only would it be admitting failure after less than a week in London, but she probably wouldn’t be able to get anything anyway
– Rob said you could only get the dole if you’d paid a proper stamp, and you couldn’t get Supplementary Benefit unless you had an address. Rob knew about all that, because
he’d left home once after a row with his mum, and he’d ended up sleeping on the beach. He’d tried to sign on until he got a job, but they said he wasn’t entitled to anything
because he had ’no fixed abode’. She bit her lip now as she thought of the beach at home. Somehow, the idea of sleeping on the beach didn’t seem that bad at the moment. She tried
to remember the sounds she was so used to: the waves gently washing over the sand, the constant cry of the seagulls. Their shrieking often used to drive her mad; who’d have thought
she’d end up missing it? But she did, especially now when all she could hear was the perpetual noise made by the cars, buses and lorries that crammed the London streets.
By the time she got to Trafalgar Square, having got lost despite the map the hostel manager had drawn for her, she was limping and hungry. It was getting on for seven, and she hadn’t eaten
since breakfast, so she spent another 15p on a bag of chips which she ate sitting on a bench near Charing Cross station, then she bought a cup of tea to warm herself up while she counted out her
remaining money. She had £4.67 left, and this hostel was £1.40 a night. How on earth was she going to survive? She began walking along the Strand without really thinking about where she
was going. People had begun to arrive for the theatres. The women in their fur coats and high heels seemed to move around in a haze of hairspray and perfume, while in shop doorways, men and women
prepared to bed down for the night. She slowed her pace, watching as they spread their possessions around them, marking their territory, establishing a temporary home. They weren’t all scary
old tramps, she noticed. In fact, some of them were quite young. She spotted a girl who looked about the same age as herself sitting up in a sleeping bag with a plastic sheet spread over the
bottom, reading a small, grubby-looking book. ‘Hello.’ Jo tried to sound as friendly and nice as she could. ‘All right if I sit down next to you?’ When the girl looked up
from her book, Jo could see straight away that she was no more than fifteen, possibly even younger. ‘No,’ the girl said, reaching out and pulling her holdall closer to her. ‘Fuck
off .’
Jo was so surprised, she didn’t move immediately. ‘Go on,’ the girl said. ‘Fuck off away from me or I’ll make you.’
‘Okay,’ Jo said. ‘I’m going.’ Her legs felt shaky as she hurried away. There were homeless people back in Cornwall, but they weren’t so . . . so hostile. She
decided not to risk talking to anyone else, but the thought of spending almost all her remaining money on a bed in a hostel where she might end up getting her stuff nicked anyway was looking less
and less attractive, so when she found a tiny unoccupied doorway in Neal Street, just round the corner from Shaftesbury Avenue, she squashed herself into it, even though there was barely room to
sit down. It was starting to rain again, and she was cold and tired. This would just have to do until tomorrow. She huddled in the doorway, watching the rain hitting the dark pavements but too
nervous to actually close her eyes. Then she saw two police uniforms further along the road. They didn’t seem to be doing anything other than talking to the people in the doorways, but she
still didn’t fancy having to explain herself, so she gathered her stuff and, with her head down against the rain, walked back the way she’d come to find another spot.
She moved four times during the night, finally settling behind some parked cars at the rear of a building where warm air was blasting out of a heating vent. If only she could have
– Rob said you could only get the dole if you’d paid a proper stamp, and you couldn’t get Supplementary Benefit unless you had an address. Rob knew about all that, because
he’d left home once after a row with his mum, and he’d ended up sleeping on the beach. He’d tried to sign on until he got a job, but they said he wasn’t entitled to anything
because he had ’no fixed abode’. She bit her lip now as she thought of the beach at home. Somehow, the idea of sleeping on the beach didn’t seem that bad at the moment. She tried
to remember the sounds she was so used to: the waves gently washing over the sand, the constant cry of the seagulls. Their shrieking often used to drive her mad; who’d have thought
she’d end up missing it? But she did, especially now when all she could hear was the perpetual noise made by the cars, buses and lorries that crammed the London streets.
By the time she got to Trafalgar Square, having got lost despite the map the hostel manager had drawn for her, she was limping and hungry. It was getting on for seven, and she hadn’t eaten
since breakfast, so she spent another 15p on a bag of chips which she ate sitting on a bench near Charing Cross station, then she bought a cup of tea to warm herself up while she counted out her
remaining money. She had £4.67 left, and this hostel was £1.40 a night. How on earth was she going to survive? She began walking along the Strand without really thinking about where she
was going. People had begun to arrive for the theatres. The women in their fur coats and high heels seemed to move around in a haze of hairspray and perfume, while in shop doorways, men and women
prepared to bed down for the night. She slowed her pace, watching as they spread their possessions around them, marking their territory, establishing a temporary home. They weren’t all scary
old tramps, she noticed. In fact, some of them were quite young. She spotted a girl who looked about the same age as herself sitting up in a sleeping bag with a plastic sheet spread over the
bottom, reading a small, grubby-looking book. ‘Hello.’ Jo tried to sound as friendly and nice as she could. ‘All right if I sit down next to you?’ When the girl looked up
from her book, Jo could see straight away that she was no more than fifteen, possibly even younger. ‘No,’ the girl said, reaching out and pulling her holdall closer to her. ‘Fuck
off .’
Jo was so surprised, she didn’t move immediately. ‘Go on,’ the girl said. ‘Fuck off away from me or I’ll make you.’
‘Okay,’ Jo said. ‘I’m going.’ Her legs felt shaky as she hurried away. There were homeless people back in Cornwall, but they weren’t so . . . so hostile. She
decided not to risk talking to anyone else, but the thought of spending almost all her remaining money on a bed in a hostel where she might end up getting her stuff nicked anyway was looking less
and less attractive, so when she found a tiny unoccupied doorway in Neal Street, just round the corner from Shaftesbury Avenue, she squashed herself into it, even though there was barely room to
sit down. It was starting to rain again, and she was cold and tired. This would just have to do until tomorrow. She huddled in the doorway, watching the rain hitting the dark pavements but too
nervous to actually close her eyes. Then she saw two police uniforms further along the road. They didn’t seem to be doing anything other than talking to the people in the doorways, but she
still didn’t fancy having to explain herself, so she gathered her stuff and, with her head down against the rain, walked back the way she’d come to find another spot.
She moved four times during the night, finally settling behind some parked cars at the rear of a building where warm air was blasting out of a heating vent. If only she could have
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