Gerry's memories of life, loss and humanity at the heart of Aberdeen Cyrenians

I was involved with Aberdeen Cyrenians for a couple of years from about 1971 to 1973 at the night shelter.  I also had some contact as a committee member in the late 70s. I worked in the lodging house at 33 East North Street from 1976 until 1978 where I had continuing contact with the Cyrenian night shelter which was next door.

I worked as a Social Worker in Criminal Justice and Mental Health, and as a duty Social Worker. I had ongoing contact with most of the Cyrenian projects. I was the Unit Manager at Stopover from 1991–1993.

There are many stories I have about the night shelter in Peacock’s Close. Where do I start?

Sleeping in the corridor on four steel rounded chairs painted pale green and cream. The purpose of sleeping in the corridor was to separate the men from the women. The women’s room was at one end and the men’s at the other. This was generally done to give the older women in the room a bit of peace and quiet. In the women’s room would be Joey Mac, Sophie, and Kate Mutton. J.B., whose husband was a trawl skipper living in a council house in the north of the city, was having a relationship with N.H. - a permanent resident of the night shelter. He was a particularly violent man who tried to dominate the group staying there.

He was accepted at the shelter because the ethos of the Cyrenians at the time was that everybody had a legitimate reason to be there. The “staff” were not the arbiters of need. As social beings, we had a duty to protect the older and more vulnerable residents. In the extreme behaviour of N.H. lay the contradiction of working at the night shelter.

There was also a man called “New Deer.” New Deer veered between managing to stay at the shelter and sleeping rough. On nights when he couldn’t tolerate it anymore, he would shout, “Sandy Murray says New Deer is OK, am awa tae the beach!” He would always leave dramatically, eyes bulging, his mind fuelled by a mix of cheap wine and Belair Hairspray. In the 1990s, I met his daughter who came looking for information about him. I regret not being able to give her more.

There was a particularly sad old man, W.Y., who had been an orra man all his life. He came from Strathglass and had lived alone in a tied cottage. When he reached retirement age, he was turfed out and drifted into the city. He didn’t have the worldly knowledge to seek proper accommodation and ended up at the night shelter. I liked him - at the time, I had just moved up from the Central Belt, and he’d come in from the country. I couldn’t understand a word he said, and that was a bit of a challenge.

By the time I knew him, he was clearly in the early stages of dementia. I used to take him to the medical baths at the City Hospital. We’d catch the No. 11 bus from the Castlegate and walk from Urquhart Road. W. wasn’t great at walking, and on one occasion, a passing Coopie electric milk float stopped and gave us a lift in the back among the milk crates.

There was another lovely man - D.M. - one of the “feekie drinkers.” When he was sober, he was very gentle. He’d been a prisoner in a Japanese POW camp. When he was on the Belair Hairspray, the most primal emotions would come out - animalistic, incoherent, stifled noises. He’d grab your arms tightly, not violently, but as if trying to express something deeply internal.

His sister was a regular at Sunday mass at St. Peter’s in the Castlegate - I still went to mass then. She always asked after her brother. She lived in Park Street.

Diane will speak in more detail about R.F., who had a very sharp mind in her day. My lasting memory is of her children visiting her in the night shelter. They were around 12 at the time, in care at Brimmond Children’s Home. I later had one of her children as a client. She died a violent death at a tragically young age.

There was another family from Cotton Street who came to the night shelter on occasion. Some of the younger siblings were also in care. The youngest would sometimes show up at the shelter too.

Back then, the shelter was a mix of people from fishing backgrounds, rural and agricultural communities, travelling people, and city folk who’d suffered physical and/or emotional trauma.

I have many more stories I could share and would be happy to, if it’s thought worthwhile.

Most of the people at the night shelter should never have ended up needing it - not in the sixth richest country in the world. We need to end austerity and make the axiom, “From each according to their ability, to each according to their needs,” a reality.