them had walked into the TV room and sat down with his radio still on, but he left after about a minute and nobody said anything to him.

On the main corridor men paced up and down. They seemed to have defined territories and didn't walk outside them. Up at the coffee machine one man was telling another about a convent in Donnybrook where you could get breakfast, you'd even get a fry if you were early enough.

We'd been given tickets with our bed numbers on them and at the back of each ticket was a list of rules. The first rule went: "Admission to Bedrooms. The Staircase Gate is open every half an hour from 7pm. This ticket must be shown at the Gate". After waiting around for about fifteen minutes someone opened the "Gate" for us and we went up to find our beds.

We didn't know what to expect and were relieved to find that we would be sleeping in our own separate cubicles. Each cubicle had a door with a bolt on it and with our doors securely bolted we felt safe.

The beds were covered with blankets and bedspreads with "Iveagh Hostel, Dublin" embroidered on them. The sheets were clean and soon we drifted off into a deep sleep, oblivious to the chorus of snoring all around us.

In the morning we heard the sound of voices and of people moving about. We didn't have watches and had no idea what time it was. Then there was the sound of someeone walking up the corridor blowing a whistle and knocking on the doors. It was half eight.

Breakfast was served in a big bare room with creamy coloured walls. There were three long rows of narrow tables and men were gathered in groups at various points along them.

We were given a plate with fried tomato, some baked beans and a streaky rasher. We were also given two slices of bread, two packets of butter and two separate mugs of tea. It was a bit tricky trying to carryall this down to the tables without spilling tea from the two mugs.

One man near us opened a tobacco tin full of cigarette butts and rummaged in it for cigarette papers. He broke up some of the butts, rolled them into a cigarette and smoked it. Another man was going around collecting the dregs from other cups of tea and pouring them into his cup.

Two men at the table behind us began to sing flatly: "This is my song my serenade to you ... " One of the Iveagh workers sneered: "If they had to sing to make a living they'd fucking starve."

By a quarter to ten most people had gone and the shutters were pulled down behind the food counter. Time to move on.

* * * * *

"Prostitutes lads, everyone of them. Whores." A man in Brother Kevin's was talking to himself about a woman who had just appeared in a commercial on the TV in the corner. Sitting by himself wrapped up in his big coat and staring blankly ahead of him he started to sing along with an ad for Kelloggs corn flakes. No one seemed to notice him.

Brother Kevin's, behind the Capuchin Church on Church Street, had "Day Centre" marked on the door. We had spent a good deal of the morning looking for it and now at half two were delighted at finding a haven of free food, not to speak of warmth.

The "black bastard" from the Simon hostel grinned and said: "How are ya,' as he m-ade his way up to the hatch at the other end of the room to get more spam sandwiches. We were sitting there happily horsing into our fistfuls of food and gulping our tea which was served, like the tea in the Iveagh, with the milk and sugar already added.

There were about seventy men in this room, most of them sitting around the BYe tables with some standing around the hatch. There were some fussy eaters opening their sandwiches and examining me contents before they ate them, but most of them were happy enough to go up for more, several rimes. Two women moved among the men refilling the tea mugs and gn-;..;:;g OUI cakes.

One man. who was a dead ringer for Burgess Meredith, asked if there was any apple cake and when he was told there wasn't said: -·Wmn. no apple cake, must get on to the chef." He though: that this was so funny he repeated it several times. oaly ~~Qng an occasional reluctant chuckle for his troubles. 1,;\'0 mea beside us were wondering if they should take out sandwiches for later on since there was no place to go to get a free tea. One of them seemed uneasy, "I don't like this fucking place" and wanted to get out as quickly as possible without any sandwiches. As a comproomise, he promised ;:0 get his companion a sliced pan for his tea.

Groups of men. some shabby and old, others neat and young, were huddled together playing cards. Hoping for a bit of diversion we sidled up to one of these groups and suggested that 'we join them. «Can you play dawn?" "No." "Ah. it's very complicated." We watched them as they played, the game wasn't complicated, we just weren't welcome.

*****

Our night's sleep :n :he Iveagh seemed to blot out the horrors of Friday a;:c Saturday night and we were bold enough to consider sleC?:::5" au: another night. Having spent the afternoon marching around the city and hanging around the ILAC Centre, we armed ourselves with cardboard and, having hidden it in a lane way off Grafton Street, we set off to find a suitable doorway. On George's Street we found a doorway with a rubber mat on the ground and decided that that was the one for us.

To kill time we went for a walk but it soon started to rain and we had to get some shelter. We sat in beside the Bank of Ireland on College Green, but we didn't stay there too long. A Garda came along and told us to move on. We were intimidating the businessmen using the night safe. We didn't want to meet that Garda again and decided against sleeping on George's Street.

We trudged out to Ballsbridge blaming each other for being stupid enough to suggest sleeping out. The memory of the first two nights was becoming more and more vivid as the night went on.

