Chapter Twenty-Eight - Paying the Rent

Tuesday 28^th November

Catherine had a list of essential tasks to work through on her last day before she ‘started work’.  Although she wasn’t going to be employed until 1^st December, she had volunteered to work Wednesday, Thursday and Friday this week, to help herself settle into the routine.  Having heard her offer, Martin had booked annual leave for Thursday.  Like most of the team he was owed more than he could find the time to take; the prospect of an extra day at home with Parveen before her return to work was not to be missed.

Top of Catherine’s list was to pay December’s rent, in full.  She had the money; her Widowed Parent’s Allowance had cleared the previous day, along with a week’s Child Benefit, and she had enough UC left to make up the difference and a little spare to see them through to their next UC payday.  Money could be horribly tight by then, still more than two weeks away, but she had stocked up the freezer in readiness.

There were also some tinned standbys for use during that time, thanks to Father Cornelius.  He and Terry Walker, who had popped in at lunchtime, had been working through the foodbank storeroom in readiness for a promised pre-Christmas delivery from one of the supermarkets and were unloading items perilously close to their use-by date.  When he dropped into the advice office early on Monday afternoon, just as she was leaving, Catherine waited to see how her colleagues would react to the offer.  When Hilary joined Martin and Deepak in going to take a look, she felt comfortable following.

‘No-one knows it’s foodbank supplies,’ Deepak explained.  ‘Rather than doing that thing where they mark the dates on in marker pen, it’s all organised using Terry’s clever crating system.’

‘Something I picked up from the storeman at the works,’ Terry said.  ‘It works well enough but there are some things get donated that people don’t seem to fancy, like all these funny mixed beans and poncy soups.  I used to think you’d eat anything if you were that hungry, but I suppose if you hate something that much, or don’t know what to do with it, you’d rather go without.’

Catherine had helpfully taken away a few of tins of each, along with a couple of packets of wholemeal pasta and some other unlikely offerings, careful not to help herself to more than her colleagues.  She didn’t know how much they guessed about her circumstances.  Toby had been very discreet when he’d returned the letter about her DHP refusal that had fallen out of her bag and she had no reason to think he’d said anything about it to his colleagues.  The possibility that she had been offered paid work out of charity rather than on ability was mortifying, although there was nothing in the way Hilary had suggested it to make her think she was doing anything other than helping the Project out in a crisis.

She had checked how her wages might impact her benefits too.  She could keep almost two hundred pounds per month with no affect on her Universal Credit, as a working parent with housing costs.  The remainder would diminish her payment by sixty-three pence for every pound she earned.  She was due to work sixteen days in December, six hours per day at eleven pounds fifty per hour.  That would give her around nine-hundred pounds above her disregard, of which she would keep less than three-hundred and forty.  Looked at like that, she was working fifty hours for nothing.  Taking the glass-half-full approach, however, she would be about five-hundred pounds a month better off.  She could take the girls out in the sales and get them the new clothes, shoes and other treats they had done without most of the year, and still stay ahead of the rent demands.

What she couldn’t do was to rest on her laurels.  She had been promised work for this coming month only.  Although she might be lucky and keep these hours or take on some of Hilary’s in the New Year, she needed to keep her eyes open for other options.  She would have a better chance of something skilled, interesting and well-paid then, moving on from a paid and more varied post than her temporary role with the Council.  She was sure she would get a better and more personal reference from the team at the Solent Welfare Right Project than she had from the agency.

Colin the work coach still had other ideas about how she could go forward.  Despite her sharing the good news about her job and her proposed working hours, he continued to forward details of care assistant and retail jobs to her.  Her also proposed a meeting to review progress on Friday morning.  More mindful than ever of the consequences of failing to continue applying for jobs, Catherine dutifully sent off Universal Jobsmatch CVs and made sure all actions were carefully logged in her UC journal.  Before setting off for the lettings agency with her cheque, she emailed him a reminder that she would be working on Friday and could not come in that morning, advising him that she could come in during the afternoon or on an earlier afternoon if it was more convenient for him.

We need to review your Claimant Commitment he replied.

