In the course of my research into health inequalities and social care, I have had the privilege of working closely with voluntary sector organisations that support older adults. These spaces—often underfunded and overlooked—are where care happens in its most humane form, where older people are more than just clients. It was in one such centre that I met her, let’s call her Ruby Smith.
Ruby was unforgettable. A proud Black Caribbean woman who arrived in the UK in the 1950s, she carried herself with charisma, courage, and a sharp wit. She had lived through racism, hardship, and change, and she told her stories with the kind of energy that made you lean in and listen.
A few weeks ago, I dropped by the centre to check in with staff and offer support. The atmosphere was different that day—quiet, heavy. My host, usually warm and welcoming, seemed distracted. After a few moments of small talk, she shared the news: Ruby had passed away that morning. She had been at the centre the day before, laughing, chatting, doing what she always did, singing and chatting with others. No signs of illness, and now she was ‘just gone’. My host, the manager of the community centre, was now faced with the difficult task of informing staff and other clients of the sad news ‘What do I say to them?’ she wondered aloud.
We sat in silence, unsure what could possibly be said. In a moment like that, even saying ‘I am sorry’ felt inadequate.
Later, after lunch, the manager gathered staff and clients to share the news. The reaction was immediate and raw—gasps, tears, disbelief. “She was here yesterday,” someone said “she was fine.” Some left the room to cry in private. Others hugged each other, trying to make sense of the loss. The manager went round hugging each member of staff and client to give whatever comfort she could offer notwithstanding her own grief.
Then someone asked to play Ruby’s favourite song: “Ganja Farmer” by Marlon Asher. Now, that is not a usual tribute or even a song you expect to be classed as a 93-year-old woman’s favourite song, perhaps, but it was Ruby through and through. As the music played, the staff and their clients poured out memories. Staff spoke of her as a surrogate grandmother, a counsellor, a friend. Other clients remembered her as a friend, and remembered her laughter, her stories, and her strength.
It is at this moment one could not help but notice the manifestation of care became alive and vivid. This centre is more than a place—it is a community, a lifeline, a space of care and connection. As one client said in an interview a few weeks before, “They look after me here. They speak for us with my GP. Don’t take this place away from us.” That simple statement carries so much weight.
This experience reminded me of the concept of care on the margins—referring to the provision of care for marginalised populations, previously described as “hard to reach,” now in current lexicon commonly referred to as “seldom heard.” The focus is on transforming how these groups access services and how to reach them. Instead, it is more appropriate to understand care as on the margins, as a consequence of established institutional policies and routine practices that exclude or disadvantage certain groups. In doing so, we challenge the notion that marginalisation results from individual choices. Of significance here is not how someone got into a situation where they needed care, but who receives care and how is it delivered —quietly, often without recognition, and often under immense pressure, and with limited resources. These centres are delivering vital care work, yet they remain undervalued. Most of these services operate on shoestring budgets and face constant threats of closure, despite being indispensable to the communities and the people they serve.
Ruby’s passing was a personal loss for many, but it also highlights the broader social reality: older people, especially those without family support, rely on these community spaces not just for activities, but also for advocacy, companionship, and dignity. For staff, the individuals who attend these centres are not only clients; like family, they go above and beyond to advocate for them, supporting with hospital appointments, welfare checks, GP appointments and making sure they have appropriate housing. They do not work Monday to Friday; they work around the clock, seven days a week, to ensure older people’s welfare and well-being.
The staff helped support the other clients to celebrate Ruby’s life, collecting memories, and honouring her legacy. It’s what they do—care, even in grief. Ruby’s story is a powerful reminder of why these spaces matter. And why, as a society, we must do better to support them.
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More Than a Client: Ruby Smith and the Heart of Social Care
by Shadreck Mwale Nov 19, 2025In the course of my research into health inequalities and social care, I have had the privilege of working closely with voluntary sector organisations that support older adults. These spaces—often underfunded and overlooked—are where care happens in its most humane form, where older people are more than just clients. It was in one such centre that I met her, let’s call her Ruby Smith.
Ruby was unforgettable. A proud Black Caribbean woman who arrived in the UK in the 1950s, she carried herself with charisma, courage, and a sharp wit. She had lived through racism, hardship, and change, and she told her stories with the kind of energy that made you lean in and listen.
A few weeks ago, I dropped by the centre to check in with staff and offer support. The atmosphere was different that day—quiet, heavy. My host, usually warm and welcoming, seemed distracted. After a few moments of small talk, she shared the news: Ruby had passed away that morning. She had been at the centre the day before, laughing, chatting, doing what she always did, singing and chatting with others. No signs of illness, and now she was ‘just gone’. My host, the manager of the community centre, was now faced with the difficult task of informing staff and other clients of the sad news ‘What do I say to them?’ she wondered aloud.
We sat in silence, unsure what could possibly be said. In a moment like that, even saying ‘I am sorry’ felt inadequate.
Later, after lunch, the manager gathered staff and clients to share the news. The reaction was immediate and raw—gasps, tears, disbelief. “She was here yesterday,” someone said “she was fine.” Some left the room to cry in private. Others hugged each other, trying to make sense of the loss. The manager went round hugging each member of staff and client to give whatever comfort she could offer notwithstanding her own grief.
Then someone asked to play Ruby’s favourite song: “Ganja Farmer” by Marlon Asher. Now, that is not a usual tribute or even a song you expect to be classed as a 93-year-old woman’s favourite song, perhaps, but it was Ruby through and through. As the music played, the staff and their clients poured out memories. Staff spoke of her as a surrogate grandmother, a counsellor, a friend. Other clients remembered her as a friend, and remembered her laughter, her stories, and her strength.
It is at this moment one could not help but notice the manifestation of care became alive and vivid. This centre is more than a place—it is a community, a lifeline, a space of care and connection. As one client said in an interview a few weeks before, “They look after me here. They speak for us with my GP. Don’t take this place away from us.” That simple statement carries so much weight.
This experience reminded me of the concept of care on the margins—referring to the provision of care for marginalised populations, previously described as “hard to reach,” now in current lexicon commonly referred to as “seldom heard.” The focus is on transforming how these groups access services and how to reach them. Instead, it is more appropriate to understand care as on the margins, as a consequence of established institutional policies and routine practices that exclude or disadvantage certain groups. In doing so, we challenge the notion that marginalisation results from individual choices. Of significance here is not how someone got into a situation where they needed care, but who receives care and how is it delivered —quietly, often without recognition, and often under immense pressure, and with limited resources. These centres are delivering vital care work, yet they remain undervalued. Most of these services operate on shoestring budgets and face constant threats of closure, despite being indispensable to the communities and the people they serve.
Ruby’s passing was a personal loss for many, but it also highlights the broader social reality: older people, especially those without family support, rely on these community spaces not just for activities, but also for advocacy, companionship, and dignity. For staff, the individuals who attend these centres are not only clients; like family, they go above and beyond to advocate for them, supporting with hospital appointments, welfare checks, GP appointments and making sure they have appropriate housing. They do not work Monday to Friday; they work around the clock, seven days a week, to ensure older people’s welfare and well-being.
The staff helped support the other clients to celebrate Ruby’s life, collecting memories, and honouring her legacy. It’s what they do—care, even in grief. Ruby’s story is a powerful reminder of why these spaces matter. And why, as a society, we must do better to support them.