On an overcast day in March, very little is headed in the direction of Griffin
Close, a block of council flats in north London that is in every sense a
dead end.
When Andrew Smith died, nobody noticed. His flat, No 171, was at the end of
the row on the second floor. His body was discovered when a neighbour,
someone he had never talked to, smelt something odd and phoned the police.
Andrew Smith had been dead for two months.
The date of birth on his medical records is November 30, 1965. The official
date of his death, which is based on when his body was found, is May 13,
2006. There were no details on record of next of kin, and nothing in his
flat to identify family or friends.
I’d first heard about Andrew Smith at Hornsey Coroner’s Court, north London,
while beginning a story on unclaimed bodies in the UK. I was drawn to him
because of his age and his name, because he had nobody; and he could have
been me. Now I’m standing at his cobalt-blue front door wondering just who
was this overlooked man? And how was it that at the end of his life, not one
person missed him or knew he was gone?
For some, the decision to disappear is gradual. It begins with an impulse, a
desire to disconnect. It could mean turning the phone off and retreating
under the duvet. For most people, it’s a fleeting escape. Family and friends
are what keep them tethered. But what happens to those who become
untethered? Or let go on purpose? Days, months, even years can pass. They
have slipped through the cracks. Despite the presence of CCTV cameras and
telecoms technology, which make most of us feel we are constantly monitored,
it has become easier for those who live alone to avoid human contact
altogether.
Some people don’t want to be reached or saved or found. Andrew Smith was one
of them.
------------------
On May 13, 2006, at 6.30pm, PC Andrew Pilkington arrived at 171 Griffin Close.
As he walked closer, he could smell the body and noticed the number of flies
around the flat. There was no answer to his knock on the door, and he forced
an entry. On a mattress in what appeared to be a bedroom, in green trousers
and white trainers, Andrew Smith lay dead.
According to PC Pilkington’s statement, no valuables were found and the flat
was a mess; the contents of the fridge mouldy. There were no signs of a
break-in or a disturbance, and incoline (diabetic medication) was found in
the kitchen cupboard. PC Pilkington called the Brent coroner’s officer
Michelle Jones, who arranged for the undertakers to collect the body. The
last line of the statement reads: “QH24N waited with the body for the
undertakers to arrive and to be taken to Northwick Park Hospital.”
On May 15, two days later, a postmortem on the decomposed body listed the
cause of death as “unascertained”. There was no reason to suspect unnatural
causes. Andrew’s body was so badly decomposed that there was no fluid left
in his body and his features were unrecognisable.
An inquest was opened and a “Merlin” reference number assigned – a number
given to those who are unidentified or have no traceable next of kin.
Andrew’s body stayed in the mortuary while police tried to gather more
information and Jones contacted his GP to find out his medical history.
Mortuaries can keep bodies indefinitely, but there comes a point when the
deceased must be laid to rest. Sometimes a relative doesn’t want to claim
the body for emotional or financial reasons. But often there are no
traceable relatives, and the coroner waits until the police tell them they
have exhausted all avenues of inquiry before releasing the body for burial.
Five months after Andrew Smith’s body was found, on October 17, DC John
Richmond, from Brent Missing Persons Unit, told Michelle Jones that the
inquiries into Andrew Smith were over. There was no next of kin.
During that six-month investigation, what had the police done to trace
Andrew’s family? Richmond was, understandably, irritated by my interest.
With each question he became more impatient. “His flat had to be fumigated
twice,” he said, sounding agitated. “It was full of flies and
maggots. It was filthy. Clothes unwashed, in a very poor area of London. It
was a slum.”
It’s easy to understand that, for a detective who deals with bleak cases on a
daily basis, Smith was one of many; just another body in a filthy flat. The
problem, Richmond explained, was that there was no paperwork in the flat –
no birth certificate, no passport. Smith’s medical records indicated he had
been adopted, but his name and date of birth were not listed in British
adoption records. Also, the date of birth on his medical records did not
match that in the General Register of Births, Deaths and Marriages, so the
police couldn’t retrieve a birth certificate. Everything in the flat had
been destroyed. Richmond used the word squalor, a word heavy with the
consequence of failure. There was no empathy in his voice, only disgust.
Was Andrew Smith his real name? Could the date of birth on the medical records
have been incorrect? Who was Andrew Smith?
----------------------
Walm Lane is a 10-minute walk from Griffin Close. Nearly a year after Smith’s
death, it was surprisingly easy to locate the pharmacy where he took his
prescriptions. For the past 12 years he had cycled there once a month to
collect his insulin. March 3, 2006, two months before his body was
discovered, was the last collection.
The pharmacist said he was always dressed neatly. He described him as “shy and
pleasant – nothing mentally ill about him”, and admitted that when he didn’t
see him for a while, he just assumed that Smith had moved away.
With little to go on, Andrew Smith’s life unfolded through a single list.
According to the medical records held by his GP, these were his concerns
since childhood: mild scoliosis – curvature of the spine (1967); defective
speech – treatment: speech therapy (1969); lack of progress at school
(1972); persistent blinking of eyes – eyes examined, no abnormality
detected; air-gun pellet in right wrist (1981); road-traffic accident –
lower back pain (1986).
Then the list skips to 1998 and notes insulin-dependent diabetes and then,
oddly, the next date is 1967, wheezy chest. After that, 2006, with a patch
of eczema on his left foot, and weight loss, 1998.
The paper trail of his life is littered with gaps, inconsistencies and typos.
It is entirely possible that the birth date listed could be incorrect, that
numbers could have been accidentally reversed.
