Episode 1 - Harry's Game

Harry Biddulph decided to deploy a little of his old-fashioned Potteries chumminess towards the young man in the Jobcentre, in the hope of breaking the deadlock.

'I know what you're saying, mar mate,' he smiled.  'But I dunner want to claim this Universal Credit thing.  Mar lady says I need to put in for...'  He checked the note Daphne had given him again.  'Contribution-based Employment and Support Allowance.  She says that's what I'll get now mar sick pay is running out.  So how about you let me have a form?  I'll fill it in and send it off and, if it's not the right one, they can get back to me and let me know, eh?'

Harry smiled benevolently, as if he was doing the clerk a favour by being so little trouble, but his efforts were in vain.

'I'm sorry sir.  Like I said, there's no such thing as ESA for your postcode.  You have to claim Universal Credit.'  The lad sighed.  'If you need help to learn how to use a computer, you can go up Hanley library.'

Harry explained that his IT skills would be more than adequate to the task should he wish to claim Universal Credit, but he did not. 

'Could I get a form for my sick money there?' he asked, sensing a way out of the impasse.

'Sick money?  Do you mean PIP?'

'No.  I conner claim PIP.  I should be better before I need it and, even with this bloody thing on my leg, mar lady says I'm getting about too well for it.  I mean my employment and support money.' 

'Then no, you can't.'

'Then there's no point me going up the library, is there, youth?' 

'They can help you with your claim for Universal Credit.'

'Look pal...'  Harry's patience was wearing thin.  His injured foot was starting to ache, this lad's smile was starting to annoy him and he was irritated that he would be meeting Daphne for lunch without having completed the apparently simple task she had set him.  She would probably glare at him, get her phone out and have it all sorted in seconds, making him feel a fool for failing.  He had tried to claim by phone but, as soon as he had given his postcode, the woman had told him he had to claim Universal Credit instead.  For reasons which now seemed entirely ill-founded, he had assumed attending the Jobcentre in person might resolve the issue.

'Please don't shout, sir.'  The young man raised his voice enough that others close by fell silent, in expectation of an altercation.

'I'm not shouting.'  Harry dropped his voice almost to a whisper.  'All I want is a perishing form for contribution-based whatsitsname, and I'll be on my way.'

'I can't give you that.  It's been Universal Credit since June.'

'Mar lady says that's summat different and I conner get it because I have a house I let out.  She knows about this stuff, you know.'

The clerk looked unconvinced. 

'She works down the road.  At the CAB.'

The young man's expression changed, as if he might be doubting his own position.

'Maybe she thinks you come under Newcastle,' he suggested.  'But your street is actually inside the Full Service area covered by this Jobcentre.'

'It's not a street.'

'What is it?'

'It's a marina.'

'A what?'

'A mooring.  For a narrowboat.'

'I don't know if you can get UC if you live on a boat.'

'I dunner care, youth.  I want to claim...'

'Contribution-based ESA,' said the clerk wearily. 

'That's New Style ESA now,' corrected a passing colleague.

'It still exists, then?'  Harry was pleased to see the lad loose a touch of his snugness.   He addressed the woman.  'Can I have a form for that then, duck?'

'You have to phone,' she replied.  'We don't have forms.'

'I tried.  They asked for my postcode and told me I had to claim Universal Credit.'

'Who did you call?' the woman asked.  'Was it the ESA new claims number?'

Harry was sure it had been and told her so.

'That's where you went wrong,' she answered.  'You have to call the Universal Credit number.'

'To claim contribution-based ESA?'

'New Style ESA!' she corrected pleasantly.

'Then why the foo...?'  Harry stopped himself cursing.  'How would I know to call the Universal Credit number when I want to claim summat else?'

The woman ignored that.  'Not the new claims number,' she said.  'It's the number for people with an ongoing claim for UC.'

'But I don't have an ongoing claim for UC.'

'They can help you set one up at the library,' said the woman helpfully.

'He doesn't want to do that,' said the clerk.  'We've discussed it already.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes,' Harry answered shortly.  'Do you have that number I need, please duck?'

She wrote it, in very large, neat numbers that even a small child could comprehend on Harry's note from Daphne, crossing out the words contribution-based and writing New Style in their place at the same time. 

'There we are, sir.'

Harry gave a weak smile and a begrudging word of thanks, picked up his crutch and limped back to the street.  He got out his phone, meaning to make the call, but thought better of it.  If he messed it up, he would leave things in a worse state for Daphne to sort out later.  He might as well go to the café for a coffee and wait until she and her friends met him there.  Between them, they might be able to make sense of what he had been told to do.  None of it made any sense to him and he began to wonder if the smug lad and the patronising female had been winding him up all along.

'Just as well I should get my pension in a few months,' he muttered.  'The whole system's gone completely fooking crazy!'

There was a beggar on the street opposite, the bank.  Harry didn't usually find any change in his pockets when confronted with these characters but, this time, he made an exception.  After all, if he had been given the run-around, what chance did this poor sod have? 

Meet the Team - Autumn 2018

Over the next few weeks/months, I'll be sharing some new chapters in the lives of characters with links to the Solent Welfare Rights Project, a fictional advice centre based in a south Hampshire town just a little bit like Eastleigh.

If you haven't already met Hilary Carrington, Lyn and Terry Walker, Toby Novak, Catherine Collier, their families, friends and clients, it's never too late to start reading Welfare Rights Lit.  If you aren't sure it's for you, there's always some available to try for free.  The most recent effort in draft form exists on this blog as a series of chapters starting last November.  The first ebook in the series, set eight years ago and entitled Severe Discomfort, is free to download on the first Friday of every month with all the subsequent stories free on dates stated in their blurb. 

