Chapter Six – #MondayMotivation

Monday 6^th November

Ashley Richardson hoped the cakes she had bought on Friday were okay.  Not only had they just done three miles along potholed streets in the panniers of her bike to reach her soon-to-be ex-colleagues, they had hit their use by date on Saturday.  Since they were embellished with icing rather than fresh cream, she guessed they would still be safe to eat.  It was a shame she couldn’t get them fresh ones but it was almost two weeks to her next and, hopefully, her last payment of Universal Credit, and she didn’t have enough spare cash to treat them as she wanted to.

‘You shouldn’t have!’ said Roger Hepworth, co-ordinator at InTo Action, the post-ESA branding for what had been the Totton Incapacity Benefit Action Group.

‘I wouldn’t have got the job without the experience I’ve got working here.’  She smiled at her two colleagues.

‘I mean it,’ Roger insisted.  ‘You should have waited until your first pay day.  You’ll have to budget for your bus fares, work clothes…’

‘Work clothes!  I’m doing welfare rights, Rog.  Work clothes isn’t a thing for us, is it?’

‘I’ve met what’s-her-name Carrington from the Solent Project,’ said Julie Mattingly.  ‘Believe me, she does work clothes!’

‘I know.  She was on the panel.  She was okay, though, and anyway, I have my interview suit if I need to dress up for anything.  As for bus fares, I can bike it.’

‘Millbrook to Eastleigh, in December?’

‘Actually, Roger…’

When Hilary had called on Thursday evening, Ashley had rashly offered to start work at the Project as soon as they wanted.

‘I’ll see if we can start you this month,’ Hilary had replied.  ‘It might even be possible for you to come in from Monday, although I expect your current team might appreciate a little notice.’

Ashley explained the offer to her mentor.

‘Don’t be daft, love.  You start when you’re ready.  You’ve helped us out for free – we can hardly make you carry on when you could be earning a wage.  We’ll be alright.’  Roger helped himself to another slightly stale cup cake.  ‘You should have phoned, instead of cycling all this way.  You’ll be late now.’

‘I said next Monday would be better.  They’re fine with that.  It means I can still go to his PIP hearing with Kieran, if you’d like.’

‘I’m sure he would.  He knows you.  Someone new might freak him out a bit.’  Roger limped over to the door and reeled up the blind, turning the sign around so ‘closed’ now faced inwards.  ‘Jules and I will see any new people.  You have a quiet day, sorting out your papers and, this afternoon, me and Jules can share out your tribunals between us.’

‘I feel awful about this.’

‘Don’t be silly.  We always knew you wouldn’t be here that long.  We’ve been lucky to have you, really.  Make sure you have some days off too, before you start your new job.’

‘We’ll see.’

Ashley didn’t think she would.  Her friend would be at work and, if she stayed at home, she’d have to put the heating on and chip in extra for the bills.

Roger had done his best to manage her workload so that, when this day came, there wouldn’t be too many cases to pass over at short notice.  He and Julie had kept most of the appeal cases and usually let Ash help with new claims.  They had run their small project for over a decade, as volunteers, setting it up in what had, ironically, been a satellite office of the Solent Welfare Rights Project, before West Hants district had withdrawn its funding.  A couple of sympathetic local councillors and donations from service users kept them going, in a small way.  The long lull in ESA appeals when Atos lost the contract to do medical assessments allowed the pair to plod on unaided, until Maximus got their feet under the ESA table and then Atos returned, assessing PIP claims and now, deciding the fate of those migrating from DLA.  

Roger and Jules were waiting for their own brown envelopes.

Ashley had studied Social Welfare Law.  As a student, she did a brief work placement at InTo Action.  She had liked the two volunteers immensely, admiring their patience and kindness.  Their approach to advice work, however, dismayed her.  It was well-meaning but alarmingly light on law.  They shared one out-of-date Disability Rights Handbook between them and, at appeals, tended to focus their fire on anecdotal stories of how badly the medical assessor had behaved and inaccuracies in the report, rather than looking first and foremost at the merits of their clients’ case.  She had finished her time there hoping they might have picked up some more professional practice from her.  What she hadn’t noticed, at least at first, was the political conscience she had acquired from them.  It only started to make itself felt when, after graduation, she started work at the housing benefit service, contracted to one of the local councils.  Most of her co-workers, on casual contracts and miserable wages, loathed the people who came to them for help with their rent, calling them skivers, scum, chavs and parasites.  Why should they sweat their lives away in this soulless office, while these chancers lazed at home watching daytime TV?  Ashley, having seen what life was really like at the sharp end of so-called Welfare Reform, found herself completely out-of-step with this ethos.  With the idealism of youth, she set about trying to educate her peers and, with a view to bettering their miserable working conditions, joined a union and urged her colleagues to do the same.  