That’s fine by me.  I’m free after two o’clock any day this week. 

Catherine was reluctant to forego another Community Café lunch.  Her free hot meals had enabled her to scrimp at home and only cook for her daughters during the week.  Since most packaged food worked better for two or four than three, this was a great help in stretching the food budget.  She had missed out yesterday, of course, after giving Heidi Sparrow her lunch ticket, but the poor woman had been at her wits’ end and giving her the chance to stay in the warm and enjoy a hot meal had seemed the least Catherine could do when she couldn’t budge her from her refusal to appeal her sanction.  In all fairness, there probably wasn’t a good cause argument for it to be considered late, but Catherine had so wanted to be allowed to try.

It was cold outside, though bright and still enough to make the walk a pleasure.  Catherine had almost been tempted to put her gardening coat on and drop in at the allotment on her way back, but worried that scruffy attire would give the wrong impression to her landlord.  Instead, she had dressed as if for work and put on make-up, keen to look professional.

‘Good morning, Fiona!’

Mr Stevens’ receptionist looked up from her typing.

‘Mrs Collier!’  She smiled.  ‘I wasn’t expecting you for a couple of days.  How are you keeping?’

‘Well, thank you.  I’m working again, so I’ve come in to pay this coming month’s rent money.’

‘That is good news – for both of us!’  Fiona quipped.  ‘Cash or card?’

‘Card.  I don’t like carrying large amounts of cash.’

‘It’s hardly a large amount.  Your rent is very reasonable.’

Her landlord had come in through the door from the street.

‘These things are relative, Mr Stevens.  To me, it’s a very large amount.’

‘Not to me.’  Stevens grumbled.  ‘I’ve got tenants who owe me ten times that much that I can’t get out yet.’  He threw a set of shiny house keys down on the desk.  ‘There’s one less this morning, thankfully.’

‘You met the bailiff alright then?’ asked Fiona.

‘Yeah.  No sign of Hamilton herself, though.  She can’t have these to get her stuff out until I say so, right?  I’m going to get something back for all the trouble that bitch has caused me.’  He went through to the back office and slammed the door behind him.

‘He’ll be lucky,’ said Fiona.

‘Who’s Hamilton?’

‘I can’t tell you, really, but she owes other people money too, not just Mr Stevens.  He’ll be lucky to get anything for the rent.  She and her kids are probably miles away.’

‘Kids?  He’s evicted a family?’

‘What’s he supposed to do if they don’t pay him?  He’s not a charity.’  Fiona sighed.  ‘Card, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’  Catherine got out her purse.

‘You’ve done well to get a job.  He’s serious about getting rid of his Universal Credit tenants.  They’re too much trouble by half.’

‘This lady he’s just evicted…?’

‘Hardly a lady but yes, she was on it.’

He did agree to let us stay at least until next summer, after Alex’s exams.’

‘As long as you pay your rent in time for the next couple of months.  That shouldn’t be a problem now, should it?’

‘Not at all.’

There was a moment’s suspense while they waited for the payment to show up as authorised.  Catherine knew there was enough in the account, she had checked that morning; it was still a relief when the machine beeped and spewed out a receipt.

‘We’re closed between Christmas and New Year, so your next payment will be due on the twenty-second,’ said Fiona.

‘That’s almost a week early.’  Catherine felt her stomach drop.  That was before her next Widowed Parent’s Allowance was due, although that should come in early due to the Bank Holidays.  ‘I’m not sure I’ll have been paid my wages by then.  I don’t suppose I could pay on the first working day of the New Year?’

‘You could ask him.  I wouldn’t recommend doing it today.’

‘Probably not.’  Catherine managed a smile.  ‘Thank you.’

‘Good luck with the job.  Where is it?’

‘In a bank.’  Catherine decided not to say it was for an advice centre.  She couldn’t see Mr Stevens approving of such a place.