Here's the link for Severe Discomfort, which is on free download today. 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00C69HMRM

It wasn't written to make me rich (and it didn't) but to explain what was really happening to people needing benefits to get by under both the New Labour Governments of Blair and Brown and the Tory/Libdem Coalition that followed them.  Things have, without any question, got much worse since and are continuing to deteriorate.  It's a challenge to keep the overall tone of the stories upbeat, cheerful and positive but I choose to do so because it is possible to win appeals, to find love and friendship, to make society better, fairer and kinder.  It is important to let the people suffering at the sharp end know this and to know that others want it to happen for them. 

I don't have the resources for professional proof-readers, designers, marketing campaigns or paperback giveaways.  Reviews (respecting these limitations) are welcome, or at least a 'found this helpful' tick to someone who has already placed a review with which you agree. 

Daphne Randall's 4mph thrillers are the more commercial end of my writing efforts although I do give them away free too, intermittently.  There are little cross-overs between these and the Welfare Rights Lit stories from time to time, including the first episode of the making-it-up-as-we-go-along blog-novel to come which I'll be starting any moment now...

Reality Bites...

Sincere apologies to anyone who has been waiting for more Adventures in Welfare Reform with the staff and clients of the Solent Welfare Rights Project.  I had high hopes of spending this summer getting last year's novel-by-blog proof-read and turned into a proper book and of writing revised prefaces and making minor corrections to the old tales, before launching into another saga, not least to reassure myself that I had got all my character's ages, relationships and histories firmly implanted in my mind before subjecting them to another slice of austerity.

So what happened?  Well, for one thing, we had a really hot, dry summer (despite this being North Staffordshire) so I had to spend a couple of hours most evenings trundling round the garden with watering cans trying to stop my crops and best flowers from dying, before trekking down to the allotment, accompanied by Himself towing a water barrel, to repeat the process.

The biggest problem, however, has been the actual roll-out of Universal Credit in my patch.  It's meant having to do more hours training, writing info leaflets, going to community events and generally helping the front-line fire-fighters on the advice side try to figure out what the actual bloody hell is going on with the DWP.  Mercifully - and perhaps unexpectedly - we've had some funding for this from local MPs (not the Tory one) who have realised just how unprepared their constituents actually are for what is coming. 

It's also made me realise that there are more dire pitfalls with this pathetic excuse for a Social Security system than I ever envisaged from listening to other people's accounts and reading blogs and reports.  Every day we seem to be confronted with some new twist, some completely unexpected idiocy.  It's hard to believe that after five years of a so-called "Pause and Fix" approach, there are still so many major bugs in UC.  It is an utter disgrace.

So, when I finally stop being too depressed and angry to turn any of the real stuff into inspiration for stories, I will have no shortage of material.  In fact, I think we'll probably begin soon with a conversation between Hilary and Daphne, as the latter tries to pick her own way through the mess slowly engulfing her home town - and mine.

Severe Discomfort Revisited

I've had a quiet summer regarding writing, but have plans to catch up again soon with the Solent Welfare Rights Project, although whether this will involve getting the gang together for one last job or will leave their door open for more welfare-rights do-goodery in future, remains to be seen.

As I mentioned in my last blog post, I've been quietly reviewing some older work.  I'm planning no changes to plot or characters and minimal changes to the text, except to correct typographical errors, although I will be writing updated prefaces for the Kindle editions of all the Welfare Rights Lit stories in turn and, depending on costs and practicality, might be inspired to do new look versions of the paperbacks.

One thing that has inspired me to do this is the sense that, at last, I may not be swimming against the tide in calling for justice and fair treatment for benefit claimants.  When I started writing Severe Discomfort, New Labour Work and Pensions spokespeople were as likely to talk tough on benefits as their Tory counterparts - by the time I had published it, they were pledging to be tougher.  By contrast, as I blogged my most recent story, we had an Opposition at last worthy of the name and the sight of a Tory in tears at the hardships faced by Universal Credit claimants.  

Not Esther McVey, of course, though even she has baulked at challenging the Court of Appeal's ruling that the Government's shameless rewrite of the PIP mobility regulations was blatantly discriminatory against people coping with mental health.  Instead, hundreds of thousands of claims are to be checked for error and underpayment.  Meanwhile, having considered the evidence from claimants, advisers and disability charities on the inaccuracy of the contractors' reports, the Work and Pensions Select Committee is calling for all ESA and PIP face-to-face assessments to be routinely recorded.  There is serious talk at looking for a public-sector alternative to Atos, Capita and Maximus when their current contracts.  If the tide hasn't yet turned, at least the rip current is no longer dragging us towards the rocks so violently.

Something else which was seen as the impossible dream of a handful of idealistic hippies and the Solent Welfare Rights Project's utopians has also gone mainstream, namely the concept of a Universal Basic Income.  It isn't just being talked about either - it's being trialled; in parts of Finland, Belgium, Canada and, soon, in four districts in Scotland.  Along with their pledge to ditch Trident, it's one of the issues which keeps me in the Greens rather than switching back to Labour.  It has to come; machines and AI are overtaking so many jobs that it's either UBI (and a taxation system that supports it) or Luddites and Swing Rioters taking up their cudgels once more.

In the meantime, there are still tales of social injustice and wrongful benefits refusal to tell.  Let's get the old gang together, eh?    

Spring Cleaning

I'm pondering a new writing project, catching up with the Solent Welfare Rights Project team after the Universal Credit serial published on this blog at the end of last year but, before getting that underway, I want to read back through the earlier Social Insecurity stories, pick up any odd typos still lurking in the text and write new prefaces to them.


There have been far more damaging cuts to Social Security since Severe Discomfort was published than I saw coming in 2012, particularly for families with children, which are likely to be the focus of the new story.  Homelessness is very visibly increasing and the response to it is staggeringly polarised - from decent, humane individuals and charities organising soup runs and night shelters to Councils remodelling their street furniture to deny homeless people a place to lay their heads.  There are, simultaneously, signs of worse to come and reasons to be cheerful - not least, perhaps, an Opposition worthy of the name at last and genuine, mainstream debate on Universal Basic Income.  The latter would have seemed inconceivable when the Solent Welfare Rights Project's workers were discussing their ideas for a Citizens Allowance in 2010 (written 2012/3).


