Chapter Three – Deep Thought

Friday 3^rd November

As Deepak Malhotra came through the door into the Solent Welfare Rights Project’s general office, he found those of his colleagues who had arrived before him engaged in lively debate about the morning’s news.  In that respect, it was a typical day.

‘It’s fucking appalling!’ declared Martin Connolly.

‘I don’t generally approve of that use of that word,’ Hilary reminded him.  ‘However, in the circumstances, it seems rather appropriate.’

Deepak noticed that although that might have been a joke, Hilary herself wasn’t laughing, so he didn’t either.

‘Are you all okay for drinks?’ he asked.

Deepak himself was parched.  His parents were away from home and he had woken late, dashed out of the house without breakfast, run for his bus (which had arrived late anyway) and been caught in the usual dreadful traffic along the Fair Oak Road into Bishopstoke for almost an hour.

Hilary and Martin both had full mugs.  Toby’s was on his desk, half-empty.  Deepak guessed he was probably in the computer room, setting up for the morning’s Universal Credit clinic.  He thought he might appreciate a fresh one, so picked it up.

Hilary was in full flow as he left the room.

‘Is it really too much to expect men to behave decently and with respect in the 21^st century…?’

Deepak hoped he always behaved with decency and respect, to women and men alike.  He had no doubt that, if he fell below standard at work, Hilary would be the first to let him know.  He wondered what had set her off that morning.  Toby would know, although he seemed to get away with a level of banter Deepak couldn’t imagine Hilary would accept from himself, Martin or any of the other men in the building, even Tom, her husband.

He found Toby where he expected, turning on computers and putting his sheets of troubleshooting tips beside each keyboard.  The machines had been a gift from Wave Community Housing, the massive social housing provider who had inherited most of the local ex-Council stock.  Once seen as an evil empire by the Project’s staff, Wave had undergone something of a metamorphosis in the wake of a property development scandal and were now viewed as part of the rebel alliance.  It was this gift that had enabled Toby to pitch the idea of the UC clinic to his colleagues and levered in the matched funding for the new post – releasing Toby to mastermind the IT project.

‘I was making myself a coffee.  I thought you might like…’

‘Mate!  You’re a star!’  Toby perched himself on the edge of the nearest desk and took a long swig of his tea.  ‘It looks like they’re down again.’

‘You’re joking?’

‘Nope.’

‘It’s not our end?’

‘It’s definitely not our end.’  Toby looked forlornly around the room.  ‘It’s going to be a pretty quick clinic if it stays this way.’

‘I’ll see if I can find out what’s up.’  Deepak, who had escaped from the DWP in the days before Universal Credit went live, still knew a few people on the inside. ‘Louise?  Hi!  Yeah, I’m good.  You okay?  I thought you’d say that.  You don’t know.  Okay, hun.  Speak soon.  Bye.’ 

‘It is their end?’ asked Toby.

‘Yeah.’

‘Bollocks!  It’s always on a bloody Friday, too!’

‘Except when it’s on a Monday.’

‘Or a Tuesday, or a Wednesday…’  Toby cradled his mug and swung his legs back and forth.  ‘Digital by default my arse!’

To be fair, they hadn’t had the whole UC system out of action for a long time.  During the Gateway phase, it had been horribly unpredictable, but the Full Service rarely let them down. 

‘Who’s seeing drop-ins this morning?’ Deepak asked.  He knew it wasn’t him; he had an appointment with a potential PIP appeal.  It was usually Hilary’s other half and volunteer, Tom Appleby, on Friday mornings but he didn’t seem to be in.

‘Hilary’s doing them.  Tom’s got a hospital appointment.’

‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

‘His knees, apparently.’

There was a pause in which neither man dared speak aloud the joke he had framed about the likely consequences of Hilary's well-known passion for her husband. 

‘H seems a bit wound up this morning,’ Deepak said at length, not relishing the prospect of breaking the news that UC was down to his already antagonised colleague.

‘It’s all this stuff in the news about sexual harassment in high places.’

‘I wondered if it was.’ 

Deepak could quite understand.  There had been some dreadful behaviour reported recently, firstly about international celebrities and, in the aftermath of that, concerning MPs and members of their entourages.  Having started his working life in the Civil Service, with copious training on professional ethics and appropriate conduct in the workplace, and being brought up to believe people in high office had a duty to set an example, these revelations had been very shocking to him.  He could only imagine how depressing they must be to the veteran feminist.  Poor old Hilary must feel that all her years campaigning for equality had been in vain.  He said something along these lines to Toby.

