The Savile Row-Suited Philanthropist

  'So did your father keep writing Santa letters and buying gifts for all of them?' Hilary asked.
  Tricia smiled.  'Yeah, until Douglas told him the youngest wasn't interested any more, because he had started Big School.'
  'But he still wrote to them all?'
  'He did, so the older ones had letters to show the wee'uns.  He said he enjoyed it and it got him in the mood for Christmas.  Doug let him off buying presents for the older ones but he was still sad when it had to stop.  The eldest had graduated by then!'
  'Bloody hell!' Toby exclaimed.  'As if doing Christmas for your own family isn't enough of a work up!  Who in their right mind would take on another tribe to shop for?''
  'A kind and generous man, obviously,' Deepak said.  'Isn't there a saying that it is better to give than to receive?'
  'There is indeed, Deepak,' Hilary affirmed.  'I agree with Paula - it was a wonderful gesture by Tricia's father, who is a very decent and kindly man still.  I hope he is well, by the way.'
  'Still going strong, in his own way.'
  'Genuine generosity can be most enriching,' said Vaughan.  'As I discovered during my first Christmas working for the Project.'
  'That sounds like the cue for a story to me,' Toby laughed.  'Let's have it, mate!'
  'Is there a song with yours?' Sally asked, clearly hoping there would be.
  'I do believe there is.'  Vaughan focused his gaze somewhere in the middle distance.  'I recall hearing the strains of Happy Christmas (War is over) drifting through the waiting room as I went to meet one especially significant client, as they had the radio on in reception.  This was back in the days when we shared the Old Town Hall with the Housing Aid Centre and Relate and the Council staffed the desk.  I was working with dear Margaret and Paul, and our own lovely Hilary, of course, and it was Christmas Eve.  We intended to close at lunchtime before partaking of a little festive cheer together, but for the purpose the waiting room was teaming with prospective clients.
  'I had been with the Project for six months and, though you might find it hard to believe from such an old stalwart, I was beset by doubts as to the wisdom of my career change.  For those of you who don't know, I had been a partner at the prestigious Archibald and Smart solicitors and the contrast between the Festive Season there and at the Project was stark.  In my former role, my colleagues and I would by now have left our comfortable offices and adjourned to the lounge bar of the King Alfred Hotel to top up the hangovers that traditionally persisted for much of that week, thanks to incessant wining and dining with clients and a super-abundance of bottled largess from those who availed themselves of our services.'
  'Sheer hell!' laughed Hilary.
  'It had seemed just that, actually - until this first Christmas away from it all.  How mean the office I now shared!  How drab and dull the clients!  In place of the expensive single malts and cases of fine wine, we had a tin of shortbread and a brace of Quality Street boxes, for legal endeavours no less demanding.'
  'So this is Christmas, And what have you done?' Sally almost sung.
  'That song, indeed those very words, expressed my feelings perfectly.  To crown it all, the middle-aged man answering to 'ticket number eighteen', hopefully my last caller of the morning, was badly in need of a bath and remedial dental treatment and assailed me with the most appalling halitosis as he lamented the non-appearance of his fortnightly giro - these being the days when many payments still arrived by post and had to be cashed at the Post Office.  Clearly, without funds to buy food or feed the meter over Christmas, our man faced a cruel Yule but, to my shame, that day I perceived him as a problem rather than a person.  I could do battle by phone with the Jobcentre, assuming I could get through at all, and haggle for a cash payment, though it was entirely possible that by the time I got a decision from them, they would have closed their doors before the man could collect he money.  I was impatient to be rid of him and finished, so I retrieved my wallet from my breast pocket and handed him fifty pounds - two twenties and a ten.'
  'Oh Vaughan!  You didn't!' cried Tricia.
  'No way!' gasped Sally.
  'I'm afraid I did.  It seemed a small sum to me, though it would have been almost a week's benefit for the man himself.  "Bring it back when your giro arrives," I said benevolently and, as he muttered his somewhat underwhelming thanks, I showed him to the door and locked it behind him.  The waiting room was clear at last, the radio on the reception desk was silent, our last client's problem was solved and all was well with the world.  It was time to go home.
  'Margaret, bedecked in one of her splendid Christmas jumpers, accosted me at the office door.  I thought she would be delighted that I had dispatched our last caller so promptly, but instead she took me aside.  "I was tidying up in the interview room beside you," she said.  "And I heard everything.  Whatever were you thinking of!  Fifty pounds!"  She was deeply unhappy, so I explained the logical thinking behind my decision, concluding graciously, "I don't actually mind too much if he doesn't return the money," as if to reassure her that I wasn't naïve about the character of many of our clients.  "I mind," Margaret replied.  "I mind that a member of my staff cannot differentiate between the role of Welfare Rights Adviser and bountiful Lord Muck!  Our job is to see that people receive their correct entitlement and not to dispense charity, even if we can afford to do so.  What you did was done for your own convenience, not from kindness.  You know that man has such a low income he'll struggle to repay so much and if he doesn't manage to, he'll be too embarrassed to ever come here again.  Where will he go then if he needs help with a benefit appeal - or has a housing or a relationship issue, for that matter?  If you had asked, after first trying your damnedest to make the Social Security Office take responsibility, we could have authorised a tenner from our funds to see him through to an appointment after Christmas."  She stared at me crossly through her thick glasses before adding.  "And for pity's sake, will you stop wearing your suit when you're not attending tribunals - you look like an over-priced undertaker!"'
  'Harsh words, mate.'
  'But justified, Mr Novak.  She was entirely correct on all counts.  I had been arrogant and foolish.  My job was to insist that the State paid my client his dues and made the necessary arrangements to do so, not to have bought my way out of a problem.'
  'Did he bring the money back?' asked Paula.
  'He did not, but of course he may never have received the missing giro.  In fact, I do not recall ever seeing him again.  As Margaret had noted, my over-generosity made it hard for him to return.'  Vaughan sighed.  'I would have slipped away home without a Christmas drink had not dear Hilary taken my arm and promised me a glass of port, and soon Margaret seemed to have forgiven me too.  As we sat around the table in the rather humble Railway Arms and contemplated the year just past and the one to come, the triumphs and tragedies, the successes and the struggles, I realised I had something more valuable than any money - warm-hearted colleagues with principles, determination and compassion.'
  Toby tilted his head to one side and studied his friend. 
  'How many have you had, Vaughan?'
  'Few enough that I dare risk another, if you are buying!'
  'Gotcha!' laughed Paula.  