Catherine made up her mind to ask if it might be possible for at least some of her wages to be paid early, to be sure of settling the rent on time.  If she had been in any doubt at all, it was quite clear now that, even if he abided by the letter of the law, Mr Stevens didn’t take prisoners.  If he gave her notice after Christmas, she would have two months to move or he would start proceedings to get her out.  Even if that took so long that Alex could finish her exams before they had to move, the threat of eviction looming over the poor girl’s head would hardly help her study.  Catherine needed to stay on the right side of her landlord, whatever else she did.

She thought about going home to catch up on her household chores and do the laundry but, as it was still bright, decided she would walk on up to the allotment site and get some fresh greens to go with the evening meal.  There was no sign of Ralph, of course, but Lionel was there again, and Bernie too, busy on their respective plots and pointedly ignoring each other. 

‘Hello Cathy!’ said Bernie.  ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you today.’

‘I’ve only popped in to get some chard,’ she told him.  ‘I can’t stop.  I’ve got a lot to do before I start work tomorrow.’

‘Good luck, love!’ he replied.

‘While I think of it…’ she got her purse out and took out a ten-pound note.

‘What’s that for, then?’

‘The bags of manure your friend brought for me.’

‘Don’t worry about that now, Cathy.’

‘I’d rather clear my debts in good time, if you don’t mind.’

Bernie pursed his lips.  ‘If you insist, but I don’t need that much.  It’s only a fiver.’

‘You did say it was a pound a bag.  I have ten.’

‘I got it wrong.  They were half the price I thought, so I thought I’d get you enough to do the lot.’

Catherine wasn’t entirely sure that she believed him but put the note away and counted him out five pound coins instead.

‘I’ll spread it for you if you like,’ Bernie offered.

‘That’s kind, but I don’t mind.  I’ll be sitting down all day at work so some exercise at the weekend will do me good.’

‘You’re healthy enough.  You certainly don’t have to worry about middle-aged spread!’

She stooped to pick the greens she had come for.  Lionel caught her eye and grimaced.  She shook her head.

‘There was someone asking after you earlier,’ Bernie said.

‘Really?’  Catherine wondered if Ralph had dropped in on his way to work.

‘Some bloke in a suit,’ Bernie continued.  ‘Fairly tall, fair hair, about your age, I’d say.  Never seen him before.’

‘Oh.’  That wasn’t what she had expected to hear.

‘Not someone you know?’

‘I don’t think so, no.  What did he say?’

‘He just asked if either of us had seen you.  I said no.’

‘I said “who?”,’ Lionel added pointedly.

Catherine was genuinely confused.

‘I’m afraid I can’t explain…’

Lionel looked anxious, but there really was no more she could tell him.

‘Right you are,’ said Bernie.  ‘See you then.’   

Catherine set off briskly for her home.  She had no idea who the mystery man was; she couldn’t help worrying that his appearance presaged bad news.

Chapter Twenty-Seven - Claims and Payments

Monday 27th November

'Morning All!'

Toby often missed his former colleague, Tricia Williams-Ellis, but never more so than in the aftermath of a stunning victory for his team.  Their arch rivals, the hated Pompey, had beaten Plymouth Argyle, which would have been some consolation for Tricia.  She, Steve and the girls were now living on the outskirts of Croydon.  They stayed in touch, personally and professionally, sharing family photos on Facebook and horror stories about the Benefit Cap and what Full Digital Service UC was doing to her Housing Association's rent arrears and worse, their ability to house families in need at all.  It was a classic Catch 22.  They had larger flats and houses, three and four-bed properties, empty.  They couldn't use these to house smaller families, as the Bedroom Tax would leave too big a shortfall between the rent due and what Housing would cover.  They couldn't house the most desperate larger families either, because they were clobbered by the Benefit Cap and often due even less Housing Benefit than the Bedroom Taxed families.  This left the most vulnerable households trapped in temporary accommodation while slightly better-off people were accommodated, but these people often also needed help to pay their rent.  So they claimed Universal Credit, Housing Benefit no longer being an option.  If they were lucky, they got a month’s rent included in their first payment, six weeks later.  Often they waited longer and, by the time they had settled their other debts from waiting, they had less a month’s worth of rent money left and more than two month’s rent to pay.  If the Housing Association asked for ‘alternative payment arrangements’ to recover arrears, their tenant’s rent was paid direct, along with twenty-percent of the rest of their UC.  If the Housing Association took them to Court, the tenant had three hundred extra pounds of costs added to their debt.
    Tricia hated her tenancy support officer’s job; there was so little she could do for her tenants.  Steve hated his, as her area housing manager, even more.  Neither had expected their supposed promotions to be so stressful.  Both were looking for alternatives and a chance to move back to the coast, as soon as their daughters had finished school.