To no-one’s surprise but her own, she was fired.  Then, again to no-one’s surprise but her own, when she went to claim Universal Credit, she was sanctioned.  She used up the small amount of savings she had put aside while working waiting for her first payment.  Two months later, when it came, she couldn’t understand why there was so little of it.

‘You aren’t paid at all for the first week,’ explained the worker at Citizens Advice.  ‘You also can’t get more than the shared accommodation rate for your rent.’

‘Oh shit!  I’d forgotten that.’  Ashley’s UC entitlement included little more than half of her actual rent.  Studying Social Security Law in theory and being on the receiving end of it in practice were very different things.

‘And then there’s your sanction.  They stop your personal allowance for the length of that.’

‘I thought of that.’  She wasn’t completely stupid, after all.  ‘This is still too low.’

‘Not once you’ve taken out your last wage payment.’

‘That was for the week before I claimed!’

‘But it was paid after your claim started, so they count it.’

‘I had to pay my rent with that.  I still owe three weeks.  I have twenty-six pounds fifty-three here, to last me…’

‘Three weeks.  This payment was late, so the next one is due in three weeks, not a month.’

‘How much should that be?’

‘About two-hundred and ninety-three pounds.’

‘Per week?’  That sounded nice, but far too high.

‘Per month.’ 

‘Less than three hundred, for a month!’  Ashley was devastated.  ‘I know I’ve been sanctioned but there must be hardship payments.’

‘You can ask.  They’re usually about sixty percent of your normal allowance.’

‘I suppose that’s something.’  She could get half of her rent and now, half of the minimum amount the Government supposedly thought she could live on.  She might be able to borrow her rent from a mate, or use her credit card for everything but the rent, until she got another job, which wouldn’t be long.

‘They’re a loan.’

‘Uh?’

‘Universal Credit hardship payment are a loan, not a benefit like Jobseeker’s hardship money.’

‘A loan?  You’re joking!’  That made maxing out the cards an even riskier strategy.  ‘How does that work?’

‘They pay you the hardship money throughout your sanction, but they cut your money for the next few months to get it back.’

‘By how much?’

‘Over a hundred quid a month.’

‘That’s like being sanctioned all over again!’

It wasn’t worth it.  Ash didn't bother to challenge her sanction.  She signed off and left her flat and furniture to move in with a friend.  She took the first casual contract that came her way, doing sleeping-in shifts at a care home by night and fighting the system by day, volunteering at a place she knew and almost loved.  She had meant to give it a year.  Somehow, she had eked out a living like this for eighteen months.  Roger and Jules treated her more like a daughter than a volunteer.  They also, slowly, adopted her way of writing reconsideration requests.  It didn’t make much difference to the DWP’s second decision but it worked wonders at tribunals.

‘You can look up new Upper Tribunal decisions here…’

‘You know I’m not much good with computers, Ash…’

In time, however, Roger got very good with computers.  Good enough to start a blog and set up a website for their scheme, which was a mixed blessing.  It brought extra clients to their door but it also enabled them to bid for small grants to cover their running costs and volunteer expenses.  A couple of new people had joined as volunteers in the summer, only to be hassled away from them by the demands of their claimant commitments.

When Jules looked in on her, to see how she was getting on with finishing off her work, Ashley had an idea.

‘You’ll have to let Les and Tony know about my job,’ she said.

‘I will.  They’ll be ever so pleased for you.’

‘That’s not what I meant.  They can use it to show how volunteering here could get them work too.  Maybe they’d be allowed to come back?’

‘It’s worth a try, I suppose.  It would help.’ 

‘There’s something else that might help too,’ Ash added.  ‘My new job is only going to be part-time.  It’s four days a week.  I could still come here for a day.’

Jules smiled.  ‘That’s a nice thought, dear, but I’d see how it goes if I were you.  It might be hard going at first, getting to know your new colleagues and all sorts of benefits stuff we don’t do here.  What about the care home?  Won’t they still want you?’

