Last weekend, a quiet Friday night at home, my friend, her husband, the daughter and their two other children are sitting in front of the television when there is a crash outside. When they open the door they find a pack of fifteen youths, boys and girls, all in masks, calling for the daughter to come out and face the music. The windscreen of the family car has been smashed. My friend is terrified. The children cower in the hall while the husband, furious, runs out to confront the rabble. A few more stones are thrown, the mob scatter. The police are called. They arrive eventually, take some statements and promise to look into it. The masks are a problem, they say with a shrug. Without a positive identification any progress will be difficult.
I have my own troubles, too. When I check my latest bank statement, I notice that my benefits have been cut. I make an appointment and am told I have failed to supply the necessary information about my husband’s circumstances. They explain that they need to ensure that he is not in a position to contribute to the children’s financial upkeep. Until such information is supplied, they tell me, the appropriate sum will be deducted from what I am given. I have supplied all the information when I first applied for benefits, but when I tell them this, they say they have no record of the details.
The next day I go to see Jenny. She sorts out an appointment with another solicitor. He promises to write to the benefits office and to supply the Home Office documentation to authenticate my claim. Until then, I am living on a fraction of my usual income.
I continue to harass my case worker at the Red Cross. The same response as always: no contact established. I tell myself that no news is good news, but sometimes my spirit falls and I fear the worst. I tell myself, I will be strong! I am strong!
It is not always easy, but I think of you and Gadissa, your own journey that I have lived and relived in my imagination a hundred thousand times, a spiralling loop of tortured speculation, so many alternating worlds of conjecture, so many maybes and what ifs, and I feel as always the icy whiplash of sorrow and shame, shame and sorrow, backwards and forwards, and between these worlds I find I have no excuse not to be strong. Our love to you, to Gadissa.
***
Dear Kassa
Outside the house, things are going well, my dear. Yanit is a star at school, Abebe popular with teachers and schoolmates. My studies too are a success. You will be amazed to learn that I have been ‘promoted’ to a higher level, now travel to the further education college in Blackbird Leys, another edge-of-city estate. The classes now run every morning. Another step closer.
Things have become more difficult at home, however. My landlord is an elderly fellow with a hawk-like expression. He reminds me of Mr Faisal, one of my lecturers in Addis. Our initial contract for this flat was for six months and imagine my shock when I told him we wished to extend our tenancy, and he announced that he wanted us out as soon as possible. I asked him whether we had done something wrong and pleaded with him to reconsider, but he was adamant. It was nothing that we had done, he insisted, just that his nephew and his family were coming down from Leeds to live in Oxford and he had promised them the flat.
Back to the Open Arms Project for advice. Jenny arranges an appointment with a legal aid solicitor. Another appointment at the council with a housing officer. I get told to stay put, to wait for the landlord to go through the legal proceedings for a compulsory eviction. Only if I am forcibly evicted will the council take any responsibility for our accommodation.
A fortnight ago I checked on my position on the council housing list. To my dismay I found that they have no record of the application form I so painstakingly filled in with Jenny on my arrival in Oxford. It seems that the address on my application form is the old bed-and-breakfast. After submitting it, I moved to the new flat without telling the council. When their letter confirming receipt of the application was returned to them, they simply took me straight off the housing list.
The housing officer I speak to shows me the small print in their documentation explaining that failure to notify the council of a change of address renders the application void. She cheerfully hands me another copy of the form. For every thorn I pull from my foot, another two lie waiting in my path.
The officer explains how my claim will be dealt with, how my circumstances are weighed up, how my demand is ranked against all the other current applications. There is now an online bidding system, houses and flats displayed on the website with a procedure for applicants to submit requests for particular homes, the candidate with the highest ranking securing the accommodation. I log on and see that I am ranked seventy-four. My heart sinks.
Sleepless nights.
Red Cross are silent.
I love you.
***
Dear Kassa
Relations with Faisal have deteriorated. He wants us gone and I cannot oblige. Jenny’s solicitor tells me plainly that if I leave of my own free will, I will have technically made myself homeless and so would forfeit any council assistance. Faisal has been here several times to show his nephew around the property. They peer into the kitchen, check the bedrooms, avoid eye contact as if we do not exist.
Some weeks ago he brought me a piece of paper, a notice to leave that he had signed. He told me he hopes I will leave peacefully, that it would distress my children if he has to call in bailiffs, if they are forced to witness our physical eviction, our belongings spread out on the pavement outside. It would not be good for me, he insists.
So I phone the legal practice. I manage to persuade the reluctant receptionist to give me an emergency appointment. The solicitor scans the letter. He tells me to stay put, to let the landlord’s legal proceedings take their course. It is an expensive process, he tells me. The landlord wants me to go quietly in order to save himself the court costs.