A few doors down from his flat, at No 168, Andrew’s neighbour, a postman,
described Andrew as quiet, tall and thin. They lived near each other for 13
years but had only spoken to say hello when they passed each other coming
and going on the stairs. In all the years he lived there, he said, he had
seen no friends, ever. Andrew kept to himself.
For a few weeks I tried to get in touch with Victoria Akiwowo, the then estate
officer for Griffin Close. Maybe she had information about Andrew – for
instance, what happened to his mail? Whatever letters had piled up I assumed
had been destroyed for health reasons along with the contents of the flat.
But surely some letters arrived after his death? PC Pilkington’s statement
had noted: “There were a number of letters by the front door with the name
Andrew Simth [sic].” I never did get hold of her, or find out.
On the ground floor, a middle-aged woman opened her door. “He might know
something,” she said, and waved over a man in a green army jacket. He
introduced himself as Joseph. “How well do you know Andrew Smith?” he asked
cautiously, fearing I wasn’t aware of his death. When Andrew died, Joseph
said, he found it odd that the police hadn’t knocked on doors or
spoken to the neighbours.
It appears Andrew had slipped through the cracks in death, as he did in life.
It was assumed that because he had nobody, he must be nobody.
------------------------------
For a coroner’s officer like Michelle Jones, death is part of everyday life.
She is a good-natured woman, and when we meet at her office, she eats lunch
from a paper plate at her desk while going through Andrew Smith’s file.
“It is incredibly sad. Suddenly you’re not here – and nobody’s bothered. How
can someone live a life where nobody is wondering? Nobody is concerned? He
must be someone’s child.”
In October, after the investigation had been concluded, Jones referred Smith’s
case to the local authority responsible for contacting the funeral director,
who would carry out a parish funeral and cremation, funded by the council.
No authority in the UK officially collates the national statistics regarding
parish funerals, but in the year in which Andrew was buried, his funeral
directors had dealt with 14 cases. We must assume that thousands die alone
and unmourned every year. Sandra Moulder, the coroner’s technical support
officer, attends the funerals in Brent if nobody else is there. But
sometimes she is just too busy to make it.
To get some idea of what Andrew’s funeral would have been like, I accompany
Moulder to Enfield Crematorium for the parish funeral of George Willington,
a retired pipe-fitter who died of natural causes alone in his council flat.
Born in 1934, he left behind pension cheques, a TV licence and £13 in coins.
He had no next of kin. There is a plain white card with his name written in
black ink on a stand outside the chapel doors. We are the only mourners.
Father Emerson is a charismatic man in his mid-seventies. He begins the
service with the 23rd psalm from the Book of Common Prayer. “The lord is my
shepherd…” After 15 minutes, he commits the body to eternal rest.
Afterwards, I walk out to their “flower terrace”, where a bouquet of flowers
with a purple bow lies on the ground near another card with George
Willington’s name. They were placed there by the funeral directors. Later
his ashes will be scattered by a chapel attendant. There is an efficiency to
this process that I find reassuring. It is a ritual that is comforting,
serene, and a little bit heartbreaking. With nobody left behind to mourn,
there is no suffering.
Andrew Smith’s funeral took place on Friday, December 8, 2006, seven months
after his body was discovered, and was held at the West London Crematorium.
The cost – paid for by the local council – was £475. His ashes were
scattered in the Garden of Rest.
In Victorian and Edwardian Britain the death of a pauper carried a tremendous
stigma. Today, we appear to be less judgmental about poverty, and yet we
still keep an emotional distance from those who die alone. Perhaps because
the choice to disconnect was theirs and so the burden of responsibility on
the living is lifted; or because, at a time when an increasing number of us
live alone, we fear this is what may become of us.
What happened to Andrew Smith to provoke his estrangement from the world? Was
there something in his life that foretold his unhappy ending? A seminal
moment? A traumatic event? Or perhaps it was a series of little rejections,
fragments of disillusionment; an unremarkable life passing into an
unremarkable death.
---------------------
And then, just as the story of Andrew Smith’s life appeared to end with no
insight into who he was, it was in fact beginning. In May 2007, Michelle
Jones informed me of a breakthrough. Two months earlier, in March, I had
contacted the primary-care trust in Brent and Harrow, looking for Andrew
Smith’s full medical records and patient notes (the GP’s notes I’d seen had
barely covered a page). I was told that if they existed, they would not be
made available to me. Someone from the coroner’s office must speak to a
supervisor. Michelle Jones said she would help. Eight weeks passed. Now,
here they were. A road map of Andrew Smith’s medical history in doctors’
scribbled shorthand.
It is a peculiar fact that details we never notice as we move through life can
act as valuable clues once we die. An x-ray of your teeth, an address on a
standard form – you never think these might explain who you are when you’re
gone.
Some facts: Andrew Smith was born Andrew Bethell. His recorded date of birth,
November 30, 1965, was correct. He had been fostered, not adopted, through
social services into the Smith family in Farnborough, Hampshire, till he was
16.
Jones put in a request to the Hampshire county council and also contacted
children’s services. If the fostering file could be retrieved, it would
provide important details for locating next of kin. Without full names and
dates of birth, there was no way to make sure of the right Mr and Mrs Smith.
A fax was sent to the county adoption services, for the attention of Donna
Martin. It still wasn’t clear if Andrew had been legally adopted after
having been fostered. We waited for her reply. In June, Martin told Jones
that two searches had been done and no file could be found. The conclusion
was that it must have been destroyed. In a note, she wrote: “It’s very
frustrating. Seems such a simple task. Let me know if there’s anything more
I can do.”
For the past eight years, Margaret Duncan has worked as a probate researcher,
tracing relatives for the deceased. If someone in the UK dies without
leaving a will, their estate becomes the property of the crown. Her company,
Thames Probate, searches for the blood kin when an estate needs
distributing. She also occasionally works with local authorities, which is
how Jones came to hear of her and to ask her to look at Andrew Smith’s case.
