Chapter One - Café Culture

That thing I blogged about yesterday - a reunion with the cast of Severe Discomfort etc, as they are right now, facing the same issues challenging benefit claimants and advisers up and down the UK.  Contains spoilers if you haven't read the previous Welfare Right Lit stories, starting with this one
   

Wednesday 1^st November 2017

‘How are we doing with the cottage pie, Thomas?’

They were busy again today, as they had been all week after the half-term lull.  Father Cornelius always tried to choose the least popular dish of the day, sparing the more popular options for the Community Café’s other customers, but all four of the giant rectangular serving dishes were showing more aluminium than was healthy so soon after opening.

‘I reckon I can spare you a helping of that, Father,’ said the chef.  ‘The veggie lasagne’s top today and the chicken chasseur’s doing well too.  The regulars are steering clear of the lamb biryani, though, if you fancy a plateful.  I’m not sure they trust me after the mix up with the chillies last week.’

‘That chickpea dhal was a little lively.  Having said that, it saw that nasty cold I had off in double-quick time.  Perhaps you should share the recipe with Boots the Chemist?’  The priest hesitated between the safe and the potentially fiery.  ‘Go on, then, son.  I’ll risk another dose of curry!’

Tom Appleby smiled and heaped a generous pile of turmeric-tinted rice and curried vegetables onto a plate.  ‘There’s a bowl of yogurt and a ladle by the knives and forks,’ he said.  ‘And, if that doesn’t cool it down, the fire officer tested the extinguishers on Monday.’

‘May God have mercy on your bowels, Father!’

Martin Connolly, one of the senior staff from the adjacent Solent Welfare Rights Project, ordered a small helping of the casserole.

‘You’re not feeling adventurous yourself?’

‘I’ve got two tribunals this afternoon.  Seismic farts don’t win appeals!’

‘I didn’t think you needed anything much more sophisticated to get a PIP decision overturned these days,’ Tom teased.

‘Just because the assessments are bollocks and the decisions are shite, we’re not guaranteed a win,’ Martin argued.  ‘But there is an element of fish-in-a-barrel about most of them.’

‘Maybe Thomas will put that on the menu for Friday,’ joked the priest, who was too used to Martin’s profane turn of phrase to be offended by it.  ‘May I join you, son?’

‘No worries.’

Father Cornelius and Martin carried their meals to a sun-dappled table by the window, joining the two women already seated there.  Velma Jones and Frances Fairbrother were Social Workers and lunched regularly at the Community Café.  They further supported it by buying meal vouchers in advance and at full price, which funded free food for others.  When the café had been set up as an add-on to the foodbank, donations of surplus stock and best before yesterday provisions from local stores had more than covered the cost of feeding the destitute.  Funds raised from bought meals had paid for little extras; a children’s Christmas party, a coach trip to the beach for families and, for the last couple of years, a winter night-shelter.  The advice centre staff had urged the churches team to be cautious about this and, in the first year, they had employed a couple of professional staff to kept it strictly dry and drug-free.  The committee didn’t think they could afford the paid workers the following year and all responsibilities had fallen to volunteers, with decidedly mixed results. 

Looking around the room, the priest could see several familiar faces from last winter.  A cold snap was forecast, starting that weekend.  He hoped, for their sakes, that the café crew would raise the extra funds and at least recruit enough volunteers to open up again. 

‘Winter is coming,’ said Martin, noticing the same whiskery chins and weary frowns.

Despite having a young family to care for, the lad had put in a few voluntary night-shifts the previous year.  He was a good person to have on the team, having the strength of personality to enforce the strict dry-house rules.  Some nights, when the helpers had been more soft-hearted, Father Cornelius had feared he might have to call the police; on a few other occasions, he was afraid they might arrive unannounced.

While Martin and the social workers discussed the serial his remark had referenced, the father took a long look at the other diners.  He recognised many of them.  At the next table, apparently arguing about football with his companion, was Joe Lennon, one of the older construction workers renovating the block of empty shops across the street, a proud Liverpudlian and occasional attendee at mass.  Father Cornelius didn’t think he had seen the other man before.  He was a plump fellow in late middle age with curly, greying hair and square-rimmed glasses that didn’t really suit him.  He looked like a down-at-heel accountant.

