The bloke sitting on the blue milk crate outside his unit beside Maitland Road in Mayfield. He was there day and night, in sunshine and rain, usually with a beer in one hand, and with the other, he would wave at walkers, drivers, anybody.

He was The Man in the Doorway.

But now the milk crate supports only flowers, stuffed toys, a beer can, and messages of condolences. The Man in the Doorway has gone. He died during the week.

The empty doorway has left a hole in the community’s soul, as people have felt the need to turn up and pay their respects. Others fill the silence by beeping their vehicle horns as they drive past, only now not as a greeting to The Man in the Doorway, but in tribute.

“We used to call him the Doorman,” said Ebony, a local resident who had walked with her dog to the site. “You’d just see him every day. Even in the middle of summer, he had socks and a jumper on.”

“I never really stopped to talk with the guy, but I always gave him a toot,” said Glenn, who had arrived with his son, Tyrone, after reading about the death on social media, which quickly spread the word. “I was getting a lump in my throat. I thought, ‘I know that person’.”

So many knew him. But so few really knew him, it seems.

As one grieving couple, June and Michael, from Shortland, asked, “What was his name?”

The Man in the Doorway was Bernie Sessions.

He was a much loved son, brother, and uncle. Among those standing before the door were members of Mr Sessions’ family; his mother Pauline and father Ron, one of his three older brothers, Michael, and his younger sister, Jenny Allen.

“Bernie was cheeky, he had a deep interest in history, he was amazing at drawing, an artist, and he loved music - George Thorogood, Cold Chisel, the B-52s,” said his little sister.

“All he ever thought about was everybody else, and he never wanted to put people out. He sat there suffering, but he would still smile.”

Jenny explained her brother had a mental illness. As she wrote on social media, Bernie had fought a long and arduous battle with paranoid schizophrenia. He had lived alone in his small Mayfield unit for about a decade. At one stage, Jenny said, her brother had been too afraid to leave his home for two years.  

Pauline would come over a couple of times a week to take her boy shopping, to drop in washed and ironed clothing, and to make sure he was alright. Pauline called him “my darling”.

According to Jenny, Bernie Sessions took his own life some time between Wednesday night and Thursday afternoon. He was aged 45. Police will prepare a report for the coroner.

“What can the community do? I don’t know,” said Paul, who had known the Sessions family since school days. 

“He was a gentle soul. He would not hurt a soul. He was a figure of Newcastle.”

“I didn’t realise he was a schizophrenic; I thought he just sat there,” Ebony said. “Mental health is not funded enough.”  

Jenny Allen said the community could have done no more to save her brother. But she believed the health system could have. Bernie had slipped in recent weeks, she said. He seemed very frightened. 

Just a couple of days before Bernie died, Jenny and her mum had pleaded for help from mental health services. Jenny said they were told Bernie was not sick enough. She didn’t blame the health workers, but she believed the system was in desperate need of an overhaul.

“We need to see a change in our legislation, so that if someone asks for mental health help, they’re given it, that they’re not triaged and turned away,” she said.

As we talked about Bernie, strangers approached Pauline and Jenny. Some hugged them, and they all shared stories and revealed their sadness at hearing The Man in the Doorway had died.

“I’d walk past and ask, ‘How are you today?’, recalled Ray, from Mayfield West. “I didn’t really stop to find out.

“But we’ve lost a very important individual. He wasn’t running around bragging, and he was living his life on his terms. He lived a simple life, but it was important.”

Ray’s lips began to tremble, and he walked away.  

“I can’t believe the people whose lives he’s touched,” said Pauline, as she watched a woman silently lay a bouquet in the doorway, which was gradually becoming a shrine to her son.

“It means other people loved and appreciated him; it gives us comfort.”

The tributes to Bernie crossed the nearby bridge into Tighes Hill. In a lane off Tighes Terrace, an artist had spray-painted Bernie’s name in gleaming silver. He had also written “schizophrenia awareness”.  A blue milk crate had been mounted on the wall, and it contained a few bottles of beer, including Bernie’s favourite brand, Tooheys New.

At the foot of the mural was a row of tealights, and someone had painted the number for Lifeline: 13 11 14.

Bernie will continue to help others. He had stockpiled tinned food and household items in his unit, and his family will give them to a church so they can be distributed among the needy.

And there are his words. Jenny said a little boy would bring The Man in the Doorway a doughnut each week. In return, Bernie gave the boy advice: “Always be kind and good to others.” 

“We thought he’d lived such a lonely life, but we were wrong,” said Jenny Allen. “He didn’t have to leave his doorstep; the world came to him.”

Lifeline: 13 11 14.  Beyond Blue: 1300 22 46 36