Chapter Six – #MondayMotivation

Monday 6^th November

Ashley Richardson hoped the cakes she had bought on Friday were okay.  Not only had they just done three miles along potholed streets in the panniers of her bike to reach her soon-to-be ex-colleagues, they had hit their use by date on Saturday.  Since they were embellished with icing rather than fresh cream, she guessed they would still be safe to eat.  It was a shame she couldn’t get them fresh ones but it was almost two weeks to her next and, hopefully, her last payment of Universal Credit, and she didn’t have enough spare cash to treat them as she wanted to.

‘You shouldn’t have!’ said Roger Hepworth, co-ordinator at InTo Action, the post-ESA branding for what had been the Totton Incapacity Benefit Action Group.

‘I wouldn’t have got the job without the experience I’ve got working here.’  She smiled at her two colleagues.

‘I mean it,’ Roger insisted.  ‘You should have waited until your first pay day.  You’ll have to budget for your bus fares, work clothes…’

‘Work clothes!  I’m doing welfare rights, Rog.  Work clothes isn’t a thing for us, is it?’

‘I’ve met what’s-her-name Carrington from the Solent Project,’ said Julie Mattingly.  ‘Believe me, she does work clothes!’

‘I know.  She was on the panel.  She was okay, though, and anyway, I have my interview suit if I need to dress up for anything.  As for bus fares, I can bike it.’

‘Millbrook to Eastleigh, in December?’

‘Actually, Roger…’

When Hilary had called on Thursday evening, Ashley had rashly offered to start work at the Project as soon as they wanted.

‘I’ll see if we can start you this month,’ Hilary had replied.  ‘It might even be possible for you to come in from Monday, although I expect your current team might appreciate a little notice.’

Ashley explained the offer to her mentor.

‘Don’t be daft, love.  You start when you’re ready.  You’ve helped us out for free – we can hardly make you carry on when you could be earning a wage.  We’ll be alright.’  Roger helped himself to another slightly stale cup cake.  ‘You should have phoned, instead of cycling all this way.  You’ll be late now.’

‘I said next Monday would be better.  They’re fine with that.  It means I can still go to his PIP hearing with Kieran, if you’d like.’

‘I’m sure he would.  He knows you.  Someone new might freak him out a bit.’  Roger limped over to the door and reeled up the blind, turning the sign around so ‘closed’ now faced inwards.  ‘Jules and I will see any new people.  You have a quiet day, sorting out your papers and, this afternoon, me and Jules can share out your tribunals between us.’

‘I feel awful about this.’

‘Don’t be silly.  We always knew you wouldn’t be here that long.  We’ve been lucky to have you, really.  Make sure you have some days off too, before you start your new job.’

‘We’ll see.’

Ashley didn’t think she would.  Her friend would be at work and, if she stayed at home, she’d have to put the heating on and chip in extra for the bills.

Roger had done his best to manage her workload so that, when this day came, there wouldn’t be too many cases to pass over at short notice.  He and Julie had kept most of the appeal cases and usually let Ash help with new claims.  They had run their small project for over a decade, as volunteers, setting it up in what had, ironically, been a satellite office of the Solent Welfare Rights Project, before West Hants district had withdrawn its funding.  A couple of sympathetic local councillors and donations from service users kept them going, in a small way.  The long lull in ESA appeals when Atos lost the contract to do medical assessments allowed the pair to plod on unaided, until Maximus got their feet under the ESA table and then Atos returned, assessing PIP claims and now, deciding the fate of those migrating from DLA.  

Roger and Jules were waiting for their own brown envelopes.

