by Linda Green
‘I told you, didn’t I? Said he wouldn’t cope. Didn’t listen though, did you?’
‘I understand Mr Allen was arrested over an incident involving a young girl. Obviously, we had no reason to think something like that may happen.’
‘Don’t make him out to be some fucking paedophile,’ I say.
Denise looks up at me. Her face hardens.
‘Miss Allen, if you use language like that again, I’ll have no option but to ask security to remove you from the premises.’
‘And I’m telling you that reason he went under cubicle door were because he could hear rats, same rats he went on about when he were here. My brother is not a pervert or a criminal. He’s just ill.’
She pauses.
‘Well, there is a letter in the post to him, informing him that his work programme placement has been terminated.’
‘Good. He won’t have to work then.’
‘But because he lost his position through gross misconduct, he will also be sanctioned for thirteen weeks for what is the former Jobseeker’s Allowance part of his benefit when his money comes through.’
I start laughing. Other people look over, but I really don’t care. They couldn’t make this stuff up.
‘So you find a man who hasn’t worked for five years because of his schizophrenia fit for work, send him out to a job where his mental illness causes him to get arrested, be sectioned and lose his job and tell him that as a punishment, his money’s being stopped?’
Denise looks down again. I know they’re not her stupid rules, but she could at least apologise for them.
‘What about his day’s pay?’ I ask. ‘He did a full day’s work, apart from last twenty minutes.’
‘I don’t think, in the circumstances, that any payment will be forthcoming.’
‘Well, that went really well, didn’t it? You got my brother landed in nuthouse, and while we wait to see if he’s going to end up in prison, he gets his money stopped. Bit of luck I’ve got a well-paid job and all my life savings to keep us going. Oh, hang on a minute, I’ve remembered why I’m here.’
Denise shifts in her seat. I reach into my bag and pull out my completed Universal Credit application and slap it down on the desk.
‘I need to ask you why you failed to turn up for your appointment on Friday.’
‘Because I were tap-dancing in bloody bath.’
‘There’s no need to be sarcastic, Miss Allen.’
‘And there’s no need to ask stupid bloody questions, is there? Or have you not been listening to owt I’ve said for last five minutes?’
‘Usually there is a four-week sanction applied where claimants have failed to turn up for their appointment and failed to notify us of the reason.’
‘And at what point while me brother were being arrested and sectioned should I have given you a call and had a little chat?’
‘However, on this occasion,’ Denise continues, giving me a look, ‘I will treat it as exceptional circumstances and not sanction you.’
I suppose I should say thank you, but I am not sure I can say it without sounding sarcastic, so I say nothing. Denise picks up my form and starts reading.
‘You don’t say why you left your job,’ she says, looking up.
I roll my eyes. Now I’m the one in the dock.
‘A woman complained about me on some website and gave our café a one-star review and my boss decided it were enough to sack me.’
‘Were you dismissed for gross misconduct?’ she asks. ‘Because if so, you may be subject to a thirteen-week sanction on your payments. You should be aware that we will be contacting your former employer to ask the reason for your dismissal.’
I shake my head. It looks like I can either lie now and get found out later, because I have no doubt that Bridget, being a vindictive cow, will say I was dismissed for gross negligence, or I can fess up now and say goodbye to my money straight away.
‘I were dismissed because a rude customer called a wee lad a spoilt brat and made him cry and I told her she were an ignorant cow when she refused to apologise. I have no idea if that’s gross misconduct, you’ll have to ask her. I didn’t have a contract and she didn’t give me any of wages I were owed, so maybe you can ask her about that at same time.’
Denise sighs. She’s having a bit of a mare at work today, is our Denise.
‘Miss Allen, I will process your application and it will be sent to our head office for a decision, but I need to inform you that if your former boss confirms this situation, you will be sanctioned for thirteen weeks for what is the former Jobseeker’s Allowance part of Universal Credit.’
I stand up and cup my ear, beckoning to the young man at the desk next to ours. ‘Can you hear that?’ I say. ‘Record’s stuck over here. If I die while waiting for this money, they’ll probably sanction me for that too.’
He grins back at me. Denise glares and gestures for me to sit down before continuing. ‘However, in the meantime, you have signed a claimant contract and you will be expected to look for work or join a work programme. As for the remaining part of your Universal Credit claim, it takes five weeks for the first payment to be made. Do you understand?’
‘Oh, I understand all right,’ I say, ‘Basically, I’m shafted. And what exactly am I supposed to live on and pay my rent with for next five weeks?’
‘As I explained before, you can apply for an advance payment of Universal Credit to help you get by while you’re waiting for your first payment. That can be up to one month of your Universal Credit entitlement. However, it is a loan and you’ll have to pay it back out of your future payments when they commence.’
‘No, I won’t. I’ve never been in debt in my life and I’m not going to start now. That’s how people end up using loan sharks.’
‘I’m just saying it is an option. Though you will have to be assessed to see if you qualify for the advance payment, it’s not automatic. However, if approved, it should come through to your bank within a couple of working days.’
‘Have you thought about getting another job?’ I ask. ‘Because you’d be bloody good on radio reading out all those terms and conditions as fast as you can.’
