Cast no Shadow

At the end of this week I get to deliver this story to an unsuspecting audience at Stoke-on-Trent Central Library as part of respected local author Dan Weatherer's Halloween 'Dark Fiction' event, so it seems only fair, having given Martin and Toby a chance to showcase their horror hero credentials, to imagine how their female colleagues might handle a similarly other-worldly encounter...


    Hilary Carrington had been insulated from the rising humidity by the air conditioning in her nippy little Fiat, though she had noticed the building clouds and darkening skies of the developing storm as she drove back to the office from her afternoon tribunal.  The surprising heaviness of the air almost took her breath as she crossed the car park and by the time she had walked the length of the High Street and reached the Community café, devoid of customers now lunch service was over, her dress was sticky against her skin and her hair damp on her neck  
    As she sank into her chair in an unexpectedly deserted office, distant thunder rumbled ominously.
    'Am I glad that you're back!'  When Tricia Williams-Ellis walked in, she seemed more than usually relieved to find that her senior colleague had returned.
    'Is it busy?' asked Hilary.  Late afternoons in late summer were usually fairly quiet.
   'The boys are both interviewing and now this Romanian guy's dropped in,' Tricia explained.  'And I'm not sure I'm the one to help him.'
   'Why ever not?'  Social Security rights for EU migrant workers were a complex area of law but, although Tricia might have doubts about her expertise in that area, Hilary had every confidence in her ability to give sound advice.
    'He's got a bit of an attitude,' explained Tricia.  'He's said some weird stuff about my skin colour.'
    Hilary frowned.  Tricia didn't make allegations of discrimination lightly. 'Would you like me to sit in?'
    'If you don't mind.'
    Hilary had pictured Tricia's client as a surly shaven-headed youth, so she was quite unprepared to find herself facing a suavely handsome mature man, elegantly attired in an immaculate dark suit and with his sleek, jet-black hair swept back from his high, white forehead.  Thunder boomed again, still distant but drawing closer, as his eerily dark eyes met hers.
    Little light penetrated the room through the small window due to gathering storm clouds.  Tricia flicked on the light and began the introductions. 
    'This is my colleague, Hilary Carrington.  She understands the new rules for European citizens better than I do, which is why I've called her in.  Hilary, this is...'
    'Marius Dalca.'  The Romanian gentleman stood gallantly, took her hand and raised it to his lips.  He was slender and tall, his voice low and cultured.  'Charmed, Miss Carrington.'
    As his cool mouth brushed her flesh, Hilary felt her heart flutter.  The secret, shaded recesses of her mind swam with disturbingly arousing images of sex and cruelty, pain and dark passion.  Withdrawing her hand from the stranger, she reminded herself firmly that she was a professional adviser - and a happily married woman.
    'How can we help you, Mr Dalca?' she asked crisply, taking a seat.   
    Marius Dalca sat opposite her.  He handed Hilary a letter, printed on the DWP's austere grey-buff paper. 
    'I have received this, from your Social Security people.'  Hilary sensed a note of contempt in his tone for the senders.  'It says I am to receive Jobseeker's Allowance no more, because I do not have a genuine prospect of work.'
    Hilary had anticipated this; they had seen several other EU workseekers facing a similar predicament in recent weeks.
    'We need to try and provide what they call compelling evidence that you do,' Hilary explained.  'What is your usual profession?'
    'In my home country, before the uprising, I did not have to work,' the man said regretfully.  'My family had land, wealth and power.  I had a life of luxury, of pleasure.'
    The aristocrat gave Hilary a closed-lipped smile that invited her to imagine scenes of sumptuous debauchery.  With an effort, she focused on establishing the facts of the case.
    'What work have you been looking for since you came to England?' she asked.  'And what success have you met with so far?'
    'Your Jobcentre people tell me I must be available for any work, throughout the day and every day of the week,' the man replied.  'This is not possible.  I am no peasant to work in your fields, nor will I wait at table like a common servant.  I am an educated man.  I have been the confidant of kings and princes, the strategist of generals, the lover of the fairest, ivory-skinned noblewomen.'
    That smile again, conjuring visions of delicious seductions in velvet-draped bedchambers.
    'You ain't going to find vacancies like that on Universal Jobsmatch!' Tricia said bluntly. 
    Her colleague's directness jolted Hilary back to the present.
