Chapter Nine – New Tricks

Thursday 9^th November  

Catherine Collier was conflicted about the relative merits of Universal Credit.  While her new colleagues had nothing good to say about it, claiming digitally had worked moderately well for her. Being able to make and manage her claim online, and to deal with her Work Coach by email rather than tedious and time-consuming trip to the Jobcentre had been very convenient.  At their only face-to-face meeting until today, she and Colin, the Work Coach, had drawn up quite a light touch Claimant Commitment.  Catherine had been upbeat about securing new work quite soon; Colin had evidently seen she was clever and keen enough not to need mindless courses or micro-management.  A quiet man who looked to be approaching retirement, Catherine guessed he was grateful for anything which made his life easier.
    'We're on the same side,' he reminded her, at the end of that first meeting.  'My job is very much like that of an athletics coach - to get the best out of you.  We'll discuss and agree plans, negotiate like adults, rather than me boss you around.'
    That outlook suited Catherine and anyway, she couldn't see Colin as the bossy type.  She wanted the best for herself and her daughters.  It had been a tough year but she felt she had turned an important corner in getting her previous job, even though it hadn't lasted long.  The same agency as had set that up kept an eye out for other short-term opportunities while she browsed online for the way in to a longer-term career.  Catherine kept her journal up-to-date and Colin appraised of her applications and interviews while he forwarded what he felt were appropriate vacancies.  He didn't always seen to understand what she wanted but a few quick  'Colins' each week helped to keep her application numbers up to their agreed target, while leaving her enough to make the best possible effort at those which genuinely interested her.

Today, according to his text, he wanted a face-to-face meeting, to discuss how things were going.  This looked like being a waste of a day.  There was nothing amiss that Colin could fix.  The problem for Catherine was the level of her payments.  The drop from working full-time, even in a relatively junior position, to claiming as unemployed had been far sharper than she had expected.  She knew she wouldn’t get Jobseekers Allowance but she had anticipated getting maximum Child Tax Credit and Housing Benefit to top up her Bereavement Support Payment.  When she enquired about claiming Tax Credits, she was told she was in a Full Service Area and redirected to Universal Credit instead.  This was a little disconcerting but, as that also covered the claim for her housing costs, that seemed fine. 
    She had budgeted through the initial wait for payment using her final month’s wage and holiday pay.  She had met Colin the Work Coach and happily signed her Claimant Commitment.  She had taken on board some of his helpful suggestions and adapted her job search plans accordingly.  She felt up-beat, as if new opportunities were close at hand, waiting to be grasped.  It was simply a matter of time.

However, when her first UC payment arrived in her account, she was taken aback.

‘You’ve paid less than half of my rent!’ she informed the man at the end of the helpline, when she eventually got through.

‘I’ll ask the Case Manager to call you…’

There had been no call from the Case Manager that day, nor the next.  Catherine found an online calculation programme and ran her circumstances through it.  She was dismayed to find their figures for her entitlement came out very close to her actual payment.  Still not convinced, she emailed her Work Coach, querying the calculation of her housing costs.  She knew, she said, that her girls were supposed to be able to share a room but they had lived in this three-bedroom house for five years and the rent was little more than the Local Housing Allowance for a two-bed.  She hadn’t expected to be more than twenty pounds a month short.

He messaged back, pleasantly enough, reminding her that, as her previous job had run for only three months, she was not exempt from the Benefit Cap.  She would be paid no more than five-hundred and twenty pounds per month for her rent, despite the full amount being eight-hundred and fifty. 
‘I’ll be over three hundred pounds short!’ she explained.

‘Only until you’re back to work,’ he reassured her.  ‘That won’t be long.’

Catherine had some urgent negotiating to do.

‘There was no payment at all for the first week; that’s why it’s so little this time,’ she explained to the usually friendly letting agent.  She made an agreement to repay the arrears although Catherine knew at the time she was being over-optimistic.  It was the start of a new school year; there were uniforms, shoes, books and IT to pay for.  After all that, there was no rent money left that month.

The following month, a Notice of Seeking Possession had forced her hand.  She had to catch up a full month’s rent and the agreed amount off the arrears.  This meant feeding the family main meals improvised from the odds and ends at the back of the freezer and produce from her allotment.  As an emergency measure, she cancelled the direct debits to the utility companies to avoid an overdraft.  She skipped the Council Tax payment.  At the end of last month, she had sold their old car to the local garage when it failed its MOT, promising the girls she would get a new one as soon as she had a job. 

