The added financial demands had been too much for Claire and Fred. Her husband, a labourer by trade, had found it increasingly difficult to find work as he became older; he was now sixty four, still four years below retirement age, and had claimed JSA for the past decade. Claire had been in receipt of incapacity benefit, her whole body riddled with arthritis, her hands so swollen and twisted she could barely use them. In the short time Sue had known her, she had deteriorated dreadfully, and could now only go out with the use of a wheelchair. Yet, under the new regulations, and at sixty-one years of age, she had been pronounced fit for work, and had her disability living allowance cut. Fred was still able to claim a carer’s allowance, but the way things were headed the couple feared that would not be for much longer. So, Claire had made the journey to the jobcentre plus, every fortnight to sign on, and filled a work diary, like Sue, of jobs she couldn’t do and with employers who would take one look at her disabilities and age and throw her CV in the bin. However the stress and required trips to the jobcentre had taken their toll, forcing her to take two periods of sick leave from signing on. Unfortunately two weeks prior to the move, she had been unable to get out of bed due to a flare up in her pain, which meant that, in the space of five months, she’d had to phone and say she couldn’t make it for a third time. You were only allowed two sick notes per year and so she’d had her benefits suspended and been told to apply for ESA, because, after all, it was that easy.
So, stuck in a financial nightmare, not of their making, they’d had no option but to accept a new house, in order not to be taxed on their existing home. Claire had confided in Sue that Harry had wanted to help his parents out financially, but they were of the generation where you did everything for your kids and not the other way around. It was desperately sad and cruel, but there was nothing neither family, nor friends could do to hold back the inevitable.
“You know what I keep thinking, and it’s silly really, but…”
“What?” Barbara prompted.
“When our Harry and his wife finally get around to having kids, then…well, I won’t be able to have them for sleep overs, will I?”
“Oh, Claire,” Sue exclaimed, as all three sobbed and clung to each other. Sue clenched her teeth, tried to regain some control, but the awful sadness of it all, it was just too, too much. It seemed to her that if you were in receipt of benefits it meant you were not entitled to the very ordinary habits of others, you could not enjoy a hobby or leave the house because in doing so you were obviously demonstrating traits that could be transferred to the world of employment, and you weren’t entitled to the simple pleasure of having a room ready for grandkids to stay. Why should you? You were bleeding the state dry and thus it would make you pay, both financially and emotionally. It had become a very, very scary world.
“I’ve got a frame that folds out to make a bed, you can have that,” Barbara said, between sniffles.
“Oh, I know I can do something, thank you…it’s just that, they won’t have a room, somewhere to decorate just for them when they come to stay. And I just wonder…I just wonder why this is all happening? I mean we’re not bad people, are we?”
“Absolutely not,” Sue exclaimed, as she squeezed Claire’s hand. “It’s the system that’s wrong, and the people who endorse it. They have no idea what it’s like in the real world, the effect their policies have and quite frankly they don’t care. You and Fred are lovely and don’t you dare think otherwise.”
“Sue’s right,” Barbara added. “You’ve both worked most of your lives, your arthritis, Fred losing his job, these are things you couldn’t do anything about.”
“That’s it, “Sue agreed.
“Oh, I know, but sometimes I just think, why us? Why did we have to have this?” she held up her gnarled hands as she spoke.
“Well, I don’t know the answer to that, but I do know that when those grandkids arrive, they’ll be spoilt rotten,” Sue said.
Half an hour later and they were standing in front of the couple’s bungalow as Fred locked the door for the last time. He’d had to support his wife as they’d left, almost having to break her away from the tendrils of memory and emotion that tried to draw her back in. Some of their neighbours had come out to wave them off, which in reality meant there wasn’t a dry eye to be seen.
“Maybe you’re well out of it,” one man said, he was rather frail and looked to Sue to be in his late eighties. “It’s not the same now Doreen’s gone, Peter and Wendy and Walter; there’s only us few left now,” he indicated the group of people standing around him.
“Aye,” Fred acknowledged his words as the truth, “but it would have been nice to stay. It makes a difference when you’ve got good neighbours. I’ll miss seeing in the New Year and sharing a beer in the summer…anyway-”
“Fred, please,” Claire interrupted, “you’ll have me crying again.”
He gave his wife’s hand a pat. “Yes, best get going.”
Claire and Fred made their way around the semi-circle of their life, shaking hands and embracing each of them, because it was obvious to Sue, that the title of neighbour didn’t begin to explain how important these people were in each other’s lives. She heard assurances that they would all check in more on the old man in number fifty-three, and that they would take it in turns to fetch everyone’s morning paper. And then it was Sue and Barbara’s turn and they were crying once more.
“We’ll be over soon, to see how you’re settling in and that,” Sue said, her voice thick once more.
“Yes,” Barbara echoed. “Take care.”
John would be waiting at the new bungalow, offering his support, when the couple arrived. Jenny had desperately wanted to be there but had been up all night with her daughter who had started with a nasty sickness bug.
“Wouldn’t you think,” Barbara said as she started the car, “that they would have tried to keep neighbours together when they moved them.”
