In St Ives, herring gulls dive-bomb for ice-cream and rib boats stalk the bay. I am listening to Lizzy, who lives in a van. As a child she lived on the hill in her grandmother’s house. Her grandmother had five bedrooms and six children: that was her estate. When she died, the house was divided between them. None could afford to buy the others out on a native St Ives salary, so Lizzy rented in the town: pretty cottages, and bungalows with views. She worked in retail and kitchens. When she had a partner, she had money to spend: a good life in a town that looks like a storybook.
She lost her partner and, two years ago, her bungalow became an Airbnb. With 18,000 on the waiting list, the council told her to go to a homeless shelter. Instead, she bought a van from a friend, insulated it and put a mattress in the back. She joined a spa to use the washing facilities, and she meets second homeowners there. “And they go, ‘Do you live here?’ I say, ‘I live in a van.’ And they go, ‘Where’s that?’ And I go, ‘I live in a van. You know – those things on wheels?’” All tourists have an obliviousness, but it is particularly marked in St Ives. They park Ferraris in loading bays meant for tradesmen, or stare at the sky. Braver ones wrestle with fish: I met a man on the quay as the flounder he had caught died, bloodied, in his arms.