‘I’m on zero hours with them.  They can whistle!’

‘You be careful, burning your bridges like that.  You never know if you’ll need to go back there.’

‘Not this side of my own retirement, thanks – and not then, either!’

Ash finished off a couple of reconsideration letters for people she had seen the week before, then came out to the main office to have lunch with her friends.  The sign on the door was turned to read ‘open’ on the inside.  Roger was lunching at his desk.’

‘I bet you didn’t know the Queen had shares in Brighthouse!’ he said, addressing Ashley.

‘The Queen?’

‘The Queen.  It’s all over the news after that Panorama programme last night.  Did you see it?’

‘I was working.’

‘There’s more about it on tonight.  It’s all come out of one of these tax avoidance schemes for the super-rich.  Either someone’s hacked their database or someone with a grudge has leaked a load of information, and journalists from all over have been trawling through it.’

‘The Queen investing in Brighthouse!  Isn’t that just the whole screwed-up system described in one?  You seriously could not make that up!’

‘Who else has been squirrelling tax money away?’ 

'Louis Hamilton, Bono...' 

'No surprises there.' 

Roger and Ashley laughed,  Jules didn't.

'It's sickening, isn't it?  They have so much money, more money than any of us can even imagine, let alone ever earn or own, and they want even more.  They want to hide it away, so it doesn't get taxed, but they never think of what that means to everyone else.  They want another mansion, so we can't have a school.  They want another yacht, so we can't have a fleet of ambulances.  They want  the best champagne when they throw a party, so we're sending people to foodbanks for their next meal.'  She stopped for a moment.  'I don't mean to rant but look what happens if any of us don't play by the rules.'

'I know,' said Ashley.  'Like when I got sanctioned.  I still owe my old landlord nearly four-hundred quid.'  

'Never mind when we don't play by the rules - look what happens when we do!' Roger said.  'We've had more folk through these doors this past year than we've ever had, being chucked off their DLA because of this change-over to PIP, going through all the hassle of mandatory reconsideration and then having to appeal just to end up back where they started.  What's that all about?  We're talking about sick and disabled people being tortured by the system, so the fat cats can live it up.  I want to look them in the eyes and tell them what their greed means to our people.'

'I want them all locked up,' said Jules.  'If I stole millions of pounds, they'd soon lock me up.'

'That's the problem,' Ashley noted.  'Technically, they haven't stolen anything.  They'd say their tax advisers are simply doing for them what we do for our clients; protecting their rights and maximising their income.  When you see rich people getting challenged about it, they always say anyone in their position would do the same, because no-one likes paying tax.  That's what has to change - people who can afford it should feel proud of paying their taxes, not resentful.  I'm looking forward to earning enough to pay tax, and building up a proper National Insurance record.  At least that way I can dodge UC when I'm out of work again!'

After lunch, she sat with Roger and Jules as they decided who would take on which of her appeal clients.  There were eight in total, seven after she put Kieran Sullivan's file to one side.  His appeal hearing was coming up on Friday.  She would go with him to that.  Kieran's case was unusual in that he actually hadn't had a bad assessment - it was the law that was unclear.  He had unpredictable blackouts following a head injury.  The case manager at the DWP concluded that they were too infrequent to score points for PIP.  Ashley's argument was that the risk was always there and that, as a result, he needed supervising when he was carrying out many of the PIP activities.  A very recent Upper Tribunal decision appeared to support her.  She was almost looking forward to the hearing.  She might even put her suit on for it.

Chapter Five – Sunday Lunch

Sunday 5^th November

Catherine was a traditionalist at heart.  During the week, she didn’t mind too much if the kids ate their evening meals on trays in front of the TV or in their rooms, but Sunday lunch was set out on the table with a clean cloth, proper china and, while there was still some in the larder, a bottle of wine.

‘It’s ready!’

She had shouted the five minute warning up the stairs ten minutes earlier but neither of her daughters had yet appeared.

‘Kirsty!  Alex!’

‘Coming!’

Kirsty’s footsteps, disproportionately loud and stomping for a slightly-built thirteen-year old, thundered down the stairs.

‘What is it?’ she asked, peering into the kitchen.

‘Dinner time.’

‘I know, duh!  I mean, what are we having to eat?’