Something else the new preface probably needs to point out, if a few negative reviews are considered, is that the 'patchy' style of the stories is deliberate.  With chapters or sections of chapters being seen through the eyes of different characters, I made a quite deliberate effort to use language, imagery and insights to fit that character's age, background and viewpoint.  For some of the principal characters, particularly Lyn Walker, I hoped the reader would note a gradual change as she gains understanding and confidence.  I thought that stylistic quirk was obvious enough not to need an explanation but it seems not. 


So look out for both new stories and new editions of the old ones during this year.  Not just yet, though - it's a bright morning and time to start sowing my broad beans!

2018 - Benefits, Boats and Bears?

Well, I've finally completed chapter 42 of my 'real time' Universal Credit story, leaving the keen few following it with the thought that perhaps what they had been reading wasn't a story in its own right but the subplots behind a totally different character's odyssey through UC. 

I'm drawn to that idea by the timescale and the chance to show how even a UC claim which goes to plan and is paid on time still means weeks with no money.  If my new character had family responsibilities, perhaps as a carer, it would bring into sharp focus what that really means.  I'm inclined to let Deepak take the lead as their principal adviser at the Solent Welfare Rights Project, as he needs more development as a character.  There are also, however, compelling arguments for letting this story unfold over a subsequent six weeks.

The problem with revisiting the Solent Welfare Rights Project, even for a Christmas short story or similar, is that I'm reminded how fond I am of the old characters and how I enjoy writing them.  I could easily keep adding episodes to the blogged story with no final destination in mind at all.  There are plenty of loose ends left.  Will Ashley find a place of her own or, with her experience as a care worker and Lyn's wish for a surrogate daughter, will the Walkers want to keep her around?  Will Catherine pay her rent before Christmas, in full and on time and, if so, will her ill-tempered landlord keep his word about letting her stay?  Will Hilary's latest bid for funding work out or will the Project really have to close this autumn?  How will the dynamics of the whole place change with the new cohort of staff and many of the old guard moving on, cutting their hours and taking a back seat?
 
The Catherine/Ralph romance also has scope for endless twists and turns, both family-focussed and financial, as anyone familiar with the rules on Widowed Parent's Allowance will appreciate.  So, perhaps instead of rewriting this story with a new protagonist, I'll leave it as it is and we'll have a new series for the spring or summer, picking up some of these threads and weaving them into a fresh narrative.

Before I start that, I have a Daphne Randall boat-based murder mystery in need of rereading, redrafting and turning into a manuscript ready for proof-reading, plus plotlines sketched out for several more.  I enjoy writing these stories as much as the SWRP ones and, I have to admit, they are slightly more successful commercially, although my self-employed tax return is unlikely to appear in the Paradise Papers any time soon.  (It looks like HMRC owe me seven quid).

The other fun writing exercise has been a new blog for Sonning the Boat Bear, the little chap rescued from an elderberry bush near Uri Geller's mansion during our summer narrowboat journey.  Sonning aspires to be like Paddington - to do good deeds and to help poor people and their furry friends - although he isn't a political animal at all.  Sonning's blog is here: https://bearonaboat.blogspot.co.uk/ 

Whether it becomes a book for anyone other than 'Grizzly's Grandcubs' remains to be seen.

Chapter Forty-Two - A Never-Ending Story?

Tuesday 12^th December

Hilary flexed her shoulders, took off her glasses and stretched her fingers.  She had been typing almost continuously since lunchtime and it was now after three.  Her limbs felt cramped and her head ached a little too, where she had been concentrating hard on striking the right tone, keeping to the strict word-count while trying to compose a compelling narrative.  The work in progress was, once again, a funding bid, the first stage of an appeal to a philanthropic trust which might help to secure the future of the Project for another three to five years, or it might not.  She, her colleagues and Father Cornelius had tried to learn from earlier, failed attempts to other such bodies but there was only one lesson to learn: more voluntary sector organisations were being forced to seek Lottery or other charitable funding, as support from statutory agencies ran dry, meaning competition was greater and fiercer.  Success would be bitter-sweet too.  Victory for the Solent Welfare Rights Project meant defeat and closure for another venture; a carers’ group, a mental health charity, a foodbank, a scheme supporting vulnerable young people or isolated elders.  They couldn’t all continue, despite all being needed, and the pressure to innovate to impress triggered competition, secrecy and rivalry between organisations where there should have been co-operation.

'Hi, Hilary.'  Ashley came in from an afternoon appointment and vape break, took a seat at the desk she and Catherine had to share and switched on the computer.  'How's it going?'

'I wish I knew,' Hilary replied honestly.

'You must have some idea,' Ash argued.  ‘I bet you’ve been doing these bids for decades.'

Hilary gave an ironic little laugh. 

'On the contrary,' she explained.  'We didn't used to have to complete bids like this at all.  We had revenue funding from most of the local councils and, after that, we had Legal Aid for complex casework.  Bids were for little extras, like printing costs for take-up campaign leaflets.  Our jobs didn’t depend on the luck of the draw.  I was delighted when we appointed you, Ashley; I'm always pleased when we recruit a new generation of advice-workers, despite Toby’s teasing about it making me feel old.  I only wish I could have confidently offered you more of a future here.'

Ashley seemed unconcerned.  'It'll do.  I'm a person, not a job.  Like I said when you asked me about extra hours, my time is mine, to use as I choose.  I don't need a five-day week, nine-to-five and, if I don't need one, I don't want one.  Anyway, if I earn to much, I’ll only end up worse off because they’ll start recovering my student loan.  Roll on Universal Basic Income and an end to wage slavery!’

‘We put together a policy document on that, just as the Coalition started on their Welfare Reform programme,’ Hilary explained. 

