Mind Games and Ministers

by Chris Longden

  And anyway, the whole ridiculous thing had reminded me: that drain-like pong was still coming from the kitchen sink every time I switched the washing machine on. Adam might have been my boy, my love, my children’s daddy – dab hand at all things techie and motorbike, but he was bloody useless at practical household tasks. Call a plumber, Rachael.

  Oh crap, no. Cost a fortune.

  Pity-pot session over, I headed for our team meeting. It passed the time, helping me to dismiss the uncomfortable lunch hour with Shaun. By 3 p.m. the meeting had finished and I headed towards the kitchen and the corned beef sandwich that I had been promising myself for several hours. The room was occupied by a handful of women who had just finished a support-group session. Amidst lots of noise and laughter, I was greeted with a sudden and lairy:

  “Wooo-hooo!”

  Grabbed in a gruff embrace, a big kiss was planted on my forehead and I was nearly overcome by a heady scent of perfume and fruity chewing gum. A triumphant voice:

  “This is her what saved my frigging life on Saturday! Bless yer little cotton socks!”

  It was Dawn. Dawn with high spirits and infectious enthusiasm. Despite the black eye and the swollen lip, she wasn’t looking too bad. Poppy-Rose was there too, cruising between the knees of the other women, a mushed-up biscuit clenched in one tiny fist, which she was attempting to rub into the fishnet tights of the child-unfriendly Jade. They were all smirking though – enjoying the sight of me being roughed up by the incorrigible Dawn. Bev, who came to the centre most days of the week, already seemed to know my buoyant attacker and called out from the other side of the room.

  “Christ, Dawn! I didn’t think you meant Rachael! I thought you meant some other volunteer from here. Rachael runs this bleedin’ place! What were you doin’ draggin’ her away from her kids, of a weekend?”

  Dawn shook her hair and her oversized hooped earrings, giving me another big smacker on the cheek and then winced. Her lip still hurt. I fought the urge to wipe my face. I've always been funny about being kissed without inviting it.

  “Well. I didn't bloody know who she was! She didn't have no kids with her then, did she? Just some posh vicar.” A brilliant smile.

  “But anyway. I just wanted to come over here and say thanks for everything. I haven’t seen that total nobhead since Saturday now. Brenda’s good at keepin’ him away.”

  Dawn was buzzing. As opposed to the effect of drugs (which always had to be considered) she was probably riding on a high of being around other women who had gone through similar experiences. She gave me a bone-crushing hug again and tousled my hair.

  “Wow! So you’re the big boss, then? Ha! I got lucky, did I? You turning up with yer swanky God-freak? Anyways, I couldn’t be bothered with waiting for you to call back. So I thought I’d get the bus over and see if you can get me a transfer off of Brindleford as well as seein’ me sister at the same time. Can’t believe I’ve just bumped into Bev, here! She lives next door to our Debs!”

  Bev nodded. “An’ she’s all right, your Debs is. Don’t know how she manages to have so many blokes on the go, though. You can see one leaving the back door while she’s got another hanging round at the front. Dunno where she gets the energy from, what with four kids an’ all. Still. She does all right by ’em. Always turned out nicely, they are.”

  Dawn winked at Bev. “Yeah – she’s a good ‘un, is my big sis. Looks out for me. Hates Vinnie’s guts. So, yeah,” she turned back to me now. “I wanna get transferred off Brindleford and over ’ere. Nearer to Debs. An’ me mum is only down the road in Levenshulme, too. So can you help us with that?”

  I smiled wanly, not wanting to give her any false hopes.

  “It’s not always that straightforward, Dawn. First off – it’s your current landlord and your new one who’ll need persuading. There’ll be various criteria you’ll need to have met in order to get fast-tracked for a transfer. And if you want to go to a New Banks home in Medlock here, they’ll have to take into account things like … if you’ve got any rent arrears, if you’ve ever damaged the property, had any other problems during the tenancy on Brindleford.”

  I stopped for a minute, remembering what Michael had told me about the bailiffs. Or whoever the men who made off with the entire contents of the house were.

  She answered me with, “Well, I’ve never been in debt in me life.”

  (Lucky you Dawn, lucky you. There was a day not so long ago when I could have said that, too.)