Once she became involved, things began to move forward.
Using her death index (a CD containing special information), Duncan was able
to provide the address where the Smith family had lived with Andrew –
Cripley Road, confirmation of their names – Isabel and Stanley, dates of
birth, and confirmation of their deaths.
Isabel Smith was known as Betty. She and her husband, Stanley, were older
parents. They fostered Andrew when he was six months old. Isabel died in
1978 of cancer when Andrew was 13, and he continued to live alone with
Stanley. And then there was the most trenchant detail of all: the Smiths had
two biological children of their own before they fostered Andrew. He was not
an only child. He had a brother and sister who might still be alive and, if
so, presumably remained unaware of his death.
---------------------
It is a sunny Tuesday in July, and I’m standing in a residential road in
Farnborough. In front of me is a semidetached house with white lace
curtains. Mrs Camm has lived in this house since 1968, separated by only a
wall and a fence from the Smith family, where Andrew grew up.
The Smiths were, she recalls, an average working-class family. Stanley worked
for the local council as a landscape gardener, keeping the parks clean and
planting the roundabouts. Isabel was a busy housewife and very close to her
fostered son. “Andrew had lovely red hair and freckles. And a little round
face,” she recalls.
As a little boy, Andrew would play with her daughter and some other children
in the yard. He was shy, she said; not the sort to ask for a glass of
lemonade, but happy if one was offered.
In 1977, Andrew started at Cove comprehensive school, the same year as Mrs
Camm’s daughter. She can’t remember much of him after that. When Andrew’s
mother died a year later, his father stopped work to look after him. His
sister, seven years older, and his brother, nine years older, had already
moved out. After a year or so, Stanley Smith and Andrew moved to a smaller
house. There is a Robert Smith who still lives down the road, and Mrs Camm
believes this might be Andrew’s brother. She offers to put a note through
his letterbox, to see if it is him.
-----------------
Relationships are the infrastructure of our lives, but they require
maintenance or they crumble. When Andrew Smith’s brother was told what had
happened to him, he was shocked but not surprised. They’d been out of touch
for a while.
He agreed to speak on the phone. His voice was even, and he spoke of how his
brother had become more and more isolated and had been on a downward spiral.
Our conversation was brief, but he told me that he would inform his sister,
a practice nurse with her own family. She was closer to Andrew and had seen
him a few years ago. Robert, who works for a healthcare company, lives with
his wife and his two daughters. “It all goes by so quickly,” he says, before
we hang up. “Marriage, career, children, paying the mortgage – you lose
contact.”
A few days later, in the late afternoon, I receive a phone call. A tentative
voice says: “This is Andrew Smith’s sister.” It was an unusual phone call.
Few of us expect to have to ask for the details of a sibling’s death from a
stranger.
She tells me she had been planning a trip to London with her family at
Christmas this year and would have gone to the flat and found out then. So
it was better to know. Several times she mentions that she can’t understand
why her letters were never returned. She sent cards to Andrew – Christmas
and birthday cards – always with a note on the envelope that clearly stated
they should be returned to her if not delivered. Nothing ever came back. In
one card she had written: “Are you alive or dead?”
The following week, I visit Andrew’s sister at her cosy seaside home. She does
not want her name to be used. There are frog figurines in the loo and towels
that match the cheerful paint on the wall. A fluffy tibetan terrier follows
us into the kitchen as she makes a cup of tea.
The last time she saw Andrew alive was December 2004. It was close to
Christmas, and she went to his flat at Griffin Close with her husband and
two sons, who were 13 and 15. She had sent him a card letting him know they
would be stopping by. She couldn’t call because he didn’t have a phone.
The flat was a mess. She noticed he was coughing a lot. He was very thin and
looked poorly, and there was no radio, no television, and no books. What did
he do all day? She didn’t know. Nothing. He slept a lot. But there was a
bicycle in his flat. And some days he would cycle to the West End and
people-watch.
What was he thinking when he watched others live their lives? His sister was
not one to ask him questions like this. She does not know what happened or
why he chose to isolate himself. When she speaks about him, it is with a
puzzled yet matter-of-fact tone. “He went to London to find his fortune,”
she says, shaking her head. “He was always a dreamer.”
Only Andrew could have answered the question of whether or not he had a happy
childhood, but others seem to think he had. Over the next few hours, sitting
with his sister in her spotless sitting room, his life story is told. On her
lap she has photographs to show me, and in nearly all of them he is smiling.
A red-headed little boy with huge brown eyes and a freckled nose. A teenager:
broad shoulders, tanned, and wearing a coral necklace. There is one from
1998 in which he has a red bandanna on his head, and then there is one in
which he is sitting in a brown leather chair. It is the same chair I am
sitting in. As he ages, he begins to look thin. The photographs stop in
1998.
It will be dusk when we set off to the train station – her husband will drive
– and she will explain why she does not want her identity to be known. She
will tell me, “It’s very sad how he died,” and that she is embarrassed. She
tells me that Andrew’s birth mother, Evelyn, was unmarried when she became
pregnant and was not able to raise him by herself. She didn’t want to put
him up for adoption because she thought, or maybe hoped, that one day she
might be able to take him back.
He was a good-natured child who looked on the bright side. He would climb
trees and had friends. “He had a winning charm,” his sister said. “And it
carried over into his adulthood.”
As a child, Andrew always knew that he had another mum and that she wanted
him. In 1978, Isabel Smith developed bowel cancer and died six months later.
There had been talk of adopting Andrew so he would not be taken away, but he
was a teenager, and they were told it was not likely, so the adoption never
took place.
