Chapter Two - A Candidate

Thursday 2^nd November

‘Wish me luck!’

The cat didn’t appear inclined to do so.

‘Selfish thing!  It would suit you to have me home all day, wouldn’t it?’

Catherine reached down and stroked her pet’s head.  Cersei arched her tortoiseshell back and flicked her tail, tolerating the attention rather than welcoming it, before springing up onto the arm of the settee and wiping her side on Catherine’s jacket, leaving a mixture of treacle-toned and gingery hairs clinging to her interview suit

‘Damn you, cat!’  Catherine dusted them off impatiently. 

For once, the bus to town was right on time.  Catherine had considered getting a taxi but she couldn’t really spare the cash.  She had left home early, catching the one an hour before she needed to be on the safe side.  She calmed her nerves watching from the window as the familiar countryside rolled by, still clinging to its autumn colours.

‘There’s another new estate going in there.’  The lady pensioner sitting in front of her, the only other passenger so far, pointed to a field portioned into pony paddocks by stakes and electric tape.

‘Really?’  If so, it would be a shame.  The identikit suburbs edged closer to the village every year; clusters of red brick and render houses so close together she wondered how they had the nerve to describe them as detached.

‘They wouldn’t need them, if it wasn’t for all these immigrants,’ said the pensioner.

Catherine didn’t want to have that conversation.  ‘I think our driver’s Polish,’ she said.

‘They all are.  It didn’t used to be like that when I was your age.’

Catherine wondered whether she should point out that this was nonsense and that bus drivers had come in all creeds and colours for generations, but she let it go.  It was easier to change the subject with Aunty Ruby.

‘What did you think of Bake Off this year?’

‘I didn’t watch it.  It’s not the same now it’s not on the BBC.  I hope they don’t sell Strictly, although that’s not the same without Brucie…’

‘Nothing is the same, Aunty Ruby.’

It was tempting to think that change and uncertainty were a particular peril for her own generation.  Catherine didn’t want to be self-indulgent.  Aunty Ruby had been a child in the War, lived through rationing, conceived her eldest daughter during the Cuban Missile Crisis, faced up to motherhood and widowhood too soon afterwards, and voted twice against the EEC. 

‘Where are you off to?’ her aunt asked, after a long monologue on the need for more discipline in schools.

‘I’ve got a job interview.’

‘That’s good.  What’s it for.’

‘It’s something like my old job.’  Catherine didn’t think she had both the time to explain the job and to justify its existence to her aunt.

‘With the Council?’

‘Not this time.’

‘Good luck, dear!’  They had reached the retail park.  Aunty Ruby rang the bell for the next stop.  She was planning to spend a morning pottering around M&S.  There was nothing she needed there except distraction from an empty house and afternoon tea in their café.  ‘You’ll have to come with me next week.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Unless you’re working again by then.’

Catherine wondered if her aunt had meant that to sound critical.  Probably not.  She had to be careful not to take things to heart that weren’t meant to be negative.

When they reached the bus station, Catherine thanked the driver and went in search of her prospective workplace.  It wasn’t hard to find, sitting half way along one of the old shopping streets which ran parallel to each other, topped off by what she still thought of as the new precinct and with the park and bus station at the other end.  The sign for the Solent Welfare Rights Project was beside the door for a café, which had the look of a place run by either evangelists or hippies.  From across the road, Catherine couldn’t tell whether the entrance was via the so-called Community Café or if there might be another way in from around the back. She was in plenty of time to check.

They were doing something to the shops on her side; plywood hoardings blocked the entrance to the buildings, decorated with artists impressions of how they should look when the work was done.  While Catherine perused these, there was a crash from behind the hoarding.  A cloud of fine plaster dust and a few expletives rose behind it. The dust started settling around her.

‘For God’s sake!’ 

Her suit seemed doomed.  She decided to take cover from further disasters in the café across the road, where she could also check where she would find the way in to the advice centre.  Catherine crossed the road and pushed open the café door.  The interior décor was more eco-warrior rather than Salvation Army, with a cornucopia of fresh ingredients stencilled along the top of the walls and signage in a Celtic-looking script indicating which of the cakes were vegan, organic or home-made, which was just about all of them.  The clientele appeared to lean in the opposite direction.  Catherine didn’t like to think she was judgmental but the old gentleman sitting by the door was quite stinky.  She approached the counter quietly, her flat shoes' soft soles making barely a sound.  The blond woman standing behind it had her back to the room and was sorting something in a small box.  Catherine saw they were laminated cards.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Christ!’  The blond woman jumped and turned around.

