by Linda Green
*
I arrive in the playground at school. No one runs over to say hello, but no one runs over to call me a freak or kick me in the shins either, so I suppose that is an OK start to the day. Mum is hovering by the school gate with a weird look on her face, the same look she used to give our cat Atticus when we left him in the cattery before we went on holiday. I don’t know why; I mean it’s not like she’s going to come back and find me all meowing and skinny because I haven’t eaten for a week. She’s only actually leaving me for ten minutes because she is coming to our celebration assembly. We have one every Friday morning and the parents get invited and Mum usually comes because she is self-employed, and people don’t tend to book appointments for this early on a Friday morning. Mum is a homeopath and aromatherapist, which means she makes people feel better without them having to take drugs or go to hospital. I am not supposed to talk about it because some people don’t believe in it. I wonder if it’s a bit like God. We don’t believe in God but I still have to sing about him in assembly and yet we’ve never once sung about a homeopath, which doesn’t seem fair.
Mum doesn’t agree with some bits of the celebration assemblies, like when Olivia Worthington was presented with her certificate for going scuba diving in the Maldives during the Easter holidays, and she doesn’t like that they play ‘Simply the Best’ by Tina Turner at the start of it, because she says ‘it shouldn’t be about being better than all the rest’ (she sent an email to Mrs Ratcliffe suggesting they use ‘Proud’ by Heather Small instead but she never got a reply).
Anyway, Mum said she wouldn’t miss this particular celebration assembly for the world because I am going to be playing the ukulele. I passed my Grade Three in music last week with a distinction and Mum told Mrs Kerrigan, my teacher, and she said I could play in assembly as ‘an inspiration to others’. I don’t think Mrs Kerrigan went to a school like ours because if she had done, she would have known that none of the other kids are going to be even the tiniest bit inspired by me playing the ukulele. I thought it would be rude to tell her that though, which is why I have my ukulele over my shoulder and am feeling slightly sick.
I wish I had someone to talk to, but Lottie never arrives until the last second before the bell goes and sometimes quite a few seconds afterwards. She’s only ever had a mum to look after her, and Lottie’s mum Rachel is also a health visitor, a member of Calderdale Council and volunteers at the soup kitchen, which Lottie says is why she is always late and in a rush and they have rubbish food at home. Lottie doesn’t seem to mind but I would. I don’t like being late. And I like Mum’s cooking. I hope my mum won’t get like that after the divorce. I glance over at her. She is still standing on her own near the gate. It always looks like the other mums have chats that she doesn’t know the words to. She doesn’t look like the other mums either. It’s not just her red hair, it’s kind of everything, all the way down to the wrong shoes (Mum doesn’t wear shoes, she wears boots all the year round, even in the summer). I often wonder if that is why I’m not like the other boys, because my mum is not like the other mums, but maybe it doesn’t work like that. Even if it does, I’m not mad at her for it. She probably can’t help it any more than I can. I watch as she follows the other mums into school. She is wearing her favourite green cardigan and I remember for a moment how soft and snuggly it is.
Miss Dye rings the bell and we all line up in our classes. I try to be the last one – that way I only have one boy to bother me instead of two – but it doesn’t work today because Ryan Dangerfield is late, so he has to go behind me.
‘Ginger minger,’ he says into my left ear. He says it loud enough that the other boys near me can hear but quiet enough that our teacher Mrs Kerrigan can’t.
Lewis R (everyone calls him Lewis R because there is a Lewis B, so it’s become like part of his name) starts laughing and says, ‘Don’t touch tree boy or you’ll get Dutch Finn disease,’ and they do some more laughing. Mrs Kerrigan smiles like she thinks we’re all having fun together. Maybe school was different all those years ago when she went and kids were nice to each other, which is why she always thinks they’re being nice when they’re not.
Lottie runs onto the end of the girls’ queue as we start walking in. Lottie doesn’t look like the other girls because she has short hair, and all the other girls have long straight hair, like it’s the law for girls or something. Lottie calls hers a pixie cut but I have never seen a pixie’s hair, so I wouldn’t know.
It’s weird because everyone says I look like a girl and that Lottie looks like a boy, so maybe if we swapped heads we’d look right. I think that’s why me and Lottie are friends, because we’ve both got the wrong hair. Well, she has the wrong hair, I have the wrong everything. I didn’t know I had the wrong trousers until we were changing after PE once and Ibrahim picked up mine by mistake and started showing the other boys the label. They all started laughing because they said they were from the wrong shop, but they didn’t tell me what the right shop was, so I didn’t bother telling Mum. And anyway, I knew she still might not get them from the right shop if they didn’t pay their taxes or used child labour. It turns out buying trousers can be a tricky thing.
I sit down next to Lottie. ‘Hi Finn,’ she says, ‘will you sign my petition?’ Lottie does petitions about everything. She also goes on protest marches with her mum. She thinks she might be a protestor when she’s older, but I didn’t even know that was an actual job.