When I asked his sister how Andrew had changed after the death of his foster
mother, she said she didn’t feel he had. He did not become withdrawn, and
she does not believe this is what triggered his desire to disconnect.
Andrew left school at 16. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do but had ideas of
a better life, somehow. He always had schemes. “There was one about
biorhythms,” his sister recalled.
At 18, he tracked down his birth mother and surprised her. Both his sister and
brother say it went well. “A rewarding experience.” He discovered he had
another family and stayed in touch on and off. His birth mother is still
alive, but made it clear, on hearing of Andrew’s death from his sister, that
she did not want to talk.
At 19, he changed his name from Bethell to Smith. After 1985 he drops off the
electoral register. He worked at various jobs through the years – as a
delivery driver and a builder – and took a winter let in Cornwall. He had a
girlfriend. In 1987 he spent the summer in Portugal working as a barman. But
then he moved to London and everything changed.
A week after our first phone call, I call Robert back to talk more about his
brother. He is watching Rocky II. He pauses to lower the volume. He speaks
slowly and there is sadness in his voice. “London really changed things for
Andrew. He went there because he thought he could do better. He did a number
of courses, ways to improve himself – computer courses; but they never
materialised into a job. He wanted the quick jump from rags to riches.”
Andrew grew melancholic and disenchanted. By 1993 he was living rough under
London Bridge, and his family lost contact for a few years. Then, in 1998,
he rang his sister from hospital saying he’d been diagnosed with type-1
diabetes.
“He wanted to be a London boy. He liked the bright lights,” his brother says.
And in an absurd moment, as he speaks, I can hear the theme music from Rocky
swell in the background.
---------------------
Was Andrew hopeful that things would work out? Did he have goals? Or had
depression set in that went undiagnosed and untreated? Nobody can answer
these questions. During his final years, he woke up every morning with
nowhere to go and nothing to do. There was nobody who needed him. Imagine
the blandness of his days.
Andrew’s siblings spoke of the way he lived – the isolation in particular –
being his choice. They felt a level of helplessness and futility that he
wasn’t willing to accept their support, or that of his birth mother, who
seems to have offered to take him in. They are left to wonder: could they
have done more? Could they have tried harder?
There was anger, too. Wondering why they had not found out sooner that he was
deceased. He muddled along, they said. He drifted away. And after a while,
despair turns to acceptance and apathy sets in. Which, in the end, is what
everyone in this story had in common.
Andrew Smith must have wondered who would grieve for him or feel the loss. And
to live your life knowing that if you didn’t exist, nobody would
notice, must be so lonely; it’s being a ghost long before you have
gone.
I am sure he did his best. We all take our own path in life. I hope he had happiness and did not suffer too much physically. I am glad his siblings were given the gift of knowing so they could mourn their brother.
Jay, london,
i understand andrew.
stephen, london, uk
It's not always a choice. I have family, who though they know I have secondary cancer & need support, don't even ring me. Eventually you stop asking. I was an only child & was shy with others also, I don't want to have to rely on total strangers when I have cousins that were close like sisters when I was young. If each of them came to visit they could take it in turns of every five weeks. Is that too much?? I don't fight or drink or act unpleasently & it really hurts my heart to feel so unloved. people suggest I join a cancer support group but I tried & it made me feel worse to hear how most have wonderfull caring family & friends.
Murphy, Dublin,
What an eloquent piece -- thank you, Ms. Leve.
Joanna Patton, New York, NY
I read this article with great interest...basically because it reflected my own condition in many ways and I could relate to so much of Andrew's life. Over the years I've begun to realise my situation and now I see a counsellor.
There are many varied and complex reasons why people would choose isolation and detachment like this guy did.
Name withheld, London,
I am a Support Worker- I work with people who have drug & alcohol and mental health issues. This week, A client of mine died alone in his flat, he was 'lucky' enough to be found weeks after his death by friends/ acquaintances who had not seen him in a while...
This happens often. In the past, I have been the sole mourner- no next of kin or friends- and me, a paid worker with a brief snapshot of the person but nevertheless the only one present with a genuine memory of the person. It breaks my heart every time and reminds me why I do my job.
It never fails to amaze me how an individual can succeed in pushing people away (a symptom of illness- an act of self destruction?) only to have their worst fears realised- that they are, finally and totally alone.
If we are not brought up with the skills to nurture close relationships what then? I hope that the ones who have gone have found peace and those who remain find happiness.
Thank you for this article. it is tender and REAL.
sara, Bristol, UK
I find this sad life of Andrew all to common in the times we live in, this is a very rich country and yet some one can just fade away into nothingness , love is the greatest power in the universe yet it was sadly lacking in Andrews life i feel that if some one had really cared and shown love he would still be here, he started out in life being rejected from when he was born, i find it very patronising to dismiss Andrew as a dreamer we all need a dream to cling to in Adrew's case more than most i feel his dreams were keeping him alive untill his health started to go, where is the social conscience in this society.
Mary, manchester, England
This story made me cry because I myself notice that people don't care about you when you really need them. When you are sad sometimes you isolate yourself but I think other people should try to make you socialize and help you. We live in a society where people are eager to criticize others but don't try to help.
Joana, Portugal, Portugal
Brilliant article. It should be used as an example on journalism courses as it shows your approach.
The story was very sad and having worked with those sleeping rough it shows the fate of many. I note that those who were in care as a child are often the ones we see sleeping rough.
As for the few people who made negative comments about Andrew getting state benefits. Can I remind them that we live in England not in a neo-con state where the inadequate can just go and starve to death.
Paul Odtaa, Richmond , UK
Sounds as if Andrew may have had a really good life. What's wrong with being solitary and independent?