‘Miss Allen, if you’re quite finished.’
I look at her and shake my head. ‘You don’t get it, do you? I’ve worked all my life to support our Terry and now, in the space of a few days, because of one stupid decision by DWP, all that’s gone, he’s locked up in a nuthouse facing police charges and I’m also being made to feel like a criminal when all I did were try to be kind to a little lad. You lot think it couldn’t happen to you, but it could. It can happen to anyone, at any time. One little bit of bad luck and it can all come crashing down. And that bunch of bastards in government who make up these rules don’t give a toss about any of us. Not me, not you. We’re on same side really, you know. You just haven’t realised it yet.’
Denise goes back to her form-filling. She is thinking about what I said, though. I am sure of it.
*
I’m still fuming when I get home. I put the kettle on, checking first that the bare minimum of water is in there, because I know there’s not much money left in the meter. All this time I’ve muddled along the best I could. Always done what I thought was best for our Terry. And yet somehow, my best hasn’t been good enough. We wouldn’t be in this mess if it was. I have no idea how we’re going to survive, this time. All I know is that I am not going to give up without a fight.
I sit down and pick up the mandatory reconsideration form they gave Terry last week, which is still on the kitchen table. They ask for lots of evidence I haven’t got and I’m pretty sure they won’t take one blind bit of notice, but I have to keep fighting for Terry’s sake. Because the one thing I do know is that no one else out there will.
AFTER 9
9
Finn
I thought Dad was
joking when he said we were going to the Beatrix Potter Museum, but he wasn’t. When we’ve visited other years, it’s been on rainy days when there wasn’t much else to do apart from get wet, but it’s not even raining today. I suppose he couldn’t think of anywhere to go or anything else to do because I don’t like doing the things he likes or going to the places he does. Yesterday he suggested I try water sports. That wasn’t a joke either.
Which is why I don’t complain about going to the Beatrix Potter Museum in case he takes me kayaking instead. He has said the phrase, ‘You never know, you might enjoy it,’ quite a few times already this holiday. And I have given him lots of looks to let him know that at nearly eleven years old, I know exactly what I enjoy and it doesn’t include doing sports on water.
As we queue up to go into the museum, I notice that it’s not actually called the Beatrix Potter Museum but the World of Beatrix Potter. I suppose they thought that would make it sound more exciting, but it only works if you haven’t been five times before. I look around and see that I am the oldest kid going in, apart from a few who are only there because they have younger brothers or sisters. I look up at Dad. I think he has noticed this too, because he is avoiding looking at me.
When we get in, there is a five-minute introductory film. It is the same film I have seen all the other times, but I have to watch it again because the doors don’t open until it finishes.
The first character I see is Jemima Puddleduck, and all I can think of is Mum reading her story in a funny duck voice that made me laugh. When we reach the Peter Rabbit bit, I remember that I always actually sided with Mr McGregor because you really shouldn’t spoil people’s gardens by stealing or eating things from them. I don’t think you are supposed to think that, so it must just be me being weird again.
And then we get to Mrs Tiggy-Winkle. Me and Mum always liked her best. When I started at my Montessori nursery, I used to get upset about Mum leaving, so after she dropped me off, she would hide a little pocket handkerchief, like the ones Lucie kept losing, in the trees on the walk back to the main road, so when she came to collect me, I did a pocket-handkerchief hunt on the way home and we used to talk about all the different places Lucie had lost them.
There is a little boy having his photo taken next to Mrs Tiggy-Winkle and his mum is smiling and talking in that sing-song voice mums do and I want to get past really quickly but there is a queue in front of us, so we can’t move and I clench my fists hard and Dad reaches down and takes my hand and even though he doesn’t usually do that, I don’t mind and I let him hold it until we get past.
‘Would you like anything from the gift shop?’ Dad asks at the end. I shake my head.
‘What would you like to do now?’
‘Go back to the campsite,’ I reply.
*
Dad got us a new tent for this holiday. I know why and he knows that I know why, but neither of us have mentioned it. He didn’t even ask if I liked the new tent when I saw it. He just put it up without saying a word. I don’t like it, because it isn’t the old one, but it is orange, which at least means it’s easy to find at campsites. He had to get a new rucksack too. He still has his old one. We got it back afterwards. I suppose he thought it wouldn’t be a good idea to bring it, though. It is on top of the wardrobe in his bedroom. He probably thinks that I haven’t seen it, but I have.
Our tent is pitched at the far side of the site, in the corner. We walk back there together in silence. It is the worst thing about the holiday: camping without Mum. Every camping holiday I remember, and there have been a lot of them, Mum has been there; laughing while helping Dad put up the tent, singing while cooking our tea and snuggling next to me in the night (once she even zipped our sleeping bags together). When we were here last summer, I woke up on the first night and found her sitting outside looking at the stars. I asked her what she was doing, and she said you could never feel lonely when you knew the stars were watching over you. And then she gave my hand a squeeze and we both went back inside the tent.