‘I read it,’ said Ashley.  ‘When I was looking through the policies and procedures.  Citizens’ Allowance, wasn’t it?  A kind of Basic Income Plus.  It looked cool.’

‘Thank you.’  Hilary was flattered.  ‘It was quite far-out thinking at the time.  I never imagined there would actually be trials running within a decade.’

‘I’m not surprised it’s happening in Europe and Canada but I’m blown away that Scotland are going to try it.  I might emigrate!’

‘Not just yet, I hope.’

‘I don’t think so.  Not after being made so welcome by the Walkers.  They’re a nice old couple, aren’t they?’

‘They are.’  Hilary let it go that she and Lyn were the same age.

‘I think Lyn’s going to adopt me, if I don’t watch out.  She says it’s nice to have another woman in the house.  I was helping her with the laundry yesterday.  It was so funny, though.  Terry was all bashful about me seeing his pants going in the wash!  Then Lyn was onto him about how I knew how to sort everything out properly without being told, while she still has to watch him like a hawk.  It’s the same with the housework – he does that all wrong too, apparently.’

‘How long do you expect to be there?’

‘I could save a deposit in a couple of months but, if they aren’t fed up with me and we’re still getting along, I don’t mind staying with Lyn and Terry for a bit longer.’

‘And how has Gavin taken to you moving out?’

‘He calmed down, after a couple of hours.  He’s not a bad person, Hilary, but I can’t handle any more of his passive-aggressive attitude.  That’s one of the other pluses of lodging with the Walkers – he can’t snivel his way to living there with me.  If I get a flat, he’ll try.  That’s why I’d prefer a room.’

Hilary couldn’t imagine living in one room.  Down-sizing from her Victorian villa to the two-bedroom cottage had been challenging enough.

'Lucky for me, I don't have a dumb-ass work coach trying to make me progress,' she added.  'Did you see what that dick Colin put on Catherine's journal last week?  He's right out of order.  I know there's scope in the regulations for this in-work conditionality stuff but threatening a further sanction if she doesn't spend two days a week on work search is well over-the-top.  I hope it scares the shit out of him that she works here permanently now.'

‘'Universal Credit is a disaster all round for Catherine,' Hilary replied.  'Not only is she tied in to this conditionality regime, she's actually worse off than she would have been claiming a combination of Tax Credits and Housing Benefit, because of the way her Widowed Parent’s Allowance is treated.'

'She told me she was better off before she did that temporary housing job,’ said Ashley. ‘At least she's entitled to the old bereavement benefits rather than the new ones.  Her Widowed Parent's Allowance should be paid until the youngest finishes college - unless she's mad enough to take up with a bloke, that is.'

‘It’s not always mad to take up with a bloke, you know!’ Hilary laughed.  ‘I’m rather glad I did and looking forward to spending more time with him.’

‘Takes all sorts!’ laughed Ashley.  She glanced across at Hilary.  ‘You do get fairly atypical blokes working here, though, don’t you?  Do you put something in the drinking water to turn them so progressive?  I was surprised when I found out Toby does short time to care for his daughter but Martin quitting completely to look after his kids – I didn’t see that coming!’

‘Martin’s decision is more economic than ideological, I think you’ll find,’ Hilary advised her colleague.  ‘He’s a very good dad, according to Parveen and from what I’ve seen, but I’m quite sure he’ll be back here when the girls are older – if he gets the chance, that is.’  Hilary looked back at her screen.

‘I’d better let you get on,’ said Ashley.

‘Come over and have a read through,’ Hilary offered.  ‘It’s always useful to have a second opinion.’

Hilary was sure Ashley wouldn’t hold back if she felt something was wrong.  It would be a challenge, working with such a direct, outspoken young colleague and Hilary had a feeling that there would be fireworks, from time-to-time, between this forthright young woman and other members of the team.  As long as it never became personal, it would be healthy.  They needed to stay on their toes, to adapt, to retrench, if they were going to keep fighting for their clients’ rights.

‘This bit about new initiatives,’ said Ashley, after several minutes perusal.  ‘I’d big up your rent deposit scheme.’

‘I’m reluctant to do that.  It is quite small scale.’

‘It’s independent funding.  Toby was saying the other day how big charities like to see money coming in from other places.’

‘That’s true.  We mustn’t overplay our hand, however.’

Ashley shrugged and returned to her desk.  As Hilary refocussed on the bid, the office door opened again.

‘Deepak!’ cried Hilary.  ‘I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.’

He had been due to represent at a PIP appeal.

‘They adjourned for medical evidence.  The Tribunals Service are writing directly to the GP.’

‘Why?’ asked Ashley, who had followed this case with interest.  ‘It’s obvious that medical assessment isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on.  It’s stuffed with contradictions and inaccuracies.’

‘I’m quite pleased,’ Deepak replied.  ‘It was Mr Garner, sitting with Dr Larcombe and Mrs Francis.  At least Gillian won’t be seeing any of those characters again.’

Inadvertently, Deepak and his client had escaped the worst possible tribunal configuration for a client with mental health.

‘Anyone for a brew?’ he asked.

‘Coffee please,’ said Hilary.  ‘I don’t usually in the afternoon, but I need to wake myself up.’

Deepak took Hilary’s mug and Ashley’s request for a glass of water and went out to the kitchen.  When the door opened shortly afterward, Hilary thought it was him returning.  She looked up to see Tom smiling at her.

‘Could you spare a minute or two for a chat with Wayne Reynolds, my love?’ he asked.

Hilary resented the break in her concentration, although she never wished to seem unfriendly to the mercurial Wayne.

‘I suppose I had better…’

Hilary followed Tom along the passage to the café.  She could hear raucous laughter from the dining area.  Wayne was leaning on the counter, recounting a story which he clearly found hilarious to Paula, who was being politely amused, and Father Cornelius, who looked faintly bewildered.