Ashley had studied Social Welfare Law.  As a student, she did a brief work placement at InTo Action.  She had liked the two volunteers immensely, admiring their patience and kindness.  Their approach to advice work, however, dismayed her.  It was well-meaning but alarmingly light on law.  They shared one out-of-date Disability Rights Handbook between them and, at appeals, tended to focus their fire on anecdotal stories of how badly the medical assessor had behaved and inaccuracies in the report, rather than looking first and foremost at the merits of their clients’ case.  She had finished her time there hoping they might have picked up some more professional practice from her.  What she hadn’t noticed, at least at first, was the political conscience she had acquired from them.  It only started to make itself felt when, after graduation, she started work at the housing benefit service, contracted to one of the local councils.  Most of her co-workers, on casual contracts and miserable wages, loathed the people who came to them for help with their rent, calling them skivers, scum, chavs and parasites.  Why should they sweat their lives away in this soulless office, while these chancers lazed at home watching daytime TV?  Ashley, having seen what life was really like at the sharp end of so-called Welfare Reform, found herself completely out-of-step with this ethos.  With the idealism of youth, she set about trying to educate her peers and, with a view to bettering their miserable working conditions, joined a union and urged her colleagues to do the same.  

To no-one’s surprise but her own, she was fired.  Then, again to no-one’s surprise but her own, when she went to claim Universal Credit, she was sanctioned.  She used up the small amount of savings she had put aside while working waiting for her first payment.  Two months later, when it came, she couldn’t understand why there was so little of it.

‘You aren’t paid at all for the first week,’ explained the worker at Citizens Advice.  ‘You also can’t get more than the shared accommodation rate for your rent.’

‘Oh shit!  I’d forgotten that.’  Ashley’s UC entitlement included little more than half of her actual rent.  Studying Social Security Law in theory and being on the receiving end of it in practice were very different things.

‘And then there’s your sanction.  They stop your personal allowance for the length of that.’

‘I thought of that.’  She wasn’t completely stupid, after all.  ‘This is still too low.’

‘Not once you’ve taken out your last wage payment.’

‘That was for the week before I claimed!’

‘But it was paid after your claim started, so they count it.’

‘I had to pay my rent with that.  I still owe three weeks.  I have twenty-six pounds fifty-three here, to last me…’

‘Three weeks.  This payment was late, so the next one is due in three weeks, not a month.’

‘How much should that be?’

‘About two-hundred and ninety-three pounds.’

‘Per week?’  That sounded nice, but far too high.

‘Per month.’ 

‘Less than three hundred, for a month!’  Ashley was devastated.  ‘I know I’ve been sanctioned but there must be hardship payments.’

‘You can ask.  They’re usually about sixty percent of your normal allowance.’

‘I suppose that’s something.’  She could get half of her rent and now, half of the minimum amount the Government supposedly thought she could live on.  She might be able to borrow her rent from a mate, or use her credit card for everything but the rent, until she got another job, which wouldn’t be long.

‘They’re a loan.’

‘Uh?’

‘Universal Credit hardship payment are a loan, not a benefit like Jobseeker’s hardship money.’

‘A loan?  You’re joking!’  That made maxing out the cards an even riskier strategy.  ‘How does that work?’

‘They pay you the hardship money throughout your sanction, but they cut your money for the next few months to get it back.’

‘By how much?’

‘Over a hundred quid a month.’

‘That’s like being sanctioned all over again!’

It wasn’t worth it.  Ash didn't bother to challenge her sanction.  She signed off and left her flat and furniture to move in with a friend.  She took the first casual contract that came her way, doing sleeping-in shifts at a care home by night and fighting the system by day, volunteering at a place she knew and almost loved.  She had meant to give it a year.  Somehow, she had eked out a living like this for eighteen months.  Roger and Jules treated her more like a daughter than a volunteer.  They also, slowly, adopted her way of writing reconsideration requests.  It didn’t make much difference to the DWP’s second decision but it worked wonders at tribunals.

‘You can look up new Upper Tribunal decisions here…’

‘You know I’m not much good with computers, Ash…’

In time, however, Roger got very good with computers.  Good enough to start a blog and set up a website for their scheme, which was a mixed blessing.  It brought extra clients to their door but it also enabled them to bid for small grants to cover their running costs and volunteer expenses.  A couple of new people had joined as volunteers in the summer, only to be hassled away from them by the demands of their claimant commitments.

When Jules looked in on her, to see how she was getting on with finishing off her work, Ashley had an idea.

‘You’ll have to let Les and Tony know about my job,’ she said.