  “Benefit pays us full rent. Always has. And the only problems we’ve ever had were through that nobhead. Nowt to do with me. All him and his bastard family. Plus, I never had him put on the tenancy with me. Just in my name. That’ll ’elp, won’t it?”

  “Usually. Normally a joint tenancy is the best option for partners, but not where there’s violence or abuse going on.”

  “So, d’you reckon we’ve got a chance then? Getting over near Debs and Bev ’ere?”

  “You’d probably have a better chance if you reported it to the police. What Vinnie did to you, I mean. If New Banks think they’re going to be faced with Vinnie hanging around you, they might think twice about letting you have one of their properties.”

  I knew, of course, from Brenda’s earlier phone message, what the answer was to all this. Dawn shook her head.

  “Nah. I told the pigs when I saw ’em that I don’t wanna report it. I don’t wanna be bothered with all that shit. ’Cause if Vin gets another conviction – an’ if he reckons it’s ’cause of me, it’ll just make it worse for us all. See?”

  I saw, all right. And I tried not to sigh. But it was back to the same old dilemma.

  “I do get what you’re saying, Dawn, but I really have to recommend that you have a chat with one of the caseworkers here. About the different kinds of legal action available.”

  She narrowed her eyes. Was this Rachael woman not listening?

  “What? Like an injunction, you mean? No one can friggin’ ban Vinnie from stuff. He always goes wherever he wants to —”

  I interrupted her.

  “Well, there are different types of injunction. Non-molestation orders and occupation orders, for example. And there are different legal paths to think about – civil or criminal law. But, for now, let’s just get you sorted out with the right caseworker and then we can…”

  Dawn, however, had only one thing on her mind. She flapped her hand at me.

  “Yeah, but just getting off Brindleford would sort it out. Movin’ to somewhere where he don’t know where we are. Makin’ it nice and doin’ it up. Our own place. Without him.”

  I tried not to sound exasperated. Dawn was coming out with some of the classic lines. She genuinely thought that a new house, a new road, a new sofa would fix her situation.

  “Look, let’s book you in with Marsha for an appointment. She can talk you through all of this.” I cut her short, not wanting to discuss her personal case details in front of the other women. They might start comparing notes or thinking that I was showing favouritism by helping Dawn out during the weekend.

  But more importantly, my stomach was grumbling away. Lunch was desperately needed. I yanked open the fridge door and commenced battle with a tower of diet soups, yoghurts and skimmed milk. Locating my lunch box, I opened it and took a bite of a sandwich, walking towards the door with the intention of tackling an overdue report while scoffing my food at my desk. But Dawn persisted.

  “So the vicar. What's the score there, then?”

  The group of women looked at me.

  “What vicar?” asked Gillian, as she sipped her usual cup of rooibos tea.

  I casually chewed my sandwich as I reached the kitchen door, disregarding Dawn. Pretending that I either couldn’t hear her or had a gobful of butty.

  But Dawn just raised her voice and cooed, “Actually, I thought he weren’t bad for a God-botherer. Where’s his church, then? He’s the sort what might get me havin’ a bit of a religious reversion.”

  I couldn’t resist calling back o
ver my shoulder.

  “I think you mean ‘conversion’, Dawn. And somehow, I don't think that that would be a genuine ‘I've seen the light’ moment.”

  Dawn was playing to the crowd, though.

  “Well, whatever. There aren't many men of the cloth what are half decent. Bet I could get him all hot and bothered under his doggy collar …”

  Collective cackling from Dawn’s new mates and a “You’re as bad as your Debs, you are!”

  I ignored them, but Bev’s voice was now directed at me. “Hey, Rachael! What kind of butty have you got today?”

  Here we go.

  “Corned beef,” I answered. Taking another mouthful and glancing back at her. Bev folded her arms in disgust.

  “Bleugh. Can’t be doin’ with corned beef. Looks like VD scrapings, it does.”

  I scowled at her. Bev did this every time she saw me having my lunch. Last week she told me that my tuna mayo and sweetcorn sandwich reminded her of cat puke but without the hairy bits. And on another day, that my coronation chicken resembled “our loo, the mornin’ after a take-away from the Brindleford Bismillah”.

