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...'

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!’

An Even Worse Idea than Universal Credit? Let's Give it a Try!

Last week, I made a rash undertaking to have a go at NaNoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month - and, in response to a request from a fan of the Welfare Rights Lit books, agreed the one-month book would be set at the Solent Welfare Rights Project. 

This was a daft thing to pledge to do since, at that point, I hadn't quite finished my current Daphne Randall 4mph thriller and whodunits always take a little longer to wrap up because you need to keep trawling back through your text for continuity errors and plot holes.  I can now, as of this morning, claim to have finished the first draft of The Wychnor Mystery.  It won't be on general release this side of Christmas as it still needs a thorough revision, my proof-read and passing as seaworthy (or at least, given a boat safety check) by one or more of my trusty volunteer proof-readers.

However, this is day 6 of the NaNoWriMo challenge and I have only 1000 words of one draft opening scene for an untitled Universal Credit-themed story.  Target word count for a 50,000 word novel (or 'flash fiction' as I call it) would be 10,000 words by now.  Either I lock myself in my room for the next week and get on with it or we accept NaNoWriMo may not be happening this year.

That would be a shame because, this morning, I had either the most brilliant, or the most ridiculous, idea for this book.  It came about as I was browsing the UC guidelines for a working title (as you do...)  There were snappy phrases such as 'full work-related requirements', 'in-work conditionality', 'alternative payment arrangement', minimum income floor', 'limited capability for work-related activity element' and 'real-time reporting', to mention just a few.  It was this last one that struck a chord.  What if, instead of having the usual long-winded story arch, my next book was simply a real-time look at the Project, its staff and service users, right now?  And what if I blogged each day's story directly to readers, as it was written, typos, glitches and all? 

That would be crazier than carrying a bag of teddy bears around town to promote Stoke-on-Trent's bid to be City of Culture if not quite as much as deciding to blithely carry on with the roll-out of Universal Credit, despite the advice of the best brains in the business.  I'm still six days behind reality but it looks, from the Paradise Papers revelations, as if  I couldn't have picked a better time to catch up with my imaginary friends in the south and write some good old-fashioned, politically-motivated fiction.

Let's do it, people!

Reality Check

Some things never change...

I've been pondering whether, when I've finished our Daphne's current adventure, I should:
a) start writing another Solent Welfare Rights Project novel, taking my regular characters through the roll-out of Universal Credit,
b) cast off with Daph on another 4mph thriller or
c) create a new Welfare Rights Lit cast facing UC far from south Hampshire, perhaps in a North Midlands city not unlike Stoke-on-Trent.
d) leave the grown-up stuff for a bit and write more blogs and stories for Sonning Bear, who is both cuter and probably far more commercially viable than those leftie humans I write about.

If we are to take the intervention of the Eastleigh MP in last weeks UC roll-out debate at face value, a) is not an option.  All is well with UC in Eastleigh - in fact, it's a jolly good thing for all concerned.  According to Mims Davies (Conservative...)

"Eighteen months ago, I visited Radian, a housing association in my constituency. Radian expressed to me and to our hon. Friend the Minister for Employment concerns about the impact of universal credit on tenants. Eighteen months later, those people are in work, paying the rent and working with the housing association. The outcome is positive. Labour Members are simply scaremongering."

Should we therefore picture Martin, Hilary et al sitting in their office, drinking even more tea and coffee than usual, playing Solitaire on their computers and discussing nothing more contentious than their plans for the weekend, while Father Cornelius, Tom and Paula package up the remains of another day's community meal for the freezer, having served only their own staff and a couple of loyal social workers, while unneeded tinned stuff for the foodbank gathers dust in the storeroom?  Not much material for a novel in that, is there?  Of course, those notorious scaremongers The Trussell Trust have been making wild claims about how demand for foodbank support has rocketed where the full UC service has rolled out but hey, what do they know?

My home area is still inflicting UC only on those unlucky enough to slip into the UC lobster pot via the Gateway Conditions, so in 'the day job'* I have little experience of it.  Hence the idea of creating a new cast of characters in an area still waiting for Full Digital UC roll out.  I imagine it would turn out rather like a benefits-themed version of Neville Shute's On The Beach.  If I set it locally, I could also link it into Stoke-on-Trent's bid to be City of Culture 2021 (something that I whole-heartedly endorse) although I'm not sure a story about claimants and advisers laying into the injustices of Welfare Reform is the kind of culture the current Council regime wish to encourage.