‘Sorry!’ said Catherine.  ‘I didn’t mean to…  Oh, Councillor Walker!  I didn’t realise it was you.  I really am sorry…’

Catherine recognised her at once, now she was facing her.  She had never spoken to the Councillor during her eighteen months working for the Council, but colleagues had.  They didn’t like Paula Walker.  She asked awkward questions and harried them about wrong assessments or refusals of discretionary payments.  She was a ‘pain’.

‘Are you here for the interviews?’ asked Paula Walker.

‘Yes.  Yes, I am,’ Catherine replied nervously.  ‘I am in the right place, aren’t I?’

‘You are but you’re early.  The previous candidate has only just gone in.’  She pointed to a door on the opposite wall which Catherine now saw was clearly marked as the way to the advice centre, using the same flowing script as the cakes and pastries.  ‘Would you like a cuppa while you wait?’

‘Yes.  That would be nice.  Thank you.’  Catherine rummaged in her shoulder bag for her purse.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Paula Walker.  ‘Tea or coffee?’

‘Tea please.  Milk but no sugar.’  She looked along the cakes but decided against, sure that she would drop crumbs or icing on her outfit.  ‘What’s this place?’ she asked the councillor.

‘The Community Café?’  Paula smiled.  ‘It was started by Spitfire Housing – if you remember them – doing healthy meals and promoting energy efficiency and green living to their tenants and the town in general.  When Wave took over Spitfire, they were going to close it down, only the priest who set up the foodbank locally thought it would be a shame to lose it, so joined forces with the Welfare Rights Project to take it over and run it as part of a broader anti-poverty initiative.  It’s gone from strength to strength since then.’

‘Is it all run by volunteers?’

‘I’m paid – part-time – to manage it.  Our catering staff are a mixture of paid and voluntary workers, including a couple of students and some retirees.’

‘And are all the clients people in need?’

‘Our customers are drawn from all walks of life.  Some buy their meal vouchers – we do a good deal on a book of ten for the price of eight – while others are given them by charities, social services or whoever.  As staff, we just collect the tickets and dish up the food.’  She showed Catherine the box, which contained dozens of plastic laminated cards.  ‘We don’t know who’s paid and who’s been issued a free one.  What we do know is that the number of free ones is rising.’

‘How do you know?’

‘We know how many meals have been paid for because that’s how we raise a lot of our funds.  That’s stayed fairly steady despite us serving more people, week on week, so it must be the free ones going up.  We’ve also had to get another batch of tickets printed up to give to the places that refer in.’

‘Why the increase?’

Paula Walker looked at her quite disdainfully.  ‘If you don’t know the answer to that, you won’t do too well through there,’ she said, nodding towards the advice centre’s door.

‘Welfare reform?’ Catherine asked.

‘That would be telling!’

‘I suppose it would.’

Catherine took her tea and sat down at a table for two near the door through to the Welfare Rights Project and a good distance from the smelly man.  She wished she had thought before speaking.  She must do so in her interview or her chances would be ruined.  She got the print-out of the job details out of her bag and read through it again.  She had a good working knowledge of the social security system.  She had attended appeal tribunals - a couple of times only and giving evidence for the Council rather than representing claimants, but she had done it – and she was a good team-worker.  She was confident challenging discrimination and hate speech – except, perhaps, where Aunty Ruby was concerned.  Catherine sipped her tea and started wondering how she had made it onto the shortlist at all.  In her mind, she rehearsed her answers to anticipated questions.  She tried to recall the clever phrasing of ‘to help people less fortunate than myself’ that she had hit upon the previous evening.  Right now, she could only remember the cliché. 

‘Calm down!’ she told herself, noticing how the notes in her hand were shaking slightly.  She took her empty cup back to the counter.  Paula Walker had finished whatever she had been doing with the meal vouchers and was emptying the dishwasher, stacking plates back into cupboards and rattling the cutlery back into the drawers.

‘Nearly finished for today?’ Catherine asked, keen to make safe conversation to stop herself fretting.

‘Not a bit of it.  It’ll be time to get the soup started soon.’

‘For tomorrow?’

‘For tonight.’

‘You literally run a soup kitchen here?’

‘We literally do!  We serve from seven ‘til nine, then we have to close the doors.  We ran a night shelter last winter.’  Paula looked towards the old man by the door.  ‘We’re hoping to get the okay to do the same again this year.’

