1976: Homeless in London – part 4

My diary: 24th. April 1976 @ 22:00

For five days I had no access to my diary. I had no access to most of my possessions. I was homeless. It was an unusually hot summer, but it would appear that I did not mind the heatwave and, looking back, I suppose it was better to be homeless in a heatwave than in the depths of a cold winter.

It is clear from my notes that I was in unknown territory; I had no idea what I was doing most of the time, and no idea how to get myself out of the scrape I was in. I was approaching the end of my first year in London, away from Devon and my family and everything I was familiar with. At times like these London feels a lonely, unwelcoming and harsh place. It was even frightening. None of the certainties of home existed here. I was on my own, and had to figure it out for myself.

My survival instinct – and indeed my homing instinct – are strong. I was going to find a way through it all. At ten o’clock in the evening of Saturday, 24th. April I was finally able to sit down with my diary. I tried to remember the events of the previous five days, which proved to be much easier than I may have thought. Memories of such events are vivid and powerful – and remain in the mind for a long time. At the time I had no idea just how long such memories would remain clear.

It seems to me, looking back from the present, that my mind was so sharp and so focussed that my written record is likely to be highly reliable. It is worth remembering that there were no mobile phones, no digital maps or search engines, no websites. I could have done with an AtoZ but I didn’t even have one of those – I just had my wits and a pretty good mental map. The following are the events of each of the previous five days, pretty much exactly as I recorded them.

Tuesday

Following the saga of recent weeks with our landlord I found myself this afternoon at the Legal Advice centre in Bethnal Green. My flat-mates were away at home in Lincolnshire, so I was on my own. Today’s objective was to learn how we might go about obtaining a refund on the £96 deposit we had paid before moving into the 2-bed flat. I had my rent book with me as proof not only of the deposit paid but of all our rental payments. That turned out to be a stroke of luck, as I would discover later.

I left Bethnal Green in diminishing sunshine on the 253 bus to Clapton. Back home and, when entering the key in the door lock I felt a rapid sinking feeling: I could not get the door open. The landlord, having heard the metal of my key clashing with the metal of the lock, rushed to the other side of the door. She lived in the downstairs of the semi-converted flat; the house was not formally converted into self-contained flats – in many ways it was closer to a house-share. She passed a note through the letterbox. By now it was dawning on me that she was not going to let me in. I read it and thought it odd: she wanted to know if my flatmate had returned to London and had found somewhere to stay for the night. Why would he do that? I shared the 2-bed home with him and his girlfriend. I was confused and just a little bit frightened. What was going on?

It became obvious that she had no intention of letting me in, not even to retrieve a few things from the pyramid of our possessions I could see she had piled up in the living room upstairs. No toothbrush or flannel, no university notes, no banking documents, no change of clothes.

I realised instantly that everything I possessed – apart from what I had on me at the time – was locked inside a house I had no access to. However, it took me some time to realise the gravity of my situation. I had no idea what to do or where to go.

Police; Legal Aid; any help?

My first instinct was to make my way to the nearest police station – in Hackney. They could not help. From there I shot back to the Legal Aid office in Bethnal Green, whose only advice was that I should obtain an ’emergency injunction’. What was that? And how did I even get started?

I was fast learning that many people in London seemed to have a good grasp of the legal system and therefore it was assumed that I knew about such things. I did not. I had no clue, and was beginning to feel stupid as well as helpless. It seemed clear to me that I was going to get no help from the police or Legal Aid.

Out of desperation and panic I then raced back to the house in Clapton in an attempt to get access to my clothes and other possessions. In my naivety I thought that perhaps things might have changed and my landlady seen the error of her ways.

Heavies in the house

Not a bit of it. I managed to get an answer to the door; I could just make out a man on the other side and may have momentarily felt hopeful that he would let me in. But as the door opened slightly wider I noticed there were ‘three heavies on the door who tried to crush me out’ as my diary records it. I pleaded with them to let me get at my things but they were having none of it. I could not keep my foot in the door any longer.

For some reason I returned to the police station. Perhaps I thought they might listen to me this time and perhaps even react given this new situation with ‘the heavies’. There was nothing they could do.

I was beginning to feel despondent and I really had no idea what to do next. And it was getting dark. Where was I going to stay? Where would I eat? How could I have a wash and brush my teeth? I had to conserve cash so I was walking everywhere.

Endlessly walking the streets

I spent some time walking the streets, heading to the West End. I discovered a fast food shop in Oxford Street that was open all through the night – I previously had no idea of its existence. I ordered the cheapest burger and hung around in the warmth for as long as I thought it safe to do so.

I made my way to the University of London Union (ULU) in Malet street in the middle of the night. There was no-one there but I managed to crash on a wooden bench and hoped no-one would notice me and move me on. I could at least try to get some sleep. Perhaps I did – my diary doesn’t tell me.

ULU can find accommodation for students, but not today; they could perhaps find something in a week or so. I was having strange thoughts, including a daft notion that if I were to somehow smash a shop window I might be arrested and have a room (cell?) for the next night. I came close to actually doing it, with Dillon’s bookstore opposite ULU almost a candidate.

