‘I paid it over to my partner. My … ex.’
‘I see. And are there children of the union?’
God! Why couldn’t he speak like a normal person? ‘I have a son, Kyle.’
‘Aged?’
‘Three.’
‘I see. Have you undertaken to make provision for Kyle? And has his mother, to your knowledge, registered to receive any benefits for the child?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know! I haven’t spoken to her since she kicked me out. Go on!’ Chris was on his feet now. ‘Go on! Write that down as well.’
‘I already have a note that you are of no fixed address, Mr Rowan,’ the skull replied, mildly. ‘I really think that I must ask you to sit down. Otherwise I won't be able to help you further.’
‘Help me further? Help me further? You haven’t exactly helped me at all, have you? Let alone further!’
‘I do have a discretionary contingency payment which I can discuss with you, but only if you sit down.’
Reluctantly, Chris sat on the edge of the chair, but he could hardly see the man opposite now, for the swirling black and red mist. The black dog, which seemed to have slunk in unannounced, sat by his side and pressed itself against his leg.
‘Do you have a bank account, Mr Rowan?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
‘And are there funds available?’
‘I’m still just about in credit, yes.’
‘I see.’ Jot. Jot, Jot. ‘And do you have any cash on you?’ He looked up and for a moment, a human being looked out. This was the bit he hated. The snooping, the picking apart someone’s life.
‘My mother gave me some … most of it’s still left. About seventy-five pounds, I think. It won't go very far.’
‘Mr Rowan.’ The pen was recapped and put down for the first time. ‘I think you will have to make a change in your perceptions before much longer. Seventy-five pounds to someone with a roof over their head, with a salary coming in sounds like nothing. What do they call it? Pocket lint. But for someone with nothing, and I mean nothing, Mr Rowan, seventy-five pounds is a fortune. I can't help you today. You don’t qualify for an immediate benefit, nor a contingency loan. Compared to most of the people I see from day to day, you are as rich as Croesus. I would urge you, Mr Rowan, to try and rebuild some of the bridges you seem to have burned with such abandon. I will put your details on file in case I need to see you again, but, believe me when I say, I hope you never feel the need to come here again.’ He stood up and extended his hand, but this time to shake Chris’s, not to gather in non-existent paperwork. ‘Goodbye, Mr Rowan.’
Chris got up, confused. ‘So … that’s it?’
‘I’m afraid so. If you speak to Angela on the desk, she will give you some literature on how to progress to seeking employment. Goodbye, Mr Rowan.’ And before the door had closed behind Chris, Angela on the desk was calling the next person in.
Chris wanted to sit down until his legs stopped trembling and his breathing settled down but clearly the benches immediately outside were out of the question. The comment about the seventy-five pounds had hit home and he felt as though he had a neon sign on his head that said ‘Mug Me’. He didn’t see individuals any more, just a roiling mob of people. He felt as though he was on a caffeine rush, but filtered through a blanket. He just had to go somewhere quiet, somewhere where he could shut his own door. He pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket and there was his salvation. Housing offices in another half an hour. If he walked slowly, he could get himself back on an even keel.
The housing offices were part of the council building and so not as intimidating as the benefits place. There was no double glass door to negotiate, no crowd of people who all turned to look at him. Even the receptionist was absent; there was no desk, no boot-faced woman, not even Angela. Just a window and a bell. Not very high on the friendliness stakes, possibly, but rather less public and much less scary. He rang the bell and waited, as instructed. He settled himself in the classic queue position of all the weight on one leg, hip out, hands in pockets, but there was no need. The window slid back and, rather disconcertingly, a voice spoke from below the sill. He looked in and saw that the woman who had answered him was sitting at her desk.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I …’ Her face was not very welcoming. He realised that she heard it dozens of times a day. It wasn’t her fault, after all, if the office designer was clearly nuts. It was just crying out for an injury claim for repetitive strain. ‘I have an appointment,’ he said.
‘Name?’