‘Roast chicken’

‘We had that last week.’

‘I thought you liked it?’

‘I do, but not every Sunday!’

‘I’ve done sweet potato roasties too.’  Catherine slipped a pair of oven gloves onto her younger daughter’s hands and, wearing her own, passed her the dish of vegetables.

‘Cool!’

Kirsty, who could be a picky eater, loved sweet potatoes.  If Alex didn’t get down to dinner soon, she would miss out on those.

‘Alex!  Dinner!’

Catherine carried her daughters’ plates to the table before going back for hers.  There were only a couple of thin slices of chicken breast on it.  By using the bird sparingly, she could get another couple of meals out of it.

‘Alexandra!’

‘Alright!’ 

More footsteps clattered down the stairs before fifteen-year-old Alex took a seat opposite her sister and picked up her cutlery.  Although the elder of the two, there was always something more child-like about her demeanour than her sister’s.

‘Any wine, girls?’  Catherine took a continental approach when it came to the girls and alcohol.  They were allowed wine with sit-down meals, to signal that it was nothing too special but not taboo either.  She hoped that would encourage them to be responsible about their use of it as they got older.  She had always picked relatively light, low alcohol wines for sharing with the girls, however, even before she’d had to budget carefully.

‘Yes please,’ said Alex.

‘Thanks mum,’ said Kirsty.

Catherine poured their drinks.  She noticed Alex scrutinising her sister’s plate and the vegetable dish in turn.

‘You’ve got too many!’

‘But I like them and I hate carrots!  You can have the carrots instead.’

‘That’s not fair!  Mum, make her share the sweet potatoes!’

‘Kirsty…’

‘She doesn’t need any more.  She’s fat already!’

‘I am not fat!’

‘She isn’t fat, Kirsty!’  Catherine was keen to stamp this out.  That particular F-word was becoming her younger daughter’s weapon of choice in her quarrels with her sister.  ‘If you speak to your sister like that again, I’ll ask you to leave the table and let her eat the lot of them.’

‘Then she’ll be even fatter!’

‘At least I don’t have spots.’  Alex picked up her phone.  ‘Your face looks like the full moon, only with more craters.’

‘Enough!  No phones, Alex.  You know the rules.’  Catherine moved the vegetable dish away from her younger daughter and disarmed her of the serving spoon.  ‘You have the sweet potato wedges that are left.  I’ll eat the carrots instead, if Kirsty hates them so much.’

‘What’s the green stuff?’ asked Alex.

‘It’s Swiss chard.  I grew it on our allotment.’

‘It tastes like soap,’ said Kirsty.

‘It’s good for you.  It’s got loads of vitamins in that are good for your skin, and lots of iron.’

Alex looked interested.

‘Why does everything that’s good for you suck?’ asked Kirsty.

‘I like it,’ said Alex, trying a forkful.  ‘It’s the best!’

Catherine was initially certain her elder daughter had based this on nothing more than her younger sister’s distaste, although she helped herself to a generous serving and had finished it by the end of the meal.

‘Can you grow sweet potatoes on the allotment?’ asked Kirsty.

‘No.’

‘Could dad grow them?’

‘No.  He couldn’t grow them either.’  Catherine explained nobody could grow them, at least not outdoors, because they needed a warmer climate.

‘You’ll have to come down and see what we can grow – not that there’s a lot to see now.  If it’s dry after lunch, I’m going to plant some garlic.  You could help me.’

‘I’ve got homework.’

‘Me too,’ Alex glanced at her sister.  ‘Anyway, if we come with you, you won’t be able to flirt with Ralph!’

Both girls started sniggering.

Catherine sat up straight and put her cutlery down. 

‘I beg your pardon?’ she said, laughing as if she found the very idea ridiculous.

‘You do fancy him,’ said Alex.

‘I do not!’  Catherine picked up her knife and fork and started cutting up her small chicken portion, the better to make it last.

‘We don’t mind.  He’s alright.’

‘You don’t know anything about him.’

‘He helped you dig all those potatoes up.’

‘So did Lionel.  And Bernie.  And Lucas.  And Sally.’ 