‘Hello Wayne,’ said Hilary benevolently.  ‘How can we help?’

‘Ask not what you can do for Wayne Reynolds, my dears, but what Wayne Reynolds can do for you!’ 

He thrust one massive hand into his jacket and pulled out a wad of direct debit forms. 

‘These are for you, Father.  I had a word with some of my associates about your current troubles and all the good work you do for needy people and, since I’m a persuasive old bastard, they’ve rallied to your flag.’

Father Cornelius perched his glasses on the end of his nose and started perusing the forms.

‘I have to say, Mr Reynolds, you do have some exceptionally generous acquaintances.  God bless you all!’

‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his need, as Our Lord once said,’ Wayne replied piously.

Nobody, not even Father Cornelius, saw the need to point out that the words were those of Karl Marx rather than Jesus Christ.  After all, the sentiment was right.

‘That’s very public-spirited of you, Wayne,’ Tom said.  ‘We’re in your debt, once again.’

‘Think nothing of it, mate,’ Wayne replied, slapping Tom heartily on the shoulder in the manner of a pantomime pirate.  ‘I haven’t finished yet.  I got a few one-off donations too.  I’ve kept a bit back to put Mrs Hamilton into a house, so she can have her nippers home with her for Christmas, but there’s loads left.  I thought your Hilary might like to stick it in with her rent deposit money to get more of these girls off the streets and out of harm’s way, and some of the young lads.  There’s a cheque here.’

Hilary almost passed out when she saw the amount.  She gripped Tom’s arm.

‘Are you sure, Wayne?’

‘It’s not my dosh, love.  It was all given generously, to help the poor.’

‘It’s for over twenty thousand pounds!’

‘I know a lot of rich bastards, don’t I?  Landlords and the like.  They’ve never had it so good, what with demand pushing up rents and property prices going up and up.  They’ll hardly miss it, the lucky sods.’  He gave Hilary a chivalrous kiss on the cheek.  ‘I know I can trust you lot to use it well, which is why it’s made out to the Solent Welfare Rights Project.  Merry Christmas, everyone!’

He strode towards the door, booming with laughter fit for the Ghost of Christmas Present.  As he was about to leave, he turned around.

‘If you see Catherine Collier, tell her the police busted Nigel Finn’s place this morning.  I can’t say any more for now, but I think Santa’s crossed him and young Leo off his list for this year.’

Still chuckling to himself, the big man let the door slam behind him.

‘Who’s Nigel Finn?’ asked Tom.

‘I have no idea,’ said Hilary.  ‘Nor have I any idea why his dealings with the police would be any concern of Catherine’s.  I’ll tell her what he said, when she comes in tomorrow.  Perhaps she’ll explain.  I had better call Vaughan about this cheque.  It’s an extraordinary gift but I can’t help feeling a trifle concerned about how Wayne might have come by it.’

‘Wayne wouldn’t be stupid enough to launder dirty money through this place,’ Paula replied, guessing Hilary’s concerns.  ‘Anyway, he’s a pillock of the community these days, as he says himself.’

‘Paula’s right, Hilary,’ said Father Cornelius.  ‘Wayne’s heart is in the right place, I’ve no doubt, and I don’t believe he would do anything to put us at risk.  As he says himself, he knows some rich people.  They probably have both good and not-so-good reasons for giving to charity.  If you’re at all concerned, perhaps the sensible thing is to put this in a separate account, so it can be handed back if there are any problems.’

‘I can see your point, Father, but it would be a crying shame to have it sat in a bank when it’s needed to house the homeless,’ Tom replied.

‘Actually, Tom darling, it can do both!’ Hilary assured him.  ‘Ashley and I were just discussing how well other funders seem to like it if you’ve raised private funding too.  Mr Reynold’s donation – from private landlords, of all people – might give us quite an edge.’

She found a strong cup of coffee on her desk and Deepak and Catherine discussing the PIP appeal.

‘Everything alright, Hilary?’ asked Ashley.

‘It certainly is,’ she replied, smiling.  ‘I think you were right about bigging up our rent deposit scheme.  It might be an important factor at least in getting us through to stage two.’

Hilary settled back to her bid.  She had a strange feeling that if they could keep the Project running like this, somewhat hand-to-mouth, for a couple more years, that would be enough.  There was a change in public mood, a growing challenge to the Government’s claim that austerity was both right and unavoidable.  The usual papers were still printing stories about scroungers, the usual TV companies still churned out Poverty Porn, but did people take it at face value anymore?  Certainly not, if they had friends found fit for work despite desperate ill-health, if their disabled daughter’s Motability car had been snatched away thanks to PIP, or if they had waited six or more weeks for their first grudging payment of Universal Credit.  Maybe a time was coming when projects like theirs would be properly funded again, when councils and even the Government itself believed citizens should know their rights and be supported in enjoying them.  These things tended to go in cycles.

Hilary looked at her young colleagues and smiled.  One day, hopefully, they would be old and experienced advisers, looking back on the grim decades at the start of the twenty-first century from wiser, gentler times.  She put her glasses back on and started typing again.

You have been reading the first draft of a new piece of Welfare Rights Lit, staring some of the original 'Severe Discomfort' cast and some new characters.  I hope you've enjoyed it! 

If you had made a claim for Universal Credit on the day this story started - 1st November 2017 - there is a chance you might have received your first payment today.  However, it's equally possible that you would not have done.  There is a very good chance that, when this collection of odds and ends is drawn together into a book, holding it together will be a new character (or characters) waiting for that first payment...

