It’s clear now that we’re living through an unprecedented time (and that our vocabularies need expanding past the word unprecedented). But, we’re not the first to experience a pandemic and before the internet, public health messages were communicated VERY differently. To see how, check out this round up of pandemic posters through the years from The Atlantic.

Our friends over at Art Surgery London are sharing tutorials on how to use art to help ease anxiety, how to make art using things you’ll probably already have at home and how to step away from the scroll and get creative. All the tutorials can be found on the Art Surgery Instagram page (just put the phone down after you’ve watched them!)

What’s keeping you entertained and sane during lockdown? Send your #inspo tips to member@hosb.org.uk 

Hi, I’m Chris McGloin, a participant at the Employment Academy, which helps people affected by homelessness back into work. I am grateful to have had the opportunity to interview The House of St Barnabas’ caretaker David Jacobs, as I have gained an insight into HoSB through the eyes of a wonderful character who emulates the essential ingredients of what makes an excellent employee – one which I can learn from, so that one day, I too can be presented with the metaphorical ‘big red book’.

A caretaker has the same meaning as a custodian; someone who is responsible for taking care of, or protecting, something. In financial terms, there is nothing more important than holding a customer’s securities for safekeeping to minimise the risk of theft or loss. HoSB attaches the same importance to its very own caretaker.

David started working for The House of St Barnabas in 2009. Prior to HoSB, David was a participant on a similar course to the Employment Academy, called the “travel course”, in Stockwell. Through their contacts, he acquired a voluntary placement at HoSB for seven months, after the contract expired he was offered a permanent  role as caretaker. 

Tell us five words to describe yourself?

• Nice
• Mad
• Crazy
• Insane
• Bonkers

What are your interests and hobbies?

Darts is David’s main hobby, he even played semi-professionally at Championship level, representing England in their youth and adult teams. He played and beat many of the great darts players of our time, including Eric Bristow, Bobby George and John Lowe. At the peak of his success, he reached the semi-final at the News of the World tournament – England’s first national darts competition. Unfortunately, David sustained an injury to his arm, which meant he had to give up playing darts and withdraw from representing England.

David was also a DJ, he and his friend had a mobile disco in the late 1970’s to early 1980’s. He played at christenings, and funerals, one fun time he told me about was playing at an Irish funeral  being Irish, I totally relate to such celebratory times, it is more of a celebration of one’s life, rather than commiseration.

What is your typical day?

Groundhog day, which David loves, having what I call rhythm and routine. General duties include clearing the leaves in the garden (he loves leaves), shopping for the participants and staff, cleaning and general maintenance.

What do you enjoy the most and worst about working at HoSB?

David remarked how much he loves working at HoSB, it is the people who walk through the front door, which makes it such a happy, enjoyable place to work, sense of humour brings the fun factor. David said there were no worse moments, it is all about enjoying everything about HoSB.

How does working at HoSB differ from past employers?

In his entire life, David has had only 3 previous employers; working on the shop floor at Woolworths, a postman in Wandsworth and a Security Porter within a private estate, where Norman Wisdom and the West Indies cricket team lived. He was given a West Indies signed cricket bat, which was a great memento from working at that employer. He remarks that in their own distinct ways all of his employers have been equally memorable and enjoyable to work with.

What does HoSB mean to you?

After his last employment, he was street homeless for 2 and a half years. His nickname was Mango Man, because he lived on the doorway of the Mango shop. He mentions that HoSB helped rescue him from street homelessness, providing much-needed employment and support, so for those reasons he labels HoSB as his saviour.

What is your favourite artwork currently displayed at HoSB?

Load Of Fuss About Fuck All, 2018, by The Connor Brothers. It made him laugh. David likes to keep things simple in life and finds no need to overcomplicate things, hence why he likes this piece so much.

What is the highlight of your day?

“Early morning, the start of a new day. What better highlight to the day than the start of it.” David routinely wakes up at 4am!

What has been your greatest achievement?

Fulham being in the premiership and of course the darts championship in which he represented England! He also states that “just being here” at HoSB is a great achievement.

What do you expect to be doing in 5 years’ time?

To be still living, still being here at HoSB, to get to 66 when he plans to retire and stay working at HoSB voluntarily. David has some pearls of wisdom, which I very much relate too, he says, “live for each day, every day being a bonus”. You can’t get much better than that!

David believes in God, saying that everything happens for a reason, “if it’s meant to happen, it will happen”.

If you had a dinner party, name 5 guests living or dead you would invite and why?

• Brian Wilson
• Morgan Freeman
• Robin Williams
• Steve Martin
• John Candy

Brian Wilson from the Beach Boys is a huge inspiration to David (he’s seen him play live over 249 times). The other guests were chosen because of their acting abilities and sheer comedy factor, to make David smile and laugh, which for David is one of the best things in life.

If you were to choose a superhero power from invisibility, superhuman strength, healing, invulnerability, time travel, which would it be and why?

David chose healing, the reason being that you can heal with laughter. If David makes one person laugh a day, then that makes David happy.

Thank you, David, for your extraordinary work of taking care of our most treasured valuable asset, The House of St Barnabas.

I have a passionate interest in ecotherapy, also known by other names such as green care, green exercise, green therapy and horticultural therapy. These names refer to ways of getting out into the natural environment to improve physical and mental health.

Ecotherapy can be done in various ways, such as a walking group, or doing practical tasks, for example, growing organic food or conservation projects in parks, gardens, woodlands, community gardens or farms. Participating in this also increases social interaction, helps increase confidence and connects people with nature. There is often the opportunity to do educational or training courses for pleasure or to contribute to gaining employment.

