In the past 18 months, the Capuchin Day Centre in Dublin's inner city has seen the number of people coming through its
doors for free daily meals and weekly food parcels double.
ROSITA BOLANDspent a day at the centre speaking to staff,
volunteers and the people who use it
IT GOES ALL the way down Bow Street in inner-city Dublin; a shuffling line of people that never seems to get any shorter, because more and more are constantly joining. There are mothers pushing buggies, elderly men in neat coats and scarves, lads with hoodies, small toddler children holding onto the hands of their young mothers who aren’t dressed warmly enough for a chill morning, a woman in a suit speaking on a mobile phone, and men with unkempt beards, long hair and layers of ragged jackets and coats.
In all, one thousand people are regularly queuing every Wednesday morning outside the Capuchin Day Centre to receive a free bag of groceries. The contents vary from week to week, but there are always the basics of a box of 80 teabags, a loaf of brown bread, a pint of milk, packet of sugar, tub of butter, and a block of cheddar cheese. This week, in addition to the basics, the blue plastic bags also contained a litre of tomato juice, 12 chicken nuggets, a packet of tortillas, and a tin each of mushy peas, Ambrosia creamed rice and mandarin oranges.
Many of these people, once they have collected their bag of groceries, then go through the main entrance of the centre, where a free hot breakfast is served daily from 9am.
In 1969, when Brother Kevin Crowley first opened the centre, no more than 50 people availed of breakfast. In 2010, they are now serving up to 500 breakfasts a day, and the same number of dinners. “We have seen our numbers double in the last 18 months or so,” he says quietly.
Everyone is welcome at the bright, warm and clean place that is the day centre. There is a designated, cordoned-off private area with high-chairs for children to eat with a family member: children regularly arrive in uniform to eat breakfast before school.
Nobody is turned away, and no money changes hands for meals. The one rule is no alcohol or drugs on the premises. When asked if he has any idea how far or wide people are coming from, Crowley says he doesn’t know, because there has always been a policy of not asking anyone any questions. “It’s hard enough for some people to come to a place like this.”
As a result, there is no record of any data of the cohort of people who have been attending the centre for more than 40 years. The only fact that is certain is that 10 times more people are now coming to Bow Street for free meals every day than in 1969, when we were supposedly a far poorer country.
“In the beginning, we mostly got people who had drinking problems. Then it was drugs, especially with the younger generation. Lately, it’s what people call the ‘new poor’; people who have lost jobs in the recession.”
In addition to providing two hot meals a day, the centre also offers the regular services of a doctor, nurse, counsellor, and chiropodist. Showers and clean clothes are available for those who need them. There is a staff of 10 and a rotating number of volunteers to help run everything. Volunteers notwithstanding, all of this costs money. The centre receives €400,000 from State funding, and the remainder of the €1.2 million needed annually to run the centre comes from donations from the public and fundraisers. “We could not remain open without the generosity of people,” Brother Crowley states emphatically.
At the back of the tinselled room, a crib is set up on a table. There is a small untidy pile of one and two cent coins in Baby Jesus’ manger; anonymous offerings that nobody has touched.
One of the people eating breakfast is Keith, originally from Clondalkin, who has been homeless for the last six years. “I’ve had a drinking problem.” Keith sleeps outside Bus Áras. He’s articulate and serious, thinks carefully before giving each answer, is completely up-to-date on Irish politics, and says he reads The Irish Times every day. “More needs to be done to get the homeless off the streets,” he says softly. “It’s not right, the number of empty houses and apartments in this city, and so many people living on the streets.”
In the recent sub-zero weather in Dublin, Keith added more layers to his bedding. As well as the sleeping bag and duvet he has, he wrapped himself in black bin liners and covered everything in cardboard.
Apart from the hot food at the centre, what Keith says he values most about the place is the company. “I’d be lost without this place. The hardest thing about being homeless is having nobody around you to talk to you during the day or night. It’s lonely. You know that kind of way?”
Everyone speaks of the fact that, apart from food, the centre offers a place where you can be with other people and have a chat. Martin Joyce from Kilbarrack says, “I come to socialise more than to eat.” He worked as a security guard for 12 years, until he lost his job, and has now been living in a hostel for three years. He pays attention to the news. “There hasn’t been one conviction over the bankers yet,” he notes bitterly.
THE BREAKFAST INCLUDES porridge, cereal, boiled duck eggs, sausages, pudding, fried potatoes, toast and hot drinks, including tomato soup. The sugar bowls on each table empty swiftly. Apart from the eggshells, there is not a scrap of food left on anyone’s plate. This is not a place where food is wasted.
Michael O’Leary is a retired pharmacist who has been volunteering during breakfast time at the centre for the last three years. “I had a methadone clinic as well, so I saw how people who came there needed help,” he says cheerfully, tea-towel in hand. Whenever he can, he chats with those who come to the centre. He thus knows, because people have told him, that they are coming to Bow Street daily from as far away as Balbriggan, Howth and Blanchardstown: people on disability allowance get free travel.
Even in past three years, O’Leary has seen big changes in the numbers. “I do the drinks – tea, soup, milk, coffees – so I count the mugs that go out. Going back two years, if we did 250 mugs at breakfast, we’d think we were very busy. This morning already, I’ve handed out 490 mugs.”
The mugs that everyone is drinking from are a donation from a mobile phone company. They all carry the motto “I’m relaxing”.
Companies, supermarkets and caterers all regularly donate food. Some of what appeared in the centre lately was the result of some supermarkets being unable to deliver groceries ordered online due to the icy roads in Dublin. “We got a huge cake with icing on it that was celebrating someone’s 25th wedding anniversary,” O’Leary recounts. “It must have been intended for a big party. We cut it up and served it with jelly as dessert.”
Noel Fegan, originally from Finglas, is sharing a room in a BB in Stoneybatter. He used to be a van driver, but it’s 13 years since he worked. “I still class myself as homeless, even though I’m living in a BB,” he says. Fegan was a heroin addict, but has been on methadone for seven years now.
When asked to describe his day, this is what he says: “I get up, get methadone, come here for breakfast. If it’s raining, they let me in a bit earlier. I stay until half eleven, when it closes. Then I just walk around. I’m 40, I’m too old for thieving and robbing. That’s a young man’s game. At one, I come in for the dinner, and hang around until half three. Sometimes I’ll look at the TV down the back. Then I go back to the BB. I have a DVD player there.”
What would he do without the centre as a place to come to each day? “People used to call these places soup kitchens. If there weren’t centres like this giving out food for free, people would starve to death on the streets. There are still homeless people, but at least their bellies are full. The rich people of Ireland need to know that places like this are keeping the streets cleaner than they would be if these places didn’t exist.”
Chef Roy Campbell is one of the centre’s few paid employees, and has been working there for 11 years. “The kitchen used to be one-third the size. When we were doing 170 dinners a day, we thought that was busy; now we’re doing 450 on an average day. We used to open at 1.40pm, and now we have to open at 1pm to seat everyone.”
The previous day, it was curry on the menu for dinner. Today it’s savoury mince. He also cooks pork, roast beef, Lancashire hot pot, and fish on Fridays – and whatever is donated.
“Donations come in many forms,” he points out. “In money, food, and volunteers’ time.”
Does he think numbers attending will increase even more He thinks for a while. Then he says, “Nobody knows where we’re headed now.”
The Capuchin Day Centre is at 29 Bow Street, Dublin 7, 01-8720770. homeless.ie.