‘I will.  They’ll be ever so pleased for you.’

‘That’s not what I meant.  They can use it to show how volunteering here could get them work too.  Maybe they’d be allowed to come back?’

‘It’s worth a try, I suppose.  It would help.’ 

‘There’s something else that might help too,’ Ash added.  ‘My new job is only going to be part-time.  It’s four days a week.  I could still come here for a day.’

Jules smiled.  ‘That’s a nice thought, dear, but I’d see how it goes if I were you.  It might be hard going at first, getting to know your new colleagues and all sorts of benefits stuff we don’t do here.  What about the care home?  Won’t they still want you?’

‘I’m on zero hours with them.  They can whistle!’

‘You be careful, burning your bridges like that.  You never know if you’ll need to go back there.’

‘Not this side of my own retirement, thanks – and not then, either!’

Ash finished off a couple of reconsideration letters for people she had seen the week before, then came out to the main office to have lunch with her friends.  The sign on the door was turned to read ‘open’ on the inside.  Roger was lunching at his desk.’

‘I bet you didn’t know the Queen had shares in Brighthouse!’ he said, addressing Ashley.

‘The Queen?’

‘The Queen.  It’s all over the news after that Panorama programme last night.  Did you see it?’

‘I was working.’

‘There’s more about it on tonight.  It’s all come out of one of these tax avoidance schemes for the super-rich.  Either someone’s hacked their database or someone with a grudge has leaked a load of information, and journalists from all over have been trawling through it.’

‘The Queen investing in Brighthouse!  Isn’t that just the whole screwed-up system described in one?  You seriously could not make that up!’

‘Who else has been squirrelling tax money away?’ 

'Louis Hamilton, Bono...' 

'No surprises there.' 

Roger and Ashley laughed,  Jules didn't.

'It's sickening, isn't it?  They have so much money, more money than any of us can even imagine, let alone ever earn or own, and they want even more.  They want to hide it away, so it doesn't get taxed, but they never think of what that means to everyone else.  They want another mansion, so we can't have a school.  They want another yacht, so we can't have a fleet of ambulances.  They want  the best champagne when they throw a party, so we're sending people to foodbanks for their next meal.'  She stopped for a moment.  'I don't mean to rant but look what happens if any of us don't play by the rules.'

'I know,' said Ashley.  'Like when I got sanctioned.  I still owe my old landlord nearly four-hundred quid.'  

'Never mind when we don't play by the rules - look what happens when we do!' Roger said.  'We've had more folk through these doors this past year than we've ever had, being chucked off their DLA because of this change-over to PIP, going through all the hassle of mandatory reconsideration and then having to appeal just to end up back where they started.  What's that all about?  We're talking about sick and disabled people being tortured by the system, so the fat cats can live it up.  I want to look them in the eyes and tell them what their greed means to our people.'

'I want them all locked up,' said Jules.  'If I stole millions of pounds, they'd soon lock me up.'

'That's the problem,' Ashley noted.  'Technically, they haven't stolen anything.  They'd say their tax advisers are simply doing for them what we do for our clients; protecting their rights and maximising their income.  When you see rich people getting challenged about it, they always say anyone in their position would do the same, because no-one likes paying tax.  That's what has to change - people who can afford it should feel proud of paying their taxes, not resentful.  I'm looking forward to earning enough to pay tax, and building up a proper National Insurance record.  At least that way I can dodge UC when I'm out of work again!'

After lunch, she sat with Roger and Jules as they decided who would take on which of her appeal clients.  There were eight in total, seven after she put Kieran Sullivan's file to one side.  His appeal hearing was coming up on Friday.  She would go with him to that.  Kieran's case was unusual in that he actually hadn't had a bad assessment - it was the law that was unclear.  He had unpredictable blackouts following a head injury.  The case manager at the DWP concluded that they were too infrequent to score points for PIP.  Ashley's argument was that the risk was always there and that, as a result, he needed supervising when he was carrying out many of the PIP activities.  A very recent Upper Tribunal decision appeared to support her.  She was almost looking forward to the hearing.  She might even put her suit on for it.