I sign the petition without even looking to see what it is about. When you only have one friend there is no point in asking because you are going to sign it anyway. Lottie says something about being a friend of the badgers and I smile at her. I need all the friends I can get right now – even badgers.
When we get down to the hall for assembly, Mum is sitting on one of the benches at the back. She does a little smile, which makes me feel even more nervous than I already am. She thinks this is going to be one of those ‘proud moments’. She has no idea.
I sit there with my ukulele in my lap, not really listening to what the head teacher Mrs Ratcliffe is saying until the bit when she says my name. I look up and she is holding my certificate and smiling at me. I stand up and pick my way through the legs of the other kids on my row and walk out to the front. Mrs Ratcliffe shakes my hand and gives me my Grade Three certificate and people clap, though Mum does it louder than everyone else. I start unzipping my ukulele case, while Mrs Ratcliffe explains that I’m going to play for them. My ukulele is yellow and has a big smile painted on the front. Mum got it for me when I learnt to play ‘You Are My Sunshine’. I can see some of the kids laughing at it. Mrs Ratcliffe asks me to play the piece I did for my Grade Three exam. She asks me to tell everyone what it’s called. I freeze for a moment, desperately hoping that the fire alarm will go off and save me, but there is silence. Mrs Ratcliffe is still smiling and waiting. Everyone is looking at me. I mumble ‘“Fanlight Fanny” by George Formby.’ All I hear is the laughter from the boys in my class coming back at me. Like a massive wave of laughter getting louder and louder until it crashes over me. I can feel the tears coming and I don’t want this to get any worse than it already is, so I do the only thing I can think of. I start playing my ukulele. Even though at that moment, I really hate George Formby.
BEFORE 2
2
Kaz
I sit next to the sniffing bloke on the bus. It’s the beginning of May but is warm enough to be July. People are wearing sun tops and have bare legs and I manage to find the only person in Halifax with a cold.
It’s my own fault; I should have walked, but it’s always my treat on a Friday; a bus ride home. Not that it’s the start of a weekend off; I’ll be back in tomorrow at 7 a.m. It’s simply that sometimes it’s nice to pretend that I have an end to the working week like other people do.
I fish in my bag to see if I’ve got a tissue to give to sniffing man but all I have is a rolled-up bit of bog roll that looks like it’s b
een in there for weeks. He sniffs again. It sounds like some annoying kid sucking up the last bit of his milkshake with a straw.
‘You can use your sleeve if you like, pet, it won’t bother me,’ I say.
He looks at me, says nothing and goes back to staring out of the window.
‘Suit yourself,’ I say, glad there are only three more stops. I’d get my own back by taking my feet out of my Crocs, but I think they might be stuck in there due to the heat. They’re not real Crocs, just those fake ones from the market. Yellow they are. Brighten the place up a bit, that’s what I tell Bridget at work when I catch her giving them a look. She said staff in the catering trade are supposed to wear the proper covered bistro Crocs. I told her if she wanted to buy them for me, I’d be happy to wear them. Bloody full of it she is. Calls herself an entrepreneur just because she owns one lousy café. It might be called Teapots and Teacakes but it’s nothing more than a jumped-up greasy spoon.
The man does one last almighty sniff as I ring the bell. I take the bog roll out of my bag and put it on his lap as I stand up.
‘Do the next poor bugger who sits next to you a favour and use this,’ I say. He ignores me. The bus pulls up at the stop and the door hisses back.
‘Thanks, love,’ I call out to the driver.
My feet squeak inside my Crocs as I step onto the pavement. There are still a few stragglers on their way home from school. I used to make the journey last four times as long as it should do when I was their age. Anything to avoid going home. And then when our Terry started school, I had a good excuse because I could take him to the park on the way home. I used to kill hours in that park, pushing him on the swings. He always loved the swings. Hated the bloody roundabout though. Especially if another kid got on and made it go fast.
I turn the corner. Ours are the first flats you come to. It’s not a big block, just three storeys high, and we’re on the ground floor so it doesn’t really feel like living in flats. Not unless Joe upstairs has got his music on loud and the kids next door are playing up, anyway.
I do my special knock on the door, so Terry knows it’s me, before putting my key in the lock. It’s a while now since he’s talked about MI5 having the keys to our flat but that doesn’t mean he’s not still worried about it.
‘Hi, it’s me,’ I call out, as I dump my bag on the floor. I can hear the sound of the TV in the living room, which means Terry is out of bed, at least. I go in. He is lying on the sofa, his ridiculously long legs spilling over the far end.
‘Hi,’ he replies, not even looking up. He’s watching Stars in Their Eyes on video. ‘It’s Freddie Mercury.’
I nod and smile as I watch an overweight bloke in his forties prancing around the stage in a white vest, too-tight trousers and a stick-on moustache.
‘Hardly,’ I say. ‘He doesn’t look or sound owt like him.’
Terry doesn’t say anything, simply carries on watching. He has seen it before, of course. More times than I care to think about. He videoed pretty much every episode of Stars in Their Eyes during what he calls the Matthew Kelly years. He never took to any of the other presenters who took over after he left; still won’t watch anything on TV with Davina McCall or any of the other presenters who came after him. They don’t compare to Matthew, that’s what he always says.