Her next payment was due on the fourteenth of this month and Catherine had committed it already.  She would pay the rent in full again, plus the agreed amount off the arrears.  She would pay something to her energy supplier.  She would do a big shop.  If what was left didn’t hold out, there was the desperate option of making meals from the out-of-date and dented tins Terry Walker put in the ‘Help Yourself Heap’ at the back of the café, or even asking for a foodbank parcel from the main store.

What was so frustrating was how close she seemed to keep coming to regular work.  She had been interviewed two days before, for an administrative job at the Council.  Once again, the feedback she got was positive, but it was a rejection nonetheless.  Catherine had been bitterly disappointed, but quickly gathered herself together and sat up late, completing another application to the same local authority for a similar post, taking on board some of the constructive criticism she had received.   She had another interview in the pipeline, in less than a weeks’ time.  It was with Wave, the Housing Association, as a tenancy support officer.  It was a slight departure from her previous line of work and paid less than she hoped, but it looked interesting, challenging even, and might lead on to better things. 

Spending some extra days volunteering at the Solent Welfare Rights Project might be just the thing to give her an edge over the other candidates.  She had been in on Monday for a chat and to meet the team, staying for lunch at the Community Café and helping in the foodbank in the afternoon, as they were short-handed.  In return, Paula insisted she have a book of lunch vouchers, ‘on the house’.  She returned on Tuesday morning, partly as a strategy to stay calm before her interview, and saw the UC clinic in full swing.  She spent almost a whole day there on Wednesday, assisting Toby in the clinic in the morning and sitting in on a form-filling interview with Lyn in the afternoon.  Although it meant an early start, Catherine felt that it was good to get back into a work routine and mix with colleagues, rather than spend all day scrolling through jobsites, looking at the same non-opportunities again and again.  They seemed to like her.  In particular, Toby thanked her warmly for her help with the clinic.  Although she was a novice on benefits law, she was handy enough with computers and could give practical assistance to their customers while he tackled the advice issues.

She would have gone in again today too, had she been free.  Instead, she was on a different but equally slow bus route, heading to an appointment with her Work Coach.  The message to come in had followed her email to him, to tell him about her volunteering.  She had responded with a note that it hadn’t been meant as a request to vary her Claimant Commitment; she was still spending as much time as ever looking for and applying for work, in the evenings.

He replied that the appointment was mandatory.

The Jobcentre was conveniently close to the bus station.  If he didn’t keep her long, Catherine could possibly go on down to the Project for the afternoon.  Alternatively, with it being such a bright, warm autumn day, she could go home via the allotment and plant her garlic.  From the waiting area, she could see Colin interviewing a man.  They were both seated in a small partitioned booth across the open-plan office from her.  She took her phone out and checked for messages. 

‘Excellent!’  Short-listed again, this time for a Housing Officer post with Clearwater HA.  The interview was the week after next, luckily not clashing with the Wave one.  This post could be problematic; if she got it, it would certainly force her hand as far as getting a new car was concerned – the Test Valley was hopeless for public transport.  With a proper wage to look forward to, she could borrow for that with confidence and having two interviews lined up would be a good start to her chat with Colin.

‘Hello!’ she said, as she took a seat opposite him.  ‘I’ve got some good news!’

She showed him the text.

‘I see.’  He typed the details into his computer.  ‘Another housing-based job.’

‘It’s where my experience lies.’

‘But you are limiting your options, considering the few vacancies that come up.’

Catherine was inclined to dispute that.  ‘Hardly!  There are plenty of different housing providers and projects in Hampshire and  I’ve been able to get seven or eight quality applications in every week.  As for interviews, I’ve had two in the last week.’  She sighed, recalling the near-misses. ‘It was so frustrating!  Both times, they were really positive about my interview and skill-set, and told me I was a very strong candidate, but not quite the best.  Still, there are two more coming up next week, so keep your fingers crossed for me!’

‘We can’t just keep our fingers crossed, Catherine.  We need a change of strategy.  You’ve been out of work for over thirteen weeks now.  I told you that was our target for getting you back to work.’

‘It’s not like I’m not trying!’  Catherine was annoyed at his sudden negativity.  ‘I’m desperate to get out of this situation.  You know what’s happening with my rent.  I just feel so close to getting back into my old career, to picking up the pieces and moving on with my life.  This opportunity to volunteer could make all the difference.’

‘Only if you continue limiting yourself to that very narrow range of public service jobs.’  Colin tapped away at his keyboard.  ‘I’m asking you to broaden your search to include retail and the care sector.’
Catherine frowned.  ‘Why?  I don’t know anything about working in either.’

‘And I’m going to recommend that your target for applications rises to twenty per week,’ Colin continued, overlooking her query.

‘Twenty?  I can’t put together twenty decent quality job applications in a week!’