Santa Claus and the Mariner's Daughter

  'Doesn't Marcus believe in Father Christmas at all?' Tricia asked.
  'If he does, it's not down to anything me or Jan have told him,' Toby replied directly. 
  'Poor little man!' Paula cried.  'You old Grinch, making him miss out on the magic of Santa!'
  'What magic of Santa?  Jan does all the thinking about what to get him, checking out cool toys on the Web.  I get to battle through the Christmas crush in Toys R Us for the last few stocking fillers.  Granddad Stefan sits up into the wee small hours whittling wooden farm animals for him, like the ones he made me and Pop used to make for him.  Nanny Anna spends all year knitting him hats and gloves and jumpers, Granny Irene hits the shops in September to make sure he gets the must have movie spin-off tat before it sells out.  It's the same for Dani now too - planned like a military campaign, months in advance; why should some made-up old fart in a red coat and fake beard take credit for all that?'
  'Because kids love it!' Paula sighed.  'And it's traditional.'
  'Do your kids still believe in Father Christmas, then?'
  'No - but they are eleven and fourteen!'
  Hilary smiled knowingly.  'I'm sure Toby's intention is to tell Marcus and Dani so many grim truths about Christmas - the dreadful conditions of the real people who make the toys, the horribly long hours and low pay of agency staff in warehouses, the gruelling delivery schedules of couriers - that they don't want presents at all and he's therefore spared the time and cost of buying them anything!'
  'Looking at it that way, I wish I believed in Santa and elves,' Toby said.  'It would save a lot of soul-searching when I get my next iPhone.'
  'I used to believe in Father Christmas,' Tricia said.  'In fact, I went on believing a lot longer than most of the other kids I knew, for a very special reason.'
  'You've got to believe in miracles, what with you supporting Pompey and all that!'
  'Shut up, Toby!' scolded Hilary.  'Let Tricia tell her story!'
  'What about her song?  Don't you have to tell a story linked to a Christmas song?' Sally asked.
  'I wasn't aware we had set down such strict regulations,' Vaughan answered.  'Did Master Chaucer require a musical connection from the Knight or the Pardoner?'
  'I didn't mean there to be a competition with rules at all!' Deepak protested.
  'And I don't remember saying I was ready to tell a story either,' Tricia said. 
  'But you were going to say more about believing in Father Christmas, before Toby butted in.'
  Tricia could see that her colleagues were waiting eagerly for her tale.  She sipped her coke and began...
  'When I was little, we used to go to church and then come back to a big family gathering at my Nana's house, with a fusion Christmas dinner of Caribbean and English food and loads of grumpy uncles, noisy aunties and louder cousins.  The only peace was when the Queen came on - Nana would give anyone who spoke over the Queen a slap round the head and no tea.  It was fun - if you like a bit of anarchy - only I missed my Dad who was often away at sea.  I'm not sure how old I was when the first letter arrived, or if it was the one with the Singapore stamp, or from Egypt.  It came a week before Christmas and I thought it was from Dad, but when I opened it, it was from Father Christmas.'
  'How sweet!' Paula said.  'Your Dad sending a letter from abroad and pretending it was from Santa!'
  'That was the thing, Paula - it really wasn't from Dad.  His ship was in the South Altantic that year.  We'd already had a card and parcel and when he telephoned, it was from off the Falklands.'
  'So what was Santa supposed to be doing in the other places?' asked Toby.  'Picking up Duty Free?'
  'The letters said he was finding special presents for children who'd been really good - like me - and sure enough, a couple of days later a parcel from wherever he was supposed to be would arrive.  I got dolls from all over the world, puzzles and games and, when I was a little bit older, necklaces and pretty clothes.  The letters would always praise me for something I'd done well - passing tests or winning at sports - and they came even when Dad was home for Christmas.  My brother Tony and Steph, my sister, got letters and presents too, but while I wanted to believe they were real, by the time Tony was nine or ten he was embarassed by them.'
  'How old were you then?'
  'Twelve.  Thirteen, maybe.'
  'Thirteen!'
  'I know, Toby.  It sounds stupid; but the letters were really believable, and they all had the same handwriting.' 
  'So when did they stop?'
  'One Christmas, Tony threw a strop and said to Mum and Dad that he didn't believe in them any more and wanted them to stop, and Mum cracked and agreed that they were fake.  Dad gave me a big hug and said, "Well done for pretending for little Stephanie's sake, Patricia.  You're a good girl!"  But I hadn't been pretending and I was heart-broken.  I went upstairs and got out the special box I kept the letters in, and tore them all up and chucked them in the bin.'
  'Oh Tricia!  That is so sad!'
  'I know, Paula.  The worst thing was that after I trashed them, I really wished I hadn't because they were so good, and I then I cried even more!'
  'So where were the letters coming from?' Hilary asked.
  'That was the clever bit,' Tricia explained.  'It turns out that one of Dad's best mates had children about the same age as me and Steph.  Him and Dad served on the same ship for ages, but not long after me and the other bloke's first child arrived, they got posted to different vessels.  They came up with this deal to be Santa to each other's kids - even when Douglas was home, he lived in Edinburgh so I got Scottish things, and of course Dad could get London souvenirs for Doug's bairns, but usually we got gifts from all over.' 
  'What a remarkably thoughtful arrangement,' Vaughan remarked.  'Apart from the lack of a satisfactory exit strategy.'
  'You can say that again, and not just on my account..' Tricia laughed.  'Poor old Dad certainly didn't expect Douglas and his missus to end up with six kids when he made the deal!'

Nativity

At their Christmas social, the staff of the (fictional) Solent Welfare Rights Project are discussing Christmas songs that bring back memories.  This one, from adviser Toby Novak, contains spoilers if you haven't read Severe Discomfort and Continual Supervision. 