I find being involved in eco-therapy very therapeutic and rewarding. I enjoy feeling as one with natures annual rhythms and cycles, appreciating that mid-winter serenity when almost all is at a stop, then the springs explosion of natural energy, growth, flowering, and then the midsummer calmness leading to Autumn’s mellowness. I have increased energy levels and feel calmer, less stressed, more mindful and focused.

I have led walks with the ‘Walk for Life’ scheme and volunteered at Mind to assist service users in ecotherapy. I volunteer at Organic Lea in London to do all aspects of organic growing, maintenance, ground preparation, harvesting and assisting people who need a little guidance. I have a level one qualification in organics and I am currently studying for level two.

I would recommend ecotherapy as a great way for better mental and physical health and a way to improve the environment. It is also a great way to become involved in a friendly caring community.

I am now looking to find appropriate employment in gardening or something with a link to organic growth and food. I have thoroughly enjoyed being on the Employment Programme at the House and thank all my fellow participants, staff, facilitators, mentors and members as they have contributed to making me feel ‘just the right side of marvellous’.

Now we have our mug shots done, you know that saying a face that launches a thousand ships? Well, I have the face that breaks 1,000 cameras! I asked the photographer if there was any chance of a soft focus lens, my double chin removed or my photo being airbrushed.

Well, onto my speech, ‘Jean Jeanie’s Journey’. I truly wasn’t being a drama queen or diva but I really didn’t want to read it out, especially with my dulcet tones booming over the mic despite reassurances from Brian, Employment Academy Support Officer at HoSB, “you will be fine”, “you won’t regret it”, “it will be a great experience” blah! blah! blah!… I was not convinced.

What if no one likes it? What if I sound like a foghorn? What if no one laughs? What if I get all emotional? – I cry at the opening of an envelope. The jury was still out and at the last minute my gob running away from me, shrilled I’ll do it.

Oh my gawd! Before I knew it my name was called out. Deep breath. I walked up the three steps in the chapel which felt like 99 steps. Too late, I’m behind the mike, legs wobbling like jelly, lips quivering and eyes filling up. I heard my voice saying “Jean Jeanie’s Journey”. At the beautiful chapel my journey at the House was read out in a nutshell for everyone to hear.

I have to be honest it was all a bit of a blur, I don’t really remember that much! Thinking back now there were so many memories that I could have shared, but I would have been there all day. I want to thank my buddies at Front of House, for being so helpful, kind and patient. Well, can you imagine when on one of my shifts a guest knocked at the door and an old fossil like me opened it slightly overzealous and full of gusto I shrieked “How can I help?” His face was horrified as I frightened the life of him!

Anyway I digress, going back to my speech I was shocked at the reaction so many people congratulating me on how funny and moving it was. It was great that people were laughing with me and not at me that was a mad moment. Oh what am I like, I’m welling up now.

I want to thank everyone involved with the HoSB. A lot of people have invested their energy, expertise, faith, money and time in me. Something I won’t forget. I am not going to lie, it wasn’t a breeze and there were some very difficult times, but I done it, I graduated.

Yes, I have a lot to be grateful for I have a great loving mum, and a caring, lovely and supportive daughter Ellie. She is now carving out her own journey, last year she trekked to the base camp of Mount Everest raising thousands for charity; she recently visited Thailand come September will be starting her third year at Uni studying Medical Science.

I am moving on got a lot of great memories and am ready for work. No doubt it won’t all be hunky-dory but I will face the fear and do it anyway.

Now Jean Jeanie is starting another journey, I have created a blog under the name of randomjeanjeanie.wordpress.com (still trying to work it out) slowly, but surely I’ll get the hang of it, don’t know which year though! I will be writing about issues and random topics that take my fancy, which in the main will be light-hearted, i.e. reality shows (I am so over them).

Yep, Jean has left the House, but I will be back. Cheers big ears to the magical House of St Barnabas.

To participants and graduates; embrace and enjoy… although if you want some Lemon drizzle cake get to reception early, I am still bitter about not getting a piece because they had run out! (Hee! Hee!)”

To start with the facts, the name ‘Barnabas’ means “son of encouragement”, whereas St Barnabas was the Patron Saint of Encouragement. Encouragement epitomises the visions and values of HoSB or in the wider sense the spiritual foundations towards positive social change.

To make it more personal, ‘encouragement’ to me is literally what saved my life in all facets and, most importantly here at HoSB, is a continuation of my life recovery from what brought me to my knees in terms of drug and alcohol addiction, mental health breakdown, self isolation and homelessness; basically a breakdown of my physical and mental well-being.

For me, one of the solutions to homelessness is employment, which for me provides rhythm not routine, but before employment or indeed to reintegrate back into normal society comes a sense of spirituality. A friend of mine told me a story about PETS and ANTS, whereas the latter being an abbreviation for automatic negative thoughts and the former being positive affirmations. People are bombarded every day with negative thoughts, to what I call the “chaos of the mind” that may not bring any sense or realisation to everyday life. However, in order to attain self-actualisation or that gift of recovery, spirituality just means basic self-care, positive affirmations, such as writing on my bathroom mirror, “I am worth it”, something that needs to be reinforced daily as the negative can seem to stick to the mind, so in a sense a rewiring of the brain to start thinking positively. One of the daily activities I do, is a gratitude list, 10 points of the day, which I am very grateful for, turning a negative into a positive, for example, I wrote my life story, with the title “Grateful for my rock bottom”, I am grateful for my dark past, because it is this which has made me the person I am now, an appreciation for life, people and basic values and most importantly, hope. The phrase ‘one day at a time’ is something I live by, it’s OK to have a bad day with feelings and emotions that may run riot in the mind, immobilising you physically, but what is inspirational is to leave it in the previous day, a new day brings new fresh emotions and feelings to move forward, thus invoking a spiritual awakening, most simplistically, living in the present.