The most appealing option is another adventure for Daphne.  I have notebooks crammed with observations from narrowboat journeys and plot outlines based upon them, plus several computerised drafts of opening chapters and exchanges between characters.  The second most appealing prospect is writing Sonning stories, because they're jolly, escapist fun and I enjoy setting up photos of the bear to illustrate them so much that he's pretty much taken over my personal Facebook page.

The deciding factor may be this comment from the Solent Welfare Rights Project's Facebook page.  The fictional advisers put up a post wondering if, since I was on short time throughout November (NaNoWriMo) I might write them into another novel.  The response from one reader was a cry from the heart:

"Please please please I'm currently reading the books again for something like the seventh time I need more!"

That's really very touching.  In all seriousness, apart from Ken Loach's I, Daniel Blake I still don't think there's much fiction being written that reflects the fall-out from Welfare Reform and I'm not sure there's anyone else telling tales where the claimants and advisers usually win the day.

So sorry, Mims Davies, you're out-voted - again!  It's (almost) time to get the kettle on at the Solent Welfare Rights Project!

PS.  The whole series of 'Claimant Commitment' stories, what was to have been the last novel about the Solent Welfare Rights Project, is free to download for Kindle tomorrow (29th October).
The first part is here...


*The Day Job, with the CAB, is currently exactly that - one day per week - as I'm sharing my half-time post with a colleague to avoid either of us being made redundant, at least for now!

Bear with me...

As mentioned in my previous post, I've spent much of this summer with my husband Jon on our little narrowboat, making a 600 mile journey down to Godalming in Surrey and back to Stoke-on-Trent.  Along the way (and along the Wey...) I've been making plenty of notes for possible future investigations for my boat-dwelling amateur detective, Daphne Randall, as well as jotting down ideas for a possible return to the Solent Welfare Rights Project to catch up with the team as they get to grips with Universal Credit.

However, my human heroes are in danger of being upstaged by a cuddly toy!  The entirely true story of where and how he came to join the crew can be read - from the bear's perspective - in our local Inland Waterways Association magazine (page 18 - 20).  You'll find it here:

https://issuu.com/waterwaysassoc/docs/knobsticks_autumn_2017

Sonning is such a cute character that I can't resist writing more stories about him, so there is no shortage of material from our travels to share with the IWA.  The plan is to use his adventures to explain aspects of narrow-boating, canal history and waterways wildlife to younger readers.  They'll also have plenty of photos of the small bear to illustrate them, as I often posed him admiring the passing landscape or even trying his hand - or rather, paw - at steering the boat. 

Since he was found wearing only a striped Breton top, somewhat under-dressed for boating, I set to work making him some appropriate outfits. 

 

Clever cutting up of an old pair of jeans - already being cannibalised to repair another pair of mine - gave him dungarees and a hat, while a 'Bag for Life' rather appropriately provided him with a life-jacket!

 

The jeans also gave him a boiler-suit while a kind friend's gift of felt squares enabled me to make him a little duffle coat as autumn saw us back on the Trent.  He also has waterproofs - made from a Sainsbury's bag and sticky tape, pyjamas and, for his visit to Nottingham, a Robin Hood costume!

Since getting to Stoke, Sonning has met a little friend (called Hanley), who needs a new outfit himself if there aren't to be copy write issues.  Hanley's current mission is to show Sonning why Stoke-on-Trent deserves to be City of Culture 2021, so I'll be posting their adventures together, on and off the waterways, on this blog. 

Look out for #WhereIsTheBear and the #BearsBackingTheBid on Twitter too!

Back to Back the Bid

There's a very good reason why there have been no posts on this blog for months.  I've spent most of the summer on a 600 mile narrowboat journey from Stoke-on-Trent down to Godalming in Surrey and back, punctuated by intermittent returns home by train to cut the front lawn, top up the tomato watering system and work my one day per week (usually as two together per fortnight) at Citizens Advice.

On my travels, I've sketched out plots and made navigational notes for some more adventures for Daphne Randall, my narrowboat-dwelling amateur sleuth, and completed the first draft of her next, an old-fashioned whodunit which unfolds along the Trent and Mersey Canal between Fradley Junction and Shardlow.  With Stoke-on-Trent bidding to be City of Culture 2021, here's an extract from the first chapter in which Daphne and her crew set off through Stoke-on-Trent, in the spring of 2015, en route to the last match of the season at what was then the Britannia Stadium.  I hope it gives a flavour of the canal corridor through the city and its under-appreciated charms!