When I die I hope that people have something better to do than go to my funeral - what a waste of time!
Marek, London,
A very sad article; it's a story that reads like a draft for a novel. It is so blatantly real that I'd suppose it creates a feeling of anger and irrutation that so much could and should have been done...but never was though. I don't quite know what is the most striking here : a possibility of a lonely life or dying alone. I think it's the latter. One thing crossed my mind was that had this guy had a better education or a better job or hadn't quit travelling ...may be it would have been different. London might have this affect on people. Those who come to live here realise it. It looks like a potential responsibility of the council to look after lonely people or at last to check on them now and then. More stories like this should be published and in bigger letters.
Anna , London,
Excellent article, sensitively written. Well done Ariel. Perhaps, thanks to your article a few more people will pick up the phone, write a letter and stay in touch. "There but.... "
Barry, Bognor Regis, W. Sussex. UK
People talk about the rise in depression today and I think that it's due to social isolation-- watching tv, playing video games, staying in the air conditioning. It's the everyday relationships that we have with others that keeps us grounded in reality and, especially when we are sad, gives us an escape away from our own troubles and lets us forget our problems for awhile. And when we do return from visiting with others, our troubles don't seem to be as bad. We need to teach our children the value of community once again.
tonya hatfield, milwaukee, wisconsin, USA
In spite of a general decline in its standards of news reporting and sub-editing, The Times is still remarkable in its willingness to publish truly excellent writing like this.
This sensitive article on a subject of growing importance to our society is real journalism. Well done!
Peter Lloyd, BLACKER HILL, South Yorkshire
We are all alone in reality. Who was it said "each man is an island"? There is really nothing one can do except treat each other as brothers. This man lived his life and that's that. Would this journalist have bothered if he was not getting paid. Cest la Vie.
Frederick, Dubai, Dubai
"Attention must be paid."
--Death of a Salesman.
Indeed.
Brendan, wash dc, usa
I can't help thinking that fostered children sometimes have an unconscious deeply 'unanchored' element in them which never completely resolves itself. In mid-life we examine ourselves more closely, as Andrew possibly did.
Perhaps Andrew's mother could not take responsibility for bringing into being the life of another; was it too painful for her? But what about his pain? Maybe he never recovered from loss of the fundamental identity with which we all start our lives, and because of this, lost his way.
It is good to be reminded about our responsibilities towards each other, but it is a great pity that it is at someone else's cost.
An extremely good article, sensitively written.
Annie, Bath, England
I was deeply saddened by Lucy Rankine of Stirling, Scotland – who’s comments turned my heart cold. People opt out of life for many, many reasons, none of which can be easily judged or reprimanded. Other people engage with these people also for many reasons, perhaps fear of their own path in life but I hope mostly from a deep sense of compassion. In such cases surely choice and circumstance are deeply entwined.
Halima Sufi, London, UK
Reading this, it is heartbreaking and an emotional tug of the heart and puts life into perspective, in that, we should value people whilst they are alive. How sad and empty Andrew must have felt with no purpose or real love in his life. I hope he is at peace now.
Helen Douglas, Rethymnon, Crete
A very sad article; it's a story that reads like a draft for a novel. It is so blatantly real that I'd suppose it creates a feeling of anger and irrutation that so much could and should have been done...but never was though. I don't quite know what is the most striking here : a possibility of a lonely life or dying alone. I think it's the latter. One thing crossed my mind was that had this guy had a better education or a better job or hadn't quit travelling ...may be it would have been different. London might have this affect on people. Those who come to live here realise it. It looks like a potential responsibility of the council to look after lonely people or at last to check on them now and then. Majority of council departments have a detailed record about the occupants. 2 month being dead and no one noticed! Come on!!! Speaking politely : beyond horrible. More stories like this should be published and in bigger letters.
Anna , London,
Some people DO deliberately slip away from a loving family. As I read this I though of my uncle. He has had various problems in his life, and has deliberately disappeared twice. We HAVE tried to find him but the trail, leading to either Spain or Eastbourne, this time, has finally gone cold. The story of Andrew has similar overtones to his own life. The thought of it ending in a similar way is difficult for us to contemplate, but we have to recognize that, he too, may die alone, possibly in a foreign country.
Linda M, Bedfordshire, UK
Like most of the respondents I was deeply moved by the piece , well done Ariel and here's to more journalism of this calibre rather than the latest broken nail disaster to befall Ms. Hilton.
I don't normally feel complelled to comment on thing but this proved an exception. Just one last thing to Lucy in Scotland not sure you read the same article as the rest of us......
May you truely have gone to a bettrer place Andrew RIP.
David McKenna, Perth, Western Australia
It must of been a hell living so lonely a life, knowing that the end was also going to be lonely, i wonder sometimes we just take things for granted and forget what is priceless to us and forget along the way.
mark latimer, geelong , victoria Australia
think of all the billions of people who have lived on earth of whom no record has been left and most of the comments here evidencing the modern obsession with 'being remembered' and unless you 'achieve' something your life would be a 'waste' A very humane article but there is little evidence that Andrew wasn't just living the life that he wanted. Perhaps the life he led gave him the freedom he wanted from modern life. Frankly I don't think most of the commentors (and the author) here have any idea how clued up most of the underbelly of society is these days and how they happily live their lives in ways that that you would think unacceptable
andrew, london,
Andrew's family should not feel guilty. His sister did what she could for him. There is only so much you can do when people dont return your calls and mail. I would guess Andrew suffered from depression and a feeling of failure at not having realised his dreams.
S Sibley, Ashford, Surrey
This is an excellent article. I am very touched by the story. Thank you so much for your hard work.