    'Have you considered agency work?' she suggested.  'If you had the offer of something, even a temporary post, we could probably get your payments restarted, at least for a little while.'
    'Would these agencies have work that I might do by night?'
    'It depends,' said Tricia.  'If you don't want to do nights, there are usually plenty of daytime shifts.'
    'You misunderstand,' the man said haughtily.  'I prefer to work by night.'
    A deep rumble from the approaching storm reverberated around the small room.  Hilary and Tricia exchanged glances.
    'In that case, there is likely to be warehouse work available,' Hilary ventured. 
    'That's not ideal for an older worker,' Tricia explained pointedly..  'You'd be on your feet and on the go all night, in a huge building with few other people about.  It's not always very safe, either.  We hear complaints from night shift workers that the lights are too dim or don't work at all.'
    'Is that so?  Who does such work?' 
    Hilary was surprised that their client didn't rule this out as beneath him.   'Often other European workers,' she said.  'Or students.'
    'Young people,' mused the Romanian.  'And they work in isolation, in the dark?'
    'Yeah,' Tricia confirmed.
    'Intriguing,' said Marius Dalca. 'Most intriguing.'
    The lights flickered as the thunder rolled closer.  Hilary glanced towards the window.  Outside, the sky was slate grey, though there was no sign of rain.  Shifting her focus, she saw the interview room reflected against the darkness; the benefit rate chart and impressionist prints on the wall, the small square table around which they sat, herself and Tricia...
    'Another possibility might be care work,' Tricia said to their client.  'Care homes often need night-time cover.'
    'I do not care for old people.  They repel me!' came the cold reply.
    Hilary studied the man as he raised a slim, pale hand to sweep a stray strand of his ebony locks back from his forehead.  She glanced behind him.  With the room's central light, she would have expected to see a shadow of the movement projected on the plain wall at his back.
    There was nothing.
    'Tricia...' Hilary said softly, trying to stay calm.  
    'Or you could try for night-time shop work,' Tricia continued.  'The supermarkets often want shelf stackers and the twenty-four hour ones and garages need night-time check-out staff too.'
    'Me?  Handling cash like a common market trader?  I think not, foolish girl!' 
    'Suit yourself, mate!  I'm only trying to help!'
    'Tricia,' Hilary raised her voice a little.  'I think we ought to go back into the office, right now, and check the regulations, to make sure we give Mr Dalca absolutely correct advice about his entitlement.'  She started to ease herself out of her chair, keeping a wary eye on the aristocratic Romanian.
    'Yeah, I think you're right...'   Tricia detected the note of caution in Hilary's voice.  She too rose slowly and edged towards the door.
    A flash of silver-white lightning split the sky, thunder roared immediately overhead and, as the bulb above them popped and the artificial light was extinguished, the two women found Dalca inexplicably on the opposite side of the table to where he had been sitting, arms spread wide, standing between them and escape.  He smiled again, showing sharp, ice-white teeth.
    'Do not fear me, lovely Hilary!' he pleaded, lowering his arms in a gesture of trust.  'You know in your heart that I offer that which you desire above all things.'
    'I don't know what you mean,' Hilary insisted, untruthfully.
    'But you do.  I have seen into your soul.  I know your darkest fears.  Each day, you beauty fades a little more.  Your glorious dark tresses begin to grey.  Your bright eyes grow dull.  Your soft, white neck wrinkles.  Arthritis twists your pretty fingers and your proud breasts start to sag.  Youth is but a precious memory, but you need age no more!  This gift I can give to you, sweet lady.  I offer you nothing less than immortality!'
    He held her with his eyes, his promise before her, his price unspoken but clear.
    'Let us pass, you creep!' Tricia demanded.
    Hilary stood motionless.  Her eyes stung with tears.  The man's words were cruel but all too true.  There were days when she faced the mirror and envied his lack of reflection.  She could almost feel the decay he described degrading her.  Time was her bitterest foe.  To stop the clock forever, she need only offer herself to this mysterious stranger.  A swift, searing pain, a splash of crimson, and the relentless march of the years would cease.
    As she hesitated, another vivid streak of lightning shattered the gloom and thunder growled all around.
    'Shift your spooky arse out of our way, right now!' Tricia insisted.  'And leave Hilary alone!'
    Despite her short stature, she stood her ground fearlessly.  