Chapter Forty-One - An Unlikely Villain

Monday 11th December

Catherine could finally put her feet up.  With token assistance from her daughters, the table had been cleared, the washing and wiping up done and put away and, with the girls retreating to their rooms as usual, she could sit down and watch the news.  She allowed herself to stretch right out on the settee, putting her feet up on the left arm and leaning back into the cushions.  An item on the snow further north; closed schools, grounded flights, sledging children, gritters on the move.  A report on homelessness.  Catherine watched, though her eyelids were drooping.  The house was warmer than usual, despite the weather being colder.  She had nudged the thermostat up a couple of degrees, less afraid now of the next bill.  The room was cosy and cheerful.  They had put up the Christmas decorations at the weekend.  After taking flowers to the cemetery for Will's anniversary, the girls had wanted to do something cheerful.

'Dad wouldn't have wanted us to be sad at Christmas,' Alex insisted.

There were no new decorations and the old ones came out of their bags and boxes with mixed memories.  There was no tree, for now, as they had no means to bring a real one home, it being too far to walk from the Co-op.  Catherine offered to buy a nice artificial one when she went to town in the morning, but the girls vetoed that.

'Artificial trees are meh!' Kirsty informed her mother.

As the news moved on to lighter topics, she dozed and tried to imagine an alternative festive focal point for the room.  Thoughts of a potted holly, residing on the patio most of the year, were interrupted by a buzz from her phone.  She was about to check the cause - text or email - when it rang for an incoming call.

'Catherine?  It's Ruby, love.  Look, I don't mean to bother you, but I need to talk to someone.  I need some advice.'

'What about?'  If it was claiming Pension Credit, she didn't mind.  Catherine had been urging her to do this for months.

'There's a funny man keeps walking along our road.'

'What's funny about him?'

Catherine was concerned.  She was still taking Leo Finn's threats seriously enough to accompany the girls to and from school, which had meant dragging them in to breakfast club that morning so she wasn't late for her meeting with work coach Colin.  She had called to make sure that Ruby would be in for her home safety check and called back to find out what had happened, delighted to discover a new door safety catch had been installed along with a notice banning doorstep callers.  Ruby had the number for the PCSOs too.  Perhaps it was a relief that her funny man wasn't behaving oddly enough for Ruby to call them.

'I've never seen him before, until this weekend, and now he's walking by every couple of hours or so.'

'Are you sure it's the same man each time?'

'Definitely.'

'Maybe he's recently moved in to one of the other bungalows.'

'I don't think so.  He's not old enough.'

'How old is he?'

'Forty-odd, I suppose.'

That was about Nigel Finn's age.  Catherine was shocked.  She never imagined he would be so reckless as to intimidate Ruby himself, although she had feared he might send kids of Leo's age or older.

'How is he dressed?  Is he smartly-dressed or casual?'

'It's depends on the weather.  He's not scruffy, like a tramp.  I suppose he's fairly smart.'

Nigel Finn had been much sharper than fairly smart and Ruby was the sort to notice.  Perhaps it wasn't him after all.  Maybe the man was a new carer, visiting another pensioner's home on a regular basis, possibly after a hospital discharge.

'What does he look like?' she asked Ruby.

'Tall and thin.'

'Anything else?'

'Not really...'  There was a pause.  'Oh! There he is again!  He's just gone by and he definitely looked right at my front door.  He's got glasses.'

Catherine knew it was wrong to judge people on such superficialities but she found it hard to imagine any of Nigel Finn's heavies wearing glasses.  She associated glasses with studious men like her colleague Martin or Ralph, of course.

'He's still out there!' whispered Ruby.  'He's standing across the road from Mrs Dawson's, in the shadows.'

'What else can you tell me about him?  Has he got long or short hair?'

'I can't tell.  He's got the hood up on his coat.'

'He's wearing a duffle coat?'

'Yes.'

'Keep an eye on him.  I'll be right round.'

'Don't you put yourself at risk, love!'

'Don't worry.  I won't be.'

Catherine went out to the hall and slipped on her coat.

'Alex!'

She instructed her elder daughter to put the safety catch across after she went out and to listen for her return.

'Where are you going?'

'I'm popping round to Aunty Ruby's.  I won't be long.'

The night was bitingly cold.  Catherine's breath steamed as she strode along the avenue and out onto the main road, keeping her hands in her pockets for warmth, clutching her keys in her left and a small torch in her right.  As she turned into the close where Ruby lived, she could see the stranger lurking across the road, rubbing his gloved hands together for warmth and occasionally stamping his feet.  His attention was focused on the old woman's bungalow, allowing Catherine to come close before he was aware of her.

'Good evening, Mr Makepeace!' she said softly, switching on the torch and directing it at him.

Ralph started. 

'Catherine!  What are you doing, walking about on your own in the dark?'

'I'm minded to ask you exactly the same.'

'I'm keeping an eye on your old neighbour,' he said.  'You said the Finns had threatened her.  I only live round the corner, so I've been taking a wander round from time to time, on the look out for anyone suspicious.'

'She's seen you.  She thinks you are someone suspicious.'

'Oh, heavens.'  Ralph looked towards the bungalow again, where a light shone in the front window.  'I'm obviously not all that good at this covert surveillance malarkey.  I hope I haven't frightened her.'

'She was concerned enough to call me, but not panicky.  How long were you meaning to stand here in the frost, you silly fool?'

'Only a few more minutes.  Then I was planning to go home for a warm up, before making another patrol at nine-thirty and a final check at eleven.'

'And you've been doing this since Friday evening?'

'I have,' said Ralph.   'How did you know it was me?'

'It was when she mentioned the duffle coat.  I guessed it was either you, or she was being stalked by Paddington Bear.'

Ralph laughed.  'I suppose it was rather silly of me.'

'Silly, yes; but very sweet, nonetheless.'  Catherine looked towards Ruby's bungalow.  'I don't want to frighten her unnecessarily, so I'm going to call her to say you've been looking for some lost keys and we've now found them.  She's had a safety visit from the police, so she knows what to do if she suspects there are any real villains about.  Go home now, Ralph, and get warm.  You look frozen.'

Catherine called Ruby with her story about the keys.

'Let me walk you home,' Ralph offered, when she ended the call..

'It's not far, Ralph, and its out of your way.  I'll be fine.'

