"Write what you know" they say.

Even of what you know is benefits advice work and writing stories about it only pays enough to keep your colleagues in biscuits!



Wednesday 31 December 2014

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.  



Sunday 28 December 2014

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!'

Saturday 27 December 2014

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.'       

Wednesday 24 December 2014

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... 

Saturday 6 December 2014

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...