Tricia’s successor, Deepak, was a good bloke but he wasn’t into football.  He missed his cue to congratulate Toby on his team’s success.  Hilary and Martin were puzzling over something together.  Ashley looked to be listening in.  

Tom, who was doing a reception shift as Vaughan - and Jim - were on holiday, appeared from the kitchen with a tray of hot drinks, including a tea for Toby.

‘I take it you’re celebrating,’ he said.

‘Great result.’  Toby raised his mug.  ‘Cheers!’

‘Are you expecting many for the clinic?’

‘It’s Monday, mate.’

Monday was the busiest day for those without home computers and smart phones who came in to check their mail and chase late payments.  There would be new claims too.  Deepak had offered to lend a hand, as Catherine wasn’t expected in until later in the week, to start her paid shifts.  Ashley was sitting in on a complex case interview with Hilary.  Martin was seeing drop-in callers.  

Toby checked his email, flagged a couple of items for attention later and went through to set up the computer room.  A few moments later, someone tapped on the door.  Toby looked up as Catherine came in.

‘Hello!’ he said.  ‘We weren’t expecting you in today.’

‘You’re always so busy on a Monday and I don’t have anything important to do at home.  I thought I’d see if you could do with a helping hand and, if not, do some reading up ready for later in the week.’

‘That’s great.  You’re always welcome.’  Toby hadn’t considered, until now, that it might also be cheaper for Catherine to come in by bus and have a free meal at the café rather than keep the heating on at home.  If so, he didn’t begrudge her a lunch and comfort. 

‘Deepak’s on standby but I’m not going to send you home.  There’s probably going to be enough to keep us all busy.’  Toby stood up and walked to the next desk to log on another PC.  ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you until Thursday.’

‘I’ve just been talking to Martin about a possible change of plan.’

‘Really?’  Toby wondered if she had been offered a full-time post elsewhere.

‘I thought it might help if I worked three shorter days, rather than two seven-and-a-half hour ones,’ Catherine said, almost as if she needed his approval too.  ‘It means I can share a day in with Martin, so we can swap notes about anything we work on together, and I can be home soon after the girls get in.’

‘I suppose that does work better, for all of us.’  He set up the last machine.  ‘Alternatively, you could train your girls to cook dinner on work days, so you can put your feet up when you get in.’

‘They’re still rather young to be trusted with that,’ Catherine replied.  ‘And they are used to having me at home.’

‘Of course.’  He was sure that after the trauma of losing their father, Catherine’s daughters appreciated her presence.  ‘How are they coping these days?’

‘They’re great, most of the time,’ she said with a smile.  ‘They fight like rats in a sack, but don’t all teenage siblings?’

‘I don’t know.  Mine haven’t reached that stage yet.’

‘You wait until they do; you’ll have more sympathy for referees!’

Toby laughed.  It was good to see her so upbeat.  It wasn’t that she had been gloomy before, but she had often seemed preoccupied and uncertain of herself.

‘It will be good to have a wage,’ Catherine admitted suddenly.  ‘The girls have been missing out on so much their friends take for granted.  I’m sure that’s where a lot of the arguments start.  They were used to having the best of everything, when their father was alive.’

‘I’m sure they still get the best you can give them.’

‘I hope so.  They’ll be able to have a little more this Christmas than I thought I could manage this time last week, thanks to all of you.’

‘It’s hardly charity, Catherine,’ Toby answered.  ‘You’re working for us!’

Soon she was, too.  Toby had been right to plan for a lively session.  A clutch of familiar faces arrived as soon as they were open and took what had almost become their regular seats.  Some had nothing to worry about.  There were no urgent instructions or warnings from their work coaches, just acknowledgments of tasks completed and gentle coaxing to keep up the good work.