Wednesday

After a rough night I walked from Malet Street to King’s College on The Strand, which is quite a distance. I waited there in case the accommodation officer turned up – or my flatmates returned from Easter Weekend at home. Nothing doing, so I made my way to a solicitor’s – Arnold Hill at Northumberland Avenue off Trafalgar Square. My flatmates had previously worked with them on our case, so I thought there was a chance they might head straight there. One of my flatmates eventually turned up and at last I was able to tell someone of the events of the last few days.

She was waiting at the solicitor’s for a telephone call from her partner. When it finally came we learned that he was already at our flat in Clapton, so we headed off on a bus to meet up with him. When we arrived he was outside with the police. The three of us whose home this was were finally back together again, and it was a hell of a relief to me that I was no longer alone in this nightmare.

Police, Hackney Town Hall, Citizens Advice, Harrassment Officer, Legal Aid…

We visited and spoke to a seemingly endless parade of people on whatever day it was; most likely Wednesday. The police had advised us to get a court injunction, which I already knew from my visit to Legal Aid. We got an urgent appointment with the Harassment Officer at Hackney Town Hall. From there we went on to the Housing Department in a different part of town, and from there to Citizens Advice (CAB). My diary records that each told us different things, which further confounded our confusion, but at least they all knew of our case; we were ‘on file’. They agreed on one thing: nothing could be done today. We would remain homeless and there was nothing that could be done.

From the CAB we set off for Bethnal Green, where a Legal Aid worker was able to get in touch with a ‘vacation judge’ (I have no idea what that is) at Shoreditch County Court. After a great deal of to-ing and fro-ing we finally returned to Legal Aid in the evening to a woman who was very helpful and who managed to get an affidavit written-up, along with a summons and other papers for the County Court. It was all done by 22:15 on that Wednesday evening.

I felt immense relief, despite facing another night on the streets. I was not alone; my flatmates were with me and seemed to know what to do far better than I did. We were making progress. I felt there might be light at the end of the tunnel.

I was resigned to walking the streets again, but did not feel so bad about it this time. However, at close to midnight I found a cheap and seedy B&B at King’s Cross for £3. Cheap and seedy it may have been, but a bed and a sink and a toilet were heaven.

Two years later I recognised that seedy King’s Cross B&B on the television – the excellent BBC version of Tinker Tailor, Soldier, Spy. The actual ‘hotel’ was filmed inside and out and was essentially commandeered by ‘the circus’ and became an HQ of sorts for George Smiley (Alec Guinness). The hotel ‘cover’ worked well, with paying guests as well as an assortment of spies, lamplighters and other MI6 operatives.

Thursday

I left the B&B fairly early, taking advantage of the cooked breakfast of course, and arrived at the court in Shoreditch by 10:10. All of our papers were typed up and my flatmate signed an affidavit; we then saw the judge and explained our situation. My diary notes that we had to pay £12.50 in ‘expenses’ but I do not say why. We also had to pay for the services of a bailiff to serve an order on our landlord.

From there we left for our flat in Clapton, but there was no way we were going to gain access. We wasted time wondering around the vicinity and even calling twice at the police station. It seemed that a combination of the bailiff and the police – on two occasions – could not gain access for us.

Having been full of hope in the morning I was very despondent by late afternoon. I had never been to a court before, never dealt with lawyers and bailiffs, and had never had so much contact with the police in my life. To say I was not prepared for this was a massive understatement.

I was facing a night on the streets but ultimately relented, able to stay in another seedy but low cost B&B for the night, thanks to a few quid I borrowed from my flatmate.

Friday

At first it felt like a repeat of yesterday: up early, breakfast and off to the court, this time for 10 o’clock. Our landlord’s husband was already at the bailiff’s office; we learned that our bailiff had been to Durlston Road but was unable to serve the order, but learned that our landlady worked for Hackney health district, so we made our way to Hackney Town Hall, where we learned she worked out of another building.

Detective work

I was beginning to feel like a detective, as if somehow I was doing the work that perhaps the police should have been doing. We got over to that ‘other building’ but the council officer we spoke to would not tell us where she was; she told us only roughly where she might be. Our landlord was proving to be most elusive.

My flatmate had contacts in the Environment Ministry in Whitehall – I suppose that might be considered normal amongst the middle classes but it certainly surprised me. So, off to Whitehall we set. We met a few of the health specialists known to my flatmate but they explained there was nothing they could do. In the back of my mind I thought we were clutching at straws anyway, and if nothing else it was a symptom of our desperation.

My flatmates were homeless too, but they had knowledge, experience, money – and each other. I was glad of them but I felt on my own nonetheless.

From Whitehall we returned to Durlston Road – the bailiff and the harrassment officer were both outside. We all saw our landlord pull up in a car and, upon seeing us, she drove off. My flatmate got in his car and chased her around Stoke Newington; she was with her boyfriend. He found where they went and called the police, who said they were on their way.

By Friday night I finally managed to get brief access to our flat and managed to get a few things out, most importantly a change of clothes. I had been wearing the same clothes for five days; the clothes I stood up in when I was locked out on Monday. I was still homeless and the injunction to regain access had still not been served.

Saturday

After 5 days in the same clothes – a change at last!

I was able to wash my hair and brush my teeth in the sink at yet another B&B, feeling much better, especially with fresh clothes. It was the weekend. Nothing much happens at the weekend. I had a miserable day wandering around central London, feeling tired, weary and footsore.

Would things be any better tomorrow?