Two squad cars stopped us on our way out. The first checked the plastic bag we were carrying to make sure that it only contained a tee-shirt, a jumper and an old newsspaper. The second checked our box full of cardboard and asked us if we were sleeping out. "Yes." "Well sleep tight now," and they were off leaving us to our search for a place to lie down.

We were woken by a clipped English accent: "Come on now, time to move on. Leave the gates open when you go." We looked up and saw a well built white haired clergyman looking rather displeased. It was a quarter to eight in the porchway of Elgin Road Church and, stiff and sore, we gathered our things and moved on.

* * * * *

Outside the gateway of the convent of the Sisters of Charity we met a small plump woman wearing a blue check shop assistant's coat and garish green pants. We asked her if there was any chance of getting a cup of tea, hoping that this might be the convent we had heard mentioned in the Iveagh. She looked at us distastefully and brusquely said:

"Oh, I wouldn't know about that." A few days earlier we might have been offended by this but we were so set on getting something to eat that we hardly noticed.

After knocking on any door we found, we came across one which just opened when we hit it. Success.

Inside the door there was a hallway with a table at which a man with greasy sandy hair and a moustache was sitting. Shakily we pulled out two chairs and sat down beside him. There were more men and one old woman sitting around two tables in another room. Behind a counter a dark-haired woman was busy preparing our food. The old woman and a respectable looking man with a Simon sticker carne around distributing cutlery and food.

We were given fried eggs on toast and tea (without the milk and sugar added). The radio which was up in the corner beside the statue of the Infant de Prague was turned up for the news at nine o'clock and as we sat back and lit our cigarettes we beamed with satisfaction.

THREE MEN STOOD UNDER A STATUE OF the Blessed Virgin outside the Morning Star Hostel and kicked the gate with the backs of their feet. Lit up by a bare white light from above them, they shouted in for someone to corne out and take them in from the cold.

Standing at the top of the laneway we were shaking with cold. We were also afraid. Earlier a drunken man had made a lunge at us as we walked past him and, staring coldly at us, he muttered about "fuckin' rednecks". We were hoping to stay in the same hostel as this man.

We had spent the day scouring the city for places to sit and keep out of the cold. We preferred it if there was a prospect of diversion and found Capel Street library and District Court number six particularly attractive. The only other highlight in a very drab day was our now regular trip to Brother Kevin's where we had plotted our approach to the Morning Star Hostel.

In the car park of the Richmond Hospital nearby we could hear the sound of chatter and laughter. Somebody came down to the gate of the Morning Star and let two of the men in. There was nothing else for it, we'd have to try as well.

After about five minutes a stocky middle-aged man came down to us and we asked him if we could stay for the night. He looked pained, glanced at his watch and said it was five past nine. So? "It's too late now I'm afraid. You see we don't let anybody in after half eight."

The man who hadn't got in five minutes previously marched up to the gate and snarled: "I'm not paying £1.50 to you Rooney. You're a hypocrite." "That's OK Denis, it's you who's going to lose out. You always lose out." Denis was reduced to inarticulate rage, foaming, "Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off."

Another man came up to the gate, greeted Rooney and was let in. Rooney looked as if he had been caught, hadn't he just told us that nobody got in after half past eight. "You see we only let people in here who are going to stay a good few nights." He looked at us again through the metal grille of the gate and asked slowly: "Tell me. What is it that has you in this, eh, situation?" We told him our story.

"Hold on there for a few minutes, will you?" he asked and went back across the yard and into the building at the end. Denis sneered: "He won't be back until he's going home tonight. Or else, he'll come back and tell you to go to Simon." But that was only for over forties' and we wouldn't get in, we explained. "He knows that. Tell him that when he comes back."

We stood about, staring through the grille and stamping our feet on the ground, waiting for Rooney to come back. After a while he reappeared at the door of the building and strolled back towards us. We drew our breaths, maybe he'd seen that there were empty beds and had decided to let us in. Denis had told us that there were empty beds in there all right.

"I'm sorry lads. If you come back tomorrow night you'll get in. You see it's too late now. They give interviews over there at six o'clock." He pointed over at a small red brick building and added predictably, "try the Simon shelter." We said we wouldn't get in there. Then he told us to try "The Back Lane" and once again we were given directions which we couldn't follow.

Earlier we had tried for a bed in the Salvation Army hostel but were told that they had no beds to spare because of renovations. People there suggested the Simon as well and "The Back Lane". Others pointed out that we were too young for Simon and that at half seven we were too late for "The Back Lane", you had to be there by half six.

Rooney also suggested the Iveagh but we told him that it was too expensive. We had nowhere to go. We tried, once again in vain, to find "The Back Lane" but it didn't matter very much; we probably wouldn't have been let in. "The Back Lane" was becoming a sort of mirage in the desert.