Others were not so lucky.  An hour or so after the clinic started, Catherine asked her colleagues’ advice.

‘How long are UC sanctions meant to last?’

‘It depends what it’s for,’ said Deepak.

‘And if there have been any others in the last year,’ Toby added.  ‘It’s all in the CPAG book.’

‘Thanks.  I’ll see if I can work it out.’  

Catherine picked up the copy they kept in the room and went back to talk to the woman she was assisting.  Toby monitored the conversation between them as best he could while assisting his own client.  It appeared that the woman had missed an appointment with her work coach and the sanction arose from that.

'I changed my phone,' she explained.  'I'd run out of money, so I sold it and got a cheaper one when my next payment came through, but I forgot to tell my work coach.  I only saw the message about the meeting when I got the new phone and checked my account.  I'd missed it.  I explained why but she still sanctioned me.  I can't manage, even on hardship money, so I sold that phone too, so it'll happen again, won't it?'

Toby had a feeling it would keep happening and that the woman would keep spiralling further downwards.  She didn't sound especially bright.  He doubted she got half the money back from selling her phones as she'd spent buying them.  She was acting out of panic and sheer desperation.  Someone would be taking advantage of that.  

'We do three IT clinics a week here, if you want to get on a computer,' Catherine explained.

'I know.  The priest told me when I came in for the foodbank.'

Toby found something particularly depressing about the routine way she said this, the way in which foodbanks had become part of everyday life, taken for granted as the back-stop of a failing Social Security system.  He liked Father Cornelius immensely and he knew how strictly he policed his team of helpers, to prevent them patronising or evangelising at their guests, but the very idea that people in a twenty-first century developed nation had to rely on churches and charities for food appalled him, and his colleagues.  The public in general, however, seemed to take it for granted, maybe because it was easier to drop a spare tin of beans in the collection trolley at Tesco's than to lobby for decent benefits and a fairer system.

'How long has your sanction been running?' Catherine asked.

'Four months.'

'That doesn't seem right.  Are you sure the earlier deductions weren't for something else - a direct payment for a debt, the previous sanction...'

'No.  I had normal money for two months.'

'Can you log in to your account for me?'

'Excuse me, mate...?'  

Another customer needed assistance.  Toby went to see what the problem was, so he missed the next part of Catherine's conversation.  By the time he had his man logged in and safely managing his claim, Catherine was urging her client to consider a late appeal.

'If I upset them, they'll keep sanctioning me!'

Toby had heard this before.  People were terrified to exercise their rights, fearing that it would only lead to more hassle and hardship, so unreasonable sanctions and bad decisions went unchallenged.  Under the old regime, before UC, they just about scraped by on food parcels and hardship payments to the end of their sanction, except those who dropped out of the system entirely.  There was a sting in the tail for sanctioned UC claimants, however, which Catherine's client had evidently just discovered.

'I can't survive the winter on this!'

Her UC hardship payments, unlike their JSA counterparts, were a loan.  As soon as she reached the end of her sanction - which she had the previous month - they started to be recovered from her regular payments, cutting her income by almost as much as her sanction.

Toby eavesdropped again as she poured out her troubles to Catherine, heedless of the room-full of other people.  The woman was a lone parent.  Her kids were at infants school, one so young he was in the reception class.  She was getting treatment for her mental health.  She had a conviction for shoplifting.  She had been terrified of going to prison and having the kids taken off of her.  Her prospects of employment, certainly in the short-term, were somewhere between virtually hopeless and non-existent.  Toby could see this pattern repeating month after month, year after year.

'It's the criminal record that messes it all up,' she explained.  'I used to get interviews for care jobs and cleaning, but not since that.  It was stupid but I had nothing, nothing at all...'

Catherine led her client out of the room when she started to cry.  Toby waited a couple of moments before going to check on them.

'Catherine and her lass are in Lyn's usual room,' Tom explained, as Toby stepped into the corridor.  'Catherine's made her some tea.  I think she has the situation under control.'