Lyn and Terry Walker were tucking into paid-for cottage pie in their usual place near the door to the Welfare Rights Project’s offices, where there was plenty of space for Lyn to manoeuvre.  She worked most Wednesday mornings, helping the advice centre’s customers with disability benefit claims.  In the last couple of years, she had started attending tribunals too.  Whatever Tom might say about the relative simplicity of winning PIP cases, there was nothing easy about representing for Lyn.  She could barely walk, getting about only with the aid of crutches even on her good days and, occasionally, having to use a wheelchair.  That wasn’t all; before joining the team as a volunteer, she had been through several gruelling tribunals as the appellant.

On his own admission, her husband Terry didn’t have the brains for benefits work.  He didn’t really have the brawn for helping in the foodbank warehouse either, but he was slow and sure when it came to wheeling the provisions in and out, and good at keeping food with the same use-by date together and in order.  He kept a paternalistic eye on a couple of youths doing community service with the project, while they did the heavy lifting.  He’d been against letting them loose in the storeroom at first but gradually become quite fond of ‘the nippers’, as he called them.

The group sitting at the next table along had got to know each other through having to access the charitable meals available.  Father Cornelius knew many of his free-mealers almost as well as the staff and supporters.  He got the same stories when he sat with them that they had told their advice workers, shared with their GP or sobbed to their social worker.  There were some in long-term need of a healthy hot meal, like Frank Harper; he was waiting for a date for an appeal against a ‘fit for work’ decision, getting by on hardship payments of Jobseeker’s Allowance while his rising bedroom tax rent arrears sucked him ever closer to possession proceedings.  Karen Dawson’s Income Support was riddled by so many direct deductions she ran out of money halfway through the second week of each fortnight.  While her Tax Credits kept her first two children in food and paid the bills, there had been no increase when baby Tyler was born that summer.  The Project gave her repeat vouchers, so she could eat here when the elder kids were in school.  Without them, she might have drifted back to her ex-husband, his vicious temper and handy fists.  Vince Jardine was an ex-offender who slipped off the waggon spectacularly now and again.  Megan Pothecary was waiting for another referral into a drug rehab project.  Den Green, midway through another thirteen-week sanction, had only confessed his full story to the priest; the others knew that he had misused cocaine for a surprisingly long time, for someone still alive and well, but they didn’t know why.

These characters had been in and out of the café regularly all summer.  However, in the past few months, there had been many new faces.  There were people in their early sixties, sick and angry with hunger, who couldn’t believe they were still expected to be available for work after a lifetime of hard graft.   There were young workers on casual contracts who said they were worse off, due to insecurity, than they had been on the dole.  There were migrant workers, caught between jobs with no access to benefits.  There were homeless people, men and women.

There were families too now.  That was new.  In previous years, only the politically committed had brought their children to eat at the café while the poor had hidden this grim truth from their kids.  Most still tried to, hence the fall in numbers around holiday time, but increasing numbers were getting too desperate to keep up the pretence.  Paula, who managed the hot meals service, had started putting a children’s meal on the menu every day.  Since the summer holidays, they had regularly run out of the freshly prepared option.  Asda had bailed them out with some microwave-friendly standbys. 

‘Is it tomorrow you’re interviewing?’ Father Cornelius asked Martin, when the social workers went up to the counter for cake or dessert.

‘It is.  It’ll be a long day.  We’ve short-listed six candidates.’

‘That’s a fair number.  I wouldn’t have thought there would be so many people knowledgeable about your line looking for a part-time job.’

‘I’m not sure they are looking for part-time,’ said Martin.  ‘They’re looking for anything.  Since the Legal Aid cuts and with Local Government austerity still biting, there are unemployed and under-employed advisers everywhere, plus housing benefit and jobcentre staff who’ve been laid off.  We’re spoilt for choice.  A rookie, like I was when I started here, wouldn’t get a look in now!’

‘Is that so?’  Father Cornelius didn’t doubt the lad’s words, but it seemed ridiculous to him that, with so many changes and challenges to the Social Security system, there weren’t plenty of opportunities for people who could help.

‘I wouldn’t even get shortlisted,’ Martin confirmed.

‘That’s a little sad, isn’t it?’

‘It is, but with the post only funded for a year, we need someone who can hit the ground running.’

‘I’d forgotten it was for such a short time.’

Martin looked quizzically at the priest.  ‘We couldn’t offer it for longer even if we wanted to, could we?’ he reminded him. 

‘I know, son.’  He was already gathering information to make the case for another tranche of Big Lottery funding, aided particularly by Hilary, the Project’s veteran adviser, and Vaughan James, a volunteer with a history in legal practice.  It was their main source of funding and, in less than a year, was due to come to an end.  They had been blessed to get five years of support; there was no guarantee of more.

‘Must go,’ said Martin.  He took his empty plate back to the counter and disappeared back into the advice area, presumably to grab his bag and files.