  'Funnily enough, they're playing my Christmas song right now,' said Toby.
  'What?'  Sally wrinkled her nose disapprovingly.
  Toby felt a lump in his throat as he listened, despite the fact that Elton John's Step into Christmas was a thoroughly upbeat Christmas hit. 
  'Why this?  It's crap!'  Sally was an uncompromising music critic.
  'Don't you remember?'
  Sally shrugged.  'Remember what?'
  'The wedding, four years ago?'
  'I remember that.'  Sally said, smiling at Hilary.  'You looked really pretty.'
  'Thank you, dear!'
  'And those samosas were the best!' 
  Toby laughed.  Trust Sally to remember the buffet when the events of that evening had eventually changed the course of her life almost as much as it had his.  The reception had been drawing to a close.  A band were playing dancable, unseasonal songs, the dance floor was still busy, the bride and groom were gazing into each others' eyes and contemplating making their escape.  Outside, the worst December snowstorm in decades was burying the South of England under a deceptively beautiful blanket but, inside, Toby and his friends were joking, laughing, putting the world to rights and plundering the food.
  Until Toby's phone rang.
  'It was my father-in-law, telling me that Jan had collapsed and been rushed into hospital,' Toby explained to those who hadn't been there at the time.  'She was expecting our daughter Danika, but Dani wasn't due until well into the New Year and because things had gone wrong before...'  He had feared the worst.  After the heartbreak of previous miscarriages, he would have been more than content with his wife and son Marcus as his entire family, but Jan wanted another baby, despite the risks.  Feeling unwell but not wanting to keep him from the wedding, Jan had used the risk of a fall on the ice as an excuse to stay at home.  Now the sudden winter threatened to keep them apart as she and their unborn daughter fought for their lives.
  'I'd stayed off the drink except for a toast or two, but there was no way I could have driven myself safely through that weather in the state I was in - I would have tried to go way too fast and ended up in a ditch.  But I couldn't see an alternative; I didn't fancy my chances of getting a cab, I guessed the buses would be off the road too, but somehow I had to get from Winchester to the General Hospital.'
  'They didn't tell me anything at the time,' Hilary interrupted.  'We had a taxi booked to take us to the station for our honeymoon; we would gladly have let Toby use that...'
  'But they didn't need to, because Sally drove me there, in my car,' Toby said.    
  'Even though I hadn't passed my test,' Sally said.  'And I didn't have any 'L' plates, so I made some using napkins and Hilary's friend's lipstick, but they'd fallen to bits before we got to the hospital so I was lucky the police didn't stop me.'
  'You must have been a very good driver, even though you were still a learner,' Deepak said.
  'No way!  I was a totally rubbish driver.  I used to sort of over-concentrate, if you know what I mean.'
  'I wouldn't have thought one could over-concentrate on such a night!'
  'You might think that, Vaughan,' said Toby.  'But Sally could; and she was.  Even allowing for it being a strange car...'
  'And really dark,' Sally reminded him. 
  'And treacherously icy...'  Hilary recalled.
  'And the snow was coming down too fast for the wipers to keep the windscreen clear,' Sally added calmly.  'It was so lucky we had that ambulance to follow for the last bit!'
  Toby might not have picked the word 'lucky' to describe the final, most alarming stage of the journey, as they had needed to gain speed to keep pace with the blue lights.  
  'There was all this going on, and Sally and I were too wrapped up in our thoughts to talk to each other...'
  'Except to say stuff like "mind that lorry!" - which I had seen, by the way!' 
  'And the tension was really getting to me,' Toby recalled.  'So I put the radio on, to sort of take our minds off it all.  And that's what was playing - Elton John's Step into Christmas.'
  'I thought it was Shakin' Stevens?' 
  'It was definitely Elton.'
  'Are you sure, mate?'
  'Positive,' Toby insisted.  'I remember it, because I heard it again almost a week later.  On Christmas Eve.   I called in to Jan's mum and dad's to let them know the hospital had said Jan could come home and I was going to fetch her.  They offered to look after Marcus, but I wanted to take him to see his baby sister.  Jan and I had talked about it and we thought it would help him understand why Dani needed more looking after than him when she came home, if he saw her in the hospital.  Jan's mum didn't want him to go though; she caught me on the hop and I agreed to leave him with them.  You see, we weren't sure that Dani would be alright and Granny Irene thought it would upset Marcus if he saw her and then we lost her.'
  'I can see her point,' Hilary said.  'And it might have scared him to see a baby in a hospital incubator too.' 
  'She said that as well.  Anyway, I got about half way from Grandma's house to the hospital, and what should come on but old Elton and I'm reminded of Sally doing her Ice Road Truckers routine, how I didn't know what I'd find when I got to the hospital, and how much Jan wanted Marcus to have a little brother or sister to play with.  I decided he ought to see her, come what may, and I ended up turning round and going back for the little chap.  I was glad I did, too.  Apart from anything else, him pointing at the sweet shop on the way over reminded me to buy some treats for all the staff who would be looking after my little girl over Christmas, while we were safely at home with our families.  I'd almost forgotten it was Christmas the next day.'
  'Just as well your in-laws cooked and looked after you!' Tricia said.  'Don't tell me you forgot the Boxing Day football too?'
  'I don't think there was any then; we were still in League One.  I didn't get back to St Mary's for weeks.'
  'Whatever did young Marcus make of the hospital?' asked Vaughan, keen to change the subject away from football.
  'He thought it was great.  The nurses all loved him; there was even one on duty who'd been there when he was born and she was over the moon to see him skipping about and talking - he was a bit early too, though not in as much of a hurry to get here as his little sister.'
  'Did they let him see her?' Tricia asked.
  'They did, while Jan was saying her goodbyes to the nurses, and on condition that I carried him and didn't let him run about.'
  'How did he react?' asked Hilary.  'Was he frightened?'
  'Not a bit!  He wondered why she was so small and he wanted to know what all the flashing lights and machines were for.  And there was a doctor there, a West African lady, who explained it all to him - how this one kept Dani warm and that one helped her to breathe, this one checked her heart was working properly and that one fed her through the little tube, to help her grow big and strong like him one day.  As I listened to all that, holding Marcus on my shoulder and watching Dani stretching her arms and legs and making her little defiant fists at us, I thought how we take all this amazing science and brilliant care for granted and how rather than celebrate it, the media seem to love it when there are NHS crisis stories.  But we're so incredibly lucky.'  He smiled across the table to where Sally Archer was draining her apple juice.  'Not that I need to tell you that, Sazza, after your latest construction project.'
  'Too right!'  She smiled back, but didn't take it as a cue to say more. 
  'Do you think seeing her in hospital did helped him to understand why Danika needed more time from her mummy when she came home?' Hilary asked.
  'In a way,' Toby said.  'Though somehow, despite all the doctor's careful explanations, he got the idea that Dani was in a little spaceship and he's been mad about space and rockets ever since.  We're going to watch out for the Space Station going over tonight, all four of us.  It'll make Marcus's Christmas if he sees it!'
  'Aren't we supposed to be telling the kids it's Santa Claus?' Paula asked.
  'Stuff that!' Toby said.  'I want him to grow up believing in humans!'
  'Cool!' Sally said.  'And Rocket Man is a much better Elton John song too.'       

Christmas Eve in the Workhouse

 

A little Christmas Eve challenge for a group of characters you may or may not know.  If you don't know them, Severe Discomfort is free to download as an ebook from Amazon every first Friday. 

  'I assure you, Mr Novak, even if we had gone to the Railway Arms and their infernal karaoke machine had been working, there isn't enough Merlot in the world to induce me to sing that song with you!'

  They were not in the Railway Arms.  The staff, volunteers and a few friends of the Solent Welfare Rights Project were gathered at the once notorious, now salubrious Lord Nelson, unexpectedly still together at the end of another year of advice work and campaigning.

  'Bloody spoil-sport!' Toby Novak sneered at his colleague Hilary Carrington.  'I thought you'd enjoy slagging me off in the cause of Christmas cheer.'

  'You know my position on bad language, Toby.'  Hilary raised her eyebrows and sipped her red wine elegantly, despite it being her third large glass.  Luckily, she was getting a lift home.

  'I'd have done it,' Tricia Williams assured him.  'In fact, I'm happy to call you a scumbag - or scummer - and a maggot any time of the year and without any music either!'

  'I share those sentiments, but I think our Equalities policy might stop you there,' Hilary noted dryly.

  'I'm more than willing to waive any right to lodge a grievance to maintain artistic authenticity,' said Vaughan James.  'I've always been rather fond of Fairytale of New York as a welcome contrast to the usual saccharine fare inflicted on us annually in the name of Christmas pop.'   

  'That's cool, Vaughan,' Tricia replied.  'But I'd still have to edit out the bit about praying it's our last as we're all praying it won't be, aren't we?'

  'As usual,' sighed Hilary.

  'I wish someone would write something new that's half way decent,' Paula Walker complained.  'Whenever you stick the radio on in December, it's all seventies and eighties stuff!'
  'Yeah.  If only Coldplay had done a Christmas song!'  Toby laid the sarcastic tone on generously, lest any of his friends thought he was serious.
  'I like seventies and eighties music,' confessed Deepak Malhotra.
  'You're a young fogey, though!' Toby said.
  'I'll happily admit to that,' said Deepak.  'But I'm not the only one who puts the same old tunes on every year and sings along, I'm sure.  Don't you all find that Christmassy songs bring back happy memories?'
  'Memories indeed,' Hilary said.  'But not always entirely happy ones.'
  'I've got a happy Christmas music story,' declared Sally Archer, splattering the table with droplets of apple juice as she waved her glass as if raising her hand to answer a question.  'Whenever I've heard All I want for Christmas is you it reminds me of New Year's Eve at Hilary's the year before last.'
  'Why's that, Sazza?' asked Toby.
  'None of your business!' she answered sheepishly. 
  It was hard to tell in the glow from the Christmas tree lights, but Toby could have sworn she was blushing.
  'If you can't say, that doesn't count!' he said.  'But Deepak's got a point.  These songs do bring back memories.  If Sally won't share hers, I'll tell you mine - as long as the rest of you join in with yours too.'
  'Agreed,' said Tricia.
  'Me too,' said Paula.
  'I'm in!' Vaughan declared.
  'I think it's my round,' said Hilary.  'But I will tell you my story too.'
  'Right,' Toby said.  'Who wants to go first?'

To be continued... 

