Her Name was Anna

I am used to the beggars that frequent the West End of London. Not that I visit there frequently. I used to make at least three trips a year to the bookshops when I was more affluent but you get to know the regulars. Well at least I suppose I do. I was once part of that world, and there is a certain look that tells you who is operating as a team and who is making a good living at the game. To be honest no one chooses to live rough but it is seductive in its own way.

Anna was sitting in Tottenham Court Road Station at the bottom of the entrance stairs. My daughter was buying something at the kiosk so as I was about to descend the stairs I had to stop and wait. She was looking up and it was her eyes that haunted me. I had little enough money to throw away but I fished out 50 pence and then my daughter added a pound coin. Anna did not ask for the money I walked up and gave it to her. She said I will give this back if you could spare a few minutes just to talk to me.

So I found myself sitting at the bottom of the steps to Tottenham Court Road Station flanked by both my daughters while Anna talked, and the crowds rushed by curious but dismissive.

A few weeks before three drunks had thought it fun to set fire to her while she slept rough. They poured lighter fluid over her sleeping bag. It must have been a great laugh for them. She showed me the marks left on her legs, breast, arms and shoulder. They had become infected from the life she leads. The sores were huge and will scar horribly. The hospital is refusing to help her out because they said she would only re-infect them again through her life style.

She is 23 years old. It was not her choice to be where she was. Well in part, perhaps it was. Her father had abused her and then her little brother. She told her story and he went to prison for seven years. Her mother could not forgive her so at 13 years she had run away to London. She ended up in care but this did not give her enough to prepare her for living alone. She realised she had no support system like the rest of us and there was no way out. She ended up back on the streets.

A few months ago she gave birth to a daughter on the streets. To protect the child she could not properly support she had her placed into a foster care with visiting rights every month. These had now been denied to her because of the fear of infection from her wounds. She had spent the day doing the rounds of Social Services, Centre Point, the church, Citizens Advice, etc. No one had anything to offer her. The Social Services refused to set up a bed and breakfast arrangement in total. They said she would have to pay for part of it. How she was supposed to get the money they did not disclose. Perhaps they wanted her to enter prostitution. Perhaps they felt she had had enough from them already.

She was suicidal. She had thought of throwing herself in front of a bus but the burning drive within her was to find a home and have her baby back. In desperation she had lost her temper giving Social Services the opportunity to ban her. What had she left. The station would close in half an hour and she had until 1am to make £15 for a place to sleep safe. Her hands were black with the dirt from the streets and she smelt as only those that cannot wash regularly do. Her clothes were grimed and torn. Her jacket several sizes too large for her tiny frame. She looked 15 but her eyes were old and hopeless.

She told me she was not into drugs and had never drunk and I believed her. She was intelligent and analytical. I asked her name she had not said before but I felt that asking her made her feel more human. I told her mine and introduced my daughters. I could do no more. We had to catch the train for home and there was so little time. I had no real gift to offer but my time and my understanding of how it feels to be churned round by the system. All I could say was do not give up they make you feel small but you have to fight back. What use was that to someone who had had the fight kicked out of her. What use to the pain her body was experiencing from the inflamed wounds left by stupid drunks with more money than humanity.

Our society has spawned a lost generation of street people. Children damaged and bewildered in the middle of affluence. Children unable to cope, lacking the skills that we have absorbed slowly and surely through nurturing or education. Okay I do accept that many out there are doing quite nicely within their terms and a fair living can be made from begging. I know that many are supporting a drug habit and that we should not encourage the way of life they have chosen. But the others are real and for many of us it is so easy to blank out the true hopelessness of their lives.

So for Anna and her like I ask your compassion.