It was half nine in Dublin city, we were cold and tired and we'd nowhere to go. We'd have to sleep on the streets.

We were so tired and fed up that we didn't care anymore about the Garda finding us sleeping out on George's Street. We were going to stay there and take our chances.

A squad car pulled up beside the doorway and we didn't feel quite so brave. Muttering darkly we trudged down to Dame Street and waited for them to drive off. At this stage our partnership was going through considerable strain and we snapped at each other, one blaming the other for our misfortune.

Soon the squad car moved and we scurried back to our patch and settled down for the night. We kept our eyes shut whenever anyone passed by, feeling that if we avoided eye to eye contact, passers by, including Gardai wouldn't mind us.

It got cold very fast and our pathetic attempts to cover ourselves with newspapers didn't do much to stop our legs and feet from becoming sore with the cold. During the night we were woken up by shouts on the other side of the street, the Gardai were going in and out of Rainbow's disco bar and of Dunnes Stores. We pretended not to see them and we hoped they'd treat us likewise.

In the morning the cold got so unbearable that we couldn't lie still anymore and had to try and walk to warm our aching legs. Walking was nearly as uncomfortable as staying cold. We decided to walk to Donnybrook for breakkfast. We cast an envious glance at a man in a doorway opposite, snug in his cardboard and blankets, he didn't notice us. We headed on.

There was porridge, piping hot porridge. It seemed to burn our insides as it travelled down and we could feel the heat in our bellies slowly thawing out our bodies. The boiled egg was more than welcome and we gulped down several cups of tea.

A young man with a blue anorak and dirty brown hair started talking to us. "I'm getting paid today," he said, lifting an imaginary glass to his lips. "I'm not fuckin' walkking around much tOllay," he grinned. He had slept in the buses in Ringsend the previous night, and had no commplaints about the cold. "The buses at the back are the warmest. They often leave the heaters on in them," he told us knowledgeably.

We plied him for more information. He told us that we should have jumped over the side wall into Conyngham Road garage the previous Saturday night. That's the way he'd do it. And where would he wash? "You can shave in Busarus if you have an electric shaver, there are plugs in the wall." We were well acquainted with the Busarus washroom but just couldn't lay our hands on an electric razor. A swimming pool off Tara Street was another washing haunt, apparently all you had to do was borrow a pair of swimmming togs and head on in. We thought we'd stick with Busarus.

Across the room a man who had just come in was talkking to someone sitting down. "You're a fine fellow," the seated one said, "I've only one word to say to you. You' came in that door and you can go back out that door." The other turned and left.

We set off for another day tramping round the streets of Dublin. Today we would go to look for unemployment benefit.

This is John Mcllugh s account of Wednesday October 19.

THE SMELLY COAT STUFFED WITH OLD newspapers marked me out. I was also the only person sitting in Pearse Street public library. It was never like this in Capel Street. There, there were loads of papers and plenty of people. I'd wait until half two came along and leave to go to Brother Kevin's; others would leave at the same time and I'd be one of a small group, all of us going to the same place.

But Brother Kevin's was a fair distance from Pearse Street.

I took a heap of books and laid them out on the table in front of me. I realised how exhausted I was when I had to spend about two hours reading some silly book of rock stars' quotes. I frequently had to stop myself dozing and make a huge effort to concentrate on the wise and witty sayings in front of me. Still, anything was better than wandering around the cold streets of Dublin.

In the afternoon I went to Cumberland Street exchange and asked how I could sign on. I was directed to the approopriate hatch and I was asked if I'd ever signed on before, what age I was and if I'd ever had a job. Having answered all these questions to the satisfaction of the woman at the hatch, she then asked me my address. I didn't have any. "I'm afraid we can't do anything for you then. You see, each exchange deals with a designated area and you have to have an address in the proper area before you can sign on in any exchange."

She seemed sympathetic and suggested that I go and see the welfare officer in Store Street, he might be able to fix me up with a hostel.

I had trouble finding the welfare officer and had to get directions from a Garda sitting in a parked squad car outtside Store Street station.

"Have you ever signed on before?" the welfare officer asked.

"No."

"Why not?" "Why not?" "Yes, why not?"

"I was hoping that I could get a job without having to sign on."

The welfare officer, a young, moustached, dark-haired man, didn't seem impressed. He told me he couldn't do anything for me until I got an address. "You'll have to make up your mind where you're going to stay." I told him that I had an interview for the Morning Star hostel that night and that I hoped to stay there. He asked me how much money I had. I replied truthfully: five pounds. My last fiver was safely hidden in my sock, I'd put it there earlier in the week in case anyone tried to rob me.

The welfare officer suggested that I stay in the Iveagh.

He said that it was a better hostel and that he thought I might have a better chance of getting a refund after staying there, although he couldn't be sure about that. He told me to sign on in Werburgh Street the next day and go to the welfare officer dealing with the Iveagh. He didn't know where this officer operated from, I'd just have to ask in the Iveagh.