‘She’s rightly pissed off about it,’ he replied.  ‘But that’s not what’s got her back up today.’

‘No?’  Deepak thought he knew the reason.  ‘Was it that crap Newsnight debate about this, the one with scores of blokes and only a couple of women?’

‘No.  That’s what she was cross about yesterday,’ Toby explained.  ‘This morning, she was reading us a Daily Mail article that her mate up north tweeted her.’

‘Why would anyone do that?’  Sharing Daily Mail articles was tantamount to treason in this office.  ‘No wonder Hilary’s angry with her friend.’

‘She’s not cross with Daphne – it’s the article.  One of their women journalists has dismissed all the Pestminster revelations as a witch-hunt.  She read it out to me when I came in this morning and, when Martin came in, she asked if he’d seen it.  I think she feels let down, especially after making such a determined case for us to appoint a female candidate yesterday.  Hilary likes to think of her fellow women as sisters and allies.  When they fail her, she takes it personally.’

Deepak thought back to the interviews the previous day.  He hadn’t really wanted to be on the panel but, when his close friend Louise told him she that she wasn’t applying for the job after all, he could no longer use potential conflict of interest as a get-out-of-jail-free card.  Martin was interviewing clients all day, Tom was needed as head chef in the café, Vaughan excused himself on the basis of being ‘rather rusty’ when it came to recruitment protocols and, as for Lyn…

‘I don’t think I could, luvvie!’

Hilary had done her best to talk her into it but nobody had been surprised when their stalwart volunteer had politely, but firmly, declined.

Deepak reluctantly agreed to be the third member of the panel on condition that he had a well-prepared script to stick to and questions with clear right and wrong answers to assess.  He didn’t feel ready for anything more demanding.  It hardly seemed any time at all since he had been recruited to a full-time paid post himself, following Tricia Williams-Ellis’s resignation in the spring.  He had been interviewed by Hilary, Martin and an elderly little partially-sighted woman from the management committee, who he had mistakenly assumed would be asking him the softer questions about previous work experience and future aspirations.  In the event, she had come at him with some tough and tricky casework dilemmas based around cohabitation, sanctions and the severe disability premium, while Hilary had adopted the nice cop role.  Analysing his performance later, he had never expected to be offered the job and had certainly not pictured himself interviewing candidates only a few months later.  

Deepak had delivered his own killer questions, even-handedly, to five different people the previous day.  He had picked real-life conundrums on PIP and the Bedroom Tax to test them, situations that had foxed him completely when he had first encountered them and which his colleagues had generously guided him through.  The first candidate, a volunteer with a disability rights project in Southampton well-used to attending tribunals, had aced the PIP one, although she fell flat when it came to Housing Benefit.  The second, a housing officer from the City Council whose application had looked the most promising, flunked both.  Candidate number three presumably had a better offer as he didn’t show up at all.  Candidate number four, an unemployed support worker and the first one after lunch, caused raised eyebrows all round by declaring forcefully that the only way to get PIP for anybody was to fill in the form on the basis of their worst possible day and state that this was how they were all the time.  Deepak had been so shocked that he was at a loss how to respond to that but Toby had stepped in with a suitable follow up question to him on the different consequences of claimant error and deliberate misrepresentation of a material fact.

‘We’d spend the first six months of the contract putting that one through our political re-education programme,’ Toby had remarked to the others, when they were comparing notes at the end of the afternoon. 

‘Or the next six years trying to win hopeless overpayment and fraud cases at tribunal,’ sighed Hilary.

‘That would keep you busy until you retire, H!’ Toby mocked.

‘If only!  I still have another decade to go before I get my pension.’

‘I do believe that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you wishing you were older,’ laughed Toby.

Hilary glowered at him.

‘The laugh’s on us,’ Deepak pointed out.  ‘Hils gets to retire at sixty-six but we could still be working when we’re sixty-eight.’

‘You could be looking at sixty-nine, nipper,’ Toby reminded him.  ‘Or seventy.’

They had left the candidates who looked to be the strongest for the end of the day.  Hilary and Toby both knew Andrew Burrows, although they weren’t close friends.  He had helped Deepak through an unfair dismissal claim against the DWP in his role as a PCS union officer, before leaving the DWP himself for a short-lived appointment at the local authority.  Of all the candidates, he was the one who had the best grasp of the bigger picture.  He gave a grimly compelling account of his former job, juggling competing demands on the DHP pot and trying to prepare the council for the arrival of Universal Credit.

Unfortunately, he proved woefully uninformed about PIP and didn’t seem to see the Housing Benefit case from a claimant-focused perspective at all.  Disconcertingly, he seemed cheerfully confident of his chances throughout.