HoSB provides these essential tools to how to live life, cope with challenging situations, learning how to think positively to bring positive change to oneself, others and eventually bring an invaluable work skill, for when we eventually return to work. They provide us with the tools to be the best possible person we can be, through sessions like mindfulness, coping strategies to move forward and change, something to embrace, just like the caterpillar changing into a butterfly, it brings freedom of the so-called negative voice/mind. The key concepts to achieve enlightenment in my opinion, is the abbreviation HOW (Honesty, Open-mindedness, Willingness). In the same way, as myself being grateful for my rock bottom, I am very grateful to HoSB in providing encouragement and essential life skills to continue on with my recovery, both physically and mentally.

Echo by Tracy Glynn, Graduate of Employment Preparation Programme 9

There are many echoes in my mind

Echoes of times far away

Snapshots of times past and in the here and now…

They say a picture can say a thousand words

It’s true…

So can a lingering haunting melody

Floating on the breeze of a lazy summer’s day.

Bringing back the echoes in my mind…

The echo of passing time you see

Is always on my mind…

The midday chiming of the antiquated church clock

Passing time

Passing time

Minutes rolling by as crescendoing crashing

Waves in your mind

That deja vu echo

Passing time

Passing time

The sneering serpentine echo

Whispering in my ear…

The chandelier diamondesque

Laughter of my sister

Once upon a time

The echo of time you see

Is always on my mind…

A soft whispering wish on the dulcet breeze…

Passing my way it lingers awhile

I ask “Are you mine?”

The wandering echo of a wish lullabyed

“Yes follow me.”

Prologue

“We need not believe that any legend is a record of fact; but the existence of a legend is a very great fact.”

From his vantage point at St Barnabas House, Brian gazed over The Square that was his.  Regardless of what some fools might say; his England, his London and despite of or perhaps because of its infamous reputation, His Square.

He sipped at a mug of coffee and noticed an old man sitting at a bench in the small green park of the square, the man appeared lost in thought, even given the mans advanced age Brian thought the ancient old man of military bearing.

“What ya’ lookin’ at?”  Shirley joined him, nudging his arm and spilling some of his coffee.

Brian shook his head and with a smile, grunted, “. The old boy sitting on the bench, deep in thought, looking around, and yet, I Dunno,’ its as if he’s not here, he’s… Somewhere else.”

Shirley looked across the square at the man on the bench, then back at her friend.  She knew of his love of the history of this area and his respect of the people, “Go, check him out.”

“I think i will,  I’ll just make sure the old warrior is OK.”

“The old warrior?”  Shirley raised a questioning eyebrow.

Brian turned and smiled, “. Can’t you tell, we have one in the class of just the same bearing,  ‘been there, seen it, done it.’  They’re a breed apart these boys.”

“Shirley smiled, “Go on then, my Good Samaritan.”  And she hugged him around the waist and placed the side of her head against the top of his arm.

Honed with singular purpose, Brian chased away the weariness of the four flights of stairs St Barnabas House challenged him to each day, and eyes squinting into bright winter sunshine he entered Soho Square.

He looked across and saw the old man staring at him.  Brian became nervous,  goosebumps danced up his arms. Doubtful as to whether he should breach the peace the Old man clearly sought here amongst the anonymous hubbub of office workers at lunch and yet girding his nerves, he approached…

“I was told someone would be here.  I take it that someone, is you.”  The old man shouted across at him as he held out his right hand.

Brian offered his and they shook.

The old man invited Brian to the park bench to sit and join him. “I’m Sam”

“I’ve not been sent here, I work across the square at The House of St Barnabas and I saw you from a window, just want to check that you’re OK, really.  My names’ Brian’

The old man looked him up and down, “You’re black?”

“You noticed,”

Both men smiled and for a moment looked away.

“I didn’t expect a black man.”

Brian chuckled, “Vera Lynn wasn’t available, fella.”

The old man nodded and laughed.  From his tweed jacket pocket, he removed an envelope and placed it on his knee.

“I was told to write it all down.  A story.  Before I go.’

Brians’ smile vanished and his furrowed brow took on a more serious aspect,

“Go?  Go where, old timer, and who told you to write what down?

“He did”. The old man pointed at a fourth-floor window of St Barnabas House.” He said you’re a writer, that you like stories, and in particular, you like the histories of this square, and right now, I have a story, I want it in bloom, broken words you might say, on stony ground, right now.”

Brian looked in the direction where the old man pointed and at the fourth-floor window noticed one of his students looking directly across at them, he took the offered letter and began to read its contents…

No Mans’ Land

Foreword

For those who gaze in peace toward a night sky I must recall, for soon it will be too late, a simple, yet timeless tale, where Hell met Earth and ordinary people engaged in selfless acts of extraordinary sacrifice. 

In the maelstroms and the furnaces, where constant fighting in pockets of void sapped one’s will to carry on; there were people willing to fight, and to die, in untimely ends.

This story is offered in recognition of a few young women, girls who stood in the ‘heat of the arena, with faces marred by dust and sweat.’

In her final act, she ‘raged against the dying of the light.’So, after many years of silence, it seems a fitting place to start; within a time and a place, where once there was normality, and after, we were cursed with fierce tears…

London.  November 21 1940

A grey R.A.F anti-aircraft balloon truck lumbered through crater littered streets salted with the rubble of the dead.