‘What can we do to keep you here, Martin?’ the priest said quietly to himself.  ‘And Hilary, Lyn, Vaughan, Toby and Deepak.  Not to mention Paula, Terry, Tom, Gavin, Ade, Iveta, Sharon, Dennis and Joy.  Whatever can we do?  What can I do?’

He was used to the fact that little prayers like this didn’t seem to be answered all that clearly, but it helped him to settle his mind to problems and to focus on finding a way out of them.

Father Cornelius was still pondering over his biryani when the main door opened and a tall figure in sage green overalls and a red hard hat strode in. 

‘I hope you’re not keeping my best bricky from his work for nothing, Fishy!’ scolded Sally Archer, albeit light-heartedly.

‘It’s alright, gaffer,’ Joe answered cheerfully.  ‘Me and our Gary were comparing notes about a couple more firms before he sets off.’

‘My train’s due in twenty minutes.  I’d better go.’  The auditor-looking fellow got to his feet.

‘Be careful out there!’ Sally ordered.

She and the man shared a high-five, which almost catapulted him into the remains of Lennon’s dinner.

‘Are you having pud, Joe?’ asked Sally.

‘Dead right I am.  They’ve got apple crumble and custard.’

‘Grab me one too, mate.’  She fished a crumpled voucher out of her pocket.

‘You not having a dinner, boss?’

‘Not right now.  I fancy something sweet.’  She took her hard hat off and ran her long, slightly-grubby fingers through her long ginger hair.  ‘I need a sugar rush!’

When Joe went up to the counter, she turned to the priest.

‘How’s it going?’ she asked.

‘It has been better, my dear,’ he asked.  ‘If I’m honest, when I signed up to do God’s work, I didn’t expect there to be quite so much of it!’

‘Dan’s dad said they were interviewing for a new adviser tomorrow.  That’s good news, isn’t it?’

‘It would be, if they didn’t actually have need of three or four of them.’

‘I hope they get someone good.  It’s excellent working with this team!’  She turned her hat over in her mortar-scratched hands.  ‘I miss it, sometimes.’

‘I didn’t know you used to work here?’  Father Cornelius had only ever known Sally as the organising force behind the Construction Co-operative - and Tom Appleby’s daughter-in-law.

‘It was years ago now.  That’s how I know all the gang here – and Fishy.’

‘The accountant?’

Sally laughed.  ‘He’s not an accountant.  He’s a private detective.  He’s doing some work for Joe and the Union, investigating black-listing in our industry.  He’s not always that good at his job but he’s better doing this than his old one.’

‘Did he used to work here, then?’

‘Here?  You are joking!’ she laughed.  ‘He used to be a DWP Fraud Officer!’  

‘Is that so?  Did they make him redundant?’

‘He wishes!’  Sally wrinkled her big nose.  ‘I’m not going to tell you what happened, Father but, if he joins your church one day, brace yourself for one hell of a confession!’

Sally’s co-worker returned to the table with two huge helpings of apple crumble, both drowned in custard.  While strapping Sally seemed to have the capacity for such a dish, Father Cornelius wondered where the lean Liverpudlian put it in his wiry frame, especially after a big dollop of cottage pie.  The dessert did look delicious.  He considered treating himself to a portion of the same.  He glanced at his watch.  It was almost twelve-thirty.  He had another job to do first.  Perhaps there would be a little left when he got back.

‘Have a nice afternoon,’ he said to Sally and Joe.

‘Bless you, Father!’ said the bricky, through a mouthful of crumble.

Father Cornelius weaved his way through the tables and guests, past the busy counter where Councillor Paula Walker now held sway, holding the fort while Tom and assistant chef Velma improvised an extra dish and volunteer Eddie dealt with the emergency washing up.

At the back of the café was the storeroom.  A stack of red plastic crates sat by the back door, loaded with tins and packets of food, cartons of UHT milk and the last of the eating apples from the presbytery orchard.  You could never tell how busy you were going to be in a new foodbank distribution centre, especially in a rural location.  It made sense to take more than you were likely to need, just in case.

‘Are we ready to go, Terry?’

‘Just about, Father.  The van’s out the front, if you want me to tell the nippers to load up?’  The man looked slightly embarrassed as he added another box to the stack.  ‘Old Lyn suggested we take these too.’

It was a collection of toiletries and women’s sanitary products.

‘She’s a very practical lady, your wife,’ the priest remarked approvingly.

‘Your right about that,’ agreed Terry.  ‘I’m a lucky old bugger!’