‘You can manage that easily, if you use Universal Jobsmatch to apply for work where there are more opportunities.  I have jobseekers who apply for twice that in a week.  You only need to forward your CV to them.’

‘I suppose that won’t take long, if I'm not tailoring it or writing a covering letter.’  That flew in the face of Catherine's usual practice.

‘Looking for work is your full-time job – remember?’

‘Of course.'  Catherine felt demeaned by that.  'But time I spend applying for jobs I know nothing about and won't get is time I then haven’t got to spend on applications for better ones.’

‘And yet you have time for this welfare rights project?’

‘I’m updating my knowledge and learning new, transferable skills, aren’t I?’

Colin applied himself to his computer again.

‘There’s a course about care work starting next week.’

‘I have two job interviews next week.’

‘You could attend most of it.’

Catherine had no wish to do so.  ‘Or I could concentrate on preparing for my interview and gaining useful work experience.’

‘I’m going to mandate you to do this course.’

‘Colin, really…!’  Catherine started to argue, but she  knew that getting angry or upset wouldn’t help the situation.  She collected herself and smiled at him.  ‘Let me do it next time it’s on, if I need to.  It would be silly to attend odd elements of it rather than the whole thing.  I might miss the very parts that would be useful.’  

‘Okay.’  He clicked away.
Catherine was unclear where she stood.  She tried to clarify matters. 

‘So I’ll go to my interviews next week, keep applying for housing-related and other work and, as long as I’ve done my job-searches, I'm fine to help out at the Solent Welfare Rights Project?’

Colin didn’t look up.  ‘There’s a short introduction to care work course too.  When did you say your interviews were?’

‘Next Wednesday and Friday.’

‘Perfect.  This is Monday and Tuesday.’

‘Next week?'  She could do without that.  'That’s not a lot of notice.  I was going to sit in on a PIP tribunal.  It would be a really useful insight for this support worker job.’

‘You have to be ready to take up work immediately.’

‘This isn’t work, though, Colin.  It’s just a course - and it’s a course on something I’m not likely to get work doing.’

‘You certainly won’t if you don’t do the course.’

Catherine stuck to her guns.  ‘I won’t be taken on anyway, because I have no experience of that type of work and anyway, I’m over-qualified.  I have an economics degree and the Institute of Housing Diploma.’'You don't have to put those on your cv.'  Colin printed out the details of the two-day course.  ‘It’s mandatory,’ he said.

Catherine looked at the details of this apparently inescapable training programme.

‘It’s in Basingstoke!  How am I supposed to get to Basingstoke for a nine o’clock start?’

‘It’s less than ninety minutes’ travelling time from your home, according to my app.  How would you get to a job there?’

‘I would borrow the money and get a taxi to the station and then take a train to Basingstoke,’ she replied.  ‘This isn’t a job, though.  I’m not getting a wage for it.  I’m going to need travelling expenses.  I don’t have that sort of money left.  I’m down to my last ten pounds.’

‘They will refund you, if you give them your receipts.’

‘I cannot afford taxi fares and peak hour rail fares up front, two days running, before my next payment arrives.’  If it had been for an interview or a real job, she would have found the money.  She would have talked to the bank, or even Aunty Ruby.

‘You can’t afford a sanction either.’

‘You’re going to sanction me?’  Catherine was appalled.

‘I’ll have to refer your case to a Decision Maker.  They might sanction you.’

‘Why not send me on a course nearer home, and after I’ve been paid?’

‘We need to move you on from your current work-search regime.’

‘By sending me to Basingstoke, to do a pointless course?’

‘Are you refusing?’

‘I’m negotiating.  I thought that was how we did this - like grown-ups?’
'You need to start taking concrete steps towards new career choices.'
'Alright, I'll go.' 
Catherine remembered that her Child Benefit was due on Monday.  That would probably pay the fares for the first day.  Colin had better be right about the refund.

Chapter Eight – In the Country

Wednesday 8^th November

'It almost seems a shame to pack all this up again!' 

Terry Walker stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at the improvised grocery store that he, Father Cornelius and two elderly churchwomen had carefully set out in the village hall a couple of hours earlier. 

'We knew it would take people a little while to get used to us coming here,' the priest replied cheerfully.  'I know it's a bind, but I would rather be here when we aren't needed than not here when we are.'

'That's a bit Irish, Father.' 

'I can't help that, Terry,' laughed the priest.  'It goes with the ancestry.'

They lifted the first of the plastic crates up from the floor and Terry started loading the breakfast cereal packs into it.  One of the ladies came to help. 

'That's alright, love,' said Terry.  'I'll take care of these.  There's a special order they go in.' 

The other woman was chivvied away from his tinned stuff. 