'I'd like to.  I'll worry if I don't.  It's my fault you're out at all.  If anything were to happen to you...'

Not too reluctantly, Catherine agreed.  She did feel safer with him beside her.  He asked about her day.  She explained the absurd situation she was in regarding the Jobcentre and her sanction, but insisted he didn't worry, because her colleagues were on the case and were ready to help her appeal.

'How absolutely wretched,' Ralph commiserated, as they turned into the avenue.  'And so unfortunate it all has to happen now, a year on from...'  He stopped.  'I'm sorry.  You don't need me to remind you.  I'm such an oaf at times.'

'No you're not.  You're a thoughtful, respectful and thoroughly decent man.'  Catherine paused.  'And you're not a bit like Will.  My late husband convinced almost everybody that he was such a charming, caring man, but he was a bully.  He was crafty and controlling, he was manipulative and he was malicious, and I was too terrified of him to tell anyone the truth.  Until now.  Don't ever feel you stand in his shadow, Ralph.'

'I had no idea,' Ralph replied, shocked and saddened.  'I always assumed you were so happy together.'

'I didn't dare let anyone think otherwise.  He would never have struck me; he didn't have to.  He had other ways of keeping me in line, reminding me of my place, how little I was worth.'

Ralph took her hand, not in a proprietorial way, simply as a gesture of support.

'Do the girls know?' he asked. 

'No.  He was never cruel in front of them.  I sometimes wonder if Alex had an idea of how things really were.  He started being sharper with her, once she reached her teens and started growing away from him.  Kirsty was always Daddy's girl.  I don't think she would believe me if I told her.  I don't know if I can tell her.'

'I won't say a thing, not to anyone.  I promise.'

Catherine was sure he wouldn't.  He was honest, reliable and, it seemed, quietly devoted to her.

'I think I know why you were watching over Ruby's bungalow,' Catherine said.  'Alexandra asked you to, didn't she?  While I was making coffee for us on Friday.'

'She might have said something...'

'That if you loved me, you would make sure Aunty Ruby came to no harm?'

Ralph looked slightly taken-aback.  'Actually, she did say something very much like that.'

They had reached the front path.  They stopped walking.

'Thank you, Ralph,' said Catherine, letting go of his hand.  'Thank you for being such a silly, soppy, old-fashioned gentleman.'

She stood on tip-toes to kiss him gently on the lips.  As he put his arm around her, to draw her closer to him, a beam of light from the front door fell upon them.

'Oh my God!  I do not believe what I am seeing!  This is, like, absolutely the worst day of my whole life!'

Kirsty slammed the door.

'I may not be allowed out to play tomorrow,' Catherine said.  'I think I'm grounded.'

 

Chapter Forty - An Unlikely Hero

Sunday 10th December

Having promised to take his youngest for a Santa Special train ride at the Country Park, Wayne Reynolds left his wife managing Sunday lunch service at the Lord Nelson and motored off down the M27 with the kids.  The elder pair didn't want to come but the Reynolds household was a dynasty, not a democracy, and they were loaded into the Merc regardless.

The motorway was busy with shopping traffic heading for the retail parks and, even if Wayne had been driving alone and more flamboyantly, he would have made slow progress.  Tesco's roundabout was pandemonium and the road from that to the coastal villages at a crawl.

'Before anyone asks, we are nearly there,' Wayne informed his tribe.  'You daddy needs to pay a bloke a visit first, though.'

Wayne had been doing good works ahead of the festive season, though not out of religious or spiritual conviction.  A few years earlier, almost by accident, he had helped out a local charity and found it earned him the respect and gratitude of some genuinely good people.  He liked that.  It was better than being feared or admired by villains, and didn't involve upsetting the Law, or Marie. However, Wayne didn't generally interfere in the day-to-day running of the Welfare Rights Project, even though it operated out of his property in the High Street.  He politely declined the offer of a seat on the Management Committee, on the basis that he knew 'fuck all' about Social Security, and although he received an annual report every year, he tended to file it in the basket of scrap paper fire-lighters, next to the wood-burning stove at the heart of his unconventional, if seriously funky, country pile.  He popped in, from time-to-time, to see if there was anything he could do to help, to make sure the property was in good order and to get a little glow of satisfaction from being thanked for his good works. 

Like most landlords and developers in the south of England, he was doing well from his other property investments so, although he had paid any debt of gratitude he owed the Project long ago, he could afford to waive the rent due on this place.  Wayne couldn't help feeling that his generosity was putting him at a slight commercial disadvantage over some of his rivals so, when his latest visit included a chat with the old priest and Paula Walker about the rising numbers of homeless people they were trying to support, he decided to see what he could do to encourage a little more philanthropy among his property-owning acquaintances.  He gathered up a bundle of direct debit forms for the foodbank, jotted down the full name of the Solent Welfare Rights Project - in case anyone was minded to write the advisers a cheque to enable them to keep up the good work - and paid a few visits.

Of course Wayne once had something of a reputation as a hard man, not adverse to using threats of violence to further his business or even dishing out some of the real thing.  Although he was proud of being a reformed character, an upright citizen, a fair employer, a faithful husband and a loving dad, he still had to looks and mannerisms of an underworld enforcer.  When he asked for donations to his causes of choice, explaining how easy it was in uncertain times to suffer some accident or bad luck and end up out on the street with nothing, even if you were doing alright for now and had loads of money, Wayne was often met with a generosity of response that quite moved him.  It may never have crossed his mind that a few of his kindly fellow capitalists assumed the charities were a front and they were actually buying protection from Wayne-inflicted misfortunes.  On the other hand, he probably had his suspicions.

'Stay in the car, keep the windows closed and shut the fuck up,' he told the kids.  'I'll be back soon, then we'll go see Santa, okay?'

