Out in the hall the tables had filled up. Volunteers seated the guests, poured orange squash, and handed round plates of bread and butter with the soup. Once or twice Sarah got as far as the door of the kitchen to look in. Men and women of all ages huddled on the benches in threadbare garments, utensils grasped in roughened hands with dirty fingernails. There was a hunted look about some of them, a furtive hurrying as they spooned their soup and took bread to dip in it. She wondered what it was that had sent them out on to the streets to live in doorways, under cardboard boxes. Her earlier resentment at having been left with the worst job of the evening made her feel ashamed. Even her modest little flat was warm and dry, with hot and cold running water, scented soap, clean towels and sheets. Her days were a secure heaven compared to the desperate lives of these broken-down human beings who had gone without many a meal, and spent their days in fear of being beaten up or driven off pavements by busy shoppers or the police.

‘If I did try to talk to any of them they’d probably resent my posh accent, and my grand clothes and privileged background, and they’d be right,’ she said to herself. Then the cook summoned her once more, and she went back to her job at the sink.

It was after the pudding that the commotion started. Sarah heard the shouting as she struggled through another pile of sudsy plates. She followed the cook to the kitchen door and looked into the hall. Mike was in the middle of the room, remonstrating with a gaunt man in an old overcoat tied at the waist with string.

‘I’m sorry John-Jo. You can’t come in.’ Mike’s voice was firm and he had his hand on the man’s arm. ‘You know you’re barred after last time.’

John-Jo tried to lunge past him, shouting unintelligibly, and pulling something from his pocket. People nearby moved out of the range of his flailing arms as Mike wrestled with him. The hall had become very quiet, everyone watching and waiting. Father Connolly came hurrying from his office.

‘Now, John-Jo, you know the rules. No drink in here.’ The priest took the bottle from him. ‘Will we get you a good strong cup of tea? You’re too late for much else. You should have come earlier if you wanted your dinner.’ He placed his arm round the bony shoulder. ‘Mike is right, you know. You were barred the last time. But if you sit down quietly we’ll get you some tea, and you can warm yourself. Will you do that now?’