Cooking the Books

Photo used for Severe Discomfort's cover

Ever eager to make sure they do the right thing where tax is concerned (ahem!) Amazon have been in touch to let me know that I'll have to put the cost of my books up to comply with new EU VAT rules and regulations.  It'll only be by a few pennies and, as most readers seem to catch on to the freebie timetable quite well, I'm tempted to leave well alone - except that I do wince at the fact that when someone gets so hooked on the stories that they buy the next episode rather than waiting for its freebie day, Amazon snatch 65% of the payment and a mere 35% ends up in the Stoke-on-Trent CAB 'Beverage Fund'.

I need this nonsense to stop, so I have a cunning plan:

I will put all the book prices up to the threshold where I (ie the Bureau's biscuit tins) get 70% of sales and Amazon gets 30%, in the hope that it will either encourage patience in readers to wait for the freebies or that their impatience benefits advisers more than Amazon. 

As the Limited Capability episodes are only a couple of chapters long and that's too little content for a price of £1.50 - £2.00, I'll bundle them into 3 episode chunks (1 to 3, 4 to 6, 7 to 9, 10 to 12 and 13, 14 and the epilogue) which will still allow me to make maximum use of my freebie times, charge paying customers no more than now and yet get more for the Fund. 

The metamorphosis begins shortly...

Meanwhile, I'm also going to review the paperbacks to see if I can make a bargain version of Severe Discomfort/ Continual Supervision available in one cover (using a slightly smaller typeface to save pages) to coincide with the paperback launch of Limited Capability and concentrate on distributing both via Completely Novel and traditional Indie bookshops.  Ideally, I want all that in place before Grand Union is launched, as I have a funny feeling that Daphne's tale could be much more commercially successful than the others.

Meanwhile, back at the Solent Welfare Rights Project, there's another story waiting to be finished off ready for serialisation in the New Year if all goes to plan.

If...

Journey's End?

I wrapped up the first draft of Grand Union yesterday evening, with a grand total of 62,307 words, so officially that's a 'win' for NaNoWriMo purposes.  Result!

What I don't yet have is a novel, though do have a story written down in the order I want to tell it using at least some of the required words.  The plan for the rest of the month is to use the dark and wet parts of my days off and evenings to take the rough edges off this raw material and then produce a proof copy of the book - several copies in fact - for final checks and small tweaks.

But I mean it to remain the 'one month book' - no second or subsequent drafts, no nit-picking.  I want to retain the speed and spontaneity of the original and too much tinkering will undermine that.

I still have two major projects I need to complete.  The Limited Capability paperback needs the proof-reading team's final lists of recommendations and corrections put into place so it can be let loose on the unsuspecting non-Kindle using public.  Claimant Commitment (or whatever it finally gets called - though I think this will be it) needs finishing and systematically reworking with a view to serialising it in the spring, ahead of the General Election of course. 

Despite my previous resolution, I am already having doubts about this being the last outing for Solent Welfare Rights Project; I quite fancy writing a collection of short stories spanning a longer timescale, starting with Hilary's early days as an advice worker and ending... well, later: no spoilers!

As for Daphne - she'll be back too; next November if not before!

Progress

We're half way through National Novel Writing Month and I'm more than slightly proud to be more than half way through writing the first draft of my NaNoWriMo novel, and first attempt at a crime thriller, 'Grand Union'. 

I've reached my last lock and 50,084 words - the official NaNoWriMo target is 50,000, but I started with about 8,500 under my belt so my personal target has to be around 60,000.  In reality, I may need a few thousand more to finish the story and to allow for some loss of 'flab' during editing, though it's equally likely that will add the odd scene or sentence, as I found when I revisited the opening chapters.

Taking on an unfamiliar genre has been interesting.  I have to confess I haven't read a 'whodunit' for years (unless Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban counts - which it should).  I don't tend to get into modern crime-based films or serials either, most of which are far too bloody, grim and depressing for my taste, often with a unrealisticly high body count, disproportionately of women.  I could hand out a proper Daphnesque rant on the subject, but I'll leave her to redress the balance in her own words and her own way.  Suffice to say 'Grand Union' isn't entirely bloodless, but neither is it graphic or gratuitous when things turn nasty.

I'm hoping that the puzzle-solving element keeps the reader interested rather than morbid fascination, with gory death.  I'm having fun sprinkling 'red herrings' though I'll need to check carefully for consistency and continuity issues on the re-read and ideally lay out my Waterways map and move some model boats about on it to make sure nobody has made impossible progress for plot purposes.

I hope readers will also enjoy the central characters' curious relationship and their journey.  Although the sinister possibilities of canals play a role, for the most part the boating episodes inject light and landscape into our tale of crime and corruption.  

Talking of journeys, I must get back to the closing stages of Daphne's - there are only two weeks to go before we reach the finishing line!

First Person Singular

If I were a less honest person, I could claim to be half way to the 50,000 word target set by National Novel Writing Month (that's NaNoWriMo for fans of acronyms) for their novel-in-a-month challenge.  However, having publically declared 8464 words already written, I'm not quite at that point.  It's still not bad going for a week (including 3 working days) and as the word count seems to be keeping pace quite nicely with the actual journey at the heart of the story, I'm pleased with progress.

This little novel is a challenge in other ways too.  My previous stories have followed a large cast of characters and regularly swapped perspectives between them, so the reader (and author) often knows much more than any particular character, setting up situations akin to the 'look behind you!' scenario at a pantomime.  'Grand Union' is narrated solely by women's rights worker and narrowboater Daphne Randall, so the reader knows no more than she does - often less, actually, as she isn't always narrating a entirely coherent, chronological account.  From an author's perspective, this makes filling in the plot details tricky as you can't cut away to another scene to hear first hand from another character.

Daphne's actual voice is a challenge in itself.  Having cast her as a Geordie, it would be all too easy to lay the accent on with a trowel and make her a caricature.  But this unlikely lass has lived and worked well south of the Tyne for most of her life and, though often outspoken and sometimes a bit earthy, she's well-read and well-educated - she was at university in the company of plummy Hilary Carrington, no less - so the rough edges were knocked off some while ago.  So I'm adopting the 'Appleby approach' - as applied to the Severe Discomfort Presenting Officer of the same name - and aiming more for a pattern of speech, a rhythm and cadence suggestive of her native accent, with the occasional dialect word where she might lapse back to using it.
 
It feels right - as I've discovered myself, you don't tend to hear your own accent when you move away from home.  You 'speak proper' - it's everyone else that talks funny.  That's why her co-star's Potteries dialect is slightly more pronounced; Daphne hears the 'conners' and 'donners' and a double 'o' in the middle when he resorts to 'strong language', but is deaf to her own non-standard pronunciation.  We know she has an accent, however - not least because boat-restorer Peter Brassington thinks she's a Scot!

Still, that's enough blogging for today - I want to make the most of another very wet day to get to the 30,000 word milestone if I can - my real half-way mark.  Or Milton Keynes.

They should be in about the same place.

Casting off...

Is it cheating to start 'NaNoWriMo' with 8,262 words already written?  Not, I suggest, if by 30th November you have 58,262 words and a book.  That's the plan.

The plan does not involve spending the morning at the local Farmer's Market and pottering in the greenhouse because it's a shame to waste a sunny day sitting indoors, though that is what happened this morning.  It doesn't involve catching up on friends and fellow activists on Facebook and it doesn't involve blogging - much.  It does involve making maximum use of the fact that it has clouded over and Jon has gone off to watch Stoke City.

It does not involve regular checks on Southampton's game against Hull.  Only it has.

Here's the (first draft) blurb:

Grand Union

When Women’s Aid worker Daphne Randall stormed out of the Council Chamber on a soggy January evening, throwing her political career away in the process, she had absolutely no intention of giving veteran journalist Harry Biddulph an interview, let alone a bed for the night. 