Joseph King, New York, USA
What a bitter story! Unfortunately it is real and shocking. It is just a sample of hundreds or even thousands of people who live in the same condition and are not seen by others. The harsh side of modern life!!
Mojga, London,
i find myself moved by this story. how easily one can become lost in a world of billions of people. i wonder how i will be remembered. i do know the final big story of my life will not be the recording of my death, but that i was accused of sexually abusing a child. i believe there is no reason to explain, simply put, you are either in the file of people who believe i could not do such a thing, or not. i know my attorney is only upset that i came to him after i talked with the police. as he said, in this accusation, you are guilty till proved otherwise. the common public has no understanding of innocence when sex is involved. and so with this my testament i hope you will learn to not convict till you know all of the story of a fellow human.
robby, houston, usa
Sensitively written, well researched, and non-judgemental without being bland. I do not consider that the professionals were 'berated', methinks I do detect a raw spot there? As regards Andrew's end, events in my own life could well have led me down the same path - in fact, there but for my wife go I.
Ivor Duarte, Shepperton, UK
A really touching story. Reminds me of the words to 'Elanor Rigby'. Sadly beautiful.
Santanu Roy, Jersey City, USA
As Laura said "The food he ate was not worked for by him, but by us. His heating, his medicine, every support mechanism was provided to him, and paid for by others sharing his society. " Yes, we provided him with our money and washed our hands of the matter. What this article does is emphasize the need to take an interest in our neighbours, no matter how difficult or unsociable they may be. Paying our taxes does not absolve us from our responsibilities as fellow human beings.
Graham Hawker, Malaga, Spain
I loved this story. Extremely interesting and captivating. Thank you for writing it and printing it. A sign of our times methinks.
A Powell, London, UK
Thank you for a truly outstanding piece of journalism. If only it could change something. It would be good to hear from the estate managers that they will not let this happen again--and that care will be taken that letters are returned to sender.
That was one link in the chain which broke. But the other of course is the absence of any real community, despite the overworking of that word, in Livingston's London.
DB, York, UK
The more I was reading the greater I felt drawned to this article.
It is very sad that people could end their lives totally in isolation.
At the same time I feel glad because it makes me appreciate more (not that it was needed) my family who support me and love me.
Gianpiero, London, UK
This thought provoking, sad and tender story touched me profoundly and in digesting the comments of others’ - managed to touch many of us. The writer took the occasion to unravel the life of someone else with whom there was no personal connection - except for the essence of humanity!
The majority of the readers comments are touching and reassuring. People do care. People do notice and it would appear people are willing to open their minds and hearts to others. An awareness of other people’s struggles and dilemmas may be a start to a more engaged society. A society that offers inconsequential courtesies to strangers in life. A ‘smile’, the act of allowing someone else to go before you, giving up a seat on public transport, a simple ‘thank you’ - all may sound inept and small in gesture, but to someone with no one close in their life, one of these acts might just help them through the day and possibly give them enough hope to struggle on and open their life to others once again.
Halima Sufi, London, UK
Part of the story says- he wanted to be a londoner boy- in a way the kid was searching be popular famous, important artist had developed this kind of personality, and now he has his goal.
Lu, México, Cityt
Andrew was my brother, had it not been for the author Aeriel I would not have found out about Andrews death.
I used to write to him,as did his birth mother, we put our return address on the envelope but no mail was returned so we presumed he received them. I last tried to see him xmas 2005, 5 months before he died.but he was not home despite having informed him when I would visit. I gave him clothes, food and cash the last time I saw him, he knew he had a brother,sister and mother who wanted to hear from him but he withdrew from us all.
I wonder if it was his Diabetes that caused him to go into a coma,I hope he did not suffer.
I cannot understand why we were so hard to trace, I gave the hospital my name and contact details .
I am so sad he died alone, he is not un-mourned now thanks to Aeriel Leve and team.
Angela, Bognor Regis, west sussex
Ariel Leve has done some serious deep 'background' here which is a credit to British journalism. This lad becomes a kind of everyman for thousands maybe millions of our countrymen. As a society we couldn't find enough love for Andrew as we can not find it for so many of the dispossessed and homeless and those without a voice or hope who inhabit our society at the margins. The most important Christian parable for me personally is that of the Good Samaritan. If all of us tried not to walk on by but to stop and help then the world would be a better place. One day the person in need of help may be one of us. This is the legacy of years of selfishness. Our affluence has grown but our soul has got weaker, dangerously so.
Andy, Suffolk,
Very high grade piece of journalism, this. Reminds me of Fintan O'Toole's article on Darren Graham in the London Review of Books recently: on a different subject and, indeed, with different treatment, but the same thread of deep, thoughful, well-written analysis about topics that rarely hove into mainstream view. It makes the reader wonder why there isn't more journalism like this. There is clearly a market for it.
dc, London,
I found this story to be painfully heart aching.
I am sorry that Andrew Smith was coldly forgotten in life.
Andrew has not died in vain because this story has touched many people. I hope we all learn to remember that it takes nothing to reach out to someone.
This a beautifully written piece and I'm gald you found there was so much more to Andrew.
lucia , London, uk
This is a very sad and moving story. May Andrew rest in peace, he is in such a wondeful place now.
The writer put so much time and effort into this story, really inspiring that they are so sensitive and thoughtful. God bless
Cathy, Galway, Ireland
How resolutely middle-class and uncomprehending the author appears in this etherial and breast beating piece about this man's disconnected life. There is no really attempt to engage with the fact that many live this way; some through choice others through circumstance. Professionals who are charged with uncovering what has been obfuscated by years of desultory living are weakly berated by the author. One suspects the policeman, irritated with the author's persistent questions, might just have been reacting to the very strong sense of failure to comprehend that not everyone is part of a jolly big grouping on the author's part.