This holiday, though, there is no Mum. And that is the weirdest thing ever. I keep expecting to hear her voice outside or see her coming back from the woods with an armful of things for my nature tray. She doesn’t do any of those things, though. She just keeps on not being here. And her not being here is the loudest, hardest, saddest thing about this holiday.
‘What do you fancy for tea?’ Dad asks later, poking his head through into the tent as I am reading my book.
I shrug. I don’t know because whatever he cooks it tastes of Mum not being here.
‘Anything but sausages,’ I say.
*
When I wake later that night, the first thing I remember is that Mum is not here. There is no one to snuggle up to. No one to whisper to or who can tell me stories to help me go back to sleep. I unzip my sleeping bag very quietly, so I don’t wake Dad and crawl to the end of the tent. The zip on the flap is harder to do quietly because it is quite tight, so I just go very slowly. When I’ve done it far enough up, I crawl outside and look up at the sky. It was cloudy earlier, but the clouds have gone now. The stars are out. I sit looking at them for a long time before I hear Dad’s voice next to me.
‘They never stop being beautiful, do they?’
I look round. He has my sleeping bag in his hand, and he sits down next to me and wraps it round my shoulders.
‘There’s Ursa Major,’ I say, pointing.
‘Yes, well done. Ursa Minor’s stronger though, at this time of year.’ He traces the outline of the smaller bear in the night sky. I nod when I see it. Mum never knew the names as well as Dad, or how to find them. She was good at the stories behind them, though.
‘Scorpius is very strong tonight,’ Dad says pointing, ‘and you should just be able to make out Lyra.’
‘That’s the one with the harp isn’t it? I ask.
‘That’s right.’
‘Tell me the story again.’
Dad hesitates before starting. ‘Well, Orpheus was given the harp by Apollo and his music could soothe anger and bring joy. When his wife died, he wandered the land in depression, was killed and his harp thrown into the river and Zeus sent an eagle to retrieve the harp and put it in the night sky.’
Dad’s voice is quiet as he finishes. He is still looking up at the stars.
‘I didn’t choose a very happy story, did I?’
‘No,’ Dad replies.
‘Mum was good at stories to cheer me up.’
Dad looks down at me.
‘It’s not the same without her, is it?’
‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘I miss her all the time.’
‘I know,’ says Dad. ‘So do I.’
We sit out there for a long time, not really saying much, just looking up at the sky. I think Dad is trying to do the same thing as me. Stay under the stars long enough so that he doesn’t feel lonely.
*
When we arrive home on Saturday afternoon, I notice something as I go through the gate.
‘When did the For Sale sign go?’ I ask Dad.
‘A couple of months ago,’ he replies. ‘After I told you we wouldn’t be moving. Didn’t you notice?’
I shake my head. I suppose I was too busy missing Mum to miss the For Sale sign.
‘I’m glad we don’t have to leave this house,’ I say.
Dad shuts his eyes for a second and nods silently before we carry on up the path.
As soon as I hear the doorbell later, I run downstairs, because I know it is Kaz. I give her a great big hug and nearly knock her off her feet.
‘Did you see my photos?’ I ask.
‘I did. Right good they were. Made me feel like I were there with you. How was your holiday, pet?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘You missed her, didn’t you?’
I nod. It’s weird how I have only known Kaz for a few m
onths, but she already seems to understand me better than lots of other people who have known me for years.
‘It felt wrong to be on holiday without her,’ I say.
‘I bet it did. Your dad tried his best, though, I expect.’
‘He took me to lots of places and tried to get me to do lots of different things.’
‘I could see that from photos.’
‘It didn’t make any difference, though, because whatever we did, it just reminded me that Mum wasn’t there, and she should have been, and I kept thinking of our last holiday together and that made me sad.’
Kaz gives my arm a squeeze. ‘You got through it, that’s main thing. And you’re back home now, so we can get on with that garden. Talking of which’ – she points to two bags that are on the step next to her – ‘Barry’s sent you a few more plants that were going spare at garden centre.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, taking them from her. ‘I’ve had a few more design ideas.’
‘Great,’ she says, stepping inside. ‘You can tell me all about them, so we’ll be ready to get cracking on Monday.’
We go through to the kitchen.
‘Kaz has brought me some more plants,’ I tell Dad. ‘Barry sent them.’
‘Wow, please say thank you to him, Kaz. It’ll be like the Chelsea Flower Show out there soon.’
‘Will do. How was your holiday?’
‘Fine thanks,’ says Dad. And I wonder if, like me, he says that when it’s easier than saying the truth.
‘Before I forget,’ says Kaz. ‘I’m afraid I can’t come next Saturday. I’m moving into a new flat after work.’
‘No problem,’ says Dad. ‘As long as you let us give you a hand with the move instead. I’d be more than happy to shift some boxes for you and Finn’s good at packing.’
‘Thanks,’ says Kaz, ‘but I really haven’t got much.’
‘Oh, we all think that until we come to move. It’s amazing how much stuff you acquire over the years. Have you got a van booked? I’ve got a friend with one, if not. I’m sure he’d let me borrow it for a bit.’
Kaz does a little smile. ‘Thanks, but I really haven’t got enough stuff for a van. If you’re able to take my things in your car, that would be grand.’