Three months later and the pair are in mortal danger.  Helped by Daphne’s inside knowledge of local politics and welfare reform, Harry’s investigations into an apparent suicide have uncovered financial scandal, high-level corruption and possibly even murder. 

When a series of disturbing incidents suggest that the Potteries are no longer a safe place for either of them, Daphne and Harry decide to leave town.

Surprisingly slowly...

Grab your windlass, Daphne - we're off! 

Update:
Wordcount at 19.55 1/11/2014 = 9,414

A Nightmare on Benefits Street

There's a grim irony that the next 'fifth Friday' when all the Kindle episodes of my 'welfare rights lit' sequel Limited Capability' are free to download, coincides with Halloween.  I've never thought of describing it as a horror story before, but it exists due to the cruel, sometimes fatal, consequences of welfare reform and for the real victims of austerity, it is just that.

Too many people still don't understand the issues or care about the consequences.  They might have noticed something in their local paper - a sympathetic story about disabled veteran wrongly found fit for work, an inquest verdict on a suicide - but the shriek of 'shirkers and scroungers' from the mass media tells you these are the exceptions, the unlucky few that fall through the safety net that makes such a comfortable hammock for the workshy.  We know it's not like that; most people don't, and won't find out unless they're unlucky enough to need that support.

ESA (Employment and Support Allowance) is suddenly news again, with the appointment of US company Maximus to the contract to provide 'work capability assessments' being vacated by Atos and today a 'leaked' proposal to cut the level of ESA for claimants put in the 'Work-related Activity Group' to just 50p above Jobseeker's Allowance.  We're already being told that familiar myth that this will halt a zombie army intent on claiming benefits that give them an easy life.  People unaware of how hard it is to qualify for ESA even at the 'WRAG' rate will believe this, unless someone tells them the truth - that you can have lost the use of your dominant arm and hand and still not be sufficiently disabled to have 'limited capacity for work', for example.

If you want an accessible way in to the complex reality of Work Capability Assessments, benefit assessments and appeals, you'll find the serial here, along with the prequel novels.  http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sarah-Honeysett/e/B00CGNAZXQ/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1  All 14 episodes are free tomorrow (31st October) from whenever Halloween starts in Amazonland (usually about 8am GMT). 

If you don't know the story, please read it.  If you do know the story, please share it with those who don't, especially those turned off by reports full of figures and regulations.  The DWP have millions of pounds to spend on their propaganda; I have a laptop, a cast of fictional characters and a small but committed group of readers.  I need to believe we can win the next round.

A New Challenge

I've reached the half-way stage of the latest (and probably last) story about the Walker Family and the Solent Welfare Rights Project and I think I know how various loose ends tie up and subplots resolve themselves, though you can never actually be sure with this cast of characters.

Common sense says I should press on to the end from here and complete that first draft, hopefully in time for quiet reflection and refining over Christmas and, all being well, an ebook serialisation in the New Year.  But siren voices are calling me to try something completely different and more than a tiny bit mad, and one of those voices talks in a distinct Geordie accent.

November, as well as being the month in which some well-intentioned blokes grow moustaches for good causes, is National Novel Writing Month (annoyingly abbreviated to NaNoWriMo which, like quite a lot of acronyms, is harder to say than the phrase it replaces).  The challenge is to write a 50,000 word novel during that month.  50,000 is fairly short for a novel (especially one of mine) but a tall order for a month's writing, especially if you have work to do too.  To succeed and produce something worth reading, you need to have done a good deal of preparation and have a clear plan.  The 'Social Insecurity' series had/has little of either.

On the other hand, I have the first draft of a couple of chapters, a notebook full of observations, snatches of dialogue and a well-worked plot, plus photographs for reference, should I decide to commit another story to print.  It would be very different to the other books - told first person from a single perspective and without that neat diary timeline - and while it has austerity politics within its plot, it's no legal drama, social critique or family saga but more of a traditional 'thriller'. 

The tight deadline and limited wordcount might help keep the pace of the story crisp when, as you might have guessed from the photos illustrating this post, the location could slow things down.  The central characters will certainly be lively company.  If you haven't already 'met' Daphne Randall, a snatch of her back story made up the short story here: http://benebook.blogspot.co.uk/2014/06/and-winner-isnt.html  She'll have some interesting company on her journey.

I've just about talked myself into trying this now, and there's one extra advantage.  It delays the point where I have to say goodbye to the cast of the 'Social Insecurity' novels, by a month at least.  Sometimes the journey can be so enjoyable you don't want to reach your destination; it's surprising how attached you can get to imaginary friends!

Short Story, Long March

It's the big TUC Britain needs a Payrise march in London this coming Saturday.  I can't make it - we have other plans for our wedding anniversary weekend this year - but if you are going, I hope you have a truly inspirational day.  

Here's a short story based on the 2012 March Against Austerity.  It involves some of my regular characters and originally appeared as a bit of bonus content in the last chapter of the Limited Capability serial.  There are a few little spoilers - or teasers, perhaps? - for anyone unfamiliar with my earlier stories, though I have edited out some others. 

Marching for Fairness

Saturday 20^th October 2012

Jenny Morris woke up when the coach came to a halt.  She’d dozed off after the comfort break at the motorway services.  She’d been out seriously late on her hen night and the girls had got her well drunk.

‘You so don’t want to bother with that stupid Union thing tomorrow!’ Sita Rai had said as they had crawled out of the taxi and back up to their flat. 

But Jenny did want to bother with it.  Sita might not think they had anything to worry about, but she didn’t talk to the older members of the team.  Jenny sat opposite Penny Marsh, their section leader, and she was scared that a load of jobs would go once the new Universal Credit came in and more claims went computerised.  ‘You ought to join the Union, Jen,’ she said, soon after Jenny had told the team that she and Dean had got engaged.  ‘If you’re hoping to get a place of your own and start a family, you’ll need to know your job is secure.’  And then she’d gone on to explain why she didn’t think it was any more.

Jen didn’t enjoy her first union meeting.  It was well boring.  But the next one was much better.  A new guy called Andy had been voted in as Branch Secretary.  He was a lot younger than the previous woman and didn’t dawdle about reading through ‘Minutes’ at the start, or get hung up about whether something was a resolution for voting on or just a comment for discussion.  All that stuff did Jenny’s head in.  Andy was good at making sure people got the chance to speak who wanted to, but also good at stopping boring people who just wanted to rant on.  He got interesting people in to talk to them too.  He got a bloke from the Welfare Rights Project in to explain how changes to Legal Aid would hurt people wanting to appeal benefit decisions.  When Jen had read about this in the paper, she’d thought it was good that that lazy gits trying to stay on benefits wouldn’t get taxpayer’s money to fight their cases, but listening to this old guy talking about people he and his colleagues had helped made it seem unfair and horrible after all. 

The welfare rights man used to work for the DWP and was still a member of their union, so Andy had invited him and his colleagues to share their coach to the demonstration.  Jen could see their group sitting in a cluster of seats about halfway down the coach, quite close to her but on the opposite side.  As well as the man who’d addressed their meeting sitting next to a woman in a hat, there was an older guy and a short black woman with her hair done up in beads, and in front of them a blond guy wearing a red and white Southampton FC scarf and a thin studenty-looking bloke.  Jenny had been sitting near them when she’d had her coffee at the services and had listened to them talking and laughing.  They seemed friendly and nice.  She hoped she’d never been stroppy with any of them when she answered the phones, or forgotten to pass on their messages.

Andy the union rep was sitting a few seats in front on the other side of the aisle, deep in conversation with a man Jenny didn’t recognise, but who was quite good-looking.  Andy had been up and down the coach talking to most of them and handing out information sheets about the route of the march, where the coach would be to take them home, what time they had to be back to it, and what to do if they got arrested.