    Briefly, the man wavered.  'You are free to go, you wretched brown-skinned creature, born of slaves,' he sneered.  He flung the door open.  'But your companion?  She has made another choice, I think.' 
    Tricia stepped towards the door.  'Come on, Hilary!' she urged.  'Let's get out of here!'
    Hilary remained frozen and the Romanian's cold, mocking laugh echoed harshly about the small room.  'She is mine!' he declared, reaching a pallid hand towards Hilary's throat and baring his fangs.
    'No!' cried Tricia.  She threw herself forward, grappling bravely with the vampire, revealed at last in his full horror, lit by flash after flash of harsh lightning, but despite her courage, he was too strong, casting her aside as if she were a rag doll.  
    As Tricia staggered to her feet, determined on a final desperate attempt to save her friend whatever the cost, an elderly man in a dark robe appeared in the doorway.  Over his left arm he carried a simple wooden trug.
    'Will you look at this, Patricia!' said Father Cornelius cheerfully, as if oblivious to the struggle in progress for Hilary Carrington's soul.  'This has to be the finest crop of garlic we've ever had from the community allotment!'  He chuckled warmly.  'What do you say, Hilary dear?  Do you think we'll be sampling your beloved's finest French cuisine in our humble cafe now, or might he better deploy it in a lively curry?'
    Tricia thought she could see a glimmer of recognition in Hilary's eyes, though whether it was the reminder of her husband or the pungent aroma of the white-pink bulbs that had revived her, it was impossible to say.  Tricia reached out and took her hand.
    The vampire retreated, raising his arms across his face as if to shield himself from harm.  Calmly, Father Cornelius stepped towards him, beaming benevolently and offering a fistful of papery garlic bulbs. 
    'Perhaps this good gentleman has a recipe or two from his home country that he might like to use these little fellas in?' he suggested genially.
    A final shard of silver light stabbed through the room, thunder crashed and, mingled with the dull boom, Tricia and Hilary thought they could just make out the thin, wailing cry of a soulless spirit expelled into the darkness.  The storm's brooding heaviness dissolved into a sudden shower of clean, refreshing rain, splattering across the window.  Unexpectedly, the electric light popped back on, revealing the familiar interview room, two shaken female benefits advisers, one puzzled-looking priest and a conical heap of grey dust, smoldering slightly, in the far corner of the room.
    'Well, there's a strange thing!' said Father Cornelius, studying the ashy deposit.  'When that's cooled down a little, I'd better ask Iveta to pop in with the hoover!'
    He pottered out, carrying his trug of garlic over his arm.
    Tricia still grasped Hilary's hand.  'Are you okay now?' she asked quietly.
    'I think so.'  Hilary managed a faint smile and gave her friend's hand a squeeze.  'You were awfully brave!  I honestly don't know what came over me for a moment or two.  It was almost as if he had cast a spell over me.  It was all so silly, too.  I mean, he couldn't possibly have given me eternal youth, could he?'
    'Whether he could or not, that's not something you need, H,' Tricia reassured her. 'Ignore all that BS about wrinkling and sagging.  You're a great-looking lady.  You might be going to age but you'll do it with beauty and dignity and, more than that, you'll always be loved for who you are, not how you look.'
    'That's terribly sweet of you,' said Hilary, hugging her plucky colleague warmly.
    'It's true too,' said Tricia.  'Though you'll always be drop dead sexy to the guy in your life who really matters.  I reckon he'll still be chasing you round the bedroom on his zimmer frame when you're both in your nineties!
    'I do hope so!'  Hilary laughed, helping Tricia to gather her papers from the table.  'But I wouldn't still be the woman he loves without your courage.  What can I ever do to thank you?'
    Tricia picked up the Jobcentre letter which Marius Dalca had left on the table.  'How about letting me off writing up the notes on this until we've had a coffee and a huge slice of chocolate cake?' she said.  'And ignoring that I didn't get a client satisfaction survey for this one when you do the file review?'
   'That's the very least I can do,' said Hilary.

On the March... again!

I've been too busy with the final chapter of 'Claimant Commitment' to blog for a few weeks, but if anyone else has a day out in Manchester planned for tomorrow, you might find this short story inspiring.  It is recycled from an earlier post but that's sort of appropriate, since I plan to march with the Greens this year!

'Severe Discomfort' will be free to download on Sunday too, if you're after something to read on the coach or the train, with the sequel, 'Continual Supervision', free next Friday and Sunday. 

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!’