by Jennie Finch
‘What do I do about his case then?’ Alex asked.
Garry waved a hand at her. ‘Oh, go and see him, make sure he doesn’t need anything and make it look like a normal release order in your notes,’ he said. ‘Obviously there are some issues of confidentiality here and I expect you to be discreet. The fewer people know about him the better really.’
Alex nodded and rose from the chair. ‘Of course.’
‘Let me know when he’s moving on,’ said Garry, as she walked to the door. ‘Oh and by the way, where were you for the whole of yesterday?’ he added.
She didn’t think the day could get much worse but she was wrong. Hurrying down the stairs to the office, her head humming in white-hot fury at Garry’s latest scathing estimate of her worth as a probation officer, she bounced off Paul Malcolm labouring up to her office.
‘Oh, gosh, sorry Alex,’ he said, leaning back against the wall. ‘Ah, let me catch my breath.’
Alex stepped back, stumbling as her foot caught the riser behind her but managed to grab the rail in time.
‘No Paul, really, it was my fault,’ she said, trying to slip past him around the corner but Paul was not to be deterred.
‘Well, now I’ve got you I wonder if I might have a quick word about Brian.’
It was late by the time she escaped Paul’s well-intentioned attempts to assist Brian, and Alex still had to finish her work for the court later in the week. She sat at her desk struggling to make sense of her notes, desperately trying to force them into something the magistrates (and more importantly Lauren) might recognize as a competent social enquiry report. Finally she abandoned the whole mess as the light faded from the sky outside her window. The car park was empty and she climbed into her car, cursing the parking restrictions on her road that forced her to drive in each day just to avoid a ticket. The memory of her interview with Garry and her grovelling assurance she was on her way to see the mysterious client mocked her as, teeth grinding in frustration, she turned the ignition key. Flinging the Citroën into reverse she swooped round the empty space, turning towards the exit when she spotted a movement in the rear-view mirror. She slammed on her brakes and tried to swerve, an impossible manoeuvre when going backwards. The heavy car slid sideways, skidding 180 degrees and came to rest in the midst of the dustbins. Shaken but unhurt she scrambled out and hurried round the vehicle. A skinny figure in ragged jeans and a floppy T-shirt was sprawled amidst the scattered rubbish. His feet, she noticed, were bare and filthy. No matter how hard they tried no-one could get Simon the Lorry Boy to wear shoes.
‘Bloody hell! Are you hurt?’ She reached out a hand but Simon shook himself, scattering bits of shredded paper and the contents of ashtrays around him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘The warning sensor doesn’t work on my truck. I’ve been meaning to get it fixed but I can’t afford it. You wouldn’t have heard me coming.’ He mimed turning the ignition, looked over his shoulder and began to drive his imaginary lorry out of the bin store making soft engine noises as he went.
‘Don’t tell my Boss, will you? I could be fired for that,’ he said anxiously as he shunted what appeared to be a fantasy trailer back and forth before lining himself up with the gate. Then with a wave of his hand he was gone, out onto the road to ‘drive’ the three miles home. Alex opened her mouth to call after him but it was too late, and, anyway, Simon couldn’t hear her above the noise of his engine. She hoped he would stick to the pavements on the way out to Petherton. Simon was a familiar figure to the locals, who tended to look out for him, but there were already a lot of tourists around, strangers who hooted and swore as they swerved around the barefoot boy. Clambering back into her car she turned the key and knew at once something was wrong. The suspension on the driver’s side was fine but the other side remained firmly enmeshed in the bins. Several expensive looking warning lights came on and stayed on until she removed the key. She clambered out and rested her head wearily on the roof of the car, closing her eyes as she wondered how she’d ended up here, in this strange place amongst these strange people.
She managed to get the car back into her parking space with the help of Bert, the janitor, and together they tidied up the worst of the rubbish. Bert flipped the most damaged bins around to hide the dents and nodded in approval at their handiwork.
‘You just get off now,’ he said. ‘You look just worn out. Mebbe you’m due a bit of a holiday?’