  Back at my desk, I tried to invoke my appetite again. No go. I shoved my lunchbox to one side. Bloody Bev. Still, I was glad of her distraction from Dawn’s vicar jibes. I knew that Brenda wasn’t one for tongue-wagging and that she would be discreet about Michael’s identity. But had Dawn guessed? There were rather too many jokes about the priesthood for my liking. And despite the dippy dramatics and her entanglement with Vinnie, I could tell that she was a sharp one.

  The phone on my desk jangled, and on answering it I was met with the lilt of a Blackburn accent. Martyn Pointer. It hadn’t taken him long to call. He and Shaun had always been career rivals. Always after some dirt on each other. Both men were polar opposites in terms of their looks. Martyn was short and squat with blonde, but now thinning, hair. And they were also at the extreme ends of the spectrum in terms of their manners. Martyn was skilled at charm and compliments. Shaun saw no need for either. Martyn, though, had a tendency to whine and complain if his enchanting etiquette didn’t get him his own way in any given situation. But, like most of my old buddies from the world of housing, he was a good egg.

  “All right, Martyn? There must be some reason why the director of New Wan – I mean New Banks – himself is calling me. Anything to do with a certain housing officer called Jake? Something in relation to an old lady … who I am totally and utterly responsible for having transported to the dark side of Manchester on Saturday?”

  I heard a pause.

  “And good afternoon, Rachael. And how on earth are you, too, this fine day?”

  “Sorry, Martyn,” I laughed. “It’s been a long day … but I thought you might get in touch fairly soon. You really don’t need to worry about the thing with Miss Simpson. Didn’t Jake tell you that I’m happy being blamed as a far-too-helpful passer-by?”

  “Yes, he did. And it’s nice to hear that some people we work alongside still have principles, Rachael. Obviously I need to try to anticipate anything that Shaun Elliot and his cronies throw at us about helping poor Miss Simpson out. He’s the sort to get all political about paying a few more pennies to help a poorly pensioner. But that’s not actually what I’m calling about.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. The thing is, New Banks have just been allocated rather a lot of money from the Social Enterprise Loans Coalition. We applied to them over a year ago and, to be honest, I’d totally forgotten about it. So now we’ve got this funding, which we have to act as agent for, to lend to a couple of local social enterprises as soon as possible. There’s no interest rate. It’s a marvellous package. And I wondered if you might be the lady to help me spend it?”

  “Oh, right.” I paused for a second. “Well, it’s really nice of you to think of us, Martyn, but we’re managing OK for now. We’re not one hundred per cent grant reliant, as you know, but no … we don’t really need a big loan at this point in time.”

  (Enough of the debt situation at home, thank you very much.)

  “Oh. Shame. It would have been nice working with you again. But seriously, things can’t be easy for you guys over there. Given the cutbacks that a lot of the non-statutory services are up against. So don’t discount my offer straight away, will you? I do need to get it spent as soon as possible … but I want it to go on something worthy. And Jake tells me you’ve made some brilliant things happen at Sisters’ Space. A chocolate enterprise. Sounds very exciting.”

  “Well, we think so. But anyway, Martyn. Going back to the Miss Simpson situation. If the council start giving you a bollocking over the Lancaster House thing, you don’t need to worry. We’re all singing from the same song sheet. And I won’t be taking any shit about the fact that I decided to get Miss Simpson to somewhere safe and dry as fast as I could. Only a complete arsehole would say that we should have left her in that frigging awful state while we tried to ring round the B & Bs.”

  And then I remembered that Martyn was a Jehovah’s Witness and that I had always done my best not to swear too much around him. Oh, well. Martyn spent most of his Saturdays wearing a dark suit and trying to persuade innocent householders to read copies of The Watchtower , so he was probably used to regularly being told to fuck off.

  “Oh, I’m not concerned about that, Rachael. We did the right thing. Even if it doesn’t fit with Shaun Elliot’s dog-eat-dog view of the world. No – I’m more nervy about allocating this loan. I’ve got three weeks to sort it. Actually, I was thinking of asking Shaun Elliot to apply for it personally. He only seems to be able to afford a new car every other month. Latest Lexus model at the moment…”

  “Yeah. Well twatty, or what?” (Whoops, there I go again.)