It had been something of a team effort.  Catherine had taken the advice of the old-timers to plant potatoes to clear the ground on the neglected plot and ended up with rather more to lift than she had anticipated.  The girls had reluctantly donned wellies and gardening gloves and come to help but, typically, spent more time taking selfies posing with their forks than digging with them.  Catherine had a lot to learn about growing vegetables.  It was her first season managing the allotment single-handed; she hadn’t spent much time down there when it had been Will’s domain.

‘Yeah, but Lionel’s old,’ said Kirsten.  ‘And he grows weird stuff.  Like that oki-thing.’

‘Okra,’ said Catherine.  ‘He likes trying new things, from all around the world.’

‘Lucas is married to Mrs Davies, my chemistry teacher, so he’s a swipe left,’ Alex explained knowingly.  ‘And he’s too young for you.  You can’t have a toy boy.  That would be gross!’

‘And even if that Sally’s gay, you aren’t,’ Kirsten reminded her.

‘She isn’t.  She got married a little while ago.’

‘No way!  I thought you said she was a builder?  That’s so not straight girl’s work!’  Alex fixed her sister with a sneer.  ‘There’s hope for you yet, then, pizza face!’

‘I’m warning you, Alex!’

The need to restore dining table civility had ended the awkward conversation about allotment flirtations.  They finished the meal in silence.

‘Apple crumble and ice cream, anyone?’ Catherine asked.

Alex declined.  Catherine was cross; she had a feeling Kirsty’s snarky comments about her sister’s weight were behind it.  She knew better than to force the issue, however.  The thought of either of her daughters falling prey to an eating disorder terrified her.  She took their empty plates out to the kitchen with the left-over vegetables and loaded the dishwasher, before returning with dessert for Kirsty and herself.

‘Anything special needed for school this week?’ she asked, hoping to avoid the usual last-minute demands for new kit, emergency laundry or large sums of money.

Kirsty was fine, although she reminded her mother that she would need a new swimming costume soon, as the elasticity of her old one was failing fast. 

‘What about this one?’  The girl’s phone came out.

‘That’s not really suitable for school, is it?’

‘Why not?’

‘You know what the rules are.  It’s too high in the leg and too low at the top.’

It was also too expensive.

‘It only looks that way because of how the model’s standing.  It’s not tarty really.  Olivia’s got one like it and she hasn’t been in trouble.’

‘That’s because she’s got no boobs,’ Alex explained.  ‘Like you.’

‘Yours aren’t boobs, they’re just f…’

‘Enough!’  Catherine slammed the table with her hand, making both girls jump.  She took a deep breath.  ‘We’ll have a look online together tonight.  I’m sure we can find a nicer one.’

Kirsty’s face tensed, as if she were readying herself to argue.  Wisely, she seemed to think better of it.

‘What about you Alex?’

‘It’s the last week to take the deposit money in, if I’m going on that trip.’

‘By Friday?’

‘Yeah.  By Friday.’  Alex looked towards her hopefully.  ‘Haven’t you got another interview before then?’

‘On Tuesday.’

‘Brilliant!’ 

‘Don’t get too excited.  I’m not very optimistic about my chances.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m just being realistic.’  Catherine collected the empty dessert bowls.

‘Why didn’t you get the job you went for last Thursday?’ asked Kirsty.

‘I made a bit of a mess of one of the questions.’

‘You should be allowed to get one wrong!’

‘You are,’ said Catherine.  ‘As long as everyone else gets two wrong, or more.  It’s not an exam, with a pass mark; it’s a race – but with no medal if you don’t come first.’

‘You must have done okay, if they want you to go there as a volunteer.’

Catherine had told her girls about the call she’d had from Hilary Carrington on Friday morning.  She still hadn’t decided what to do about that offer.  Her initial reaction had been to agree with Alex, that if they weren’t willing to pay her she wouldn’t work at their skanky advice centre for nothing.  However, there was some sense in taking up the offer, not least that it would put some up to date work on her cv.

‘You’re not going to, are you?’ Alex said.  ‘You need a proper job, with money!’

‘I know I need a proper job with money,’ Catherine answered, acutely aware that more than her daughter’s skiing trip was at stake.  ‘But, sometimes, the best way to get a proper job with money is to do a proper job without money for a little while.’

‘But, if you’re working there, you won’t have time to look for other jobs.’

‘I won’t be full time.  I’ll do a couple of days, at most.  That’ll still leave me plenty of time to look for paid posts, especially now there’s not a lot to do on the allotment.  Which reminds me, I want to get that garlic in before it gets dark.’  She screwed the top back onto the half-empty bottle of wine.  ‘Don’t put the dishwasher on until after tea.  It’s not full yet.’