    Harry brought my tea up as we were chugging through Longport, passing the first of the bottle kilns visible from the canal, which peeps out from behind a tumbledown brick factory and stands in a squalid yard scattered with junk. Under the road bridge, boats line the wharf of a busy boatyard, some for brokerage sitting on blocks out of the water, showing their dumpy black hulls. Beyond the stone-faced chandlery is Steelite’s robust, modern, red-brick factory, quiet for the weekend and thoughtfully reflected in the still pool of a wide winding hole. No old-fashioned potbank this although, only a gentle curve ahead, is Burleigh’s Middleport Pottery, a Victorian survivor rescued from redundancy.

    ‘Did I ever tell you that was where I first saw this boat?’ I asked Harry.

    ‘You did, duck. At least twice. And that funny story about your mum and the coach party.’

    Just past the restored pottery, the waterside warehouses fall to desperate disrepair again, the fine brickwork braced with iron struts yet still crumbling. I gave the building as wide a berth as I dared, knowing the cut beside it was full of debris.

    ‘Take the tiller for a bit, pet. I’ll wash the mugs up and look in on the dog.’

    Custer was snoozing contentedly in the cosy warmth of the cratch, betraying Harry’s soft-heartedness with the dusting of dog-biscuit crumbs by his snout.  I couldn’t be angry with either of them.

    Harry brought us around the long, sweeping curve to Festival Park, through an open post-industrial landscape which once blazed with hot light and fire as the Shelton Bar steel works. He checked his watch. The carvery pub by the marina does all-you-can-eat breakfasts and Harry was feeling peckish, but he opted to press on.

    ‘I’ll get an oatcake from Kay’s boat when we get to the Brit,’ he decided, steering us on under the noisy A53.

    Before we reached the first lock, the deep one at Etruria, I fetched Custer from the cratch and brought him back to the rear cabin. Harry and I are both careful boaters and take locks cautiously but you can never eliminate all risk of mishap in them and I was haunted by the thought of the poor little chap being trapped where we couldn’t reach him in the event of a problem. When I dropped Harry off with his windlass, I moved Custer into the engine room, closing the doors of the stern hatch with me outside.

    There was a boat coming up. Harry was chatting to a woman as they worked the paddles together, filling the chamber and lifting her boat and partner up to my level. Harry opened the gate and the woman stepped back onto her narrowboat. The couple waved as they passed me.

    ‘Where are they off to?’ I asked Harry, as I drew level with him.

   ‘Through Harecastle and out into Cheshire as soon as they can. They’re doing the Four Counties.’ He seemed downcast. ‘I was telling them about some of the things there are to see here - the potteries, the museums, the pubs - but they weren’t really interested. They said other people told them Stoke was a dump and they shouldn’t hang about.’

    Harry seemed to take that personally. As he wound me through the deep lock and the one below, he made a point of showing me the pale and pretty briar roses in the hedgerow which flanked the towpath, of listening appreciatively to the clear songs of the blackbirds and smiling at the dainty, cheeping blue-tits fluttering through leaves made luminous lime by the sunlight shining through them. He praised the restoration of the bone mill at the museum and the devotion of its volunteers, the quality of the towpath, upgraded as part of the national cycle network, and even the artistic merits of some of the graffiti. I hadn’t the heart to point out that on every other run through this section, he had been the first to grumble about the litter, dog mess, speeding cyclists, tumble-down buildings and mindless spray-painted tags.

    Harry was still maintaining this spirited defence of his city when we reached Lock 37, a desolate sight as it cowered in the shadow of the paint-daubed railway bridge. I thought he would be thwarted by that but I had under-estimated him.

    ‘It was about here that I first figured out that I fancied you,’ he said with a grin of fond reminiscence, pushing the gate closed behind me. ‘I reckon I’ll always have a soft spot for this place.’

He leaned across and kissed me.

    I smiled as I watched him set his windlass to the spindle and await my signal to turn. If Harry could find a place in his heart for lock 37, there was surely nothing that could make him fall out of love with his home town. I was lucky to have earned a similar level of devotion.

.