That bit had freaked Sita out; she was going to slip away and go shopping in Oxford Street.  Jen hadn’t made up her mind whether to go with her or not.

Sita must have noticed her glancing along the aisle.  ‘You totally shouldn’t be looking at that hot guy!  You’re marrying Dean next weekend!’

‘I know!’ Jen replied crossly.  ‘But I don’t know who he is.  Do you?’

‘No, but I wish I did!  He’s well fit!’

Jen saw Andy stand up and make his way to the front of the coach, ducking his head right down as he did so.  He took up the microphone and explained how they were getting from the coach park to the demonstration, which involved a short walk and a Tube journey.  ‘We’ll all stick together,’ he said.  ‘But if you take a flag each it’ll be easier for me and the other stewards to spot you all.’  At the mention of stewards, Jen saw Penny putting her high-visibility PCS vest on.  Joe Lucas from the ESA section had one too: the big Scot looked like a bouncer. 

Sheet of stickers were being passed down the rows.  Jenny stuck one on her coat that read ‘68 is too late’.  She couldn’t imagine what it would be like still going to work when she was that old.  She offered the sheet to Sita, but she didn’t want to make her jacket all gooey.  Further up the coach, the welfare rights guy seemed to be taking a lot of trouble to make sure one was properly stuck to the chest of the woman in the hat and she had put one on his cheek.  They were giggling like a couple of teenagers. 
It was well sad.

As Jenny got off of the coach, Andy passed her a bright yellow flag with the Union’s logo in the middle. 
Sita didn’t take one.  ‘It’ll get in the way going round the shops,’ she said to Jen, once they were out of Andy’s hearing.  ‘You’ll have to bin it before we get to Selfridges or they’ll think we’re going to break their windows or whatever.  At least it’s small enough to get rid of easily, not like the ones they’ve brought.’

She pointed back towards the coach where the advice people were getting things out from the storage area.  There was a placard with the words ‘A Future Fair for All’ painted on it in old-fashioned writing and a colourful banner that needed two people to carry it saying ‘Solent Welfare Rights Project’, also in fancy writing and with a swirling design around it.  Jen thought they looked classy.

At the Tube station the ticket lady waved them all through the barrier without making them pay and when the train came in there were other people with banners and flags on it already.  The ticket guy waved them all through again at the other end.  ‘Excellent!’ said Sita.  ‘We can use the money we’ve saved on our fares for a latte and a blueberry muffin in Starbucks!’

Jenny wasn’t taking much notice of her because, now they were right out of the station and onto the bridge over the Thames, she could see the crowds gathering along the Embankment.  They were heading towards a mass of blue flags and among those was a huge inflatable bubble with something inside that looked like a big grey fish.  There were a couple of big balloons too.

‘Oh.  My.  God!’ said Sita.

‘That’s us!’ shouted Andy, pointing across the river to where there were lots of yellow flags and a big yellow balloon.  ‘Follow me!’  He waved his own flag high in the air and set off at a fast pace.  Jen wasn’t the only one having trouble keeping up with his long strides but once they got among the other demonstrators there wasn’t much room and he had to slow right down.

Jenny looked at the people around them.  She had expected most of them to be students and other young people but there were loads of people as old as her mum, or even older.  Some had lollipop-shaped placards with a row of little stick people on and the words ‘Coalition of Resistance’ and there were others with ‘Socialist Worker’ or ‘Socialist Party’ on them, but most people had Union flags or banners and were from all sorts of different professions.  The blue flag people turned out to be teachers and the thing she had thought was a fish was a gigantic blow-up pair of scissors with a message against education cuts.  A big crowd of PCS people were just in front of them and she saw Andy hugging and shaking hands with some men and women in fluorescent vests who she guessed were other union reps.

‘Oh my God, Jen!’ Sita grasped her arm.  ‘Don’t look at them, not so it’s obvious, but there are some of those anarchists over there!  We should go, before it all kicks off!’

Jenny stole a cautious glance in the direction Sita had indicated.  ‘You are well stupid,’ she said.  ‘Just coz they’re wearing black!  Can’t you see their poster?  They’re junior doctors dressed up as undertakers because the A&E at their hospital is going to be closed.’

‘That’s well bad.’  Sita actually sounded as if she cared. ‘But there’s still loads of people here!  I bet they won’t miss us if we go shopping.’

‘Not yet,’ Jenny said.  She had never been on a demonstration before and thought it would be cool to walk a little bit of the way with the others, at least as far as Big Ben.  She just wished people would stop waving all these bits of paper at her with political stuff on.  She had taken some to be polite, but they must have been printed cheaply as her hand was all dirty where the ink had come off.

‘Aren’t those old banners nice?’ she said to Sita.  ‘There’s one with a lovely painting of a ship on it.  My granddad used to go to sea.’ 

‘What’s that one with the flames on it?’ Sita said, pointing across the crowd as they came round past the Houses of Parliament.

Jenny couldn’t see where she meant for all the people packed around her.

‘It’s the Fire Brigades Union,’ said Andy, coming back through his group to check that they were all okay and to hand out little cardboard cartons of fruit juice.

‘No shit!’ Sita said.  ‘God, Jen!  You should so have told me there would be firemen on this march!  I’m totally staying now!’ 

Daphne Randall stood on the corner where Whitehall entered Trafalgar Square, watching the marchers passing.  Tens of thousands had passed before her and yet, from what the Unite steward beside her was saying to the policeman, this was less than a quarter of those on the move.  She had seen masses of red Unite flags, the purple and green of Unison - which always put her in mind of the Suffragettes – brass bands, bangra bands and cacophany of other street musicians.  The message might be an angry one - a demand to put an end to damaging cuts to Public Services - but the mood was pure carnival.

Daphne walked back against the flow of the marchers.  She was confident of finding her friends in the crowd despite its size; Hilary Carrington had sent her a photograph of the glorious banner that her husband had designed and painted for their project and the pretty placards he’d made.  They reminded Daphne of the lovely Victorian ones she had seen in Manchester’s People’s History Museum, all very Art Nouveau. 

There was a throng of yellow-flagged PCS people coming up Whitehall towards Daphne now and, sure enough, mingling with them she could see an elegant placard with the words ‘Benefit Cuts are not Social Justice’,  It was borne by a small black woman, while two young men shouldered the main banner of the Solent Welfare Rights Project between them.  Talking to one of them was a lean old guy and at his side, striding along purposefully with a UCATT flag, was a very tall and heavily built redhead girl that Daphne thought she recognised.  Hilary's husband was marching beside her, bearing his ‘A Future Fair for All’ placard; holding his other hand was Hilary Carrington herself.

Daphne chuckled to herself.  She would have staked money on it that Hilary’s outfit had been bought specially for today, possibly from one of those classy little vintage clothes shops she loved perusing.  That baker-boy cap and the flowing corduroy skirt were straight from the 1960s and the waistcoat completed the ‘activist chic’ look.  As Daphne waved and elbowed her way through to meet her friend, she noticed with a little pang of sadness that one of the badges Hilary had pinned to it read ‘Coal not Dole.’  It was hard to believe that little button was almost thirty years old.  It was hardly surprising that Hilary felt the need to look the part.  As if to prove the point that women were forever being judged by how they dressed not what they did, they were now passing the memorial to the Women of World War II.  Daphne smiled grimly: it took the form of a series of empty uniforms hanging from pegs. 

‘How super to see you!’  Hilary hugged her.  ‘There must be at least as many people here as last time!’

Daphne fell into step beside her.  ‘I cannot say, Hills.  I was talking to a Unite steward earlier and he said there wasn’t as many, but I haven’t seen to the back yet and there are certainly hordes of people in front of us.’ 