London, floodlit lit by successive bombings and latent incendiaries lay a sitting target for the blitzkrieg of the Luftwaffe and any souls left out in the open were the foolish, the selfless, or the damned…

“Sorry!”

“Can’t you drive with a bit more care?”  Corporal Sharkey shouted from the back.

From the driver’s seat, Ruth turned around to face her three colleagues. “Well if I had any bloomin’ lights I’d be able to see everything I crash into, Corporal.”

Corporal Sharkey leant across the back seat.  In mock admonishment, she cuffed Ruth over the head.  “Of course you would, my dear.

Now then, be a sweetie and try your best, hmm.  I want to make it back to base safe and sound for a nice cup of tea.”

The truck lunged sideways into a ditch. “Sorry!” Ruth glanced down from her side window and blew a heavy sigh of disbelief. “That’s no ditch. That’s the edge of a great big ruddy bomb crater,” she whispered.

From loins of aircraft hidden in black skies, bombs fell, girded.  They arced their way to Earth in whistling choirs of metalled death, pathfinders for mourning they delivered payloads of complete misery.

Photographs of lives at peace lay exposed in streets.  Stained and lost they curled at there edges with faded images of life, before.

She turned from Trafalgar Square onto Charring Cross Road, her foot eased on the accelerator. With progress slow, she remained careful not to run over an abandoned child’s doll.  It lay with wide sightless eyes that stared up from a red-cheeked porcelain face.  The back of its head hidden, sunken and fixed into tarmac that had melted cooled and blistered after successive bombings. Under the slow weight of the truck’s wheels the super-heated tarmac road cracked and crumbled in complaint, and for a few moments she could not take her eyes from that small prophetic doll

Ruth needed to cross through several blackened streets before she reached Soho Square

Her driving instructor taught her not to rush through a Blitz, but to pick her way with care through the bomb littered ruins; always make progress, keep on the move.

The heavy footfall of targeted bombing drew nearer. Ruth lifted her hands from the steering wheel; it shook and rattled on its column. The cumbersome barrage truck trembled under the bombardment, its heavy gas canisters jumped in their moorings.

Ruth found Greek street. It was not difficult. It was on fire. She stopped the truck, its engine idled.  She hunched her shoulders and pointed into the road. “He’s a handsome one, Corporal.”

“He is that. But what does he think he’s playing at?”

Standing in front and looking up at them, a fireman took a hose-reel he carried from his shoulder and rolled it along the road to the side of the truck. Again he looked up and locked eyes with Ruth. He cocked his head to one side and raised an arm and offered her a lazy wave.

“Does he think we’re out for a stroll in Hyde Park?” Ruth wound her window down. “You might look like Errol Flynn in your overalls, love. But you’re in my way.  Move!”

The Fireman smiled, and even in the wan light of incendiaries, Ruth recognized perfect white teeth set in a square jaw. He walked over to the truck and leapt up onto the fire-step just below the driver’s door.  “I beg your pardon, lady. Greek Street is badly hit. We’ve lost a couple of lads here already. It’s far too dangerous; it’s hell here I wouldn’t want to lose you, too.” He held out an open black oily hand.

Ruth blushed. She noticed his dimples on each cheek and his smile grew even larger. “Well, why didn’t you say that instead of standing there like a…” She thought of ‘movie star,’ but bit her tongue.

Corporal Sharkey stuck her head over Ruth’s shoulder and in doing so saved Ruth’s blushes. “Listen fella,’ we have work to do, and we’re going down there.” She pointed into the road and another part of it exploded. “So when you’ve finished looking all starry-eyed and lustful at my driver, perhaps we can get on?

Waiting back at base is a pot of tea and a warm scone, with my name on it.”

The Fireman, his eyebrow raised, looked at Corporal Sharkey; she too began to blush. “I’m sorry, of course. Please ladies, keep to the centre of the road where you can.  There’s a dead body about two hundred yards up on the left and most of the fires are on the left too. But the blast causes the buildings down on the right to collapse, some of them are in no rush to fall down.”

He began to climb off the step. Ruth grasped hold of his hand. He stopped and looked at her, his smile returned. “I’ve seen you around. Are you free tomorrow night?”

“Yes. Yes I am, What’s your name?”

“Sam.” His smile. Broadened.

Ruth giggled.

He cocked his head to one side. “There’s a Glen Miller party at The Kensington Ballroom, starts at eight. I’ll see you out front.” Without waiting for a response he jumped from the side of the truck and jogged into a smouldering house.

Sharkey tapped her on the shoulder, she turned and all three girls were looking at her, flirtatious smiles and giggles erupted throughout the cab.

“Ooooh! I wouldn’t want to lose you, too!” they cried in chorus.

“He should be so lucky. But why did he run off like that?”

“That’s what Firemen do. They run into burning buildings,” Sharkey whispered.

“We’ve some taller buildings all around. I bet they wouldn’t run into them if they were on fire,” Jane said.

“Hmm, I reckon you could set fire to buildings that scraped the sky and still get men like him to run into them,” Sharkey replied.

Ruth raised her eyebrows and began to move off.  She smiled at the possibility of her first dance.

Further on she slowed to a halt.  On her left, a narrow stream of brown watery sludge sped along the side of the road and lapped over the prone and stationary body of a man in Army fatigues before it seeped with glutinous gaseous bubble bursts into a roadside drain.  Ruth wrinkled her nose and began to involuntarily wretch.  Sharkey leant across from a rear seat. “Sewage. It must’ve made its way down from a blown pipe further up the road somewhere’s.”

Ruth pointed at the prone body.