The author leaves everyone connected to Andrew damned by association and the frequent asking why no one went just that little bit more to engage him in their lives or care. Interestingly Andrew is exonerated from any blame for how he chose to live because he died a death which the author cannot comprehend. This article says a lot more about Ariel than Andrew.
Lucy Rankine, Stirling, Scotland
This story is so sad it makes my heart ache. It's truly the stuff of a really depressing novel lacking a happy ending.
Siri, Oslo, Norway
For someone who lived such a lonely life and had such a lonely death and had so few peple close to him during his final years, he has been immortalised in print with such care and condern and now many people will add their comments lamenting his tragic circumstances. Quite an 'afterlife'.
lottie, christchurch, new zealand
Sensitive piece. Turns out he was missed and mourned after all. And in a newspaper by hundreds of thousands of people. Mourned more than most, in his absence.
Indigo, London,
What a very sad story
Sue, Leeds, England
A Wonderful piece of journalism
Melanie, Wilts, UK
We need more investigative articles like this. Not the bitty rubbish that passes for journalism these days.
kt, london,
You have given this man his identity and dignity back
Thank you on behalf of all the lonely and dis-connected people
La Vedrine, Redditch,
This article is very moving and terribly sad. What a waste to live ones life without friends and purpose. I lost my sister in June who lived alone with few friends but at least worked all her life went to concerts and the theatre, travelled around the world, so I feel at least not completely wasted.
Renate Baramy, Ramat Hasharon, Israel
Unbearably sad- found it difficult to read.
js, edinburgh,
The fact that people can literally disappear from society is very sad. Having lived in besit land myself during my teenage years I came across many lost souls. Alienated from mainstream society through a variety of reasons from unemployment through to family breakdown. Social ills that blight modern society. One of the saddest characters I met was a gentleman called 'Ed' and he would invent girlfriends and others just to establish a sense of identity and belonging. I could see the poor man was lost in a world full of people. Bedsit land in particular is full of 'Ed's, characters just like you and me except they are lost and need to find a way home.
Tony Makara, Manchester,
A very touching story: very well written, and a great human being who did the reasearch; not only a fantastic newsman. R.I.P, Andrew Smith, he desserved a better life.
Maia, New York, U.S.A.
It's like Rodinsky's Room. Fascinating and yet ultimately depressing.
N.H., Southampton, UK
Your prose rivals the poetry of Christina Rosetti who said essentially the same thing a century ago: "When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget."
Sajeev, Barbados,
Compassion..............how do we know his birth mother is not grieving for the child she was not able to get to know and bring up? We do not know.............we only know that we must try to develop compassion in our own lives before it is too late.
Penelope van der Have, Edinburgh, UK
A powerful article. Do we really know who lives next door?
John , London, UK
Thanks for this very poignant article-it helps me appreciate what I have.
Rob, Hitchin,
"During his final years, he woke up every morning with nowhere to go and nothing to do. There was nobody who needed him."
A sad story, but someone did need him: himself. But because of our benefits system, he was never forced to realise that. Instead, it is clear from this article, that he lived in a council property, paid for through the hard work of everyone else. The food he ate was not worked for by him, but by us. His heating, his medicine, every support mechanism was provided to him, and paid for by others sharing his society.
If all this had not been laid out on a plate for this man, perhaps he would have had the impetus to get up in the mornings instead of sleeping all day, getting job that wouldn't take him from rags to riches in a second but would have given him some self sufficiency and self respect.
Laura Roberts, London, UK
well paced, nicely written. well done.
Edward, Kiev,
Dear Ariel Leve. Thank you for your very moving, sad but in my family's case, all too familiar tale. My aunt, on my father's side, went through a similar downward spiral and died alone in New York.
I was wondering if you've ever read 'Invisible Man' by Ralph Ellison. "A book about race in America, and sadly enough, few of the problems it chronicles have disappeared even now. But this novel transcends such a narrow definition. It's also a book about the human race stumbling down the path to identity, challenged and successful to varying degrees. None of us can ever be sure of the truth beyond ourselves, and possibly not even there. The world is a tricky place, and no one knows this better than the invisible man, who leaves us with these chilling, provocative words: "And it is this which frightens me: Who knows but that, on the lower frequencies, I speak for you. Just thought it might help to enlighten you as to the world in which Andrew Smith lived - A man who like my Aunt became invisible to the world around him
Justin White, Singapore, Singapore
True story that touched my life. We must not, as a society, let such isolation cage someone. Being called Andrew myself, I think I may have felt more sympathy for this sad lonely Andrew. All of us must play a part of relating to one another, no matter how unpleasant such relationships can sometimes be. The Masai people understood UBUNTU, meaning, one is defined by the people around us. Poor Andrew was not defined, and as much as I do not like to point fingers, everyone who had contact with him during his life on earth, will carry that guilt of irresponsibility. Andrew must have been severely depressed and in emotional turmoil prior to his death. May this Andrew rest in peace now.
Andrew Sees, London,
This piece reminds me of the cremation scene in Graham Greene's Brighton Rock: the sad fizzling out of a life as it slips through the cracks in modern England.
I do voluntary work in a nightshelter for the homeless and I see people there - men and women - who have lost touch with what most of us would recognise as civilised life. They tend to be bemused about their condition, sometimes bitterly focusing on some injustice that has been done to them, but unable to grasp the bigger picture. Their plight, and the sad life and miserable death of Andrew Smith, make it clear that, for many people, life is a battle for survival - so much harder if you are alone.
A brilliant, thought-provoking piece, Ariel.
John English, London, UK
What a sad but enthralling account.