I left to meet Mark. I was thrilled at the thought of another night's sleep in the Iveagh and a little apprehensive at the welfare officer's reluctance about the Morning Star. I'd have to stay there at some point.

Mark's story was different. The woman behind the hatch in Werburgh Street told him that he couldn't get any money if he didn't have an address. "You see a welfare officer has to call to you to assess your means and he can't do that unless you have an address for him to call to."

Mark asked what he should do. "Well you can sign on every week anyway but you can't get anything until you have an address." He told her that he couldn't get an address with no money. She didn't seem to hear him. "Corne back as soon as you have an address to this hatch. Wednesday will be your signing on day."

She didn't say anything about going to a welfare officer. Over tea in the Salvation Army hostel we discussed our situation. We would .stay in the Iveagh that night and see what happened the next day. Mark was as pleased as I was at the thought of staying in the Iveagh. The devil you know is better than the devil you don't.

A young man 'we'd seen cleaning the tables in the Salvation Army hostel at lunch time approached us and stood over us as we tucked into our 60p tea of mince and mash.

"Are you in a prayer group?" Was he talking to us? It seemed so. No we weren't in a prayer group.

"I am," he said. "We have a meeting every Monday night at eight. You should come along. We have a Bible study meeting on Tuesdays and a meeting for down and outs on Saturdays - you know, winos and those sort of people. You see if you can understand these people, you can get through to them and the word of God will do the rest." I just stared at him blankly and Mark studied the table intently. "You see the word of God is more powerful than any two-edged sword."

He was distracted by a group of men at another table and he left us alone. I looked around at the other people there and was quite surprised at their general neat appearrance. This was a far cry from the Iveagh.

Back in the Iveagh we were on familiar ground. We watched TV for a few hours and then headed up to bed.

I felt awful the next morning. It had been cold during the night and cold draughts seemed to stab at me from all angles. My legs and feet were particularly stiff and sore and I found that I was having difficulty walking as fast as I normally would. My head was dizzy and I felt depressed. Maybe I should go home.

The depression didn't lift with breakfast; this time we got wafer thin slices of black pudding instead of a streaky rasher. The place seemed much colder than it had been or maybe I was just feeling the cold more.

Mark went off to Werburgh Street where the same woman told him to go to the welfare officer in Benburb Street. He had to press her to get this information.

I made my snail-like progress to Busarus and had a wash.

I wanted to wash my hair but the sign on the wall: "Do not wash hair or dry. By order," dissuaded me.

I went back up to Werburgh Street to sign on and arrived there at a quarter past twelve. The exchange was shut; it had closed at twelve o'clock and wouldn't be open again until two. As I walked away to meet Mark I was conscious of pedestrians on 'the narrow footpath behind me impaatiently trying to pass me out.

This is Mark Brennock's account of Thursday October 20.

ROMAN CATHOLIC I PRESUME." THE MAN with the pioneer pin in his lapel across the table from me in the interview room of the Morning Star hostel was filling in the blank spaces on a filing card.

That afternoon I had called to the Health Centre in Benburb Street. The man behind the hatch said that the Health Board would pay for me to stay in the Morning Star hostel for one night, and that the following day they would probably be able to give me some money. All I needed was a note from the Morning Star saying that I had stayed there, and a note from the employment exchange on the Navan Road saying that I had signed on there. "You might find the Morning Star a bit rough," he said. "We might try and fix you up somewhere else tomorrow if you don't like it." The man in the Health Centre was very nice. He didn't ask many questions.

The man across the table from me in the Star was asking a lot of questions. "Why don't you go back to your mother?" he asked. "I had a row at home three years ago," I said "and I went off to Germany. I don't want to go back now with no money and no job." He. spoke again in a slow, deliberate rural accent. "My' advice to you now is to go back to your mother. What's your mother's address?". I asked him if he would agree not to contact her if I gave him the address. "Well, I couldn't guarantee that now." I told him as politely as possible that I wasn't going to tell him. He started to question me about my time in Germany. Where was I working, what did the factory make, where was I staying and with whom, what was the name of the nearest street and underground station, how many rooms were in my flat in Munich .:

He took out a card and began writing. "Name?" I gave him a false name. "Address of next of kin?" I told him again that I wouldn't give it to him if he was going to conntact my mother. He became impatient and raised his voice. "Alright then, we won't. We just want it in case you get sick or anything." I gave him a false address.

"This is a Legion of Mary hostel, do you know that?"

I said "that I did. "Well there's a chapel inside if you want to say a prayer, or if you haven't been to the sacraments for a while you can go. There's usually a priest inside as well." He got up to leave. "This is a rough place. Not always, but it can be. My advice to you now is to go back to your mother."