He really ought to get a badge. ‘Christopher Matthew Rowan,’ he said, speaking clearly.
She glanced at her screen. ‘Mr Rowan. Yes, I have you here. Thank you for being early. We have had a cancellation, actually; would you like to go straight through?’ She gestured with a nod of her head to the door in the wall to his right and he knocked and went in.
The woman behind the desk was leaning back in her chair, a phone in one hand and a mouthful of biscuit. She bounced upright in a spray of crumbs. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, laughing and brushing bits of biscuit off her front and off the papers on the desk. ‘Just having a bit of down time because of a cancelled appointment. Are you … no, you’re clearly not Mrs anyone, are you? Am I still allowed to make that kind of assumption, I wonder, in these politically correct days? No, but you must be Mr Rowan.’
Chris warmed to the woman. She had a pleasant face, nothing special, nothing you would recognize again unless she was a friend or relative. But she was, for that same reason, non-threatening. She was probably ten years his senior but didn’t have the family photos all around to rub in the fact that she had it all and you had nothing. She held out her hand and he took it, gratefully. It was warm and still a little bit crumby. She felt the crumbs dig into her palm and apologised again, laughing.
‘Sorry. Hobnobs are a bit of a failing of mine. Like one?’ She proffered the packet.
‘Thank you.’ He realised that he was hungry. His ham and hummus baguette seemed a very long time ago and the scalding coffee was a memory he would rather forget.
She turned to the shelf behind her desk. ‘Tea? Coffee?’ she asked. ‘I hit the wall around this time of day and need a bit of a pick-me-up.’
‘I’d love one, thank you.’ The coffee arrived, over-heated and acrid but with real milk, real sugar and in a mug which said ‘World’s Best Golfer’. He held it up. ‘Golfer? I’ve never really taken to it, myself.’ Dave Stanley had dragged him round a course once or twice but it had been something of a fiasco.
‘Me? Heavens no! That mug’s been here since Adam was in the militia. It kind of went with the job, if you see what I mean. Along with a four year backlog of files, but we’ll draw a veil over that. Now, then, let’s see … Do you have a file?’ She looked around her at the teetering piles. ‘I really hope not, because the chances of finding it are slim.’ She smiled at him again. ‘Sorry.’
‘No. I don’t have a file. I … it’s a long story.’
She spread her hands. ‘I have some time. Why not tell me?’
And he found himself doing just that. He sanitised it a bit; he didn’t want this nice woman to think he was as promiscuous and drunken as the last few months made him sound. He wasn’t that person. But he needed to lay it on the line. He needed somewhere to stay and that was it.
She made suitable noises throughout his recital and at the end, leaned back in her chair again, making the springs protest. ‘Mr Rowan … may I call you Chris?’
He nodded.
‘I think that is one of the most dreadful things I have heard in this office, and I’ve heard a few. May I ask … have you been to your GP? It sounds to me as if you may have a bit of a problem with depression. Hmm?’ She raised an eyebrow.
‘I saw her today …’
‘Good. Now, the news on the housing front isn’t great. You don’t really score enough on my scale to get you anywhere any time soon, I’m afraid. And I have to warn you, if and when somewhere does co
me up, I doubt it would be what you’re used to. It would be a one bedroom flat, at best.’
‘I don’t expect anything much …’ although as he spoke, Chris realised he had been imagining a cottage with roses round the door. ‘I was a letting agent, don’t forget. I know what’s out there.’
‘Yes. You know what some of your tenants were running from, but I doubt you ever went there. However, let’s not be downhearted. I imagine you’ve been to the job centre? Applied to agencies online, all that kind of thing?’
‘I haven’t been to the job centre, no, but I am with all the agencies …’ It suddenly struck him like a hammer that he didn’t have a computer any more; he could have had a dozen offers that very day and he wouldn’t know. He had also given out his mobile number as first contact. He jumped out of his seat in panic and shock.
‘Chris?’ She half got up, in sympathy. ‘Are you all right?’