Neil Graham, Mula, Spain
Poor area of London ? Houses in the next road sell for £465-500,000. Flats on the Close itself, whether Council or ex, also change hands for very high prices.
It sounds as if this gentleman was not so much poor, or depraved, as merely forgotten by the world.
Pepper, London,
A very touching story: very well written, and a great human being who did the reasearch; not only a fantastic newsman.
R.I.P, Andrew Smith, he deserved a better life.
Maia, New York, U.S.A.
As a fellow Andrew Smith this story really touched me. Excellent writing. Just glad I have a loving family and kids around me.
Andrew Smith, portsmouth, hants
A good article, there is so much abuse and isolation in our world; here in one of the richest societies in the world. Herein lies the rub, what is wealth worth when love is so absent? We need a politics, a leadership, an economy where love is sacrosanct. Religion cannot do it, neither capitalism nor socialism can do it, but yet the universal politics of love needs a way of coming into being. For without action, the cancer of alienation, of an economy of emotional poverty will come for you too at the end of the day.
Rajeev Vinaik, West London, UK
Bless you Ariel for telling Andrew Smiths story. I am so glad that his family was traced and he did not remain this unknown person because clearly he was cared about and loved by many.
You mention apathy being the common thread that joins all involved and I can see why people just let someone slip under the radar of priorities even their own brother vanishes and no one wonders why they have heard nothing for months, years even decades.
After childhood sexual abuse, I fled and become homeless. I feared that I would die unknown and unmourned since my family members did not trace my whereabouts and no ex boyfriends were concerned either.
An ex now GP after sexually exploiting me discarded me with the excuse his parents hated my race so no marriage. He describes himself as a" human rights activist" ambitious hypocrite is more accurate. He believed I'd become a drug addict. In fact I married, have sons and doctorate.
I could have fallen through the cracks like Andrew rest in peace
Tachiko, Beijing, China
Fantastic story, you've inspired me to adapt this into short fiction.
Josh, Auckland,
Was Andrew mentally ill? As a psychiatrist I feel he might have been. Did his spirits plummet? He was a dreamer - into biorhythms as a young adult- and when dreams are dashed, the world feels unliveable. Should others have taken more care of him? Perhaps, but what if he did not allow them to. Anomie - a characteristic state of mind that the sociologist Durkheim spoke of, is a form of pre-suicidal state of mind which unlike depression(lost everything) or altruism driven (soldiers knowingly giving their lives in war) suicides, reflect the disillusionment with a society where cherished basic human values and ideals have gone. Eamples are the Columbine and other high-school-, college-, or the zombie- like 'running amok' killings by Vietnam veterans in U.S., where the perpetrator most often kills himself and the cause of killings and deaths remains shrouded in speculative post-hoc theories. This is anomic suicide - the will to being given up for a better life in a different 'world'.
Jay Sarkar, Leicester, U.K.
what a thought provoking and sad story. I believe that everyone has someone they are connected to or have connected with and this article has proved it. It is just heartbreaking that often these connections are broken or allowed to drift.
PAW, Glasgow, Scotland
thought provoking and moving.. above all very human
excellent piece of work!
Joon, Nottingham,
I had a brother similar in some ways. It's unreasonable to suggest what he must have felt when you don't understand what he did. When a person fails to join you in life, can you really assume that he would expect you to join him in his death?
Dean, Atlanta, Georgia, USA
Story is a hard one for me. I've been wanting to see issue addressed in media . Let's start w/a statistic ( from memory but verifiable). In USA, approx. 1/4 households are single person only, or an awful lot of lonely people, I presume. In Sequim, WA, (15 mi e. of Pt. Angeles (17 mi. due so. Victoria, BC, cross Strt Juan da Fuca), largest demographic is single women over 80 y.o.(forget percent of pop).
Late ex-husband, a PhD in philosophy and a rather popular professor for his short career died in similar manner (altho' in a diabetic coma in a nursing home the last 2.5 years of his life). Like Clare Campbell ("Out of It"), I fought desperately for it to be otherwise, and as I so fight unsuccessfully for myself and keep crashing up against wall of neglect most definitely not benign. I attempt to become a published author--have thousands of pp. of mss. and thousands of pics. Wonder who will take care of them after I die? No one to mourn my passing.
Lisbeth Jardine, Port Angeles, , Washington, USA
Thought provoking work. This well written piece is a reminder to the western societies how vulnerable their ways of living are.
This excellent and heart touching work has re-affirmed my believe in the extended family systems prevailing in Africa; families, friends, nieghbours and even strangers are always available in times of need. In other words, there are no disconnections (intentional or unintentional) from the people.
Maybe it is time for the people of UK to learn at least, this way of living from the Africans.
Obansu, Colchester, Essex,
what a sad article, but excellent journalism/writing.
Well done the author!
robert, london, uk
such a touching, sensitive piece. a tribute, even if not in the usual sense.
i remember going to an inquest of a homeless man who was found to have no next of kin and feeling a sadness that it was as if he just didn't exist.
the research is fantastic, too.
A, peterborough,
What an excellent article. So absorbing. And yet frightening at the same time. I recently confided in someone that I was afraid I'd die alone and no-one would notice for weeks. It's so easy for such a thing to happen these days.
Tina, Duesseldorf, Germany
I have a husband who has no living relatives, the only tentative relative is an 84 year old lady who was married to my husnand's aunt's cousin. He suffers from bouts of depression. I recently helped him to find the grave of his father who had died when my husband was 2, and of whom his mother (long deceased) had never spoken. He doesn't want to remain married, but I fear if I leave he will die alone, just like Andrew. He has a circle of friends, but they are not close, and are mostly older, so he may outlive them. All very sad.
Ann, Edinburgh, Scotland