‘You wanting a brew?’ I ask. He nods, still without looking up. I go into the kitchen. An upside-down mug and cereal bowl are on the draining board, so he has at least had breakfast. He probably started watching Stars in Their Eyes before lunchtime, which explains why there’s no evidence that he’s eaten anything else since.
I put the kettle on and pop a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster. It worries me; how he’d survive if I wasn’t here to look after him. Fifty-one years old and he’s every bit as much my kid brother as he ever was. I don’t resent it, not for one moment. But it does make me think about the Terrys of this world who don’t have any family to look after them.
I open a can of beans and warm half in a pan, popping the rest back in the fridge. I butter the toast and pour the beans on top. It may not be the grandest meal in the world but it’s still one of Terry’s favourites.
‘Here you are, then,’ I say, taking it into the living room. Terry holds his hand out for the mug.
‘You’ll have to shift your arse and sit up,’ I say. ‘I’ve done some grub.’
Terry finally looks up. A smile spreads over his face. Terry’s face looks permanently mardy when it’s in neutral, but he makes up for it with a smile that could power the national grid.
‘Thanks, Sis,’ he says, sitting up and taking the plate from me. ‘You’re a star and Madonna’s on next.’
I put his cup of tea down on the floor and plonk myself next to him on the sofa. It is only then that I see the envelope sticking up from between the cushions.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘Came this morning,’ Terry replies.
‘Have you opened it?’
He shakes his head as Madonna breaks into the first notes of ‘Into the Groove’.
‘Do you want me to?’
He shrugs. We both know what it is, we have been waiting for it long enough. But now it’s here it seems neither of us wants to open it.
I pick up the envelope. She’s good, the Madonna woman. Wipes the floor with Freddie Mercury anyway. I tear it open and pull the letter out.
It is headed: ‘Your Employment and Support Allowance Work Capability Assessment’.
There is lots of stuff at the beginning explaining what it was, as if we are thick and might not remember. And then at the bottom of the page, a section that says, ‘Our Decision’. Underneath it says: ‘Your Work Capability Assessment shows that although you may have an illness, health condition or disability, you are now capable of doing some work. We realise this may not be the same type of work you have done before. We can help you identify types of work you can do, taking into consideration any illness, health condition or disability you may have.’
I shake my head as I blow out. It is what I had feared but didn’t think could actually happen.
The Madonna woman finishes and gets a huge cheer from the audience.
‘What’s it say?’ asks Terry, turning to me.
‘They say you’re fit for work,’ I reply.
‘That’s bollocks,’ says Terry.
‘Yeah. I know.’
‘He weren’t listening, were he? That man who were asking me all those questions. I told him what had happened to me all those times I tried to work before, but he weren’t even fucking listening.’
There’s nothing I can say because he’s right. They haven’t taken a blind bit of notice of what Terry said. As far as they are concerned, he’s some bloody scrounger and all they’re interested in is getting him off benefits. They don’t give a toss about what that will do to him. Why should they? They won’t be there to pick up the pieces. That’ll be my job.
‘I’ll go and ring them,’ I say. ‘Tell them there’s been a mistake. I’ve heard about cases like this on radio. Where they’ve copied and pasted points from one assessment on to next one. Maybe that’s what happened here.’
Terry nods at me. I don’t think he holds out any more hope than I do but I’ve got to try. I’ve got to do anything I can to make this go away. Because I know exactly where Terry’s going to end up if they make him go out to work. And I do not want him anywhere near a psychiatric unit again.
I take the letter through to the kitchen and shut the door so they won’t hear Tina bloody Turner in the background.
I call the number at the top of the letter. It’s not a proper number for the job centre in Halifax, because nobody there is capable of picking up the phone, apparently. It’s one of those 0345 numbers where you have no idea where the person you’re calling is and they’ve probably never been to Halifax in their lives. When I get through there�
�s a recording of a posh bird telling me she’s going to give me some options. There isn’t one for ‘I want to wring the neck of the arse-head assessor’, so I press the one for ‘something else’. She then asks what I’m calling about. I say, ‘You’ve got me brother’s assessment wrong and I need to speak to someone about it.’
She says, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re saying, please select one of the following options.’
None of the options are for things I want. I press one of them anyway and I’m asked what I want again.
‘Rhubarb and custard,’ I reply. It seems to work because I get put through to the next bit, so I say ‘rhubarb and custard’ again. I keep saying it, trying not to think about how much credit this is using up on my phone, until there is a ringing tone on the other end and a real woman, not quite as posh as the recorded one but not far off, answers. She catches me singing the theme tune to the Roobarb and Custard cartoon that Richard Briers used to do, but she is probably too young to know what it is, so I don’t bother trying to explain.
‘Hello, love, I’m ringing about me brother. His name’s Terry Allen and he’s had a letter about his work capability assessment, and I think you’ve got it wrong.’