“I doubt this government thinks that far ahead, as far as they’re concerned the main thing is that they’re gone, and they can move in a nice rent paying family instead.”
“You’re probably right.” There was a pause before Barbara continued. “I bumped into an old school friend of mine other day, when she asked if I was still working for the council, I told her I was, kept it vague and changed the subject. I just couldn’t face her judging me, so I lied, pretended I wasn’t dependent on benefits. How awful is that?”
“It’s not awful Barbara, it’s perfectly understandable; the populace have been well indoctrinated by this government, we are the devil incarnate, we represent all that’s gone wrong with society.”
“It’s a good job we have each other,” Barbara replied, her voice quiet.
“Yes,” Sue agreed. “Yes it is.” She smiled at her friend and thought she should ask how she was managing, but although Barbara had become slightly more willing to share with the group, she remained an intensely private person. Sue could only hope if she felt things beginning to slide once more, that she would come forward and ask for their support.
Prime Minister Proust had faced enormous criticism over his housing policy, when it became apparent who the majority inhabitants of the new builds would be; in fact they had now been dubbed ‘welfare estates.’ And to be fair, in terms of the social mix the label had been more or less spot on, some low income families had opted to go into the area, but most had taken advantage of the homes left behind. Instead of the bottom end of the market being freed up so that everyone could move into suitable accommodation, every family on welfare had been moved into the newly developed areas. When this became apparent, there had been a huge backlash against the policy, by the Unitary Party’s own members, and, more alarmingly, by the People’s Party. Why should those who contributed nothing to society be rewarded with a brand new home, when others, normal, hardworking people struggled to get by? However, the freeing up of the housing market, and the more availability of stock had, as the PM had promised, a knock on effect of lowerin
g the rents been offered. Those who sought housing were now in control. This, alongside a small up-turn in the economy, had caused many to begrudgingly acknowledge the sense of Proust’s policy, for which he was now to be admired, for seeing the long term goal and sticking to his plan when others, weaker politicians, would have crumbled. His popularity, if not increasing, had at least bottomed out, but the resentment toward those on welfare had soared. It was okay to see the sense in the scheme, but that didn’t mean the populace had to like it or those who gained by it, at the end of the day many still saw the new builds as an unfair reward for people doing nothing. Proust may have piped the rats out of most major cities in the country, but he’d led them to a life they did not deserve.
By the time Sue had been dropped off, she felt sick to her stomach, her back was painful, her legs ached, she had a splitting headache and she was exhausted. She let herself in, locked the door behind her, propped her walking stick against the wall, shrugged off her coat and shoes, crawled upstairs to her bedroom, took off her trousers and eased herself beneath the duvet. Tiredness seemed to permeate every part of her body, it was overwhelming and absolute. It had, for the past six months, become an increasingly regular symptom; when she’d over done things, even the smallest of tasks, then her body would be hit with a gut wrenching, bone wearying, stomach churning, tiredness. A visit to her GP had resulted in an appointment being made to see a rheumatologist, it was now only a few weeks away, and hopefully it would either confirm or rule out a diagnosis of fibromyalgia. For now she just wanted to sleep, it had been a horrible, horrible day, to see Claire so upset and not be able to do a damn thing about it. It was just after two in the afternoon and she’d had enough, wished the day to be over, but instead she concentrated upon slowing her thoughts and relaxing her body. Lottie and Luke weren’t due in until later, so for now, she’d stay cocooned in her warm and comforting shell.
*****
Sue had roused herself enough to make a quick pesto sauce, to stir into the pasta when it was ready. She liked to try and have something for Luke and Lottie when they got home. They had both moved back in with Sue over six months ago, the cocktail bar her daughter worked in had finally given up and succumbed to the inevitable, while Luke’s hours had been seriously cut. Fortunately they’d only had three months left on their flat’s lease, and Lottie’s granddad had stepped in to cover that amount when the decision had been made to give it up; there simply wasn’t any other option, they couldn’t even cover half of the rent, never mind the rest of their bills. Sue knew how disappointed they’d both been, it had been their independence, their first place together. Even though they’d both lived out whilst at University, it was a big adjustment to move back in with a parent. Sue liked to think they could come and go as they wished, and were comfortable in an arrangement she’d secretly been delighted with. Although in truth, Lottie had seen straight through Sue’s sympathy to the joy that lay underneath. All that Sue asked was that if they were coming back in later than expected, or staying with friends over night, then they let her know. Of course it was easier for Lottie, she’d immediately fallen back into her home surroundings, but it had taken Luke months before he would go into the kitchen and put the kettle on or make himself a snack, without asking first. But things had eventually settled and relaxed into a comfortable routine. Luke had even stopped looking horrified when Sue hung his boxers on the line to dry.