'Perhaps a cuppa before we go would be nice, Janet?' Father Cornelius suggested, as a way to keep one of them out of mischief. 

Both women retreated to the kitchen. 

'I don't like to be ungrateful to the ladies,' Terry explained.  'The trouble is, if things get mixed up here, I'll only have to sort them all out when we get back, then me and Lyn will be late home.  I don't like her to have too long a day.' 

'She says the same about you, Terry.  I've had to promise not to let you overdo it.'  Father Cornelius, whose strength belied his wiry frame, confiscated the crate with the tins in.  'Which is why I'm carrying this one out to the van!'

As he turned towards the rear door of the hall, someone came in through the front door.  It was a young man, probably no older than thirty, dressed in work-soiled clothes and with his right arm in a sling and in plaster.

'Can I help you, son?'  Father Cornelius stood the crate down on the nearest table.

'I hope.'  The young man's glance fell on the food still lined up, waiting to be packed away.

'Is it food you need?'

'For me and for my wife and baby.'

It was clear to Terry from the young man's accent that he wasn't English.  He was from somewhere in Europe; Poland, maybe.  Lyn had seen some Polish people when she had been volunteering.  He knew there could be all kinds of complications with getting benefits for them but had never tried to understand the rules.  It was tough on people like this nipper, but you couldn't just have anyone coming into the country and getting money, could you?

'Have you got a voucher, mate?' asked Terry.

'Voucher?  What is voucher?' 

'I don't think we need to worry about vouchers today, Terry,' said Father Cornelius gently.  'It's not as if we're short of anything.  Is it just the three of you, son, or are there other children?'

'Only baby.'

'I'm not sure we have any baby food...'  Father Cornelius started checking along the tables.

'We haven't,' said Terry.  'That's my fault - I forgot to put it in.'

'Is okay,' the young man explained.  'Wife is feeding baby.'

'Then we must feed your wife, mustn't we?'  Father Cornelius selected a couple of sturdy carrier bags from a box.  'What do you need, sir?'

Terry watched with a touch of annoyance as Father Cornelius disrupted the chronological ordering of his tinned veg to show their guest what was available.  Several tins of peeled potatoes, garden peas and chopped mixed veg went into the bags, despite the young man's protestations that he didn't want to be greedy.  Then Father Cornelius moved him on to the tinned meats.

Just then, one of the helpers from the kitchen reappeared with the teas.

'Just the very thing, Margaret,' said the priest gratefully.  'Would you care for something, son?  Tea?  Coffee?'

'A coffee, please.  I have had long walk.'

Margaret looked the lad up and down and returned to the kitchen, without asking how he liked it.

'Where have you walked from? asked Terry. 

When the man turned to answer, Father Cornelius slipped an extra tin of corned beef into one of the bags.

'Bishop Waltham,' said the man.   

'Bishop's Waltham!  That's right out in the sticks.'  Terry looked at the young man's plastered arm.  'No wonder he doesn't want too much in those bags, Father.'

The priest looked at the shopping he had been gathering up.  'We'll have to give him a lift back, Terry.  He can't possibly carry the half of this with only one good arm.'

'True enough.'  Terry agreed.  He addressed their guest.  'How did you find out about us being here?'

'Was in free paper.'

'Was it?'  Father Cornelius seemed surprised.

The young man pulled a piece of newspaper out of his pocket.  On it was a letter from someone, complaining about the foodbank opening up in her village and speculating that it would attract undesirables.  Conveniently for their guest, it mentioned the opening times.

'I was almost too late.'  The young man said.  'Was further than I thought.'

'What happened to your arm, mate?' Terry asked, pointing at the bandage.

'Is broken.'

'How is broken?'

'I fell off tractor.'

'You're a farm worker, then?' said Father Cornelius.

'I am.'  He noticed the priest putting some tinned rice pudding in the bag.  'No more, please.  I cannot carry.'

'You don't have to carry, mate.  We drive.'  Terry mimed holding a steering wheel.

They continued helping the man, who was called Mikolaj, to choose his groceries, before learning more of his story over their drinks.  The accident, he explained, had been simple ill-luck.  He had caught a loose shoe-lace as he was getting out of the cab and fallen from the massive vehicle he had been driving.  That had been a month ago.  His injury should heal in another couple but, in the meanwhile, his family had no money.  He had been told he couldn't claim Universal Credit.  He hadn't been allowed to claim Housing Benefit because he wasn't working.  He wasn't getting sick pay because he was supposedly self-employed and there was no news on a claim for Tax Credits.  His wife's claim for Child Benefit, made five months earlier when the baby was born, seemed to be lost. 

'You ought to come in and see Martin,' Terry advised him.  'He's good at sorting this type of thing out.'

'Come here again?'