'Okay.'

Realistically, the situation wasn't under control at all.  In a fair society, Catherine's client wouldn't have be a jobseeker.  If the state wanted her to 'do something' for her benefits, it would make more sense to let her go to school with her kids and catch up on the education she seemed to have missed in her youth.  He couldn't pin the blame for that on the Tories; it was his own party that had started the trend to pushing lone parents back into work.  The Coalition and the UC regulations just continued the trend.

Catherine came back into the IT room just after midday, timing her return well as a couple of late arrivals needed help to check their accounts and another, pitched off of ESA, needed help with a new claim.  Toby took on this task.

'If you want to have an early lunch, Catherine, I think we're doing okay now,' he heard Deepak offer, as the numbers started to thin out.

'I'm fine.  I had a good breakfast.  I'll have something later.'

'As long as you are quite sure...'

'Absolutely.'   

She kept an eye on the couple of clients still updating their activities.  

When Toby had finished with his new claim guy and warned him he would need to ask for an advance if he needed funds this side of Christmas, he called time on the session.

'Lunch now?' he asked Catherine.

'There's something I want to check up on, back in the office,' she said.  'You go on in.'

Toby guessed she might be reading up on UC sanctions.  She seemed keen to hit the ground running when she started officially at the end of the week.  He started to wonder if the project could organise payment of her wages to make the best use of the UC work allowances, without alerting her to the fact that they were making special arrangements. 
The more she knew, the harder that might be.

Chapter Twenty-Six - An Unexpected Victory

Sunday 26^th November

Terry, Shane and Darren Walker were in their seats at the St Mary's Stadium, waiting for the second half to start.  The first had started well, with the Saints having most of the possession but, unusually, turning that into a goal for Tadic about twenty minutes in.  However, just before half time, their opponents had equalised.  Darren had been furious.

'I can see how this is going to turn out,' he growled.  'We've missed a load of chances, as usual, and now they'll nick another one after the break and we'll be fucked.'

'I can't see that, nipper,' Terry replied.  'It's Everton.  They're crap away from home.  Talking of crap, if one of you buggers could give me hand down these steps, I need the bog...'

Shane had offered to go with his granddad, taking a ten-pound note and orders for half-time pies all round from his father as well.  He sometimes wondered if his dad had got him the season ticket so he had someone to help mind Granddad and to send on errands, while he grumbled about the short-sighted ref and the overpaid bastards on the pitch to the guys in the seats in front of him.

'Your Nana says you're doing alright at work,' Terry told him, while they waited in the catering queue.

'It's good,' said Shane.  He didn't know if he ought to say anything else in case it was against the rules on confidentiality, which Hilary had drilled into him as if she were M and he a new MI6 agent.

'Young Toby says you're a top man too,' Terry continued.  'Mind you, that might be because you're a Saints fan, not because you're any good in the office.'

Shane let that go.  It was the sort of not-funny joke that used to wind him up when he was a kid, but he was used to his grandfather's odd humour now.  He was pleased if he had impressed Toby.  He thought he was a good bloke; he was funny, kind to people and very practical.  Martin was okay, although everything was about politics with him, while Hilary was like a posh, glamorous version of nan, always fussing and making sure he was okay.

'What do you think of the new girl?' Terry asked him.

'Where?'  Shane scanned the staff behind the counter, trying to see who his granddad meant.  He hoped there wasn't a new, hot young woman there.  It was embarrassing when granddad started chatting them up and even worse if he asked Shane whether he fancied them.  Shane hadn't been brave or stupid enough to introduce either of his previous girlfriends to his granddad.  There were a couple of girls following the band at the moment who he liked, but he couldn't see himself taking either round to meet Terry, even if he did find the nerve to ask them out.

'Not here, you silly sod, at work.'

Shane had no idea who he was talking about.  The only female colleagues he knew were Hilary and his nana.  'Do you mean someone if the café?'

'No, you great plank.  I was talking about Ashley.  The Goth girl.'

‘Goth girl?’

‘Ashley.  The new girl.’