Alex felt a lump rise in her throat at his kindness. ‘I’m fine Bert, really. We’re so short staffed at the moment I can’t just go off and leave everyone else in the lurch.’
Bert raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, you look after yerself. You’m here late too much. Won’t do you no good, getting so tired and, well ….’ Here he lowered his voice and glanced up at the windows behind him. ‘’Tis not like it’s appreciated much, now is it?’
Alex followed his gaze up to her Senior’s window. Things must be bad, she thought, if even Bert knew how Garry felt about her.
The next day she arrived on foot, before anyone else and spent several hours catching up with her case notes. She had a number of social enquiry reports to prepare for the court but was at a loss without a car. She needed to visit two of the households before she could finish the background sections but they were both out in the countryside and the only buses ran to factory hours, collecting workers for the giant plastics complex in town and delivering them home again after their shifts. She gazed out of the window, chewing a pencil and punching the keys to her calculator. She could either pay for the taxis to go and do her work visits or pay to get the car fixed. Her budget was not big enough for both.
‘Shit!’ she exclaimed, throwing the pencil across the room just as the door opened and an unfamiliar face peered round.
‘Whoa, bloody hell!’ said a woman’s voice, the owner ducking back out of harm’s way.
Alex leaned to one side and peered at the doorway, ‘Can I help you?’ The woman looked in, poised for flight.
‘Yes?’ asked Alex. She knew she was being less than gracious but she didn’t feel very welcoming. The woman entered and held out her hand.
‘Hi, I’m Susan but everyone calls me Sue,’ she said with a smile.
Alex blinked at her, her tired brain running through the possibilities – client, client’s girlfriend, probably not old enough to be client’s mother ….
‘I’m the new probation officer,’ said Sue. ‘I’m in the next office. Mind if I sit down?’ She plonked herself into the easy chair by the window and kicked off her shoes, gold coloured sandals with light soles and thin straps.
‘You’ve got a fabulous view. That bike shed thingy is in the way from my room.’
Alex knew all about the ‘bike shed thingy’ as on her arrival she’s been offered a choice and opted for this room precisely because of the uninterrupted view of the river. Things had been so much rosier then, almost welcoming in fact.
‘Ah, I’m Alex,’ she said, realizing she had been staring in silence ever since Sue’s entrance.
Sue flicked her hair back, long blonde hair that flowed down her back almost to her waist and gave Alex a glittering smile. ‘I know. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. We both went for the same job in the summer and you got it, but last month they rang me up and said they had a post after all and would I like it, so – here I am.’
Alex nodded, rather at a loss.
‘Are you, ah …,’ she searched for a polite way to ask whether Sue had any experience, settling for, ‘transferring from another office?’
Sue shook her head. ‘No, I qualified last August but I’ve had to make do with Social Services work until now. I was running an Intermediate Treatment group in Devon for a while. That was fun.’
Alex wasn’t sure ‘fun’ quite encapsulated the experimental and occasionally risky nature of most I.T. work. Combining the social work approach of offering alternative interests to juvenile criminals with a client group drawn mainly from the super-fit ‘short sharp shockers�
��, it was frequently ridiculed in the press, and the more spectacular failures (‘Hooligans on free trips abroad burn down beach huts – we foot the bill!’) were career killers. She looked at Sue with new respect.
‘What is that shed thing anyway?’ Sue asked. Alex joined her at the window.
‘It was going to be a vehicle maintenance project before the government decided our emphasis should be on “control” rather than “rehabilitation”,’ she said. ‘We lost the funding for our instructor and no-one here wants to take it up. We’re all too busy writing reports.’
Sue wrinkled her nose and stared at the building.
‘Well, maybe we can do something about that. They’re planning a day centre, aren’t they? So there’s one activity straight away. Anyway, I’m really pleased to meet you. I do hope we can be friends – I don’t really know anyone here so maybe you could show me what you do in the evenings round here’.