'No, mate.  Into town.'  Terry fetched one of the Solent Welfare Rights Project's leaflets, which had the opening times on.  'Call number.  They make appointment.' 

They left Mikolaj sitting with his bags while they packed away the remaining stock and loaded up the Catholic Church's minibus.  With most of the seats folded down, it made quite an effective van.  When they returned to the church hall, Mikolaj had acquired an extra bag.  The ears of a large toy rabbit were protruding from the top.

'We're having a jumble sale on Saturday,' Janet explained.  'We thought he might like some things for the baby.'

'How very kind, ladies!  Bless you both,' said the priest.

Father Cornelius drove.  It was marginally cheaper to insure him than Terry, with his history of heart complaints and breathing difficulties.  None of the younger, fitter volunteers were free regularly enough to be designated driver.  The road to Mikolaj's home was supposedly an 'A' road, although it ducked and dived through the countryside and around some unexpectedly sharp bends, catching the priest by surprise a couple of times.

'Hold on to your hats, gentlemen!  It's a little while since I've come this way.'

Terry wasn't sure he ever had.  It was pretty; proper countryside with fields and hedges, cows and ponies, all touched with gold and bronze in the late sunshine of autumn.  He thought how much Lyn would have enjoyed the journey, though perhaps not with Father Cornelius driving.  If he could remember how to get here, he would bring her out for a look at the weekend, if it was nice.  They might even have a pub lunch.

Mikolaj lived in a house on a small estate outside the town.  Terry thought it looked like an ex-Council property and expected the landlord to be one of the Housing Associations, but Mikolaj said he paid his rent to someone called Dean, so it seemed privately owned.  Terry and the priest look a grocery bag each.  Mikolaj carried the bag of baby clothes and toys.

'Now we have food, you have dinner with us?' he offered, opening the door.

Father Cornelius hesitated, so Terry made an executive decision.

'Thanks mate, but my missus is waiting for me to take her home.'

Mikolaj insisted they meet his dainty wife and wriggly baby son before they left, and seemed disappointed that they couldn't stay for tea.

'You come again?' he asked.

'I'll fetch you for your appointment,' promised the priest.  'You mustn't walk so far next time.'

Terry got back in the front passenger seat.

'They seem a nice little family,' he said. 

'Charming young people,' Father Cornelius agreed.  'I can't understand how they've got nothing coming in at all.  That's never right.'

'Is it something to do with Brexit?' asked Terry. 

He hoped it wasn't.  He had voted in favour of leaving the EU, because Stu had told him the NHS needed the money.  Lyn and Paula had given him hell about it at the time.  Darren, who had also voted Leave, had been in the dog house too.  However, nothing had really happened since and maybe nothing would.  The politicians didn't seem to know what they were doing, especially that Boris twit.  He was always in the news these days, putting his foot in his mouth about something or another.  Martin's wife had been complaining about him the previous lunchtime, saying that she hoped he would keep his trap shut if she ever took their girls on holiday to meet their Pakistani relatives.  Martin and Parveen had two daughters now; Malala and little Tasleen, the baby.  Martin was talking about cutting his hours when Parveen went back to work.  Hilary was talking about going half-time if they sold their house.  Terry wondered if that would mean there was a paid job for Catherine, the new volunteer lady.  Lyn had taken quite a liking to her.

As for Brexit, it was turning out to be a lot more complicated than he had expected. 

'It won't be that,' Father Cornelius replied.  'Martin says the law hasn't changed despite the vote, although if attitudes have, the way the law is being applied might have shifted.  I'm sure your man will get to the bottom of it soon enough.'

They were running against the traffic coming out of town, so made good progress back to base, where they found plenty of hands willing to help them unload and put away.

'A good afternoon's work, Terry,' said the priest.

'As long as they haven't muddled my baked beans up again, Father.'

He had to check before he left.  They were fine.

Chapter Seven – Personal Independence

Tuesday 7^th November

Lyn Walker waited for Terry to close his door, get the crutches from the boot and walk round to her side of the car, before she opened her door and swung her legs round, carefully placing her feet on the road where she could see it was level.

‘Ready when you are, Lyn love.’ 

Terry steadied the crutches as she levered herself up.  She almost overbalanced and fell back into the seat with a gasp.

‘Are you sure you’re okay to come in today?’ her husband asked.

‘I’ll be better here than moping about indoors.  Anyway, I’ve got appointments to do.’

‘Hilary said Vaughan had offered to come in, if you couldn’t.’

‘But I can.’  She eased herself up again.

Terry held her arm as she stepped up onto the pavement.  When he was sure she was steady, he reached behind her to close the door.

‘I need my bag out, luvvie.’

