The story behind the smell of homelessness

All around are solid buildings designed to keep us safe and sound, from that palace of books to the silent, cavernous church and on through the office blocks and the private dwellings. There’s a place for everyone.

But then that reverie disappears in a flash as a stench drifts insolently out of a doorway and you become aware that some poor soul does not have a place in this ideal world of ours. A man is lying there in broad daylight, either asleep or pretending to be.

But who are such unfortunates and how did they come to be in this situation? The answer is shockingly simple and it could happen to anyone.

In the late 1970s there was a Jamaican cricketer by the name of Richard Austin. An opening batsman and frontline bowler, Austin made his mark in domestic cricket and had considerable success against Trinidad and Tobago. In January 1977 he scored 133 against TT in Montego Bay, following 63 the previous year at the Queen’s Park Oval. In 1980, also in Portof- Spain, he took 10 wickets in the match. For the benefit of those who don’t understand cricket, suffice it to say that he was a very good player.

He played for the West Indies a few times, but this was an era of change and controversy, where an Australian tycoon called Kerry Packer was shaking up the cricket world and ensuring that the players were paid good money for the first time. There were “rebel” tours to South Africa, which was still in the grip of the shameful apartheid system, and had been shunned by the cricket-playing nations. For a West Indian team to play there seemed, to many, like the ultimate betrayal, the worst kind of mercenary sellout, and careers (not just those of black players) were, if not ruined, then at least damaged.

Richard Austin was one of the rebels, and when the dust had settled he feared he would never be selected for the West Indies again.

And so began his decline. It is unclear where the money went, because he had made a bit during his heyday, and it is said he still owned a house and a car, but couldn’t afford to maintain them, so he gave his brother free use of them. He lived on the street, drinking rum and taking drugs, which he said he had to do in order to be accepted by the tragic new community to which he now belonged.

Austin died almost two years ago and we can only imagine the torment as he replayed his glorious past in his head while attempting to block out the reality of his present.

Regardless of his life story, he was ultimately no different from his peers who had also descended to the depths of life.

Whatever the cause, be it some innate weakness or perverse tendency to self-destruct, or sheer misfortune, we can only thank God that it hasn’t happened to us.

The speed with which this tragedy can unfold was brought home to me once in London while working in a wine shop in a nice, respectable area by the river. The life of a pleasant, smartly dressed man of about 40 fell apart before my eyes in a matter of months.

He became increasingly withdrawn, bedraggled and unwashed; the light in his eyes dimmed and was eventually extinguished by some intense sorrow and in the end he was living on the street.

Yes, there was alcohol involved, but was that a cause or a symptom? The professionals no doubt have an opinion on that, but for the rest of us, we just see someone down on his luck and dosing himself into oblivion.

We see it in films: the bum who used to be somebody. But in a script he probably gets help from someone and ends up back on the straight and narrow. In real life we’re a bit short of heroes.

We’re afraid of the street people.

We see them as distasteful, volatile, weird. And they may be some of those things, but again, did that come before the fall or after it? If we were to find ourselves living in a doorway and mixing with others in the same situation, would we remain the balanced, rational people we like to think of ourselves as?