  Despite always giving off that slight whiff of religious sanctimony, Martyn could never resist a dig at Shaun. But I promised to keep the idea of a loan on the back-burner, and hung up.

  At 4.30 p.m. I packed up and made a beeline for home and the other side of the Pennines. As I got into my car, my phone buzzed. A message from Shaun. It read:

  “Sorry @ all. S x.”

  I toyed with the idea of texting him back and giving him the usual Jehovah’s Witness send-off. But there were two elements here. Firstly, Shaun never apologised. So this was definitely one for the history books. And secondly, I needed to keep on walking that council funding tightrope for the centre. Had to keep Shaun sweet. So I kept the return message brief.

  “4get it. Thx.”

  Ten seconds later, as I was about to pull out of the car park, another message pinged at me. Shaun could never resist the last word.

  ‘Can’t 4get. Always @ x.’

  As I headed back down the Levenshulme Road, I puzzled over its meaning. Did it mean ‘always about’? Or ‘always around X’ (love) Or ‘always at X’ (love)? Whatever. I wasn’t going to waste any more brain cells on Shaun today. I pressed ‘delete’.

  As Kate had said to me on many a previous occasion, Shaun is such a shithead.

  Chapter 14

  THE AGE OF IRON(ING)

  “Matthew is utterly shattered, and I’m rather pooped, too.”

  This was Lydia’s description of their respective physical conditions after a long day of Early Years learning curriculums. Looking at their weary faces, I felt the usual squeeze of guilt and that feeling of parental failure because I relied so heavily on nursery and wrap-around after-school care. In truth, though, I didn’t have much choice in the matter. I had a mortgage to pay. On my salary alone, thanks to The Great Insurance Screw-Up.

  After Adam’s death, I had once confessed to Jake Bamber my concerns about all the childcare help I relied on. He had replied:

  “C’mon, Rach. Do the wealthy sit there fretting about sending their little brats off to boarding school? No. Capitalism wants your average woman to buy into the crap that only the mother can look after the kids best. And that traps women in a vortex of domesticity and political apathy. It takes a village to raise a child, remember? Anyway,
if you’re keeping someone in a job by paying them to look after your own snotty-nosed offspring, so that you can have a life yourself, then all the better for everyone, I say.”

  I had answered, “Bloody hell, Jake. I was only fretting about not being there to wipe my own kids’ arses. And someone else teaching them how to write. I wasn’t worrying about me single-handedly scuppering the rise of the proletariat!”

  But Jake The Trot certainly had a point. This lady would never fall foul of a vortex of domesticity, that was for sure. He’d seen the state of my house. And despite the odd pang of remorse, I had none of the feelings of jealousy that some mothers have of their children’s carers. In fact, I had nothing but huge regard for them. Pink Trinny, Matthew’s favourite nursery nurse, rolled her eyes when I collected Matthew and he told me, “Mummeh, I only eated six baked beans. ’Cause it were pooey food here today.”

  Pink Trinny confirmed this (well – the six-bean consumption, not the pooey food). Trinny was a gorgeous black girl with neon-pink hair and an admirably laid-back attitude to childcare. She didn't seem in the slightest bit bothered about his lack of appetite (“Oh, you know Matthew; he'll refuse his favourite things one day, and the next he’ll be nicking stuff off everyone else’s plates.”)

  Matthew’s tiredness meant that I didn’t have to pin him down with my knee as I usually did when strapping him into his car seat. Lydia, however, resorted to exhausted peevishness.

  “This car is so rubbish. Why can’t we have a cool, black car like everyone else? We never have anything nice, do we, Matthew? And this car smells of Edam. Like stinky old socks.”

  I ignored her and switched on The Best of Death Thrash Metal . One of Adam’s favourite albums which perversely (and ironically) always took the edge off the kids’ grumpiness.

  After a neither healthy nor nutritious tea (recipe: open one can of hot dogs, heat in microwave, slap them on cheap white bread and roll them up in an attempt to create ‘hot-dog bun’) I herded the kids off to my bedroom. They were being treated with a kiddy-film on the old laptop that I had kept for such occasions. For once, I had decided – just for once – I would get to choose the TV channel myself. The News.