Shane shrugged.  ‘I don’t know her.’

‘You must have seen her.  Wears black all the time.  Pale face, lots of eye make-up.’

‘I know what a Goth is, Granddad.’  The surprise was that Terry did. 

‘You must have seen her.’

‘I haven’t.’

‘You must have done, nipper.’ 

‘I don’t know her, honest.’

‘She’s in every morning.’

‘And I’m in on Wednesday afternoons.’

‘Right.’

‘What about her, anyway?’

‘I wondered what you thought of her.’

‘I don’t know her, Granddad.’

‘You said, Shazza.’

Shane was curious to know who this Goth girl was and wondered why his grandfather thought he would have an opinion about her.  He formed a picture of her in his mind which added glossy red lips and a plunging velvet dress, but then he was at the front of the queue for pies and talking to a bored blonde of his mother’s age and the image vanished.

On the way back to their seats he almost lost his granddad in the crowd.  The old man seemed to be dragging behind.  Shane worried that he was unwell.

‘I’m alright, nipper.  I thought I recognised someone.’

‘One of your old workmates?’

‘No, son.  Someone else.’

Terry stopped to look behind him a couple more times before they got back.  Shane got the feeling that whoever he had seen, it wasn’t an old friend.  He hoped his grandfather would say something to his dad but the stranger’s identity remained a mystery.  The whistle blew for the second half.

‘Here we go…’ Darren muttered.  ‘What the stupid fuckers throw the game away!’

Within moments, Saints had scored.

‘See?  I told you they should play Austin more often!’ Darren insisted.  ‘Come on, my son!’

The striker appeared to heed Darren’s advice and netted another.

The home side managed another before the close of play.  Darren had shouted himself hoarse, Terry was red in the face and Shane had started to plan out the base for a new song for the band with the working title of Goth Girl.

‘I could murder a pint!’ Darren said, as they waited for the jubilant crowd to thin so Terry could get down the steps without being jostled.

‘You had one before we came in,’ Shane reminded him.

‘I know.’

‘I could drive,’ Terry offered.

‘You had two, Granddad.’

‘What about you then, nipper?  You’re old enough.’

‘I haven’t got a licence.’

‘That’s no bloody good.  I got your dad his provisional licence for his seventeen birthday, didn’t I Daz?’  

‘You did, Dad.  You didn’t get me a season ticket as well, though.’

‘You didn’t need one.  We could stand at the Milton Road End for a fiver when you were a kid.  Still, if the boy can’t drive, we can’t go to the pub and that’s…’

Terry stopped talking suddenly.  Shane turned towards him and saw he was staring into the crowd moving below them.

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Dad?’ Darren laughed.

‘I have, son.’

‘Is it the person you thought you saw earlier?’ Shanes asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s that bugger from the Social.’

‘Which one?’ asked Darren.

‘The sod who filmed me.’

‘Where?’ asked Shane.

‘Taking Luke and Amy to school.’

‘Not where did he film you, Granddad!  Where is he now?’

‘Down there.’  Terry pointed.  'That little shit.'

Ahead of them, about ten rows down, a group of men were laughing and joking as they waited to merge into the crowded aisle.  Most of them looked to be big, brawny blokes but there was one smaller, older man who didn’t look as if he belonged with the group.  He had curly, greying hair and wore square-rimmed glasses.

'I ought to get you lads to sort him out!' Terry snarled.

'It looks like someone else got there first, Granddad,' Shane remarked, noticing that the man had a cast on his right arm.  In fact, it seemed to be this injury to the man that was delaying his colleagues' departure.

'That was years ago, Dad.  I can't see it being him,' Darren argued.

'It is, son.  I'd know that little weasel-faced shit anywhere.'

'The others don't look like civil servants,' Darren said.  'They look more like a fucking rugby team.  Sod getting into a ruckus with that lot!  The big one on the end's well over six foot.'

'That's a woman,' said Shane.  'Look at her hands.'

'The fuck it is!' argued Darren.

The big one on the end unknowingly settled the argument by sweeping off her red beany hat and turning briefly towards them.

