Stoke-on-Trent was sleeping off Friday night, but I was ready for anything.

I sat at my table, reading The Morning Star. It was an average summer afternoon. Blazing sun. O'Malley's was run by a guy called John Spencer who fancied himself as a bit of an Irish hero, even though he was born and bred in Burnley. That's maybe why he liked my friend Hepburn so much (with his County Donegal accent, there was no disguising where he came from). Around the café, which became a bar at night, were several people, who sat either alone or in groups round tables. Newspapers were strewn across several of the unoccupied tables. Five musicians were practising their set on the stage -- a folk band, who had come to our little hovel of a home in the 'arsehole of Britain', as Stoke-on-Trent is known by people who live outside of the city.

To its residents, though, Stoke-on-Trent is far more than non-residents can imagine. Of course, the city has its problems, especially with the decline of the local pottery industry, which has made so many people unemployed. But, on closer inspection, there are signs of hope, of growth, of rejuvenation and regeneration. Things can change.

Parts of Stoke have been known to have a Traveller population, but the city centre was not traditionally known as a breeding ground for socialists and Travellers. However, something had happened there over the last seven months that had caused such people from all over the Midlands to set up house in the city. After the election of a left-wing mayor, the city was seen in a new light by those with rose-tinted spectacles, and with caution by those who knew better. The elected mayor might have spent his life fighting for the underdog, but the BNP had been a close runner-up, and so those with shrewd minds looked upon the city as having a double-edged newness.

I sipped my tea and read my paper, as I did each Saturday afternoon, preparing my mind for the work ahead, which was why a pad and pen were lying on the table as well. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hepburn appear from the kitchen, a scarf tied round his long dark hair to keep it from falling into the food, and point in my direction. Several people followed the line of his index finger and stood before my table.

'Vous êtes Tabitha?'

I looked up from the paper with a stern glance, for I did not like attention from strangers.

'Je suis connue comme Tabitha, ouai,' I responded.

The African man and the two friends accompanying him sat down at my table. The conversation continued, as it had begun, in French, which had alerted me straight away.

'Then you can help us.'

'In what way?'

'In the disappearing sort of a way,' the man replied.

'What's your names?' I asked, just for the sake of convenience -- needing to be able to address people is a politeness I do not often ignore in people who deserve my politeness.

'I do not want --'

'Just any names. Doesn't have to be your own.' Imagination, come on, come on!

'Er, Jean-Pierre, Luc and Claire.'

'Pleased to meet you,' I replied without smiling. 'Now, what do you want?'

'The Home Office want to send us back to our own country, and we can't go back there,' Jean-Pierre said.