At the end of the corridor inside the door of the main building was a framed scroll detailing: "The fifteen promiises given to Saint Dominic and Blessed Alanus". On a notice board on the opposite wall was a notice for a mass which was to be offered in atonement for sin, particularly for sins against impurity. It was also to be offered so that more people would become pioneers. At the top of the stairs was a man called Pat who wore a blue overall and a pioneer pin. "Hang on, I'm doing something" he said. He went into a store room and took out a pillow and a small, old hand towel. "Up this way."

Bed number 58 was unmade. Pat went ahead to straighhten out the bedclothes. "There you are", he said, as he put the towel under my pillow. So there I was.

There were about forty beds in the dormitory. Some were occupied by men in large overcoats lying asleep. Other people were sitting up reading newspapers or listening to radios. I walked down to the TV room wondering what was keeping John.

Pat was keeping John. Pat wanted John to have a shower. "Have you any soap?" -

"No. "

"I suppose you've been skippering out." "Yes."

"Have you had a wash?" "Oh yes."

"When did you last wash?" "Oh not that long ago."

"Maybe you should have a shower now."

Pat handed John a bar of soap and looked at him as

though he were dirty.

"Fine."

"I'll show you where it is."

He brought John to the dormitory and examined two

beds before finding one whose sheets weren't very dirty.

"I'll show you the showers now." "Right. "

"Maybe you should bring the soap with you."

He' brought John to the shower room and tested the water. He left John to have a shower.

John's experience that afternoon trying to get dole was different to mine. The previous day the welfare officer in Store Street had told him to sign on in Werburgh Street. That morning he had been told in the Iveagh Hostel to go to the health centre in Benburb Street.

"You're in the wrong place." The man behind the new claims hatch was sure that the welfare officer in Store Street was wrong. "You'll have to go to Thomas Street."

The man in Thomas Street wanted to know if John had any property or if he had any money in a bank account. He also wanted to know his mother's maiden name and he wrote this down on a separate filing card. He put down his address as "Iveagh Hostel Dublin" and told him that a welfare officer would call to assess his means.

At the hatch in Benburb Street the man told him that he would have to go back to the Iveagh. "The man who deals with the Iveagh has gone back up there. We tried to hold on to him but he's gone."

The man who dealt with the Iveagh had black curly hair, a portable cassette recorder attached to his belt and headdphones around his neck. He didn't ask many questions. He gave him a letter asking the Legion of Mary to accommoodate him for a week. "After that we might try and book you into the Iveagh. You mightn't like the Morning Star."

*****

I sat on a pew in the television room in the Morning Star and watched the end of Tarzan. There were 21 people sitting on the pews in the television room. Those in the front pews were watching the television. Those at the back were staring into space or muttering to themselves. Some of them were asleep. When the programme was over there was a mass exodus. I followed.

Down in the kitchen they were queueing for tea. I was given a mug of vegetable soup and two margarine sanddwiches and I sat down at a table which was occupied by about seven others.

"Top of the league and you sack your manager!" A good looking young man with a black eye was shouting at the top of his voice in a strong raucous Scottish accent. "Top of the league I'm telling you. Crisis? Huh. What crisis?" A few people around the table nodded in agreement - most ignored him. I thought that he was talking about Dundee

United. John thought that he was talking about Celtic. It didn't seem to make any difference - he kept shouting. "Tell me," he asked one man, "if your team was at the top of the league would you sack your manager?" No response. "Of course you fucking wouldn't" he went on, his voice rising to a crescendo. No one else seemed to see it as a major issue. The Scotsman called Jock went back to shoutting at the general audience.

"I support Arsenal," said one man quietly. Jock slowly turned to the originator of this blasphemy, drew in his breath and screamed '~ARSENAL! Who'd support Arsenal?" Jock looked as if he would defend his views with violence if necessary. A fruity Dublin voice piped up: "Ah shut up. Sure you couldn't even support a shelf." The man turned to me: "Don't mind him - he's on pills."

Some of the men brought tea and bread back up to the television room, and after a few minutes there were half eaten pieces of bread strewn around the pews. Pat opened the door, ringing a hand-bell. He walked down through the pews slowly and back up to the top of the room, still ringing the bell. "The chapel is now closing if anyone wants to say a prayer." He waited for a few moments. No one moved. He left.

My bed felt like someone had been eating toast in it.

Jock was still defending the ex-manager of Dundee United. Most of the men at my end of the dormitory were under thirty and were discussing football. People began to shout "shut up" and "put out the light". The light went out and an old voice shouted "hey Clarke, 1 want some more of those budgies". He seemed to be talking about tranquil. lisers. "Mine are up in Mountjoy. 1 can't sleep, 1 haven't got enough drink in me."

"God night Jimmy." "Good night Paddy." "Good night Alan." "Bollocks. "

Silence.