He turned a haggard face to her. ‘I … I just realised. I don’t have access to a computer. My phone … I … I …’
‘Sshh. Sit down. Let me get you a glass of water. Stay there.’
She went through a door at the back of the office and he heard her ask someone for the water. He heard his name. Then he heard her drop her voice and say something he couldn’t catch. But he could guess. Is that Chris Rowan in there? Chris Rowan from Stanley’s? How are the mighty fallen. He slumped with his head in his hands and felt the black mist swirling. It must have come into the room with the dog.
He felt a cool glass being pressed into his hand and a warm hand on his back. Slowly, he felt better and sat up.
‘Sorry.’
‘No need to apologise. It’s a frightening world, sometimes. Now, just so you know for the future, there are computers at the job centre and in the library which are free to use. Just a word to the wise, they will probably condescend to you and assume you don’t know how to switch one on. Be patient with them; they mean well and they deal with computer duffers all day long. But you can log on and check your job offers from there as often as you want. But for now, as I said, the news isn’t great. I’ll just check what we have as emergency rooms.’ She tapped the keyboard and tutted as the mouse refused to do its stuff. ‘I do apologise,’ she said. ‘These computers are out of the ark. Umm …’ she peered closer. ‘I have a room in … no, no, that’s not really … umm … personal question, Chris, but we have to ask this. Do you have any money?’
‘Some. I have some cash and a few hundred in the bank.’
‘In that case, I can help you in the short term. I have a list of bed and breakfast places that will take people on our recommendation for a nominal sum. They just don’t want to lie empty, is the thing, really. Breakfast is extra, but you don’t have to have it. They vary in how much value they are, in fact, so … hello. This is a nice one. Niceish. Owned and run by a couple, very pleasant. The snag is some of their rooms are twin. You may have to share. How do you feel about that?’
Until he had moved in with Megan, Chris had never shared any sleeping space with anyone for more than a night and certainly never a stranger. ‘I’m not keen,’ he said. ‘If there is anything else …’
‘The snag is that it isn’t after half term yet.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Amazingly, there is a tourist season, even here. We’re a cheaper option than Oxford, apparently.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Who knew? But it does mean that some of our rooms aren’t available until after the October half term. That’s only about three weeks away. Look – I don’t usually recommend this but … can you sofa surf until then? This isn’t official policy, so don’t hare off round to the local paper telling them I said so. But in your situation, deliberately homeless, deliberately jobless – my hands are tied. I will put you on the list. I have put you on the list; but unless you can suddenly conjure up a few dependants and a darned good reason for not having a job, I don’t see my being able to help you within the next six months, to be optimistic about it. Chris.’ She reached forward and took his hand, the second time it had happened to him today and this time he clung on. ‘I am so, so sorry I can't help you. But something will turn up, you’ll see.’
‘Sofa surfing it is, then,’ he said, getting up, still reluctant to let go. ‘I’ll keep checking my emails. Thanks for the tip on where to go online.’
‘Good luck, Chris,’ she said, and clearly meant it. ‘Can you flip down the name tag on the door as you go out? You’re my last for today.’ She waved at the piles of manilla. ‘I think I’ll fill in the last hour or so with a spot of filing.’ She took the top file off a pile and blew on it; the air filled with dust and fluff. ‘Or dusting. Possibly both.’ She looked up at him with a sweet smile. ‘Goodbye.’
He went out gently, so as to not make any more dust fly in the golden afternoon light just filtering through the filthy council windowpane. She heard him obediently flip down the name tag. Only then did she put her head in her hands. ‘God,’ she muttered to herself through her fingers. ‘God, I hate my job.’
I Can Let Go Now
*
Outside once more, still jobless, still roofless but now more dejected than ever, Chris walked on into the gathering dusk. The backpack bounced on his kidneys with every step and he toyed more than once with binning it. But as it contained all he owned, he thought twice. Actually, he thought, it wasn’t all he owned. He owned half a house or, perhaps more accurately, half of the equity in a house. He owned a lot more clothes; not exactly designer, but they were his and they were still hanging in a wardrobe, just a few miles away. Unless they were in a charity shop somewhere, dumped in black bags by Megan or, more likely, her mother or Sam. He had a son, too; not exactly a possession, of course, but nevertheless something to call his own. However, to all intents and purposes, all he really owned was bumping now with every step, onto his kidney. Bump. Bump. Bump.