‘I do hope there isn’t trouble anywhere,’ said an older woman walking nearby.  ‘All I saw on the news after the March for the Alternative was Anarchists with flares grappling with riot police.  You’d never have believed that over three hundred thousand Trades Unionists had paraded entirely peacefully through the capital on the same day.’

‘This is Margot from the PCS,’ Hilary said, introducing her to Daphne. 

‘Daph Randall, Potteries Women’s Rights,’ said Daphne.  ‘I had to come down for this.  My area is being completely hammered by this vile Government.’

The same was equally true of her birthplace in the northeast.

‘I’m sure,’ Margot replied.  ‘I’m due to retire this year - at a cushy sixty unlike my young colleagues.  But I don’t mind supporting them.  We all need to stand together.  And I do so enjoy listening to young Mark Serwotka!  I think quite a few of us ladies have a soft spot for that lilting Welsh accent!’

‘Shame on you, Margot!’ 

‘I’m rather looking forward to hearing Frances O’Grady’ Hilary remarked.  ‘It’s about time a woman became TUC General Secretary.’

‘It certainly is,’ Daphne agreed.  ‘After all, the other side had one in charge almost forty years ago!’

‘It can’t be as long as that, can it?’  Daphne’s friend looked absolutely horrified. 

‘It’s not quite that long,’ she answered reassuringly.  ‘Thatcher was elected Tory leader in 1975, so that’s only thirty-something years ago.’

‘Thirty-seven,’ the tall ginger-haired woman in front of them called back over her shoulder.  Daphne remembered she had spoken to her at Hilary’s wedding, but couldn’t get her name for the moment.

‘Sweet mercy!’

Daphne linked Hilary’s arm.  Inside, she herself didn’t feel very different to the woman who had done just that when she, Hilary, bookish Godfrey Higginbotham and dishy Nathan Bankside had led the Students’ Union march down from the University to join the rally at the end of the Miners’ Strike.  It didn’t trouble her overmuch that on the outside she was stouter and wrinklier, got out-of-breath on the second flight of steps up to her office in the Town Hall and that, had she not chosen to turn it purple for the occasion, her hair was now more salt than pepper.  But Hilary was different.  Daphne changed the subject quickly back to the present. 

‘How’s things at the Project, Hills?’

‘Busy and relying on our volunteers more than ever.  We’ve got a new recruit starting next week,’ Hilary replied as they left Trafalgar Square and turned into Pall Mall.  ‘She’s hoping to run for the Council in the next local elections and wants some practical experience of housing and benefit issues, so she’s offering to do three mornings a week with us.’

‘And if she’s going to be battling Sleazy Gerry for his seat, H is going to want to give her all the help she can get!’ added the woman whose name almost certainly wasn’t Suzy, but was something like that.

‘Who’s Sleazy Gerry?’ asked Daphne.

‘It’s a long story,’ Hilary replied.

‘And Piccadilly is a long road.  You can tell it me between here and Hyde Park with no trouble I’m sure, pet!’

‘I’m getting well bored now, Jen.’  Although some of the guys on the march had been quite fit, especially those junior doctors, her feet were starting to hurt now and Sita Rai desperately needed a coffee.  ‘There’s a Costa over there!’ 

She grabbed Jenny Morris’s arm and propelled her out of the seething crowd towards the coffee shop.  Her friend didn’t struggle too much and seemed as relieved as Sita when two people stood up from a table in the window just as they walked in and they could grab their seats. 

Jenny propped her PCS flag against the windowpane.  ‘I’ll get the drinks and stuff,’ she offered.

‘Cool!’  While her colleague was up at the counter, Sita watched the marchers going by.  There were hundreds and hundreds!  Just the blue flag people seemed to go on for ages, though that might have been because time was dragging while Jen waited in the queue for their drinks and cakes.  When she came back, there were orange flags and a brass band outside.

‘They’d run out of blueberry.  Is cherry and almond okay?  You aren’t allergic to nuts or anything?’

Sita looked at the frothy mug and the tempting golden brown muffin.  ‘No way - I love nuts, ‘specially almonds.’  She thought she’d be more likely to tempt Jenny out of the demo and into the shops if she sweet-talked her a bit.  ‘That’s totally cool, Jen; thanks!’  She so needed that coffee! 

‘Look at that poster!’ Jenny said, pointing out of the window, ‘It’s well rude!’

‘Oh my God!’  Sita could see which one she meant.  ‘That man looks like he’s got a giant condom on his head!’

‘It’s supposed to be the Prime Minister!’ Jenny laughed. 

‘Isn’t that, like, treason or something?’

‘Duh!  No way!  It would only be treason if it was the Queen, or Prince Charles.’

‘Right!’  Sita wasn’t sure that was right, legally.  There was another placard showing someone she thought was from the Government with his head in a guillotine.  That must be treason!

Just then, two strange men came into the café.  They were old, or at least middle-aged, and one of them looked like he might have what Sita knew she should call a ‘learning difficulty’.  The disabled guy had an orange and black flag with GMB on it, which he was swishing about and smiling at.  The other man propped a placard against the wall as they took seats at a table behind Sita and Jen.  It had ‘REMPLOY SACKED WORKER – WHERE IS MY JOB?’ printed on it in big red letters.

‘I don’t suppose you girls could keep an eye on Trev while I grab us a tea, could you?’ asked the other man.  He sounded Welsh.

‘What’s he likely to do?’ Sita asked.  She didn’t want to have to watch out for the disabled man if he was going to be weird.

‘Nothing,’ said his friend.  ‘But I left him while I bought us a snack once before, and while I was away a couple of boys started teasing him and I’m sure they also stole his wallet, though we couldn’t prove it.’

‘That’s well mean!’  She looked at Jen.  ‘I suppose that would be okay…’

‘Or if you give me the money, I could go up and get your drinks?’ Jen suggested. 

Sita guessed she didn’t really want to be left in charge of the disabled man either and this was a smart way of getting out of it.

‘Would you mind?  I’d be ever so obliged, miss!’  The guy looked really grateful.  He fished about in his pockets and gave Jenny a ten-pound note.  ‘We just fancy a cup of tea each.  Thank you so much!’

‘Thank you!’ said his friend.  He gave Jenny a big smile and waved the flag at her.

Sita was annoyed with her friend for leaving her with these two guys she didn’t know and didn’t particularly want to talk to, but it would be rude to ignore them and look out of the window. 

‘What’s Remploy?’ she asked, pointing at the placard. 

‘We started off running factories where disabled ex-servicemen could get jobs after the War,’ said the man.  ‘The Department for Work and Pensions funded them to teach people new skills and provide rehabilitation.  But since then, we’ve taken people from all sorts of backgrounds and with all manner of disabilities who can’t readily find work in commercial organisations, but still have skills and deserve a chance.  Trevor here does upholstery.  He’s not fast, but he’s neat: aren’t you mate?’

Trevor grinned proudly.

‘And it gives him somewhere to go during the day and some mates to hang out with, and he earns a fair wage so can give his mam and dad something for his keep, and of course it means they can go out during the day without worrying about him.  Well, they could.’

‘But Trevor’s been sacked?’ Sita asked.  That didn’t seem a very nice thing to do, even if he was slow.

‘We all have.  They closed us down in the summer.  The theory is, the money spent on the factories can be better used to support disabled people in mainstream workplaces, rather than segregating us into places of our own.  I suppose there’s an argument of sorts for that… ’

‘But you don’t agree?’

‘I can’t honestly say that I do.  Most factories by us are struggling anyway, or they’ve already closed down.  They want workers who are as productive as possible and don’t need watching over by managers and supervisors.  I can’t see them being in much of a hurry to take on the likes of Trevor and me.  That’s why we’re here.  They are fifty or so other factories like ours all over the country, and they’re gradually shutting them all down.’

