When your right to a home is just a matter of opinion

Based in Brixton, Sr Frances Howlett, a Franciscan Missionary, writes her first article in a series on the homeless
THERE WERE definitely noises coming from next door. Mr and Mrs Hobson had sold it to Mr Thomas 18 months ago. He was waiting for the council building repair grant to materialise. We agreed to keep an eye on it as he lived several streets away. Now, what we had dreaded seemed to be happening. The first floor window, usually open two inches, was wide open. Three faces crowned with spikes and tufts of orange, puce and red looked down at us.
"We're not moving, we know our rights. We haven't made any noise," said one in a flat quiet voice. "How did you get in?" I asked. "Upon his shoulders and onto the sill," grinned the youngest. "We really won't disturb you," he added.
But it's a private house you're in and we've promised to keep an eye on it for the owner. He's waiting for his building grant," I explained.
"It's council", they insisted, "It's on the squatters list we got yesterday."
"Who you're talking to" A new voice broke in. A young woman with a magnificent coxcomb of brilliant green appeared. "What do you want? Push off", she rasped.
"Shut up" commanded puce spikes. Unseen hands aided her departure. "Look, can't you just pretend we're not here? There's nowhere to go. Every place is full". I closed my eyes and wished myself a 1000 miles away from the dilemmas of the inner city. Of course there was nowhere to go: Hostels closed or full. More than 20,000 on the council housing waiting list.
Hardly a room to rent and certainly not to young rainbows even if they had the exorbitant rent demanded by most landlords. But there are hundreds of empty flats and houses awaiting repair. The squatters organisation have them all listed. Some in violent areas to be avoided. Others where active resident associations call the police at the first sign of an entry. The majority open for occupation.
I opened my eyes, "Sorry, this is a private house. I have to let Mr Thomas know you're here. I'll tell him how quiet and polite you are. Maybe he'll talk to you". "OK" they said and shut the window.
"Thanks a lot Sister. I'll be round in half an hour. Don't worry: there won't be any fighting. They'll go". Mr Thomas sounded so calm I was mystified by his certiainty of success. I went over my decision. Here I was defending the interests of a man who already had a house and a job against a group of homeless youngsters.
To make it worse, their accents told me they had come from close to my own home area of the midlands. How wonderful if I could invite them in. This surely would have been the response of St Francis. My Sisters in community would certainly give their consent.
But what of the consequences? My vow of poverty allows me only the use of the house and its contents. Supposing they wouldn't leave? I mused over the paradox until toots in the road announced Mr Thomas' arrival. He left two of his sons chatting in the front seat. Opening the back doors five more young men emerged stretching and laughing. Propping themselves up on various walls, one started to file his nails while another stared reflectively up the street, his back towards us. Five male and two remale punks gazed down.
"I don't want no trouble, no police" began Mr Thomas quietly. "I've saved up to buy this house for my sons. I want you out in an hour and God help you if you're not. The Sisters will send for the ambulance."
Without a word the five piled back into the van. The two in front had not even interrupted their conversation. With a wave Mr Thomas drove off and the window next door slammed shut. What next?