The woman behind the "New Claims" hatch in the Navan Road employment exchange sent me to hatch 18. 1 handed in my note from the Morning Star' and another form was filled in. My address was put down as "Morning Star Hostel" and 1 was given a note to get money from the Eastern Health Board. A welfare officer would visit me within a few weeks in the Morning Star. 1 could be assessed as having no means if 1 was staying in the Morning Star, while if 1 was sleeping on the street 1 could not.

Back in the Health Centre in Benburb Street that afterrnoon the curly-haired young welfare officer with the headdphones around his neck was explaining the facts of life to an old man with a cluster of religious medals hanging from his lapel by a safety pin. "You're going to have to stay in the Simon. The new rule says that you must stay in the one place or you won't get any money." The old man was listening stubbornly. "But sure 1 couldn't do that. The country air is much fresher." "Fine," replied the welfare officer, "but then you have to stay in the country and always sign on at the same place." "But 1 like to come to Dublin too." The welfare officer tried to remain patient. "Listen 1 don't make the rules man, someone up there makes them." (He pointed heavenwards.) "But you'll have to stay in the one place. Come back again this time next week. It'll take about a week to get you back onto the computer."

The old man got up and moved towards the door. As he opened the door he muttered: "Computer. It's brains you need, not computers." The welfare officer explained the new rule to a girl in the office. "You see a lot of these people were hiring out taxis and travelling around different exchanges. "

"We're just filling in the blank spaces." The man behind the hatch was filling in a form. He had to ask questions like "what did you last work at?" He put down "general worrker". The answer wasn't very important. "Go down and register with Manpower. That way you'll be able to tell the welfare officer that you're actively seeking employment. It'll keep him happy." He asked what I thought of the

Morning Star and how severe was the interview. He asked a long list of questions about the Morning Star; he seemed very inquisitive about it. He seemed surprised when I told him that I thought that it was alright. He gave me a cheque for £28. Later on, John got a cheque for the same amount.

TWO MORE NIGHTS IN THE MORNING Star. Two more nights tossing and turning as the hum of conversation went on around us. The men spoke about getting free passes for hostels, picking spuds in Maynooth and the foolishness of taking too many tranquillisers.

The man in Benburb Street on Friday told us that we'd have to pay for our accommodation now that we'd got money. It cost £1.50 a night to stay in the Morning Star.

Back at the Morning Star we paid our money and went in to tea. We stood along by the wall and waited for our bread and soup. Religious pictures were hanging all along the walls of this big bare room. The men walked to different tables - there were plenty to choose from. At a small table at the top of the room an old man guarded the tea pot. It was his job to pour the tea.

We took our mugs of tea and went up to the TV room.

There was some concern when the men realised that the film they were watching wouldn't be over before half ten. The TV was always turned off at half tenbut maybe they'd make an exception tonight. No such luck.

"Sorry lads": it was Pat; he wanted to lock up. "We'll have a video in soon and then you'll be able to see all these films." "Bollocks," came the reply. One man went up to Pat, stood in front of him with his hands on his hips: "Do you feel good about doing that? I suppose you do, do ya?" Pat didn't let on he'd heard anything.

In the dormitory we noticed that some of the men who had been there the night before had left. They might have gone to do the "guinea pig" drug trials in St James hospital. It seemed to be quite common for men from the Star to do this. The money was very attractive.

Saturday morning was livened up by the discovery of a free video game in an electrical shop in Moore Street.

Down in Brother Kevin's at dinner time a clean-shaven man in a navy pinstripe suit, wearing glasses, was telling another how he didn't like staying in hostels, no, he much preferred sleeping under the arches at the Custom House.

"Knock on my door anytime," he told the other as he left.

We set off on another of our treks around the city. It kept the feet occupied.

A group of glue sniffers walked past us, their faces turned down towards their bags of glue. We seemed to bump into these young people all over the centre city area as we wandered about,

Sunday morning we woke up in the Morning Star to the sound of someone praying aloud. We looked up to the top of the room and saw Pat standing there with his hands joined. When he came to the middle of each prayer he'd stop and wait for us to say the other half. Most were too dazey to oblige but one or two did make the effort.

On a Sunday morning you get a fry in the Star and with our bellies full of rashers and sausages we set out to face the day.

WALKING AROUND DUBLIN CITY AT 9AM on Sunday morning was boring. There was nowhere to go. Along Talbot Street the Corrporation workers were starting to hang the Christmas decorations across the street. We walked to the Custom House steps and sat down. We tried to think of something to do to occupy us until Brother Kevin's opened at half two. There wasn't anything to do.

We walked around the streets for a while. In Taibot Street there was a record shop open. The music could be heard a long way down the street but there was no one there to listen. We went into the GPO which was deserted. , e sat up on the benches. A man in a peaked cap came up :0 us and told us that we were not allowed to sit on the benches. We got down again, wondering what to do next.

We remembered that someone had told us that Brother Kevin's opened in the morning and we walked up.