Wayne parked his huge, funereal-looking Mercedes with tinted windows outside a nicely-maintained nineteen-thirties detached house.  He checked carefully that he had come to the right house number.  As he walked up the block-paved drive, past a cobalt blue Mazda and a new VW saloon, he delved about in the pockets of his leather jacket for one of his direct debit forms.

'Bollocks!'

He must have run out.  Still, cash might be a safer bet, from this one.

A blond woman with a sneering expression opened the door.

'Mrs Finn?' Wayne enquired politely.

'That's right.'

'Is your husband at home, by any chance?'

'Who wants to know?'

'Tell him its an old mate of his.'

The woman hesitated, dissatisfied with that answer, but Reynolds gave her his most charming smile and she scurried briskly into the house.  He heard agitated conversation.  A fair-haired man appeared in the hall.

'Sharky, you old fucker!  Long time, no see!' 

Wayne extended his massive, muscular right arm and powerful hand in greeting.  Nigel Finn winced at the handshake. 

'Wayne Reynolds?  What brings you down here?'

'It's the season of goodwill to all men, Sharky, in case you hadn't noticed.  A time when we think of those less fortunate than ourselves.  From what I hear, you spend quite a lot of time doing that.  Thinking of them - and thinking of how to take advantage of them.'

Wayne laughed. 

Nigel Finn laughed too, or at least tried to give the impression of laughing.  He seemed to think it was expected of him.

'What can I do for you, Wayne?' Finn asked warily. 

Reynolds decided not to tell him, for now.

'Business must be good, if you can afford a place like this and a couple of nice motors.'

'Not bad, mate, not bad.'

'Still in the financial services sector?'

'You could say that.'

'I do say that.  Other people say it too.  Some people say you're the lender of last resort round here, specialising in doorstep dosh to families on the breadline.'

'You know how it is, Wayne.  They want the same lifestyle we have but they don't want to work for it.  If they're stupid enough to borrow it and spend it, they've got to pay it back, and I've got to charge enough in interest to cover my losses if they default.  It's dog eat dog, isn't it?  It's a risky business.  If I wasn't here to help, someone else would be doing the same thing.'

'I suppose they would, Sharky.  You've got the edge though, with your nipper scouting out customers for you at his school.  Shame he oversteps the mark sometimes, isn't it?'

'How did you hear...?'

'Never mind how I heard.  I heard.  That's why I've come to have a word.  It seems to me you need to shut some people up.'

'Look Wayne, that's good of you, mate, but I reckon we can handle this.  If anyone investigates, I can pin it all on the boy, make out it's just a schoolyard scam.  There's no hard evidence against me.  It's my word against that of a couple of thick tarts on benefits.  My best bet is to go quite for a while, ride this out and pick up again in the summer, when they're trying to pay for holidays.  It's a bastard, missing out on the Christmas demand, but sometimes you've got to play the long game.'

'So you don't really want any of your old customers hurt, Sharky?  I wondered, because your nipper's been saying things about...'

'I know.  I've warned him.'

'I could make it happen, you know.  That old woman, for instance.  If you want her bins set on fire, a brick through the window...'

'It's okay, Wayne.’

‘I know people, mate.  You know I do.  If you want the frighteners put on her.  Or if you want that little girl.  You remember old Nobby, don’t you?  He got a thing about kids, the sick fuck.  If you want me to send him round…’

‘I never said I wanted that to happen, Wayne.  Seriously.  I didn’t.'

‘Glad to hear it, Sharky.  Horrible, isn’t it?  Sick?  Makes you heave just thinking about it.  We’re both parents.  If anything happened to our kids, we’d want to kill whoever done it, wouldn’t we?  Fancy even threatening something like that.’ 

‘I told you, I didn’t!’ 

'You sure you didn't?'

'Of course not!  It’s disgusting.’  Finn sounded revolted.  ‘Anyway, if anything happens to any of them, I'll be the first one the police come after.'

Wayne Reynolds smiled grimly.  Nigel Finn really was a slimy piece of work.  His short-lived remorse was all about self-preservation.  Wayne decided to make him pay for that.

'You're right, mate,’ he said, as if concerned for his old associate. ‘I'd go further than that.  I'd say you'd be the only one the police come after.'

'I would.'

'So you really need to make sure nothing happens to any of them, don't you?'  Wayne grasped his shoulder.  'And I can make sure nothing happens to them.'

When Sally Archer had dropped into the pub the previous weekend, after overhearing a disturbing conversation at a gig in the village, she had asked Wayne only if he knew anything about a loan shark by the name of Finn.  Sally's idea had been to get her funny little pet detective to help rustle up some evidence against the bloke, once old Fishy Pike was fit for action again.  Wayne admitted he had heard of Sharky Finn, but it would have been a shame to spoil his friendship with Sally and her family by telling her that they went way back and had met in prison as little more than kids.  Far better, then, to deal with the problem himself and, in the process, do something else for the less fortunate in his community.  After all, that was Wayne's way.

Wayne Reynolds waited patiently while Nigel Finn went back into his nicely-decorated house to fetch something.  He waved to the kids in the car.  He couldn't see if they waved back.  Nigel Finn couldn't see if they waved back, or even who else might be in the car.  There might be villains, happy to terrorise children and old people for money.  Alternatively, there might be the junior members of House Reynolds, a pretty terrifying prospect in itself, if the journey home was as slow as the one down here. 

Wayne tucked the wad of notes into his inside breast pocket.

'Now get the fuck off my property!' growled Finn.  He slammed the front door.

'And a very Merry Christmas to you too, Sharky,' Wayne replied.

Wayne hadn't counted the money, but he was confident there was enough for the deposit on a place suitable for that homeless woman separated from her kids who he'd spoken to when he'd done another good deed Thursday night, helping out at the night shelter with Sally and Daniel.  Once again, Wayne felt that odd glow of pride and satisfaction which went with being one of the good guys. 

'Right kids,' he said, getting back into the car.  'Time to go and see Santa Claus.'