‘It’s going to be a bugger telling Andy he’s not our man,’ Toby remarked, as they whittled the list down to the last two over tea and cake, thoughtfully brought in by Paula when she noticed their light was still on when she prepared to open up for soup-run supper.  It had been six-thirty by then.  Deepak didn’t like to push his colleagues to make their choice, but the last bus home went at seven.

Their last candidate was probably the only one who scored better in person than on paper.  A quietly-spoken and dowdily-dressed woman in middle middle-age, she’d come across as nervous and short of confidence, shuffling in her seat as Hilary told her tale of the Project’s repeated rise and fall.  Unexpectedly, however, she’d cut through his tricky casework queries with an impressive combination of knowledge and compassion.  She had handled some of the other questions less well.  Toby was worried that she didn’t seem to know enough about universal credit and had floundered somewhat when asked to identify some good and bad features of the benefit.

‘Her reply to my question on challenging discriminatory language was rather disappointing too,’ Hilary noted.  ‘It felt rather too rehearsed.  I couldn’t actually picture her applying it in practice.’

Deepak agreed.  It hadn’t sounded authentic.  One of the other candidates – the housing officer, he thought – had been impressively honest and admitted that sometimes she let minor transgressions go without a direct challenge, especially if the speaker was an older person, although she insisted she would make her disapproval quietly apparent and never acquiesce.  He reminded his colleagues of that.

‘Actually, that was Ashley,’ Hilary said, checking her notes.  ‘The young woman from Into Action.  I wasn’t sure I entirely approved of that, but she was honest and gave a couple of very credible examples.  She did quite well on everything, apart from mixing up her social sector housing benefit restrictions with those for private tenants.  That was really rather concerning.  If it hadn’t been for that she would have been my clear first choice.  I did like Catherine, though.  I can’t help feeling we didn’t quite get the best out of her today and there is hidden strength there. I’ve actually scored the two almost identically.’

‘Ashley’s just edged it for me,’ said Toby.  ‘She’s got the right outlook, she’s confident around IT – which is crucial these days - and she’s tribunal-ready.  We can sharpen up the legal side as we go along.’ 

‘What about you, Deepak?’

‘Catherine was best at my questions, the casework side of things,’ he said. ‘You’re right about Ashley’s IT skills being better, but I’m not sure her tribunal work is more relevant.  I got the impression she’s going along as moral support, whereas Catherine did have to address the tribunal.’

‘As a witness against the appellant,’ Toby reminded him. 

‘Let’s share our scores,’ said Hilary, before this could become tetchy.

They did so.  At the end of the tally, Ashley had a two-point lead.  With the agreement of her colleagues, Hilary had called her, there and then, to offer her the job.  She had accepted.  Deepak had run for his bus and just made it.

‘Has Hilary called the unsuccessful candidates from yesterday yet?’ Deepak asked Toby, who was skimming through his appointments list for the morning's clinic.  There looked to be a fair number. 

‘She said she’d do it at nine, before we open up.’  He looked a little anxiously at his colleague.  ‘She’s going to get Andy’s out of the way first.  He’ll be gutted.’

‘I bet.  He ought to have done so much better, with his credentials.’

‘We have to go on the interview, though, don’t we?’

‘I suppose, although it feels like we’re doing the same as the DWP do with ESA and PIP cases – putting too much emphasis on the face-to-face and not enough on the other evidence.’

Toby gave him a concerned look.  ‘You are happy with yesterday’s decision?’

‘Yeah.  It was tough, but fair, based on the interviews.’

‘I hate having to choose, especially when it’s as close as that,’ said Toby. ‘It was too close, really.  Either of them could have done it.’

‘Maybe Catherine will do like I did and volunteer for a while, to build up her experience?’

‘You could suggest H offers her the opportunity.  It’ll show her we liked her and give her confidence a boost.  She can always tell H to get lost if she’s not interested!’

Deepak didn’t think Catherine seemed the sort to tell anyone to get lost.  As he went to leave the room, his phone buzzed.

‘It’s Louise,’ he told Toby.  ‘Her boss says Deep Thought is up and running again.’

‘Deep Thought?’

‘It’s what he calls the Universal Credit computer.’

Toby laughed.  ‘Because it manages life, the universe and everything?’

‘That was the original reason.  Also, the forty-two thing seemed to fit, since it’s the number of days from claim to payment.’

‘If you’re lucky,’ said Toby.  ‘I bet that’s not what the guys who come in here at ten o’clock will call it.’

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!