Terry opened the door again and reached for his wife’s handbag on the back seat.  He retrieved it and closed the door again, carrying it awkwardly in his left hand as he crossed the pavement and opened the café door for his wife.  Inside, Paula was dishing up breakfasts.  Most of her customers, men and a couple of women wearing high vis jackets, looked to be Sally’s builders.

‘Why are you lot skiving in here?  Haven’t you got work to do?’ Terry called over.

‘We’re waiting for the okay to go back on site,’ one of the lads explained.  ‘The boss reckons she’s spotted asbestos in the boiler room at the back, so we’re waiting for the specialist team to check it out.’

‘Our old place was riddled with the stuff,’ Terry muttered to Lyn, as he helped her down the corridor to the advice area offices.  ‘It never stopped us doing a day’s hard graft.  Young Sally’s too soft with that lot.’

‘You won’t say that if old Stu’s cough turns out to be something nasty.’

‘It’s a touch of bronchitis, that’s all.’

‘They wouldn’t be sending him for chest X-rays and scans if that’s all it was.  I often wonder what messed your lungs up.’

‘That was normal dust.  There was loads of it about, at least in the early days, from filing the sharp edges off after we cut the panels out.’

‘Metal swarf!  Hardly normal dust, Terry.  It’s a pity someone like Sally wasn’t running the old works back then.  You’d probably still be fit as a fiddle.’

Terry didn’t answer her.  He pushed open the door to the general office for Lyn.

‘Morning all!’ he called in.  ‘Wotcha Toby, Hilary…  And you must be the new lady!’  He had caught sight of an unfamiliar figure sitting quietly by the bookshelf, perusing a CPAG Welfare Benefits Handbook.  ‘Nothing like a little bit of light reading to start you off!’

‘Terry!’  Lyn shushed him.

‘Sorry, sweetheart, I mean the new woman.  Mustn’t be an old chauvinist, must I?  My missus will give me hell about that when we get home!’

‘Give me strength!’ sighed Hilary, looking down at whatever was on her desk.

‘This is Catherine,’ Toby said, as the woman rose from her seat and came over to shake their hands.  ‘Catherine, this is Lyn, one of our volunteer workers, and her husband Terry, who Father Cornelius keeps out of trouble while she’s busy with us.’

‘How do you do?’ the stranger said.

‘Not too bad today, thank you,' Lyn replied.  'Nice to meet you, luvvie.’

Terry shook hands awkwardly, still holding Lyn's handbag in his left hand, before putting the bag down on a desk and excusing himself back to the café.

‘He’ll probably try to get himself another breakfast,’ Lyn confided in the other woman.  ‘Paula will say no, though.  He’s not allowed to put weight on.  It’s bad for his heart.’

'She knows what he's allowed, does she?'

'Oh yes, luvvie.  She's our daughter-in-law.'  Lyn gave a little laugh.  'It's getting like a family business around here!'  She settled into her usual chair.  When she dropped one of her crutches, Catherine quickly stooped to pick it up for her.

‘Thanks, luvvie!’

Lyn chatted to her new colleague for a few minutes, finding out where she lived and that she had two girls.  She didn't mention a husband or partner, so Lyn didn't ask.  You never knew where questions like that could lead, especially in this line of work.  Lyn might have had good cause to grumble about Terry over the years but, if she hadn't realised it already, there were plenty worse out there than him.

Lyn thought Catherine seemed nice, if rather shy and old-fashioned.  She wore her hair short, in a very simple cut, wore very little make-up and, although her clothes were nice quality, Lyn thought they were rather old for her, as she only looked to be in her early forties.

‘Are you sure about doing appointments today, Lyn?’ asked Hilary.  ‘Vaughan’s emailed to say he’s still free, if you’d rather not.’

'I'll be alright, luvvie.'  She looked up the clock to check the time.  'The boys are late in today.'

'Martin and Deepak are both representing this morning.'

'Both of them?'

That was unusual.  As a rule, if two clients had cases on the same morning or afternoon, one worker would take care of both, unless there was a very special reason not to.

'They both have cases listed for ten o'clock and their both PIP appeals.  It's not uncommon to have an ESA hearing clash with a PIP one but they must be hard-pressed if they have both courts dealing with PIP.'

'It's all wrong, luvvie,' Lyn explained to Catherine.  'We go out of our way to make sure our clients' claims go in with all the relevant information nice and clear and they just seem to ignore it.  It makes you wonder why we bother!'

'At least because we bother, the tribunal has a good picture in front of them before the hearing starts,' Hilary replied.  'Thanks to you, Lyn, a lot of the time.'

'It's the least I can do, after all you've done for us.'  Lyn smiled at Hilary, then turned to Catherine.  'Are you going to help us with PIP claims?'