Last week Faisal’s next bombshell. The meter for my electricity is downstairs in the store room of the shop. Up until now I have been paying him a flat fee for power, but now he tells me this has not been enough, that it was a miscalculation, that I owe a lot of money in arrears. He hands me a document, a bill for over a thousand pounds. He tells me I have a week to pay. I take the letter, look at him and he stares back, unblinking. We have gone past the stage of reasoning, of negotiating, so I say nothing.
I spend the next few nights lying awake wondering what to do. The solicitor had been brusque and made it clear that I should contact him only when I received the court summons from Faisal. This latest development is unforeseen. Eventually I make an appointment to see Jenny, but by this time it is too late. I return home on Friday afternoon, having collected the children from school, to find my electricity supply disconnected.
A wretched weekend. On Monday I go to the council. I have no appointment at the housing department but the receptionist listens to my tale. She lets me take a seat and goes off to whisper to one of the housing officers on duty. I wait for two hours but am eventually seen. I am referred to the environmental health department. Another office, another waiting room. The frustration mounts. I am supposed to be in class. Since the landlord began his campaign of intimidation and harassment, I have been too occupied to concentrate on my studies and have missed a number of lessons.
My ruminations are interrupted by a piercing scream from one of the interview cubicles. No! No! I don’t believe it! Do you see what you’ve done! You’ve broken them! It is a white woman, not even thirty but ageing prematurely, her face lined with strain. Her hair is the same texture as mine, bushy and wiry, the same length, but faded rusty red. She has her two children propped up on the cubicle bench, a pair of boys aged five and seven, I would guess.
Her wailing continues. She is utterly distraught. She is holding something in her hands, and it emerges through the tears that one of the boys has taken her glasses and has snapped off one of the arms. She is beside herself, unable to control her emotions. It is obviously the final straw. As I look on, I wonder what trail of misfortune has led
to this despair. How could you do this? she wails. They’re brand new. Brand new. I can’t see without them. I’m completely blind. Why did you do this? Why? Why? Her voice is jagged, the scene harrowing.
I am sitting next to a teenager, hollow-cheeked, grey-skinned with ragged hair and baggy clothes. I hear mumbling and glance sideways at the person but cannot make out its gender, think probably that it is female. There is something damaged in its gaunt expression. It is watching the wailing mother, its mouth twisted with contempt. She’s no right to have kids, it mutters. Look at her. She’s not fit to be a parent.
The screaming continues. People look away, bury themselves in council leaflets, trying not to catch each other’s eyes. Where am I? I think. Am I in hell?
A council officer appears, a middle-aged woman. She bends over the hysterical woman and puts an arm around her. She is talking to her, her voice low and soothing, and gradually the howling subsides, then the sobs turn to damp, defeated whimpering. They examine the glasses together. The officer goes off and returns with a roll of sellotape and begins to stick the spectacles back together. I catch sight of the boys’ faces, blank and pale. They watch as the woman bends over their mother, as she offers her aid package of sympathy and sticky tape. I try to interpret their expressions but can read only a controlled void.
When it is my turn to be seen, I am told that the landlord should not have disconnected my electric supply. Phone calls are made. I am told to go home and wait, that I should have the power back on by the end of the day. But it is not until the following afternoon that the electricity is reconnected.
Now between the landlord and myself there is an uneasy truce. Yanit and Abebe are perceptive. They know something is wrong. I have told them of the landlord’s plans and I can see it worries them.
Today I check my housing list ranking. Last week I had moved up to thirty-six, then forty-two. Now I am back in the sixties. I scour the letting pages of the local newspaper. I have registered with four different agencies. I know how much my housing benefit is, what I can afford, but the cheapest two-bedroom property in the area is two hundred pounds more than I am receiving. The letting agent tells me that landlords avoid tenants on benefits. The housing officer suggests I move area, look beyond Oxford itself. She is not unsympathetic, but explains that there just isn’t enough accommodation to go round in this safe, comfortable, sought-after city. I go around in circles, dizzy and despondent.
I must remain positive. I think of you and it gives me strength.
All my love.
***
Dear Kassa
Things have gone from bad to worse. Whereas before we were threatened with eviction, living in an uneasy state of uncertainty, today we are looking at the prospect of our first experiences of sleeping rough. We are in a bed-and-breakfast but only have enough money for one more night.
So how did we get here?
Well, as always, one thing seems to lead to another, but at the heart of the matter is the latest development in Faisal’s campaign to rid himself of his unwanted tenants. After failing with his extortionate electricity bill, he comes up with something more subtle. Appearing at my door around five weeks ago, he announces that he has installed a new meter in the shop below. He brings me downstairs and shows me the new machine, explaining how it works, where to put the pound coins. He tells me that as a gesture of apology for the invoice episode he has put in an initial five pounds. Still, he does not waste the opportunity to advise me to leave. He informs me that the court case is progressing, that bailiffs have been contacted. He does not want things to get nasty for me, he says. I should just go, if only for the sake of the children.
Upstairs I log onto the internet and check my ranking. Sixty-one. I google properties to rent in Oxford and come across a local information website that carries private advertisements.