“Yeah, poor bleedin’ sod.”  Sharkey placed a comforting hand on Ruth’s shoulder.

Ruth continued to stare at the body as raw sewage lapped over it.  “He’s moving.”

“What?”

“He’s moving.  He’s still alive.”

“No, you wouldn’t wanna’ be! Surely.”  Sharkey turned in time to watch as the body began to lean up and prop itself on one elbow.

“Jesus Christ…”

“Ah be Jesus, be damned.”  The body replied in a heavy Irish accent as it sat bolt upright spitting sewage.

The soldier licked his lips and swayed like a drunkard.  “Ladies, ya’ are indeed a sight fa’ sore eyes, I can tell ya.’

He rubbed his eyes with sewage stained hands and tried to focus.

“Now, then, I find myself somehow’s lying in all this English filth, so, fa’ the love of St Patrick and all his holy relics, would ya’ be so kind as ta’ shoot me bloody dead.  There’s a good girl.”  He smiled and slumped forward.

Ruth and Sharkey stared at each other open-mouthed.

Ladies, please.  Either shoot me dead or tell those ruddy German bastards to stop makin’ so much noise while they kick the livin’ shit outta you English devils.  Me heads rollin,’ me bollocks are stuck in me boots and I’m in no good mood fa’ it all I can tell ya.”

Sharkey regained her composure.  “Private, I’m not going to shoot you.  You smell too foul for the waste of a fine bullet.  Now, get up you drunken fool.”

The Irish soldier took a deep breath and snorted.  “What’s wrong wid’ you English girls, can ya’ not withstand a bit of body odour? Now, if I didn’t smell and look like shit on a stick, would ya’ do me the courtesy of shootin’ me dead then?”

Sharkey smiled again.  “I’d consider it.  But I don’t want to make a habit of shooting drunks who look like shit, otherwise my Dad would be dead within a week. Get up, you’re frightening the Luftwaffe away.

The soldier rolled over onto his knees, “Oh fa’ sure, we can’t be frightening those poor German boys goin’ about there lawful killin’ business now can we.”

“No” Sharkey replied.  “That wouldn’t be cricket.  Now be a good chap and bugger off to find your own little piece of war.”

The soldier, covered from head to foot in sewage, stood, looked around and shook his head.  “Lady, I lost my war on a beach in northern France.  And I’ve no inclination to be findin’ it again, not fa’ at least the next seven days.”

Sharkey’s smile evaporated and she nodded her head in recognition.

“Now then, if ya’ not goin’ ta’ show mercy an’ shoot me, and ya’ not goin’ ta’ tell those Germans to shush their noise, then I’m just going to have ta’ find fa’ meself some spiritual solace, in a pub.  Are there any around here that haven’t been blown to kingdom come?”

“Just keep walking up that way,” Sharkey pointed, “You’ll see a fireman up there, he’ll hose you down, freshen and sober you up a bit.”

“Ah, then that’d be grand.“ The soldier looked up the road and swayed before he began a slow wet trudge away.

The truck sank to the right into a large pothole. “Sorry!”

Corporal. Sharkey placed a hand on Ruth’s shoulder, “ We need to park up in the square, the wind is from the east, so we’ll face St Barnabas House and set the winch. Got it?”

Ruth nodded and parked near the gates.  She climbed out of the truck rummaging for padlock keys as she did.

Silhouetted against an orange glow backdrop St Barnabus house Lit up, its tiled inscription ‘House Of Charity’ forty feet above the ground clearly visible in light bright as day.  And then the shock-wave.  Ruth expected it and braced herself against the side of the barrage balloon truck, it pinned her to the truck in a thermal heatwave that began to redden her skin and singe her hair, and then, as quickly as it arrived, it was gone.

She looked up, something behind the grand Georgian house had taken a direct hit and lit the evening sky and then, slowly, from the front door and from stairs leading to cellars, women began to emerge, first, one or two and then more.  Stumbling, dazed in shock and some injured, with frightened caution they began to emerge.

Ruth knew they should have all been locked up in the relative safety of the nearest air raid shelter, and she knew more, that she should continue her duties and ignore them…But she could not.

She shouted and waved at them, indicating for them to join her, and then, seeing some too confused in shock to follow here instruction, she went to them.

Sharkey and the other two girls jumped from the cab and joined her.

“What the bloody hell are that lot doing here?”  Sharkey growled.

By now, more than fifty women had stumbled into the square from the house.

“It’s a women’s refuge.  It’s on the briefing notes,” Ruth replied.

Sharkey shot Ruth a sidewards glance, “I know it’s in the briefing notes, I wrote the bloody briefing notes!”  Through gritted teeth she swore, incoherently.

‘Corporal…” Ruth , stared across the square, “On the west side of the square there’s an air raid shelter, we can put them in there.”

It’ll be locked, the warden won’t open it now.”

Ruth smiled, “I’m sure you could use your powers of persuasion to make them reconsider.”

Sharkey bit down on her lip until she cut through, then swore under her breath, “OK ladies!  Follow me!”  She repeated her command several times until all the women began to gather around her.

The girls lead the women across Soho Square a small concealed entrance on the west side.  There, and using a piece of wood found nearby Ruth banged hard on the black metal door.

There was no response, she banged harder.

After a few moments, a mans voice from the other side, “What do you want?”  He shouted.

Sharkey held Ruth’s arm back and stepped forward.  ‘I’m corporal Sharkey, of The Royal Air Force,  I have over fifty women here who all need shelter.  Open the door, please.”

Silence.

“Oye!”

