Chapter Four - Poor Home Form

Saturday 4^th November

The rising excitement of the crowd and expectant cheer died in a massed gasp of despair.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ shouted Darren Walker.  This was not how he had pictured the game as he, his father and his son had tucked in to their all-day breakfast at the Nelson ahead of the lunchtime kick-off.

‘At least he was on target, son.  That was a decent save.’  Darren's dad Terry, though a life-long fan, was less partisan and more forgiving.

‘Bunch of overpaid, fucking wankers!’ Darren slumped back into his seat.  ‘When I think what I paid for these fucking seats..!’

Darren had splashed out in the spring when he had renewed his own annual commitment and bought season tickets for the two seats next to his when he found their former occupants had surrendered them.  One was a birthday present for his son.  The other, for his father.  It cost him a shedload of cash but he'd had a good run of overtime shifts during the winter and was feeling flush.

Neither had reacted with quite the gratitude he had expected. 

Paula explained Shane’s somewhat muted reaction by pointing out the hints dropped by their boy, concerning a provisional licence and driving lessons, that his father had somehow missed.

‘There’s no rush for that,’ Darren replied.  ‘There’s a coach to get him to college, if he’s still going next year.’

‘He wants to be more independent, Daz.  He’s a sociable boy, what with his cricket practice, the Saturday job and the band, and between your shifts and my Council meetings, we can’t get always be there to pick him up and drop him off for things.  Anyway, it's not very cool to be relying on dad's taxi at his age.’

‘He’s got a bike, hasn’t he?  I used to go miles on my bike, when I was his age.’

Paula blanked him and went back into the room which was now her office.  Darren looked to his daughter for back-up but Shelley impaled him with a withering stare of a type peculiar to mid-teen females, before slouching up to her new attic bedroom.

‘I hope you don’t think I’ll still be using my bike when I’m seventeen!’

'You'll have a boyfriend to run you about!'

Darren wished he hadn't said that.  He would be worried sick if she started dating someone old enough to drive.

Darren's father hadn’t been much more appreciative.

‘I couldn’t believe my luck when I saw these had come up!’ Darren had told him, handing over his card and telling him that he had done the same for Shane, so they could enjoy lads' days out together.

‘They’d probably had enough of your swearing, nipper,’ had been Terry’s reaction.  ‘I hope it’s not too far from the bogs.  You know what my waterworks are like these days!’ 

Luckily, on the days that he was up to coming to the match, the gents were handy enough for Dad's bladder to cope.  Darren had assumed that, having recovered from his operation and started his voluntary work, his father must be in reasonable shape now.  In fact, the climb up the concrete steps to their seats tested him to his limit, even with Shane's assistance.  If the old man felt he couldn't make it, Mike came along instead or, sometimes, Paula.  One weekend at the start of the season, when Shane was away on a college trip to Snowdonia, he even asked Shelley if she wanted to go. 

She didn't.  Football was 'meh'.

Today, he was inclined to agree with her.  After Boufal's wonder-goal against West Brom in the last home game, it had looked as if the Saints were finally turning their dominance in possession into actual goals.  Not before time.  Darren had watched repeatedly this season as they passed the ball about the midfield for best part of ninety minutes, only to concede against the run of play.

'What are you two so miserable about?' Paula would ask when he and his son got home.  'You wanted a change of manager.  You said they were boring last season.'

'They were, Mum,' Shane argued.

'Well, it won't be boring this season.  You'll have a relegation struggle to keep you entertained.'

Darren would have been happier if his wife had known nothing about the game, but she was as keen a supporter as he was himself and, had she not worked at the café most Saturday afternoons, would probably have swapped Shane a driving licence and lessons, or a moped, for that bit of red plastic.  If she sensed trouble ahead, it was likely to turn out that way.

With twenty minutes left to play, empty seats were starting to appear around the Walkers.

'If you want to call it a day, son, I don't mind,' Terry offered.  'It looks to me like Yoshida's effort is as close as we'll get today.'

'Gabbiadini looks dangerous,' said Shane.

'You're having a laugh!  He couldn't hit a barn door!  He's worse than Long.  They could play you, me and your granddad up front and do better.'

'I used to be quite handy,' said Terry.  'At least it looks like a point and a clean sheet.  That'll keep us in the top half of the table.'