'I'm not sure.'  She glanced towards Toby.  'I think the idea, at least to start with, is for me to help Toby in the IT suite.'

'It certainly is,' said Toby.  'In fact, it's about time to fire up the machines, so if you'd like to follow me...'

'Do you need a hand to get to your room, Lyn?' asked Hilary, before Toby was through the door.  'Your Disability Rights book, scrap paper and pens are all set up.  Toby saw to that first thing.'

'I think I'll manage, thanks,' Lyn answered stoically.  'Who's doing reception?'

'Tom will be, when he's finished the breakfast shift.  I'm seeing any drop-ins.''

'Is his poorly knee better?'

'They're both poorly, Lyn, and they're not better, although the specialist thinks they could be, and without surgery at that.  They're going to try to improve his posture with some inserts in his shoes.'

'I've never noticed anything wrong with his posture, luvvie.'  Lyn didn't think she ought to add that there didn't look to be much wrong with the lovely Dr Appleby in any respect, but she thought that would be a bit cheeky. 

She had been settled in her interview room for several minutes when there was a gentle tap at the door and Tom looked in.

'Mrs Hussain is here,' he said.  'Shall I show her in?'

'Yes please, luvvie.'

Lyn had been expecting a man from the name on the drop-in notes.  She wondered if Mohammed Hussain had dropped in the week before to make an appointment for his wife and that hadn't been clear due to a heavy accent or language problems.  The person Tom brought in to the interview room was definitely a woman and, contrary to Lyn's expectations, she was nicely dressed in western-style clothes and spoke perfect English.  The PIP papers she had brought with her were for her eldest son.

'He is in school all week, so cannot make an appointment here,' she explained, when Lyn asked whether the boy, who was almost sixteen, couldn’t attend himself.  ‘Anyway, because he’s deaf, it’s easier for me to do these things for him.  We’ve made a start, but I wanted to check what we’ve done because it looks like a lot of it doesn’t apply to him.’

Lyn was relieved to see that Mrs Hussain’s handwriting was neat and legible.  PIP forms could be hard work at the best of times and sometimes claimants didn’t help themselves; Lyn didn’t know what she found more frustrating – people who hadn’t even opened their claim pack or those who had scrawled all over theirs in an indecipherable code.

Mrs Hussain had completed the details of her son’s doctor, nurse and hospital specialist, then worked systematically through the pages that followed, answering questions about how he coped with the activities this benefit cared about.

‘It seems very different from DLA,’ she said, sounding slightly bewildered.  ‘I downloaded the details of how the points system works.  An awful lot of it doesn’t seem to be relevant, unless we should get two points for everything he does wearing his hearing aids.  I’ve put down that he has them on when he’s cooking.  Even with them, he won’t hear anything too much quieter than a whistling kettle.’

‘I think it’s reasonable to say he needs an aid or appliance to prepare food, as he wouldn’t hear that, or a timer going ping or a pot boiling over without them,’ Lyn advised.  That’s a couple of points.  Is he safe cooking on his own?’

‘No less so than any boy of his age.  He’s burnt pans because he’s got too involved in something on his phone and set fire to the toaster jamming a naan bread in it that he couldn’t get out, but none of that happened because he’s deaf.  It happened because he’s a teenager!’

‘He doesn’t have any other disabilities – learning disabilities, I mean?’

‘Oh no.  He’s doing very well at school.’

That meant the points that older deaf people sometimes got for reading, because they hadn’t been supported at school, were off the table for this claim.

Lyn worked through the form.  Apart from the two possible points for cooking, there was no need for Mohammed to wear his hearing aids while dressing, eating or using the toilet, and he took them off to bath or shower.  Wearing his hearing aids, it seemed he could cope with simple communication.  The best score Lyn could envisage from activity seven was four points.

‘Has his condition made him shy or withdrawn?’ Lyn asked.  It often did.

‘Hardly!  He has plenty of friends and they get up to all sorts – in a good way, luckily.  He’s a very determined boy.  He won’t let it hold him back any more than necessary.’

No points for social engagement.

‘Can he go places on his own – places he hasn’t been before?’

‘All the time these days.  He didn’t used to, because he couldn’t always explain things to strangers or get help if he got lost, but he uses an app on his phone to find things now.  I worry about him crossing roads while glued to the screen – but they all do that, don’t they?’

‘I think they should count that as an orientation aid, luvvie,’ said Lyn, relieved to have spotted some points at last.  ‘He might get the standard rate for mobility if so.’

‘Nothing for care?’

‘I don’t think so.’  Lyn thought Mrs Hussain looked more anxious.  ‘What does your lad get at the moment?’