Before Alex could reply, the phone rang in Sue’s office and she headed out of the door, waving goodbye and leaving her sandals by Alex’s window. Just as well really, Alex thought. She struggled to remember a decent night out since her arrival. The social life of the town revolved around the Carnival, the Carnival concerts and fundraising for the clubs and gangs. The area was awash with pubs, each the home for one group or club and each wary of strangers and less than welcoming to women. In London the most common offence committed by Alex’s charges had been ‘Touching the Dog’s Arse’ – car theft or ‘taking and driving away’ in official language. Here it was ABH, actual bodily harm, which made the area sound rather more dangerous than the capital. Examining the figures showed a slightly different picture, however – lots of men went out at night, got drunk and hit each other. There was a tap on the door and Sue reappeared.
‘Sorry, forgot my shoes. I’m always doing that.’ She retrieved her sandals and stopped at the door, looking back at Alex.
‘I’m staying with Margaret at the moment and to be honest it’s driving me a bit crazy. Do you know anywhere decent going? Going cheap if possible.’
Alex waved her towards the chair again. ‘Sit down if you’ve got a moment. What sort of place do you want?’
Sue shrugged. ‘Oh, maybe a little country cottage, a few roses, not far from work but quiet …’ She grinned at Alex’s expression of disbelief. ‘Only kidding. Anywhere off a main road but not way out in the wilds. And not too cold either. I hate the cold.’
Alex sympathized, her experiences in the forge still clear in her mind.
‘You don’t really want to settle on anywhere until around September or October,’ she advised. ‘That way you can feel how draughty a place is. The ropiest old shack looks nice in the summer. There’s a lot more around to choose from in the winter too. All the summer labourers leave, all the people who come down here for the weather and stuff. They rush back to cities and you can get a much better price in the winter.’
Sue nodded. ‘Thanks. I’ll take your advice, though I’m not sure I can stand a whole summer at Margaret’s place. Here,’ she twisted round and much to Alex’s alarm began to unbutton her dress, ‘what do you think these are?’ She pulled the whole front down and displayed a series of red dots running across her chest and over one shoulder. ‘I’ve got some on my bum too …’
‘That’s okay, I can see fine,’ said Alex raising her hands to ward off any further disrobing. Unconcerned, Sue pulled her dress back up and flopped into Alex’s easy chair.
‘I thought they might be fleas but they fade away every day. They seem to come out at night. Maybe I’m allergic to the factory fumes …’
‘If you were anywhere else I’m probably say they were bed-bugs,’ said Alex.
Sue pulled a face and rubbed her back against the chair. ‘Surely not. I mean, Margaret’s posh.’
Alex nodded in agreement. ‘Still, you did think they might be fleas. So she can’t be that posh,’ she said.
Sue sighed and gestured vaguely in the direction of Margaret’s office down the hall. ‘Yes but she has cats. Note, cats plural and the place has a rather odd smell when you go in. Haven’t you noticed?’
Alex had to confess she’s never been invited to Margaret’s house, though she had been treated to several pictures of the garden in full bloom. Sue snorted. ‘Yes the bloody garden. Not only do I pay rent and have to feed myself, I’m expected to pull up weeds and clip things outside in the evening. Look!’ She held out her hands, resplendent with pearly pink nails. ‘Do these look as if they’re comfortable digging around in the dirt? Then, by the time I’m finished I’m starving and there’s not a single take-away in the whole village. I’m practically living on toast. Thank God for the chippy round the corner here.’
‘Don’t you get use of the kitchen?’ Alex asked.
Sue gave her a hard stare.
‘Kitchen. Yes, that implies cooking. I sort of – don’t.’
‘Don’t or can’t?’ Alex asked, intrigued by the thought of a woman who preferred to eat like a single man.
‘Both,’ said Sue. ‘Tried it a few times and hated it. And if you’ve got a boyfriend in tow they suddenly start appearing at mealtimes looking hopeful. Honestly, it’s virtually slavery. Do you cook?’ she added hopefully.
Alex burst out laughing. There was something really quite attractive about this woman.