There was soup and brown bread to be had in Brother Kevin's. A man with a thick black beard sat down beside us. He had done this before. He would say a few sentences by way of starting a conversation, ask for some tobacco and then leave, saying that he would give us back a cigarette the next time he saw us. This time he came straight to the point, "Have you got a roll-up?" He rolled a cigarette and sat staring at us, not saying a word.

We left after half an hour. We began to walk around the streets again. We remarked that normally we walked much faster. Normally, walking is an activity that is used to get from point A to point B. With no money and noowhere to go it was a means of passing the time. It did not matter how fast we walked, we had a whole day to get rid of.

We got tired of walking and sat dowry. on the side of the pavement in South William Street. A middle-aged businesssman was reading a file in his parked car about ten yards away. He looked up at us nervously, swiftly turned to all the doors of the car and locked them. He was safe.

Winter time had begun on Sunday October 23 so it was almost dark as we waited in the large porch for the Back Lane hostel to open. There were fifteen others waiting there and we had been told earlier that there were free beds inside. The door opened at 6.30 every evening and, we were assured, we would get in if we arrived before then. Three older men stood pressed against the door, blocking off access to it. They weren't taking any chances. A light went on and everyone moved to form a queue.

The old man with the carry-bags beside us in the queue addressed us in an upper class English accent. "What brings you here?" He had been an organist until he fell on broken glass two years ago. Now his fingers couldn't stretch far enough across the keyboards and he busked by playing a piano accordion on the street. He had stayed in the Simon hostel the previous night. He had been through the war. "I have seen violence. But I expect the enemy to come at me wearing uniform and to shoot. Not to stagger in drunk and try to throw me out the window."

At half past six the door opened. "Anyone here last night?" Those who were in the previous night moved toowards the door. They were let in one at a time. Each time one went in, the door slammed behind him. The three men who were blocking the door moved aside each time to let people through and quickly closed ranks.

By seven o'clock there was no one outside who had been there the night before. There were nine of us. The man inside opened the door. "The others have another hour to come. If they all come back there'll be no room for anyone else. You're taking a chance." We took our chance.

People who had been there the night before began to arrive in ones and twos. They would go up to the door and one of the men who was blocking it would knock on it. A grey-haired man opened the door half way each time, and they would exchange inaudible murmurs before the newwcomer was let in. The grey-haired man looked like he was hearing confessions.

At half past seven the door opened. The grey-haired man let in one of the men at the door. "Sorry lads, we're full up. I told you you were taking a chance." We had to sleep out.

* * * * *

There was a lot of activity in Ringsend bus garage when we arrived. The buses were coming back for the night, and some were going out, driving staff home. We waited on the wall across the road for the activity to die down. It was the coldest night that we had been out and we didn't want to risk being refused admission to the buses. We had decided not to sleep in the broken down buses. The other buses would be going out at about six o'clock but they would be warmer. Men kept getting into buses, driving them around the yard and getting out again.

An hour and a half later we were numb. We decided to climb over the wall.

The buses were parked very closely together. We walked between them, being careful not to be seen through the gaps. We were tired and cold and we felt as if we were committing a crime. We went into a bus that was surrounnded by others at the back of the garage. It probably wouldn't be going out early in the morning. We went asleep.

About an hour after going asleep we woke up to the sound of bus engines revving up They were moving the buses near ours and ours was next. We left hurriedly and went to another bus which was more secluded. We split up: one upstairs to lie on the bench at the back; the other stayed on the bench downstairs beside the engine. After a half an hour we heard the sound of voices at the back of our bus. "We'll turn this one around."

We were very tired and mentally confused. We felt trapped in the bus, surrounded by some sort of enemy. In our state of paranoia we had visions of being violently beaten by CIT workers if they found us. The lights went on in the bus.

The lights stayed on for about five seconds. There was no sound. Then the lights went out and the engine started.

From our horizontal positions we could see buses flying by as we drove around the yard at speed, then a sudden blaze of light as we entered a shed and came to a halt. The driver got OUl. A face suddenly appeared at the window downstairs and Mark, who was downstairs, rolled off the seat and began crawling along the floor and up the stairs so as not to be seen. John was huddled on a bench upstairs, Mark was crawling and loudly whispering: "Jesus, I'm terrified." The bus began to move again. There was a loud noise as water and brushes hit the windows. We were going through a bus wash. We were terrified.

The bus stopped and we tip-toed down the stairs. The driver had got out again. We left and began to walk to the gate. We were still afraid of being attacked and as we got nearer the gate we contemplated the idea of running but decided that that might attract attention. As we went out the gate and began to walk towards the city centre we felt safe. We had no watch but we felt that it was near morning.

As we passed Trinity College it was twenty-past-four and freezing cold.

