The
human cost
17/10/2008
As
live-in wardens are scrapped across the country, Emily
Rogers hears from those facing the
consequences.
For some sheltered housing tenants, living alongside a
full-time warden means peace of mind and security. It means
having someone with a listening ear to turn to when needed,
who will come to their aid in an emergency.
For many, the resident warden is the friendly face, the
social glue in their community, the person who organises
events and brings people together.
For others, the warden can be a surrogate relative, someone
who knows them well enough to detect when something is
wrong.
A resident warden plays many roles. But as more and more of
them are removed across the country, often with little
consultation, some tenants and their relatives are finding
themselves plunged into unexpected new roles themselves.
Some, like 72-year-old Chelmsford tenant Vernon Yarker,
have become vociferous campaigners, turning their
retirement flats into protest nerve centres.
Mr Yarker has now transformed from lone campaigner into the
chair of Sheltered Housing UK, a movement working to
safeguard the jobs of remaining onsite wardens and replace
those already lost.
But behind the media spotlight, thousands are struggling to
cope with the gap that has been left.
Others are trying to fill it by donning their former
warden’s abandoned hats.
Throughout the last month, Mr Yarker says he has received
150 calls and emails from tenants and their relatives
nationwide who have experienced the loss of wardens or are
fearful of that happening.
Their words build an intricate picture of the human cost of
the change. Here are some of their stories.
The organiser
Sylvia Elliott, 83, moved into her sheltered home in
Flitwick, Bedfordshire, nearly 12 years ago. The resident
warden has since been removed and replaced by a floating
support worker, and warden visits have been reduced to once
a week. Ms Elliott is severely handicapped and has cancer.
‘We have a close of 22 bungalows,’ says Ms Elliott. ‘In
that close, there’s something known as “the big house”. Ten
years ago, our warden lived there and we had a social room.
We used to play all kinds of games.
‘Then quite suddenly, about seven years ago, it was decided
to get rid of her and have somebody just call in five days
a week and turn the big house into four flats. We were then
out on a limb.
‘I used to run the Christmas cards [sales] and we used to
make a packet with them, so we could have outings. I
probably could go on doing it, but if we were to go on
outings, who’s responsible? The warden won’t come with us.
‘Now, we have no communion at all, apart from the fact that
I run [neighbourhood watch]. To accommodate everybody, I
have to have four or five separate meetings in my own
house. Everyone comes to me for help because I run
[neighbourhood watch].
‘Let’s face it: people want privacy, not to resolve other
people’s problems all the time. That’s what we came here to
have a warden for. Seventy- five per cent of us are in our
80s and we can’t cope with this.’
The ex-wife
Janet Smith, 70, is looking after her 82-year-old
ex-husband, who has lived in his ground floor sheltered
home in south east London for six months. Ms Smith split
from him 25 years ago and now lives with her partner
several miles away.
‘He [her ex-husband] had a partner for 16 years,’ she says.
‘Then my son rang me up about four years ago and he said:
“Did you know dad is living on his own?” He’s now been in
sheltered housing for four years. We pushed to get him into
a ground-floor flat, because he’s got arthritis. He’s been
quite ill and has got a catheter.
‘He was down on Monday to have a prostate operation. But he
fell over in the middle of the room and was there all night
and couldn’t get to the pullcord. His blood pressure
plummeted, he’s dehydrated and his operation has been
postponed now.
‘I do his washing, his laundry and I do his housework,
because I can’t bear to think he has been living in a dirty
house. I do his shopping too. I don’t think he’d like
strangers coming round doing that.
‘They [the floating wardens] call twice a week. You might
say, “something has gone wrong”, but they don’t stop to
listen. It’s absolutely dreadful and I’ve had so many rows
and have got angina now because this has gone on for a
year.
‘I visit him at least twice a week, but sometimes I’ve been
around four times. My partner, Ron, is an absolute brick.
He’s 80. He’s got up and put his trousers on over his
pyjamas and just gets in the car to help him.
‘I phone him up every morning and every evening, but I’m a
pensioner and my phone bill has doubled in the last few
months. I don’t want him to be alone all day and night, not
talking to a human being. So I took out a contract with BT
for him.
‘If he had a residential warden, I think he’d have somebody
to talk to. Things are getting so bad, I don’t know whether
to write to the MP [Bob Neil, shadow communities and local
government minister] again. I want to know why they’re
taking all these wardens away and the elderly are left
alone and vulnerable.’
The ones who aren’t reached in time
Audrey Brown, 86, moved into her sheltered home in
Beckenham, Kent, four years ago. The warden’s service has
since been reduced from five to three days a week. Tenants
recently heard this was to be further reduced to one day.
‘My old neighbour falls over quite a lot and she was
getting herself to the phone and ringing me, because I’ve
got her key. Quite often, I would go and be with her,
waiting for the emergency services to come and sometimes
they would be such a long time.