‘That’s well wrong!’

‘Isn’t it, now?’

‘Totally!’  Sita realised she actually worked for the same Government Department as Trevor and his friend.  ‘I suppose Trevor gets ESA now - Employment and Support Allowance?’

‘Well, he probably should do,’ said his colleague.  ‘But he was found fully fit for work at his medical the other week, so I’m helping him with an appeal now.  I’m out of work too, but I’m volunteering at our local Citizens Advice Bureau.’

‘I suppose it’ll be easier for you to get a new job.  You aren’t disabled, are you?’

‘Not so as you’d notice straight away,’ he said, resting his right arm on the table.

Sita flinched when he drew the glove off of his hand and she saw it was actually a metal claw. 

‘I was one of the supervisors in our factory,’ he said with a deep laugh.  ‘My name’s Gareth, but the boys used to call me Darth Vader!’ 

‘I hate to call for the desecration of a work of art,’ Toby Novak said to Martin Connolly.  ‘But do you think we could cut some holes in this banner?  Whenever there’s a gust of wind, it's like tacking a yacht!’

‘I’ve got my Swiss Army knife if you need it,’ offered Sally Archer, transfering her UCATT flag to her left hand and fishing about in her pockets.

‘Then make sure you don’t get arrested or the cops will do you for possessing an offensive weapon!’ Martin warned her.

‘That’s not going to happen – it would take too many of them to hold me down.  I’d be really useful if they did one of those occupations anywhere!’

‘We’ve very nearly reached Hyde Park now,’ Vaughan said.  He had taken a turn carrying the banner with Toby.  ‘We can rest it against a tree or roll it up when we arrive.  Personally, I’d hate to damage it.’

Toby wasn’t feeling quite so sentimental, but then he had been carrying the banner throughout the march while various colleagues had taken turns to share the burden of the other pole.  He was probably the strongest and fittest member of the team so it seemed only fair and, even if it was an ungainly spinnaker of a thing, it was also a great banner in the finest tradition of the Trades Union movement.

It was only when they had decided they needed a banner that Toby and his colleagues realised they weren’t all in the same union.  He had always assumed they were all in Unite.  He had been from right back when it was the old T&G and he knew Hilary had been in the MSF when it merged into Amicus, which then became part of Unite too.  But Tricia was still in Unison from when she worked for the Victory Housing Association, Hilary's husband was PCS and Martin, people’s hero and champion of the workers, reluctantly confessed he wasn’t actually in a union at all.

‘I didn’t know which one to join,’ he had protested.

The discussion picked up again as they filed through the ornate heraldic gates into Hyde Park.

‘Should we all be in the same Union, do you think?’ Hilary asked her colleagues.   

‘It could be a bit of a mess if we ever ended up in a dispute with the Management Committee and needed a Union officer to support us,’ said Tricia.  ‘I assumed you’d all be in Unison because you were based in a Council building when I started.  Richard never said anything.’

‘Was Richard in a Union?’ asked Martin.

‘The TSSA,’ answered Hilary.  ‘He started work doing rosters and payrolls for the railways.  That’s where he mastered the dark art of statistics and arcane calculations.’

‘But that was hardly the union for our line of work, was it?’ Toby queried.

‘Perhaps not,’ Hilary replied.  ‘But they did give us a small grant every year and they’ve been in touch to confirm they will this year too!’

‘So which Union are you going to join, Mart?’ Sally asked.

The young man shrugged.  ‘I don’t know.  H and Toby are both in Unite, so that’s the majority, but there might be another one for me.  Were you in a Union, Vaughan?’

‘One could stretch a point and say that I was, if one was to include the Law Society!’

‘Get away, Vaughan!’ laughed Hilary.  ‘I would have thought Equity was more your style!’

‘Pot and kettle, my dear!’ Vaughan protested.

‘What about you, Daphne?’ asked Sally.

‘I’m Unison, lass.’

‘That would do you, Mart.’

‘Don’t encourage him to make common cause with the Enemy!’

Tricia cuffed Toby lightly round the head with her placard. 

‘This is not about football, you sad fool!  It’s about the best Union for the Project.  There’s some sense in him joining us - and the rest of you, for that matter.’

‘Now then, Tricia, no poaching!’ Hilary's husband warned.  ‘We’re almost at the rally.  Why not let Martin listen to the speakers and then decide which Union he wants to join?’

‘Christ!’ said Toby. 
As they emerged from a grove of trees and crested a rise, they saw for the first time the number of people who had preceded them.  ‘We’ll be doing well to get close enough to hear anybody!’

 

Jenny was sound asleep, her head resting on her jacket, which was rolled up and propped against the coach window.  Sita didn’t know how her friend could sleep on a coach.  It made her feel sick.

She glanced up at the luggage rank.  When they’d set off that morning, she’d expected to be coming home with loads of shopping from the cool stores along Oxford Street.  She’d planned to get herself a dress and new shoes for Jen’s wedding, for a start.  She certainly hadn’t expected to spend most of the afternoon talking to a guy with a metal hand and his friend with learning disabilities as they’d marched together to Hyde Park, behind the FBU brass band.

That had been a bonus!

When they arrived at Hyde Park, there were already loads of people leaving and all the speeches had finished so the four of them had gone for another drink together and talked about the day, and then she and Jen had wished the guys luck with getting new jobs and caught the Tube back to the coach park.  Jen still had her yellow flag and Sita had the orange and black one Trevor had given her, so the ticket people had let them on for nothing again. 

Sita could overhear a conversation going on a few seats further up between two of the Welfare Rights people.  The lady in the hat’s partner was talking to the studenty one.

‘Don’t be daft, Martin!  You can’t join the RMT!’

 ‘But Bob Crow was seriously funny!  That bit about George Osborne dodging his train fare…!’

‘I know it was.  But you can’t pick a Union based on which General Secretary does the best stand-up routine!  Especially when you aren’t actually a transport worker!’

Sita thought she had better join the PCS now.  She didn’t know if she’d want to start giving up her lunchtimes to go to meetings like Jen did, but at least if she joined she would be standing with her workmates and doing something for people like Gareth and Trevor.

‘Excuse me?’
Sita looked round.  It was the good-looking guy. 
‘Did you speak to the press?’

‘Yeah,’ she said.  She’d almost forgotten that.  On the way along Piccadilly a woman with a microphone and a cameraman had stopped her little group and asked them a few questions about why they were there.  She couldn’t remember saying anything that brilliant and didn’t think it would be broadcast.’

‘I thought it looked like you!  You’re on SKY!’   He handed her his Smartphone.  ‘Look!’

Sita saw herself standing between Trevor and Gareth, with Jen peeping in from one side.
‘Andy!  Come and look at this!’ said the dishy guy.

The Branch Secretary crouched awkwardly in the aisle, watching it with a huge grin.

‘That was great!’ he said when it finished.  ‘I’m sure a lot of people will be very moved by that.’

Sita had forgotten that she’d been quite so wound up at that point.  That she’d told the journalist that Remploy had been set up to help heroes and that people like Gareth and Trevor were heroes too, even if they hadn’t got their disabilities in wars, and deserved to be properly treated.

‘That really was good,’ the nice-looking man said.  ‘I’m Press and Publicity Officer for the Branch.  I’d love to use this on our website.  Would you mind…er?  Sorry, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a Branch Meeting.  Are you new?’

‘Yes,’ said Sita, deciding this was true as she was new to the Union.  ‘My name’s Sita Rai, and I’ll definitely be at the next meeting!’