The only difficult part for Sue had been the financial side of things, obviously having both Luke and Lottie there affected her benefits, and once she’d informed the relevant people, her meagre income had been put under intolerable strain. She simply couldn’t afford to have them there without a financial contribution, not only to cover the monetary shortfall, but also to pay for the increase in the grocery bill. She may have managed to feed herself for less than five pounds a week, but she couldn’t do that for the three of them. So, Lottie handed over the bulk of her JSA to Sue, and they saved what they could out of Luke’s wage. It was a desperate situation, three years at University and Lottie was struggling to find employment, bar jobs, admin, restaurant work, she’d applied for anything, and Sue admired her cheerful resolve in doing so, despite the lack of results. ‘Proper jobs,’ were even more of a scarcity, and those aimed at graduates invariably stated that only students with firsts need apply. The market was saturated and employers had their pick, while employees seemed to sign away any rights along with their contract.
“Hey mam, it’s just us,” Lottie called as the front door opened.
“Hey,” Sue responded. “Any luck with the job hunting?”
“Well, I handed out more CVs, but I’m pretty sure most of them were put in the bin the moment I left the premises. I put one in at that new shoe shop, express something or other, and I swear the girl actually rolled her eyes at me.”
Sue walked into the front room. “There’s no need for that, presumably she must know how hard it is. How was your day Luke?”
“Exciting as ever, I sold a fleece and two cycling helmets all day. I hate it when it’s like that, the day seems to drag on forever.”
“Oh dear, at least your tea will be ready soon.”
“Great, I’m starving,” Lottie replied.
“Me too,” Luke said, before disappearing upstairs to get changed out of his works uniform.
Lottie followed Sue back into the kitchen. “How did Claire get on?”
“Awful really, she was upset, Fred was upset, awful. Harry, that’s their son, he was there to give them a hand, and then their neighbours came to wave them off.”
“I’m sure they’ll be fine mam.”
“I know, it’s just so sad, considering the Unitary party’s always waffling on about putting families and communities at the heart of their measures, they certainly don’t mind ripping them apart when it suits their agenda.”
“You know what they’re like, they may say that, but they only mean those that are well-off.”
“True,” Sue commented as she drained the pasta.
Lottie took the pan from her, as she turned to carry it back to the work surface. “I’ll carry that, those pans weigh a ton.”
“Thank you dear, although it is strange how I manage when you’re not here,” Sue smiled as she spoke.
“Ha-ha, well I am here now.”
“So you are, shall we sit at the table?” Sue asked.
Lottie turned and looked longingly toward the TV. “Well, we could but Luke likes to watch The Big Bang Theory as he eats.”
“Okay, pop him a table in there and you and I can eat in here,” Sue replied. “Or would it be rude to make him sit on his own?”
“Do you know,” Lottie replied. “I think it just might be.”
Chapter forty-six
Sue sat and stared at the table top, letting the noise of the jobcentre plus wash over her. Familiarity made it neither depressing nor stressful, it was just a nothingness, a routine to go through so those who worked there could tick their boxes and meet their targets. It was irrelevant and pointless, having absolutely nothing to do with finding employment, instead it just ensured that, if nothing else, you were at least going through the motions of doing so. That was how Sue saw it, she played the game. She applied for her required four jobs per week, in areas she couldn’t physically cope with, and with employers who wouldn’t look at her twice when presented with hundreds of able bodied alternatives, and she did her eight online searches. It was ridiculous. Sue had thought of giving ESA another go, she knew her mobility and physical wellbeing had deteriorated, but the week before there had been another documentary exposing the sham of the TOST assessments; having watched those poor souls, with MS, cancer, emphysema and serious heart conditions being turned down and declared fit for work, she decided she didn’t have a hope in hell and would just stay where she was, on JSA. On the plus side she hoped that the documentary heralded, if not a backlash against the unfairness of the system, at least a willingness to look at it with an open mind. Until then she w
as stuck, and that was it, wasn’t it? She was never going to get out of the system. Her career as a writer of erotica earned her on average two pounds fifty a month, whatever women wanted she didn’t seem able to provide. So, having had nine books published she’d decided to retire and as of yet there had been no outcry from her fans to try to persuade her otherwise. It had been a valuable experience, and had focused her writing skills, so it wasn’t something she regretted and she did love dropping it into certain conversations and watching others flounder in the face of her revelation. But there had been downsides, several unwanted messages via social media and two unsavoury job offers via an on-line company; one to write someone their own private fantasy work, the other to write tag lines for Russian porn. At least the offer to edit porn clips had been reasonably paid, as long as she watched about eight hours a day of the stuff, and she’d been pretty sure her constitution would not cope with such an avalanche of unwanted material. Still, there was always the great novel that undoubtedly lurked within her, if she could only tempt it to materialise. In the meantime she’d sat for several days, working through possible professions and had decided she wanted to retrain to become a bookkeeper. Sue had no particular love of numbers, and suspected it was something she would not take naturally to, but it was a possible means to an end; the end being able to provide for herself and Lottie independently of the state and more importantly, her parents. Why she hadn’t thought of it before she couldn’t say, but it now seemed to be the answer to everything. All she had to do was retrain, and then she could work from home, choose her own hours and the amount of work she took on, simple. So, this time she actually had a reason to be at the jobcentre plus, beyond fulfilling a requirement, she wanted to see if her adviser could point her in the direction of any possible funding.
An Ordinary Working Man Page 32