We sat on the steps beside the Shelbourne Hotel in St Stephen's Green. Police cars and motorbikes passed us regularly and we hoped that they would pick us up and take us to a Garda station for the night. They didn't. When Clarendon Street Church opened we went in and dozed through three masses.

*****

We spent Monday morning in a daze. We tried to write notes on what had happened the night before but could not remember some of the basic details. We decided to wait until the next day when we might be more awake. We were going to try the Back Lane again that night. We refused to contemplate the consequences if we didn't get in.

We had been out for ten days. Our hair was matted and smelly and there were thick lumps of dirt under our long fingernails, We -realised that we were scratching from time to time and wondered was the itch a result of dirt or insects.

We changed our routine and went to Adam and Eve's Church in the afternoon. The side door which led to the soup kitchen was locked and a small crowd had gathered outside. When the door opened a queue formed inside a small prefabricated building. We took our tea, bread, and cheese outside and sat on a long wooden plank supported at each end by a tea chest.

"You don't look like the kind of fellas to be here, but then neither do I. It just goes to show how bad things have become." We nodded in agreement. That was all he needed. He launched into a long account of his misfortune.

He wore a black velvet jacket, and a sheepskin coat.

He didn't look like the kind of fella to be there. He used to write comedy scripts for Hal Roche and he had been asked to write one for Maureen Potter's Christmas pantomime this year. He didn't like writing the political stuff so he probably wouldn't do it. He told us about his mother and father. He told us he used to do the advertising for a hairdressers.

He told us the next day that he used to hold a placard in the street advertising Peter Mark.

We met him again in the Back Lane hostel that night.

We had queued again at five o'clock. A few people had left the previous night so there were some free beds. We took no chances, we got there first and stood against the door. We were let in the door one at a time and asked questions. They were very impressed when we said that we were lookking for jobs and they said that we could stay for a week. "Make the most of it though because after that we won't be able to let you in again for a long time. The rosary is said at half eight but it's by no means compulsory."

The man in the sheepskin coat was giving us his views while we ate our stew in the canteen. "The Pope is an illusionist. He talks about world peace. Sure the only way you'd get world peace would be if you had a world full of morons." We agreed and went up for a second helping of stew.

The television room was much quieter than the one in the Morning Star. One man wanted to watch an American comedy on another channel instead of the BBC documenntary that was on. We told him that we didn't know how to change the channel and he gave up. A man opened the door at half past eight. "Rosary now." Three people left.

The BBC newsreader was talking about the trial of an alleged mass-murderer. "Most of his victims were homoosexuals or homeless people - the kind of people who wouldn't be missed." The men in the room continued lookking at the television. There was silence.

When we opened the door of the dormitory we were hit by a pungent smell of socks. The dormitory was divided into cubicles with wooden partitions with a curtain in front of each of them. The names of those who had donated beds to the hostel were embossed in gold lettering on a large varnished wooden panel at one end of the room. There was no top sheet on the beds, the pillows were discoloured and stale smelling, and there were curious faint yellow stains on one of our sheets.

We slept very well that night.

"A young lad like you should be out in the park looking for a job." It was seven o'clock and a man was shaking one of us in an effort to wake us up.

We were given a bowl of porridge, several slices of bread and a cup of tea for breakfast. The porridge looked like it might be soup, but it definitely tasted like porridge. At eight o'clock we decided that we would have enough time to get to the Sisters of Charity in Donnybrook for a second breakfast. When we got there we realised that others had the same idea. The porridge in Donnybrook was much nicer than the porridge in the Back Lane.

During the day we were entirely preoccupied with the idea that we were going home the following day. We wanndered around the streets and went into a cafe to buy a cup of tea and write some more notes. When we left we walked slowly towards Adam and Eve's to arrive just before it opened. The tall, long-haired young man who had been pacing up and down the corridor of the Iveagh hostel was pacing up and down outside the door of the soup kitchen. As he walked past he stared intently at us.

As we sat at the table inside a man with thick-framed glasses took it upon himself to tell us how to make some money. There was a lot of money to be made parking cars in the city centre. All we needed was a peaked cap from the second-hand CIB shop. "But you can't just walk in on anyone's patch," said another man. The man with the spectacles agreed.

Tuesday afternoon was another afternoon spent walking the streets of Dublin. Tuesday afternoon wasn't bad at all; we knew we were going home the following day. That night we stayed in the Back Lane. This time we could walk past the queue when the man asked: "Anyone here last night?"

There were corned-beef sandwiches for breakfast in the Back Lane. The man in charge apologised because there wasn't any porridge.

In Donnybrook there was porridge. It was our last breakfast in Donnybrook. We began to talk to a young man with one front tooth, across the table. He was disscussing the advantages and disadvantages of living in London. You could pay the fare with less than a week's dole money, but he wasn't going. "This is the best city in the world. You've got all the free dinner houses, you've got free accommodation, and you get £28 a week." He looked us straight in the eye. "Dublin is the best city in the world." •