‘Sorry,’ said Sue, grinning up at her, ‘I guess that was a bit cheeky.’
‘It was worth it,’ said Alex. ‘I could do with a good laugh at the moment. And yes, I do cook. I enjoy it even if it’s just for me. Do you fancy dinner one evening – say Friday? You could stay over if you want to drink …’
Sue bounded to her feet, sandals in hand.
‘Friday sounds great. I’ll bring some wine. Oh – address?’
Alex pulled out one of her official cards and scribbled on the back.
‘Don’t lose it,’ she warned. ‘There are several clients I’d rather not know exactly where I live.’
Sue sauntered towards the door and then turned back.
‘Is that your car outside, the Citroën?’
Alex nodded wearily. ‘Yep. And I am so screwed unless I can get it fixed in the next week or so. I’ve got a load of visits to make and no way of getting out to them.’
Sue tilted her head to one side and pursed her lips. ‘Maybe I can help. I need some experience writing the reports and running an interview. Why don’t I drive you out and observe?’
Alex felt a rush of hope – maybe this was a way round her problems. Then she thought of Garry and his ‘value for money’ cost-cutting framework and her shoulders slumped despondently.
‘I’d love that but I’m not sure how we’d arrange it. I don’t expect Garry will consider me – experienced enough.’ She had almost said ‘suitable’. Sue waved her hand, swatting away such feeble obstacles.
‘I’ll sort it out with my admin support,’ she said. ‘She’ll rustle up some paperwork for us, I’m sure. She’s just wonderful – well, you would know. You had Lauren when you started too didn’t you?’
Chapter Four
Alex frowned at the forms in front of her trying to make sense of the latest entries. With just a cursory glance she detected several spelling errors, the margins didn’t line up properly and the last lines were smudged and faded as if they had been typed using an old carbon sheet. The whole page was a mess and looked thoroughly unprofessional. She reached for the phone to ring the office, then remembered her recent behaviour towards Lauren. With a rush of shame she put the receiver back and gathered the offending papers together, intending to go down and have a quiet word in person. At that moment there was a knock on her door and Alison, one of the clerical staff, entered clutching more folders and juggling a cup of coffee.
‘Here you are,’ she said cheerfully, plonking the cup on the desk and flopping into a chair. The coffee slopped into the saucer and dribbled across the desk before Alex managed to blot it with some tissues from the ever-present box. Alison glanced around her,
taking in the bookshelves crammed with Alex’s textbooks and official manuals, the swathe of papers surrounding a small, clear patch on the desk and the gallery of modern art postcards stuck up in the corner. She was a pale woman, almost anaemic with washed-out grey eyes and wispy straw-coloured hair. On special occasions, such as office socials or a day in court to record details, she applied enough make-up to her bland features to make her look like an anxious panda or (as Alex had once confided to Lauren) a weevil that hadn’t slept for days. Although she was only in her mid-twenties she acted like a middle-aged secretary, or maybe the way she thought a middle-aged secretary should act. She was recently married and had spent the first month of Alex’s tenure drifting dreamily around the office, placing her ring hand casually in front of anyone who came to the counter. It was difficult to imagine anyone in the office less compatible with Alex than Alison.
‘Ah, thanks,’ said Alex, trying to hide her confusion. ‘Er, why are you …’ she searched for a polite way to ask here. Finally she raised her eyebrows and tried an encouraging smile.
‘I thought we’d better get stuff sorted,’ said Alison, ‘so we both know how it’s going to work.’
There was a sinking feeling in Alex’s stomach.
‘How what’s going to work?’ she asked though she was already fairly sure she knew the answer.
‘I’m taking you over, from Lauren. I’ve already brought your case notes up to date so we should start off all square and ready to go,’ Alison said smugly, ‘and I can bring you coffee if you like.’
Alex glanced at the cup in front of her as the implication of this artless remark hit her. She opened her mouth to snap at this mean little person and then realized she was going to be stuck with Alison for some time. It was her own fault and she needed to avoid making matters worse if possible.