‘Lady, I don’t care if you’re are Winston bloody Churchill his’elf.  I’m not opening the ruddy door…  It’s against regimental orders, is what it is.”

Sharkey bit down on her lip once again, and this time blood dripped down the side of her mouth.  “Listen, you old bastard, you sit in there, safe, quoting regimental orders to me, but you lack the balls to come out here with my girls and face the Luftwaffe, now, you’ll you open up this door, or I’ll get my barrage balloon, and shove it, regimentally, right up your wide bloody arse!..So, open up, there’s a good chap.”

Silence.

Ruth sniggered

Then, the door began to creak and scrape open and a hand hurried them inward.

Sharkey turned to Ruth with a smile and Ruth addressed the assembled women, “Right you lot, get in there, and I don’t want to see any of you again till this is all over,”

The women filed past, many offering there thanks.

The last to go in was a woman in blue overalls, she stopped and addressed Sharkey, “I’m one of the assistant caretakers at St Barnabas.   Our caretaker, and one of our girls are still in the chapel in the garden of the house …” She looked to the ground and sobbed as she kicked a bit of grit from her shoe.

‘We’ll take a look.” Ruth cut in.

“Thank you.”  The woman went into the shelter and with rude haste the door was slammed shut.

The girls returned to the truck, all of them stared at the silhouette of The House of St Barnabas as the chapel that lay behind it burned.

The girls climbed into the cab of the truck.

“We should go into the chapel, see if we can find them.”

“Ruth, they’ll be already dead” Scoffed, Sharkey

“We should try.”

“We’ve already gone against orders and rescued those women, lets just set up shop in the open of Soho square, and stay alive.”  Sharkey offered with a sardonic expression.

Ruth groaned and turned to face her Corporal, her plaintive stare telling all she wanted to communicate to her senior.

Sharkey looked around at the other girls, each expressing non verbally, the same view as Ruth.  “OK, OK, we set up shop on the square, then we go into the chapel, have a quick scout around, then out again, agreed?

Bombs fell all around, one cut through the roof of St Patrick’s Church on the east side but did not explode. Shockwave after shock wave; a carpet of thermal blasts.

Anti Aircraft tracer rounds arced skyward in reassuring menace.

Now and then, a searchlight locked onto an enemy bomber.  The girls cheered in the knowledge that it would soon fall, burning from the sky under a hail of vengeful tracer.

“Corporal.  Why is this raid going on so long?  They normally last only a few minutes,” Ruth shouted.

“I don’t know, darling.  But if you want to see your eighteenth birthday, then stay away from that bloody winch!”

Ruth stared in shock at her Corporal.

Sharkey threw her a warm maternal smile that belied her years. “Yes. I know. You volunteered just after your seventeenth birthday; lying about your age.   Make sure you stick with me and we’ll both make it through this hell to celebrate your eighteenth, in style!”

“Yes, corporal!”

Ruth smiled and steered around a broken and twisted bicycle in the middle of the road before making an exaggerated turn through the open gates of the small park on the square. Without warning a shock wave lifted the truck from the front and threw it sideways like a slap across the face.

Her hands were thrown from the steering wheel; she hit her head against the “A” post. The truck lifted with ease onto its off-side wheels, then with a loud thud that broke the suspension, it righted itself.

“That’s my girl!” Ruth cried… “Sorry…!”

The blast from a second explosion ripped through them, shattering the windscreen. Shards of glass sandblasted her face; her hair turned to gaseous wisps and disappeared. The driver’s door flew open and crumpled like paper as it melted with ease from its hinges. Ruth felt the air dragged from her lungs. The heat in the cab became unbearable and she threw herself onto a road that shook, its tarmac surface melting in liquefaction under heat and tremor.

She looked up and watched entranced as thousands of tiny illuminated dots of tracer danced just above the ground, then raced airborne in an arc.  With reluctance one or two larger, moving stars, like insects caught in torchlight, burned and tumbled in quiet solitude from that void. It struck her as a serene and beautiful image. In silence, with her strength spent, under reserves of inward resolve and with tears channelling down burnt cheeks she raged and clung to life, refusing to the very last, to close her eyes.

***************

Soho square had been hit hard and several hours later the blackened remains of several collapsed buildings still smouldered and billowed smoke into a windless sky.  Men in uniformed climbed from several Red Cross trucks and busied themselves around her truck. A couple of them knelt beside the body of a young woman thrown from the truck when it exploded. The side of her face and part of the back of her head now set firm into the blistered tarmac, with sightless eyes she starred toward a smoking morning sky.

A handsome young man with a square jaw wearing a fireman’s uniform sobbed into open hands at her side.

She noticed him and turned back to place a light touch of her hand on his shoulder, Sams’ shoulder. He did not look up and began to shiver, oblivious and lost in his wretched mourning.

With reluctance, Ruth left him and joined her friends. She took hold of Corporal Sharkey’s hand and noticed the girls turn their heads to gaze in sadness toward the truck.

From the cab, several undertakers and rescue workers in deliberate respect began to extricate the charred and burnt remains of three young Women’s Auxiliary Air Force personnel. In remaining at their post they had perished in The No Mans’ Land that was Soho Square during an enemy air raid.

The young women continued to stare at the macabre spectacle unfolding in front of them.

“Sally, do you still see all those women we rescued?” Ruth asked.

“Yes I do,” Sally replied. “They’re smiling at us. I was frightened, but not anymore. 

“I see them too.  I don’t know where to go, but we have to leave now, I don’t know how I know this, I just do.” Sharkey said. “I feel we don’t belong here anymore.” She sighed, “I could do with a nice cup of tea…”

Present Day

Many years have passed and she is still with me. I think of her everyday; a life cut short, denied of its prime.