‘Low rate mobility and middle rate care.’

That was what Lyn had expected.  All the extra interventions with his learning and communication throughout the day would have won him that, along with a more tenuous case for guidance in unfamiliar places.

‘What about you, luvvie?  Have you been getting Carer’s Allowance?’

‘No, but only because I get a Widow’s Allowance instead.  I think being a carer has helped with other things.’

‘If you get Housing Benefit or Council Tax Support it would,’ said Lyn.  ‘We can check it all, if you know what you get now, and I’ll let you know what might change if Mohammed only gets PIP for mobility.’

Lyn was getting quite proficient with the Quick Benefits programme on the laptop.  She started it up and carefully input her client’s details.  Mrs Hussain was a widow.  She had three other children in addition to Mohammed, two girls younger than the deaf boy and another boy only two years old; all were in good health.  Her husband had died suddenly in January, from a heart attack, leaving the family without its bread-winner.  Dealing with means-tested benefit claims in the aftermath had been trying.

‘I never felt shame, asking for help for Mohammed.  We have used that money to help him prepare for his future and to be independent and hard-working,’ she told Lyn.  ‘The bereavement benefit people were kind too.  The Tax Credit Office could not care less, however, and I was made to feel like a beggar when I approached the Council for help with our rent.  They say our house is too big, but he cannot share with either of his sisters, nor a two-year old!’

‘They’ll only reduce your rent money this much until Mohammed’s birthday,’ Lyn said, pleased to have some good news for her client.  ‘He’ll be allowed a room of his own then.  Your rent is still about twenty pounds higher than allowed for a four-bedroom house, so they wouldn’t pay it all, even if you weren’t a little bit over the Income Support level.  You’ll still get most of it.’

‘What if Mohammed’s DLA stops and he gets the PIP you said?’

‘That takes away your carer premium...’ Lyn made the adjustment.  ‘Because you lose your underlying entitlement to Carer’s Allowance – that’s what they call it when you’ve claimed it but you can’t be paid it because you get something else.  I’m afraid that does put your Housing Benefit back down again, luvvie.’

‘Despite us having less money coming in?’

‘I’m afraid so.  It’s a funny old business, working out benefits, I’m afraid.’

‘So it seems.  What happens if he doesn’t get PIP at all?’

‘That’s going to upset your Child Tax Credits, because they won’t class him as a disabled child.’

‘If we get less CTC, will our housing benefit go up again?’

‘I’m afraid not.  If Tax Credits treat Mohammed as a disabled child, the Council do too.  It sort of cancels itself out.  I can show you…’  Lyn tapped that change of circumstances into the computer.  ‘Oh dear, I must have done something wrong.  That doesn’t look right!’

Not only had the Tax Credit prediction taken a nosedive, the Housing Benefit had dwindled away to a mere fifty pence per week.  Lyn went through her data, page by page, making sure she had entered each of the children and all the family’s benefits in the right place and at the right amount.  She suddenly spotted the problem and it wasn’t down to her typing.

‘If your boy doesn’t get his PIP, come back to us straight away,’ she advised.  ‘It’ll be very important to appeal because, if he doesn’t get anything, you’ll be caught by the Benefit Cap.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a limit the Government put on the amount of benefit they’ll pay to families if there isn’t a working parent or if no-one is seriously disabled or a carer.  It’s about three-hundred and eighty-five pounds a week, including any money for housing costs.’

‘But my son is seriously disabled.  He’s classed as deaf.’

‘They only count him as disabled if he gets DLA or PIP, luvvie.’

‘Won’t we get any Housing Benefit?’

‘They pay fifty pence.’

‘That’s almost worse than nothing at all!’  Mrs Hussain scowled.  ‘I have a good mind to tell them where they can put their fifty pence!’

‘Don’t do that, luvvie.  It’s more use than you might think.  If you get any Housing Benefit, you can ask them for a Discretionary Housing Payment.’

‘How much is that?’

‘It could be your full rent, if they thought you needed that much.’

Mrs Hussain thought about her situation for a few moments.

‘Let me get this straight.  My son’s disability is going to be no different when he is sixteen than it is now but, because he has to claim a different benefit for adults, he is likely to receive less.  Because he gets less, I will be entitled to less too, so our Housing Benefit will go down.  If he gets nothing at all, my Child Tax Credit will also be cut and the Housing Benefit will be cut again.  Nothing has changed, but the money I have to raise my family could be almost cut in half!’

‘That’s how it works now, luvvie,’ said Lyn.  ‘It’s all wrong, if you ask me.’

If you had made a claim for Universal Credit on the first day of this story, this would be the last of the seven 'waiting days' during which you are not entitled to anything!