'I suppose we'll miss the traffic if we scarper now.'  Darren couldn't remember if there were any liners due into port that weekend; if there were, it could be gridlock.

'Let's give it ten more minutes, Dad...'

They did.  Darren swore.  Terry snorted.  Shane put his head in his hands.

'There's no point leaving before the end now,' Darren said, as more seats were vacated in the aftermath of what looked like a winner for Burnley.  It would already be chaos in the side-streets around the stadium.

'We've still got time for an equaliser, Dad!'

'I can't see that happening.  They're absolute shite!'  Darren had been a gloomy teenager himself.  He wondered where Shane got his sunny disposition from.

Forty minutes later, the car was still creeping towards the main road.  Terry had called Lyn to let her know he would be a while yet.

'She's alright,' he told Darren.  'Her and Susan are watching telly and knitting.'

'Who's Mum doing all her knitting for?  Mike and Lorraine aren't having another kid, are they?'

'No son, though I wouldn't mind if they did.  I can't believe how quickly all you kids have grown up.  I don't have anyone to make Lego spaceships with now!'  He punched Shane on the shoulder.  'They're doing squares, to make scarves and blankets for homeless people.'

'I suppose that was Mum's idea.'  Darren didn't disapprove but he thought his mother ought to take a break from her good works occasionally.  It couldn't be good for her health to be worrying about down-and-outs all the time.

'It was old Susan's, actually.  She nearly lost her house, remember?'

'What happened about that?'  Darren could recall his mother telling them how her friend Susan had got behind with her rent due to the Bedroom Tax.  'Did the Council let her off?'

'They couldn't, after the first couple of years.  They said she would have to move somewhere smaller, but they didn't have anywhere local, so she'd either have to down Hamble way or go private.  Then the people your Mum works with got involved.  It turned out she would be old enough to retire soon, so the Bedroom Tax wouldn't apply to her, and they got some charity to bail her out for the last few months.  She's alright again now.'

'I thought she was sixty ages ago,' said Darren.

'Women don't retire at sixty now, Daz.  Don't you watch the news?'

'So Mum won't get her pension and bus pass at sixty?'

'Not until she's sixty-six, son.'

'That's well old!' said Shane.

'I'm retiring before that,' said Darren.

'Before Nana?'  Shane stared at his father.  'That's mental!'

'No, you stupid nipper.  Before I'm sixty-six.  I've got a private pension that pays out at sixty.'

'Just as well, son,' said Terry.  'Your mum says your retirement age went up to sixty-eight the other week.'

'Fuck that!'  Sixty still seemed a long way off.  Darren couldn't imagine he would be fit or quick-thinking enough, to do his job when he was much older than that, although there were a lot of guys in their sixties still driving trains.

'I hope you get into something cushy, nipper,' Terry said to his grandson.  'I don't reckon there are going to be pensions at all when you get old.'

'Cheers, Granddad!'

They edged out into the main road.  The traffic was creeping along slightly faster but still not briskly enough for Darren.  He swerved across right and into another side-road, passing between rows of three and four storey houses which had once been grand mansions but were now mostly low quality flats and shared accommodation.

'Is that where Nana's blankets end up?' asked Shane, as they joined the back of another traffic jam and stopped outside a church-run hostel.

'It might be,' said Terry.  There were a couple of elderly-looking men sitting on the steps.  'I think I've seen the bloke in the black coat at our foodbank.'

'You shouldn't tell other people that, Granddad!'

'You're right, I shouldn't.  Forget I said it.'  Terry kept looking out of the window until the traffic's crawl took them well past the hostel.  

'I know they say benefits haven't kept up with prices,' Darren said, noticing his father's apparent concern.  'All the same, I don't know why there seem to be so many more homeless people about, or why there are still old ones, when they've put pensions up.  Are they moving down from up north, or are they foreigners?' 

'I know I shouldn't talk about him but that bloke I recognised got sanctioned.  They cut his money down to forty quid a week but he was already out of pocket and in arrears with the Bedroom Tax and rates when he got his proper Jobseeker's money, so he got evicted.'

'I thought you said pensioners didn't pay Bedroom Tax.'

'He's not a pensioner, Daz.  He's my age.'

'How did he get sanctioned?' asked Shane.  He knew what it meant because he'd heard his mother talking about it.