Catching Up (Part 5) - A long-awaited Decision

    'I think this is it, Luvvie...'
    Lyn Walker held the brown envelope her husband had brought in from the hall with the daily junk mail.  Her hands were shaking slightly.  She needed to know the decision it contained. She had been expecting it for weeks.  It meant so much she was almost too afraid to read it.
    Her so-called medical assessment for Personal Independence Payment, which had taken place more than two months earlier, had been an awkward affair.  The assessment centre had been awkward to get to, with too little parking and that too far away to walk and then a steep, uneven path to the door which Terry had to push her up in her wheelchair.  The young woman who carried out the assessment, who Lyn thought introduced herself as 'doctor' someone - Lyn had been too nervous to remember her name, even though she meant to make a note of it - scarcely raised her eyes from her keyboard and seemed to be finished very quickly.  Lyn was certain it had gone badly on that evidence alone, although none of the workers at the Solent Welfare Rights Project seemed to know who the slightly-built young doctor might be.  She wasn't one of the usual suspects whose ill-considered reports were at the root of so many legal challenges.
    While she waited for her PIP claim to be decided, Lyn continued to receive her Disability Living Allowance; the middle rate for daytime care needs, the higher rate for mobility as a Motability car.  She checked her account anxiously on the days it was due to be paid, half-expecting it not to have gone in.  She had seen people when volunteering who knew nothing of the decision on their new claims until their DLA payments unexpectedly ceased.  So much hinged on her getting DLA.  Terry, her husband, now loitering awkwardly at her side, claimed Carer's Allowance for looking after her, although he didn't receive a penny of it.  It overlapped with his Employment and Support Allowance.  To their great relief, that had recently been reviewed and awarded without a face-to-face medical.  Terry was still in the Work-related Activity Group but, as a carer, he didn't have to do any actual work-related activity. 
    Lyn had explained that too him when he started to get aerated about the prospect of being sent on courses or to do work experience.  That was just as well, since she would never be able to manage at home all day without him.
    'I'm glad you understand all this, Lyn love...'
    Lyn did understand it, far better now than she had ever done.  She worked alongside the advisers who had helped Terry and herself through several crises, representing others just as she had once needed to be represented, at least when her health allowed.  Her colleagues were generous with their support, quick to share their knowledge and experience, and happy to step in if she was too unwell to see a case through to the end.  If what was in this envelope was wrong, she knew they would stand by her through every battle she needed to fight to put it right.  That would almost inevitably mean facing a three-member tribunal.  It was rare for a poor decision to be corrected at the reconsideration stage; in fact, the team had recently learned that there were perverse targets within the DWP which actually mitigated against them putting things right at the first opportunity.
    'Open it then, Lyn love!' urged Terry.
    She was sure he wouldn't be happy.  Her own expectation was that she might get the enhanced rate for daily living, if she was lucky - thirty pounds more than her current middle rate care - and the standard rate for mobility.  That would be thirty pounds less than what she got for mobility now and would mean she couldn't get a leased car through Motability with it.  Terry, who almost always did the driving, would be really angry about that, even if they were no worse off overall.
    Lyn picked a corner of the envelope open and ran her finger along the top, opening it with a slightly ragged tear.  She took out the letter inside, the usual dirty grey paper the DWP used for letters, which was meant to show they didn't waste money on fancy stationery but, according to Hilary's husband who had worked there, cost no less than white.  She unfolded it anxiously, still trembling.
    'Oh!'
    'What?'  Terry snapped.  'If those buggers have...'
    'I've got the enhanced rate for both!'  Lyn could scarcely believe her eyes.
    'Blimey!' said Terry, peering over her shoulder.  'So you have!  Well done, Lyn love!'  He kissed the top of her head.  'Let's have a brew!'
    Lyn smiled grimly to herself.  It was a sad state of affairs that the maximum award of a benefit for severe disability was cause for celebration.  She looked on through the letter to see where she had been awarded points.  There were four for needing assistance to cook a meal, three for needing assistance in and out of a bath or shower, two for needing an aid to use the toilet and four for assistance to dress her upper body; thirteen points, where twelve were needed.  On the mobility side, she was judged able to stand and move more than one metre but no more than twenty; twelve more precious points.  On good days, she could do better than this but fewer than half of her days were good days.
    'It'll be weird, not battling the old Social for once,' laughed Terry as he brought their mugs in.  He had opened the new pack of chocolate biscuits as part of the celebration.
    'I'll still be battling them, Luvvie,' said Lyn.  'I'll just be battling for someone else rather than me!'