Alice looks down from her perch on top of the rocking horse, bright-eyed behind big specs, says: ‘Catch me!’ then propels herself into the air. I catch, hug, then prop her back up again, ready for another go. ‘Ooh, she likes you,’ says Iris, director of the 999 Club and uncrowned queen of Deptford. ‘She doesn’t normally take to people that quick.’ I am ridiculously, disproportionately happy. Alice has a squint, is five but looks three. I love her. So where’s her mum? I ask Iris. Why isn’t she here? ‘Oh, her mum!’ Iris snorts. ‘She spends all day online chatting. She ignores Alice — leaves her sitting on her own, so her gran brings her here most days. She’d be lost if she couldn’t come here, wouldn’t you, Alice, love?’
It’s easiest to explain the 999 Club in terms of who it’s for — which is anyone at all who needs help. The helping hand extended down from government flails about blindly in Deptford, missing those who need it most. So the 999 Club does the job instead. The basic idea is to offer hot meals, advice and a place to hang out, but in fact it’s more like Mary Poppins’s carpet bag, out of which comes whatever is required. Iris — Lewisham’s Mary P — and her swat team of local girls will feed you, help you apply for benefits, direct you to Narcotics Anonymous, drive you to hospital; they’ll badger lazy housing officials on your behalf, give you blankets — even wash your clothes.
‘Here’s a story that explains why government help doesn’t work round here,’ says Iris. ‘Listen to this. The council tried to start a crèche on the estate where Alice lives. It was a nice crèche, but it had to close down, guess why?’ I can’t.
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