In peace and from above she has watched my life unfold and my family grow. I have been blessed with many more than my three score years and ten.  At my life’s winter, I can say my cup overflows.

Her story is now told; of a brave young woman and her friends. Her words “forked no lightning,” but she did not “go gentle into that good night.” She gave the ultimate sacrifice. Her duty was nobly done and she “raged against the dying of the light.”

This account, true and accurate to the best of my ageing recollection and given while I am still of sound mind is freely offered in the hope and wish that her memory will abide with the young.

For age cannot weary her.

In Memory of Ruth Brindle.

Samuel J. Hawkins

London Firefighter.  DSM. GM.  Retired.

Epilogue

Brian stared at the manuscript and for a moment, said nothing.

He looked up, but Sam wasn’t there.  He looked around and across the green of Soho Square, but Sam had disappeared.

He sighed and stared once again at the weathered paper with its forgotten story set on old type script.  He glanced up at the upper floors of St Barnabas House where his student remained, looking down at him from the window.

Brian raised his hands in the air and with open palms mouthed the question, “where?”

His student smiled and looking toward the sky he backed away into shadow.

It was then that Brian noticed the inscription like so many others placed on park benches in London.  Etched deep on a small thick shiny brass plaque he read its words out loud,

‘Near This Spot Fell Ruth Brindle

Saviour Of Lost Souls

November 21 1940

Aged 17 Years

Her Duty Nobly Done.’

Brian blinked in disbelief and his jaw began fall open.  He looked around, not knowing what he might see apart from London at Lunch.  Someone walked by and deftly threw an empty cola tin into a nearby bin.

He held on to the retired firefighters story as it it were his most prized possession and made his way back to St Barnabas House.  Before exiting the park square he looked back one more time toward the bench, and it wasn’t there.  He looked around as if he could possibly have made a mistake, but the bench, wasn’t there.

In the third floor class room Brian facilitated over a group of unemployed men and women all eager to retrain and find work.  He walked among them as they applied themselves to coursework, offering them help  and commenting on some written piece he read from over their shoulder, but his mind kept wandering to the impromptu meeting on the park bench.

Once again he gazed from the window overlooking the park, and there, sitting on a bench and looking directly up at him were a young attractive woman and a handsome square jawed young man.

Brian smiled, chuckled and turning away he shook his head, “Yep, he looks like Errol Flynn, alright.”

A couple of his students shot him a curious look.

“Nothing, Just thinking out loud,”. He said, to no one in particular.

Once again he gazed from the window, and once again, they were gone.

Authors Note

There are parts of this manuscript taken from the works of the following and  I should acknowledge,

The Holy Bible

Dylan Thomas

Theodore Roosevelt

Charles Dickens

and

Jeremy Reed & Richard Strange

On 21st November 1940. Soho square and the surrounding area was subjected to The Blitzkreig, a bomb ripped through the roof of St Patrick’s Church, cut through one of the pillars, landed in the Nave and failed to detonate.

During the London Blitz of World War Two The Women’s  Royal Air Force manned the barrage balloons that helped to defend London.  During an enemy air raid their life expectancy averaged,  Seven minutes…

On the western side of Soho Square a casual observer will find surrounded by a low dwarf wall of re-enforced concrete a small heavy metalled door no more than four feet tall, it stands in testament to what lies beneath Soho Square; a Second World War bomb shelter large enough to accommodate 250 souls.

St Barnabas House still stands, however, it now serves a much wider community and the observer will note that some of its ornate external wall tiles remain missing.

The Chapel that stands in its rear garden has been restored, is well frequented and is much loved.

The reader is invited to wander beneath the leafy canopy on Soho Square and I invite you to seek out Ruth Brindles’ park bench; its there…But perhaps the finding of it is through invitation only, to those like Brian, who selflessly serve the community and who go the extra mile to help people in need.

This, is the essence, of Soho Square, and It is to him and the staff at St Barnabas House that this small offering is dedicated.

BY TRACY GLYNN

Graduate of Employment Preparation Programme 9

It was the performance of her life. She was alive. Her new journey would begin.

Bittersweet was the day tangled sunlight forced its way through the mangled Venetian blinds. Rose lay sprawled on the unmade bed thinking about religion. The one time ballerina would dance no more yet Rose had given the performance of her life. Rose was alive. Her new journey would begin.

Of course she had seen the movie “The Red Shoes” and there had begun her dream. Rose thought she could be so many things.

When she was twelve she used to dance around her school hall all alone dreaming. In her own world smiling. Dad was the school caretaker whistling around the corridors with his jangling keys. As a teenager she always watched the old black and white movies. Rose loved them, escaped into her own world then with cups of tea and crisp rich tea digestives on a Saturday matinee day listening to Mum in the kitchen.

Of course later on in life it became the Saturday matinee with white wine and cigs along with the love affairs of nameless enveloped faces. After the griefs and partying in her 20/30’s she tried the counselling, the CBT. Physician “Heal thyself” Rose thought. Still “Life does not happen that way”.

Rose sold her soul and creativity for the lure of money and stability. Then not knowing how it would rip her soul apart and begin so many different episodes of life trying to find fulfilment. She worked for a private equity company for twenty long dreary years. At first it was fun but constant changes blighted the one time happy community. That killed her soul with normality. Still, what had been the life she left behind and what drove her soul to the madness on that terrible day?

Sensitive souls lying with a broken bird amongst the blowsy roses.

“When will you marry me” he said. He would bring me a rose stolen from someone’s garden and stick it in my hat. He gave me my first taste of cherries infused with wine.