My eye is caught by an advert for a flat near Cowley shopping centre. It is the rent that draws my attention, a figure covered by my housing benefit. There are photos of the property. It looks neat, cosy, well-maintained. I email back, expressing interest and asking to arrange a viewing.
The next morning, at six thirty, the electricity supply cuts off. I wait an hour until the shop opens downstairs. The meter is empty, the LCD display flashing a row of zeros. I change a five pound note and re-load the machine. Power returns. I think, there must be a mistake with the supply. Five pounds cannot have been eaten up so quickly. I make a mental note to keep a supply of coins handy.
The five pounds last until the following morning. The next day I run the washing machine and have to put in seven coins. I decide to keep a note of expenses and find that by the end of the first week I have spent forty-five pounds. I stop using the washing machine and take to soaking the clothes in buckets, washing them by hand.
I wait another week. By now I am in dire financial straits. Twice I am cut off during the night and so cannot reconnect until the morning. It is late October and still quite mild. I think about the coming winter and what it will cost me.
I arrange an appointment with the council and am shunted from the housing department to environmental health. A tenancy relations officer tells me that what she calls secondary metering, the installation of private meters and the setting of electricity tariffs by the landlord, is not something the council can deal with. They will, however, come and inspect the property to check whether or not I have access to the meter at night. Only that issue, she tells me, lies within her remit. She advises me to see a solicitor. I go and see Jenny. She is outraged, says she will contact the legal aid law practice to arrange an appointment.
I return home to check my emails for a reply from the Cowley flat landlord. Nothing. Days turn to weeks. No progress. The council officer fails to appear, phones to re-arrange the inspection for the following week. Jenny calls to tell me that the solicitor is away on holiday. She has tried to get someone else to see me, she will call as soon as she has any luck. I try to phone Faisal myself but he does not pick up and ignores my voicemails. I send a follow-up email to the Cowley landlord but there is still no response.
A difficult fortnight. The temperature drops and I run out of money. At night we climb into bed together, the children and I, to keep warm. Damp has spread from the bedroom through to the bathroom and kitchen. The walls are pockmarked with spores, the air dank with mould. The solicitor has flu. The council officer has inspected and tells me she has written to Faisal requesting that he moves the meter to a more accessible location, but otherwise washes her hands of the matter.
And then, just as I grow desperate, there is unexpected progress.
First of all, an email from the Cowley landlord. Apologies for the delay in responding. A faulty server, an administrative oversight. By chance, the flat is still available but a number of people are interested. There is no time for a viewing. The first person to send the four hundred pounds deposit secures the tenancy.
Could it be my salvation? I do not have the money and run through the possible ways to raise it. Sell what belongings I have, my washing machine, the computer? See whether the council can arrange a loan? Talk to Jenny?
And then, before I have had a chance to consider my options, Faisal appears. He is unapologetic about the meter. He tells me he has spoken to the council, told them that his metering rate was fair, that I must be squandering electricity to be spending so much each week. But he is also conciliatory, and for the first time he offers me money to go. I think of the Cowley deposit and hesitate for only a second. Then tell him we will leave for four hundred. He agrees to pay me half on the spot, the rest on our departure in three days’ time.
I email the Cowley landlord back to confirm I want the tenancy. Life becomes a blur. I have forced myself to return to my classes at the Blackbird Leys campus, still have the usual to-ing and fro-ing between home and school, but have to find time to pack. Two days pass. I get a phone call from the Cowley landlord. He wants to com
e over the following day to sign contracts, sort out the inventory and collect the deposit. It is also the day of our departure. We agree to meet at my present address at half past ten.
The father of one of Abebe’s friends, a Kenyan boy, is a decorator by trade and owns a van. His name is Tom, he is a kind fellow and has offered to help us move. The following day I have arranged for him to help drive my belongings over to the new place. Faisal shows up early. He watches us load up, takes possession of the flat keys and hands over my final payoff. I ask Tom to take my belongings and the children to his house and tell him I will phone him with the new address once I have the keys.
I wait on the pavement for an hour until the landlord shows up. He is out of breath, clearly in between important appointments. We run through the paperwork and sign copies of the tenancy agreement. Finally I hand over the four hundred pounds. He counts out the money, writes a receipt and gives me the set of keys. He offers me his card and tells me to get in touch if there are any problems. I ask him if we cannot both go together to the flat to check that everything is satisfactory. He looks at his watch, sighs, tells me to go over to the property, that he will cut short his next meeting and meet me there within the hour.
The property is just ten minutes’ walk away. I decide to go alone, to call Tom when I arrive at the address. It is a ground floor flat, part of a small two-storey block. I check the address and try the key in the lock. I find it does not fit. I go through all the keys in the bunch. It is only when I check the address again and have made a second attempt with all the keys, that it dawns on me that something is wrong. I feel the first butterflies of panic. I fumble in my bag for the landlord’s card and ring the number. The line is dead.
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