He looked at his options as he walked, the thoughts somehow getting into time with his steps. Soon, they were just one word. Claire.
Megan picked up the phone as soon as the first ring sounded. She had rejected all calls from Sam on Sunday. Lily and Will had ended up staying for lunch and as she looked around her table, Megan couldn’t help smiling. To anyone passing by and glancing in, they would have looked like a normal family. Husband, wife, pretty kid, mother – or mother-in-law, depending in the angle of view. They didn’t look anything like their actual selves: the woman who slept with a bloke on a first date, and a blind one at that; the bloke who actually agreed to sleep with the aforementioned woman; the babysitter who had a magic touch with kids but nevertheless not much of a home to go to if she could extend her stay by 18 hours and more and the child, the only one of the party who actually was what he was. She tried to imagine Chris sitting in Will’s place, carving the chicken, teasing Kyle with the hated sprouts but try as she might, she couldn’t. It was probably her fault, she told herself. No one knew how to be someone’s significant other just naturally; there had to be a bit of training, perish the thought. Unless you were a mind reader, and who could honestly say they were one of those? Will had had at least one trainer, she knew, so perhaps that explained why he was so good at being the man of the house. Lily … well, she was just that rare person, an adult who actually liked children. So that left her – she was the joker in this pack, for sure.
But now, Monday afternoon, taking Kyle back from nursery, tired, cranky, missing Lily, she began to think that perhaps the whole weekend had been some kind of dream. You heard of these things – people who had functioned perfectly normally for weeks on end, without anyone being aware that what they saw and what the somnambulist saw were completely at odds. But that would be pushing it. No, it had happened and although she knew it wasn’t going to change her life, she was glad it had; she had had a small taste of normality and nurturing after what was now beginning to feel like a lifetime of … what? There wasn’t a name for it, unless it was ‘Less’. That was it; her life had always been less than it could be.
; And now the phone was ringing. It was Sam; it had to be. Her mother never used the mobile, because she couldn’t remember the number, she said. Megan didn’t care about the reason; it was good to know that there was at least one place she could keep mother-free with no discernible effort.
‘Sam. Sorry, I’ve rejected your calls. I didn’t want to …’
‘Megan. It’s Will.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry … I thought …’
He chuckled. ‘I thought I’d jump in quickly before you said something that perhaps I didn’t want to hear. Such as “I didn’t want to ever see Will again” or “I didn’t want to tell you what a total dick Will is”. See, even if I am a dick, I’m a thoughtful dick.’
She laughed down the phone. ‘Fool,’ she said. ‘Of course that wasn’t what I was going to say. In fact,’ she took a deep breath. This wasn’t like her. She didn’t say sloppy things, not ever. ‘I was going to say, I didn’t want to interrupt my day with Will.”’
There was a silence at the other end, long enough for her to know she had blown it. She put her head down on the work surface in the kitchen and bumped it gently up and down. ‘Wow,’ he said, finally. ‘I wasn’t expecting that. Thank you. I … I know this sounds ridiculous, we’ve only just met, but … I’ve really missed you today.’ His little laugh sounded like a teenager. ‘I feel such a fool. Look, I’m sorry. That’s too much pressure. You’ve got enough on your plate …’
‘No, really. Will, hush, just hush. I’ve missed you too. I can't explain it, it’s just that … I seem to have spent my life apologising to people for their own behaviour and … well, I don’t need to do that with you.’
‘Because I’m perfect, clearly.’
‘No,’ she said, laughing. ‘Because you don’t have to be bolstered up all the time. And now who’s doing the pressure?’
‘I need to come round. There’s something I have to tell you.’
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