Succulent, rosy black cherries, reminding me of that wine-infused seductive kiss, our mouths passing to one another. Lazily ecstatic from sun-drenched afternoon delight, in our eyes gloriously unborn naked. Behind me he stood his arms strong as melted iron around looking into the dusty smeared mirror.

“Look at us” he said. A moment of joy I will never forget. I was in love for the first time.

Her drinking became the problem. He called it her 11am to 12am slot when she would talk, dream with him out the window listening to music.

Tom Waites Christmas card from a hooker, Serge Gainsbourgh “Telephone” I loved it…fun for us both. Je taime… need I say more. Arno, Arron Neville “Use Me”…his choice meant in love. Six days and seven nights by Sting started out as one thing and became another…………..he will know. “He will never win scrabble for my heart my dear.”

They had one last week of passion. On Monday he said ” sit down” over the phone…”it’s over”.

Madness ensued. The mind can become too full of our love and hate partners unbalancing. Tuesday Rose turned up announced. He opened the door. Her duvet, pillows, throws, towels, tables, things now stained with dirt. His boxers on the floor by bed, “the things” black knickers on it.

Two weeks later Simon my friend downstairs is dead the day before my birthday.

Hot demonic anger ensues enflamed by both losses so the day before her birthday she pulled the knife on him.

Thinking…

Screaming…

Shouting…

Analysing…

Thinking…

Her thoughts not theirs for once.

The Dancing had been her one time trusting soul. That was no more. Her new journey would begin with tiny controlled footsteps. Did I mention she was a onetime ballerina? Maybe of life as we all are dancing little steps along the way.

So dance ballerinas dance while you can as you never know what is around the corner.

‘The Real Face’ took place in our Chapel on Friday 6th October, an exhibition showcasing works by Italian artist Denis Volpiana, courtesy of Meet Art Projects. During this temporary exhibition, Denis invited visitors to join him in a little creative painting on found objects, including everything from broken plant pots to bits of wood and polystyrene.

It was a wonderful experience, even though it lasted just a day it left me with a positive and uplifting feeling. I had a chance to meet the artist and chat with him about his hometown and art studio in Italy while sitting down to do a little painting, which for me was a lovely moment of spontaneity – it can be as much fun and creative as the well thought out paintings he was exhibiting.

For me, his art demonstrates different ideas explored through the range of colours and shades he uses, provoking diverse experiences in the viewer, even if they’re looking at the same painting. The Real Face has left me with pleasant memories as well as being a great learning experience…and now on to our Q&A!

Hi Denis, what’s your story so far – how did you first get into art and then how have you become an artist?

I got close to art mainly through books. When I was a child my mum used to collect and recycle abandoned things, many of these objects were books and I used to love browsing their pages, observing the images in order to draw them and re-create them in my own way. I was especially attracted by ancient artworks, from cave paintings to 16th century Baroque monuments. Ever since my passion for creating art has been inspired by the observation of these masterpieces and the emotions they stimulate in me.

Later during my teenage years, I studied in a seminary where I had the first impactful experience related to the history of art. In this period I was fascinated by the life and work of Cézanne and Picasso but despite the fact that I tried to reproduce their work as accurately as possible my imagination was always stronger than my hand – these studies became my very first original drawings.

In the following years, I attempted to study accountancy and start a professional career in this field, I worked in the factory owned by my father and then travelled around Europe finding temporary jobs and selling my drawings in streets and parks. In the end I had to accept that the only career I could and wanted to pursue was being an artist, so I graduated at the New Academy of Fine Arts in Milan and started my life as a painter, collaborating with other artists and working with a small circle of collectors and curators.

What influences your work?

An important element that constantly inspires me is nature, its strength and its ability to regenerate. This has also been an inspiration for me to face challenging life experiences. My work is also inspired by the people I meet every day, by exchanges of energies between human beings and by the sense of hope I feel when I meet someone who is honest and authentic.

How does the act of painting make you feel?

Free. When I paint my mind goes to a sort of different reality. I almost never realise or remember the instants when this new state of mind begins, time start moving in a sort of constant, unique flow, without hours or minutes.

You engaged with people during your exhibition in our chapel, inviting them to join you in painting – what was that experience like?

It’s been a great experience that I will always remember as a very happy moment. I felt really welcomed and I was glad to see so many people appreciating my work and interacting with me.

I hear you make sculptures, can you tell me a little about that?

I have a very intimate approach towards sculpture, it is my way to experiment with different materials. I like to create, destroy and transform. I use different materials like tree branches or concrete but I also compose assemblages using toys and found objects. In all my works I try to play with materials and shapes to communicate feelings and concepts I care about.

What was special about exhibiting at HoSB?

I am really happy to have had the chance to exhibit at The House of St Barnabas, an organisation that not only collaborates with great established artists but also promotes new talent in multiple creative fields. It also felt really special to have the opportunity to exhibit my work in a historic venue and in such an unusual and unique space as the Chapel, which related to my artworks and somehow to my life and artistic career.

Have you created a piece that you haven’t been able to part with?

I used to feel like this towards almost all of my artworks but when I understood that their power to resonate with me or even solve my own issues and change my state of mind could have the same effect on others, I changed my approach and since then I have never had any real favourite, they are all made to be shared.

Which artists do you look up to?

Pablo Picasso, Jackson Pollock, Umberto Boccioni, Cy Twombly, Alberto Giacometti and Yayoi Kusama. Also, the romantics and in particular Caspar David Friedrich and William Turner inspire my research of movement and interest for nature, I often use resin drippings to give the shapes I draw and paint a more natural character of spontaneity.