She left the girls sitting opposite each other at the table with their phones out, catching up their friends’ pressing news from the last half hour.  The left-over roast chicken was almost cold, so she carefully removed the legs and put them into a freezer bag, before systematically picking through the wings and the remainder of the carcass until she had a piles of scraps to bag up large enough to make a stew or curry, for two at least.  The bones, skin and other scraps went into the slow cooker, along with the vegetable left-overs, half a litre of water and a stock cube.

‘Souppe du jour!’ she muttered sardonically. 

That stock, padded out with onions or, more likely, some of her vast potato store, would be lunch most of the week.  The bagged-up chicken portions would see her girls all right for a couple of dinners but she needed to shop for more.  Apart from the two drawers packed with frozen fresh and cooked fruit, some from her own plot and some from her friends, the freezer was low.  Having heard somewhere that they were more efficient full, even if you put in plastic bottles of water, Catherine took the empty milk bottle from breakfast out of the recycling, filled it about three-quarters full and put it in the empty tray below the chicken.

‘I’ll be back before it’s dark,’ she called.

There was no response.  Catherine took her scruffy coat down from the rack in the hall and put her head around the living room door.

‘See you later, girls!’

Kirsty was still at the table, texting.  Alex had gone back up to her room.

‘Say hi to Ralph!’ said her youngest.

‘You could say hi to him yourself, if he’s there.’

He wasn’t usually on a Sunday.  She was more likely to see him about during the week, though probably not now the nights were drawing in.

‘I’ve done my nails.’  She brandished pink talons at her mother.

‘I’m sure that’s not allowed at school.’

‘Nobody cares, as long as you’re wearing uniform.’

‘I’m surprised to hear that.  They would, if I was in charge.’  Catherine was old-fashioned enough to think make-up at school should be banned and was minded to think Kirsty was lying too.

As she stepped back into the hall, Kirsty called her back.

‘If you say one more thing about Ralph, young lady…!’

‘I wasn’t going to.  It was about work.’

‘Work?’

‘That place you were going to volunteer for.  It says on their webpage that they do benefits advice.’

‘That is what they do.  That’s what I’d be doing.’

‘Oh.’  She seemed disappointed.

‘There’s nothing wrong with advising people about their rights, Kirsty.’  Catherine said, a little sharply. 

‘I didn’t say there was,’ Kirsty answered fiercely.  ‘I just wondered if they could help us with ours.’

Catherine was shocked to see that her daughter was on the verge of tears.  She drew up a chair beside her and put her arm around her shoulder.

‘Whatever is the matter, sweetie?’ 

‘I don’t want to move house!’

‘You don’t have to, sweetheart.’

‘But we do.  It was in the letter.’

‘Which letter was that?’  Catherine had a very good idea which letter she meant.  It was almost certainly the one from their landlord with the Notice of Seeking Possession in it.  She had put it away in the drawer of her computer desk now but suspected it had been tampered with between its arrival and its opening.  ‘I won’t be cross,’ she continued.  ‘Do you mean the one from Mr Stephens?’

Kirsty nodded.

‘Does Alex know about it?’

Kirsty nodded again.  ‘She showed me.’

That probably explained why the lobbying for the skiing trip money had been unusually low-key.  Alex was usually much more assertive.

‘You mustn’t worry about that, either of you,’ said Catherine, in the most reassuring tone she could muster.

‘But he’s going to take us to Court!’ Kirsty sobbed.

‘No, he’s not,’ Catherine insisted.  ‘He was going to, when we owed him two months’ rent, but now we don’t, he isn’t.’

‘Why hadn’t you paid the rent?’

‘Because I didn’t have enough money to, when my job finished.  It took a long time for our benefit money to start.’

‘It’s alright now, though?’

Catherine couldn’t answer that honestly with a straight yes.  ‘I’m being paid on time now, while I look for a new job.’

‘So we don’t have to move?’

‘No, we don’t.’

That seemed to settle Kirsty.  Catherine kissed the top of her head, then put her purse and keys in her coat pocket and set off for her allotment.  She might get an hour in down there, although it was starting to cloud over and it was getting cold.  She had missed the best of the day.

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.