Catherine was about to ask whether the high demand for hot meals would hinder that when she heard a door open behind her.  Two men walked out, both wearing suits.  The taller was probably about her age, possibly older.  She thought he looked quietly confident as he shook the shorter man’s hand and thanked him, so she was surprised when the tall man strode out and the other, a pleasant-looking younger man with fair hair, looked towards her.

‘Are you Catherine Collier?’ he asked cheerfully.

‘I am.’

‘Hello!’  He smiled.  ‘I’m Toby Novak, one of the workers here and part of today’s panel.  We’ll be ready for you very soon.  I’ll just let the others know you’ve arrived.  If you want a brew, there’s probably time.’

‘I’ve had one, thank you.’

‘Good-oh!’ 

The man nipped back through the door.  Catherine settled herself back at the table nearby.  She watched Paula Walker dealing with a couple more customers, two women ordering coffee and cake which they paid for, using cash.  The tickets were clearly for main meals only.  They seated themselves as far away from both herself and the old man as the layout of the room would allow.

Paula went over to see if the old man had finished his drink.

‘Another one, Frank?’

‘No thanks, sweetheart.  I’d better be on my way.  They won’t let me in if I’m late.’

‘We won’t be seeing you for supper tonight?’

‘Not tonight.’

‘Have you got the bus fare to get there?’

‘I’ll walk, love.  The exercise will do me good.’

‘It’s quite a long way to St Mary’s.’

‘I’ll be alright.’  He dragged a rucksack out from under the table.  ‘I’ll get a bath at the hostel too.  See you tomorrow, love.’

‘I’ll reserve your favourite table for you, sir.’

'See that you do that, young lady!'

The door beside Catherine opened.

‘Okay, Catherine.  If you’d like to come through…’  Toby Novak walked just ahead of her along a short corridor, quite informally and with his hands in his pockets.  ‘Shall I introduce you to the others as Catherine, or do you prefer Cath or Cate, or is it Cat?’

‘I usually prefer Catherine, even with my friends.’

Oh God!  That had come out completely wrong.  It sounded stuck-up and unfriendly, while this man’s demeanour was open and welcoming, and clearly intended to put her at her ease.

‘That’s fine.  Catherine it is,’ he answered.  He didn’t seem to have taken offence.  ‘We’re in the biggest of our interview rooms, so it’s not too cramped, and there are no booked interviews this afternoon, so we shouldn’t be disturbed by noises from next door or any interruptions, unless there’s an emergency.  There are three of us on the panel.  I’ll show you in and then I’ll introduce you to the other two.  They don’t bite!’

‘Glad to hear it.’

Catherine’s chair was to her left as she came through the door into a surprisingly bright room, lit by a large window with frosted glass.  Before she sat down, she made a point of shaking hands and greeting Toby’s colleagues; a rather shy, ill-at-ease young man, introduced to her as Deepak Malhotra and the apparent chair of the trio, an elegant and slightly aloof woman who clearly set some store on her appearance, called Hilary Carrington.  Catherine thought she might be a bank manager or HR director with a role on the Project’s Management Committee.  When Hilary introduced herself as a caseworker, Catherine hoped her surprise hadn’t been too obvious.

While Catherine settled, Hilary treated her to a potted history of the Project.  It was apparently something of a phoenix, rising several times in its thirty-plus year history from what had looked to be its ashes.   Over time, it had changed its geographical coverage, its staff and its base and, if it was more professional now than in its idealistic youth, Hilary Carrington was at pains to point out that its mission was unchanged.

‘We help people to identify their correct benefit entitlement and to claim what appears due to them,’ she clarified.  ‘And we defend the rights of those wrongly refused those benefits, assisting them with reconsideration requests and appeals until justice is done or we reach the limit of our legal remit.  I’m delighted to say that it is usually the former.’

Despite the woman’s almost cheeky smile at this stage, Catherine was left with the distinct impression that Hilary Carrington made a formidable adversary.

‘Have you any questions for us, before we start?’ asked Hilary.

‘Not at this stage, thank you.’ 

Catherine wished she had found something to ask about.  Having nothing to discuss might give the impression she hadn’t been paying proper attention and wasn’t all that interested.  Hilary Carrington’s neat eyebrows arched slightly, offering her a brief chance to change her mind.  Catherine remained tongue-tied.  

‘In that case, I’m going to hand over to Deepak, who has a few technical questions for you…’

Catherine took a deep breath. 

'Right,' said the young man, smiling nervously and seemingly almost as anxious about the process as she was.  'The first one is about Housing Benefit...'