‘One or two people have been found dead. One man had been
very ill. We saw him on Thursday and nobody saw him on
Friday or Monday morning when he usually did his washing.
‘The warden said she would be there this afternoon, came in
the afternoon and rang him and didn’t get an ambulance and
didn’t do anything about it. On Tuesday morning, they found
him dead. He probably could already have been dead, but he
could have been found a day earlier.
‘We’ve got pull-cords in our rooms, but if people fall over
and they’re not near one of those and the warden doesn’t
come around and if it’s somebody who generally goes out,
they can be not be picked up.
‘At one time, we had a disc which you put on our door if
you had gone out. But that has all gone by the board now.
It’s all a bit hit and miss, really.’
The helper
Brenda Jones, 80, arrived at her south coast flat in July
last year. The warden is still living there, but has been
put in charge of scheme maintenance and no longer has
contact with the residents. Floating support officers now
come in and Ms Jones gets visits once a fortnight.
‘My neighbour is 94 and in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.
She goes to a care centre every day and has a carer coming
night and morning to bathe and dress her. She goes to the
centre and has lunch there and loves it, but she’s very
lonely in the evenings.
‘One time, at about 3am, there was a knocking in the
bathroom, hers is next to mine. I went into her bathroom
and she was stuck in the bath with no water in it, and she
didn’t know how she got there. So I called Lifeline [a
telecare service] and eventually, they sent an ambulance.
They were going to put her to bed, but I told them they
shouldn’t do that. So they took her to hospital.
‘It worries me. She’s lovely and she’s sweet to everybody
and has an MBE, so she has had a good career behind her,
but she has got early stage Alzheimer’s and I don’t think
she should be in a place like this without a resident
warden.
‘She said to me: “You’re the only one I can come to.” I
don’t mind helping her, but I don’t want to be responsible
for her and that’s why I think there must be a resident
warden.’
The departing warden
Sarah Hobbs, 61, is a full-time warden for a sheltered
housing scheme in Oxfordshire. Her housing association
employer has told wardens they will be losing their jobs
from next April, as it has decided housing support is too
costly.
‘They’re going round telling all the tenants here,’ she
says. ‘They’ve told the council and Supporting People that
they no longer wish to provide these services from April.
The council will then put the service out to tender.
‘They’ve given [the tenants] enough time to worry
themselves to death. They keep asking us when we’re going.
They just don’t know what’s going to happen. If you give
them eight months, that’s eight months of worry. I don’t
think it has really hit the tenants, because they’re
saying: you’re all so good at your job, of course they’ll
keep you.
‘I’ve been working here full-time for about five years. I’d
work for free if I could do. I’ve never had such a nice
job. This is a lot of hard work, but it’s a lovely job to
do, visiting and making sure they’re OK, calling the doctor
if they need it. I feel that we’ve let them down and we’ll
all suffer at the end of the day.
‘I would never just buzz them [without seeing them in
person]. I don’t think it’s right to buzz old people. I’m
always being told off for taking too long [with them].
You’ll say to them: “Are you OK?” And they’ll say: “I’m
fine.” But you just know to look at them [that they’re
not]. ‘I think older people like to see a friendly face. It
makes their day. And if you can do one or two things to
make somebody smile, I think the day has been worthwhile.
They’re so pleased to see you and you might be the only
person they see all day.
‘We’re all demoralised, losing our job, because we love it.
We think it’s the best job in the world.’
The frustrated socialite
Jane Moore, 89, came to live in her Bournemouth sheltered
home seven years ago. When she arrived, her scheme had two
residential wardens. Now one warden comes in every day to
deal with problems.
‘With 71 flats, we’ve got around 90 people coming and going
and with one warden,’ she says. ‘They ring you, they bleep,
and say: “Everything OK?” But if they’re called out to
another block which doesn’t have a warden, they don’t come
back until teatime.
‘It has always annoyed me, because it used to be such a
different atmosphere. These places are a bit gossipy, but
when we had two wardens, there wasn’t always this
atmosphere. When they got down to one warden, they didn’t
have the time to organise a social life. People won’t form
a committee for organising social events, because of the
gossiping and backbiting that goes on. So there’s been
nothing. For weeks now, they’ve not even had a game of
bingo.
‘I’ve worked with the services during the war. I was
working all the time until a few years ago. I’ve been used
to people around me all the time. It comes down to the fact
that we’re in these very nice flats, but you’re literally
on your own, and especially at night… And I’m a night owl.
‘When I first came down here, we had night events, parties,
and it was very good. And sometimes, in the afternoon,
there would be skittles. But that has all dwindled away.
Let’s face it, there’s nothing to socialise for. Basically,
the place is dead. Saturday and Sunday, forget it. Some of
the girls are completely on their own. There’s a certain
group of about eight or nine people, and all this gossip
that goes on, which I hate.’
For more on the impact of warden cuts see:More stories from
sheltered housing