'He couldn't use the computer to do his job search,' said Terry.

'Like Daniel Blake?'

'Who?'

'Daniel Blake.  The man in that film Mum showed at the Community Café just before the election.' 

'With the girl and the tin of beans?'

'That's the one.'

'I couldn't understand what they were saying most of the time,' grumbled Terry.  'Old Lyn said they were right about that music, though.  All the advisers hate it.'

'Have you ever had anyone that hungry in your foodbank?' Shane asked.

'Not grown ups.  A couple of times kids have opened biscuits and stuff, but they might just be naughty little buggers.'

'So it's not as bad as that film made out.' Darren said.

'I wouldn't say that, son.  Don't forget, we've got the café, so there's always a hot meal for anyone who's really peckish.  It might be different with the new ones.'

'New whats?'

'New foodbanks, son.  We're running a couple down in the southern parishes.'

'You're joking!' Darren cried.  'They're all bloody yachties down there!'

'You could be right.  It was really quiet last week.  Still, Father Cornelius seems to think we should do it and he's no mug.'

A couple more short-cuts through the backstreets took them out onto the Portswood Road.  Darren was looking forward to dropping his father off and getting home.  If the old man invited him and Shane in for a cup of tea, he'd have to think of an excuse to press on.

'You've got a gig tonight, haven't you?' he asked Shane.

'Not until eight and it's only round at the club.'

'You could pop in and see your nana then, Shane,' suggested Terry.

'Okay, Granddad.'

Darren seemed to have netted an own goal there.

'Granddad...?'

'Yes, Shaz?'

'Could I help at the café?'

'I don't see why not.  Ask your mum.'

'I don't mean doing cooking.  I mean doing Nana's sort of work.'

'What - helping with benefits and stuff?'

If Terry sounded surprised, it was nothing to what Darren felt.  He knew their son helped his wife with delivering her leaflets and canvassing but he'd never thought the boy was getting serious about politics.

'How would you fit it in, with college and everything?'

'I don't have anything on a Monday afternoon.  They might let me off Wednesday afternoons too, outside the cricket season.'  He had clearly given this some thought.  'Shall I ask Nana?'

'You can ask her, nipper.  I don't think she'll be able to say yes or no.  That'll be down to Hilary and the others.'

'I want to do something, Grandad.'

'I suppose if they say no, you could learn to knit!'

They were almost at Terry and Lyn's house now.

'Although your Nana's work is important, you don't want to think of it as a career,' Darren warned his son.  'There's no job security.  Isn't that right, Dad?'

'It's not great, Daz.'

'You'd be better getting a trade or, if you're looking for office work, get a job with the Council or be an accountant.'

'Your dad's got a point, Shazza.  They're always worrying about paying the bills and keeping the place running.'

'That's right, Dad...'

'On the other hand, old Hilary's worked there since before you were born, and Toby, he's been there since around the time Mike and Lorraine had Luke.  Martin joined a bit more recently, but even that was before little Sophie came along.  There are lots of jobs that don't last even that long these days and they do try to look after each other there.  If they get Lottery money again, that might be another five years taken care of, so it's not all bad.'

'There's no jobs going now, though,' Darren stressed.  'They don't come up that often.'

'We've just taken a new girl on.'

'So there won't be another vacancy for ages.'  Darren parked on the drive behind Lyn and Terry's Motability car.

'Not unless Hilary retires early.  She's fifty-eight this year and they're selling their big house, so you never know.  Her husband writes history books, when he's not cooking that funny Indian food at the café.'

'An electrician.  That's what you should be, Shane, an electrician.  Inside work, good pay, always going to be needed...'

'Hilary helped with Nana's appeals, didn't she?'

'That's right, Shaz,' Terry replied.  'She'll tell you all about it, if you're interested.  We've still got all the papers.  If you're good at writing, you could do letters for people like us and help get them out of trouble.  I thought me and your Nana were going to end up in prison; if it hadn't had been for Hilary, and big Sally, and Smart-Arse Martin...  It's a long story, nipper.  I'll tell you when we get indoors.'

Darren sighed.  He watched his son and father make their way towards the front door, then turned away, pointing his keys at the car to lock it.  Then he slouched toward the door of his childhood home.  It was going to be a long afternoon.

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...'