'It's Sally Archer!' said Terry.

'Then the other bloke can't be what's-his-face from the Social, can he?'

'There's only one way to find out...'

Shane's grandfather bundled his way into the melee making its way down the steps.  Shane and Darren elbowed in after him.

'Don't let him do anything stupid,' Darren called forward as Shane, being leaner than his father, made his way forwards. Terry was almost level with the group when Sally spotted him.

'Hello Terry!  Could you and your lads let us out.  We don't want Gary's arm getting crushed but we need to get away.  We've got a party to go to.'

'You and him?'

'All of us.  I'll tell you later.'

Shane stopped behind his grandfather and Darren behind him, damming the flow of supporters behind them.  People started muttering and swearing.  Shane saw the big woman marshalling her group into a protective cordon around the injured man.

'Thanks,' he said, shuffling past Terry.

'You don't know who I am, do you?'

'No,' said the man with the broken arm.

'You cheeky fucker!  I'll tell you.  I'm...'

'Listen mate, you leave our Gary alone, right?' said one of the other men, who looked nearer Terry's age than Darren's.  'He's sound!'

'You're in with the wrong fans, you Scouse git!' Darren shouted.  There were more disgruntled noises from behind them.  Shane looked around for stewards.

'I might talk Scouse but I don't wear blue,' said the stranger.  'We're all on the same side here.'

'I doubt that, if you're his mate.'

'Granddad...!'  Shane did his best to chivvy Terry and the Liverpudlian onwards, before the crowd behind got more impatient.

The Walkers followed the troupe with Sally Archer out of the stadium, Shane and Darren sticking close to Terry.

'What's all this about you going to a party with that shithouse?' Terry asked the tall woman, when she stopped to count up her group and marshal them towards their van.

'He's an ex-shithouse,' said Sally.  'In fact, he's a hero.'

'Hero, my arse!'

'It's true,' argued the Liverpudlian.  'He got beat up in the line of duty last week.'

'I'm surprised that doesn't happen every week, the way he sets up innocent people.'

'He doesn't,' Sally replied.

'He doesn't,' Darren said, at almost the same moment.

Terry looked confused.

'Don't you remember?' Darren continued, having suddenly recalled the details himself.  'He caught old Sanders with his pants down, that council bloke I thought was after my Paula.  He's a private detective now, not a snooper for the Social.'

'What's he been detecting, then? Terry asked. 

Shane thought he sounded sceptical that the ex-DWP guy could have been doing anything good.

‘He’s been detecting Blacklisters,’ said another of the builders.

‘Unfortunately, a couple of their heavies detected him,’ Sally explained.  ‘But not until he’d got the evidence to the union, and the police have nicked the heavies, so it’s mission accomplished for our Gary, so we’re having a party.’

‘At the Nelson?’ asked Terry.

‘You can come if you like – all of you.  Marie always does way too much food.’

‘I’m not going to any party where he is,’ Terry insisted, pointing at Gary.  ‘He was going to get me and Lyn locked up!’

The man with the plaster cast and ugly glasses gasped. 

‘You’re Terry Walker!’ he squealed.

‘Damn right I am!  Come here, you scumbag, and I’ll do your other arm to match!’

Terry took two steps towards him.  Darren and Shane grabbed him.

‘Steady on, Dad…’

‘Yeah.  Chill, Granddad.’

‘Looks like I was right about you not being ill enough for DLA!’ jeered Gary Pike.

‘Leave it out,’ snapped Darren.  ‘He’s had a heart-bypass since you came after him.’

‘And he’s lost loads of weight,’ Shane added.

‘Terry was genuinely very poorly when you were filming and interviewing him,’ Sally said to the investigator.  ‘You could have caused him serious harm.  I think you owe him, and his family, an apology.’

‘You what?’

‘I think you should say sorry, Gary.’

Sally folded her arms and glowered down on him.

‘Sorry.’

Shane remembered being spoken to like that by his mum and responding with similar bad grace.

‘Shake hands, gentlemen.’

‘What if I don’t want to shake his hand?’ said Terry.  ‘I’d rather break his arm, if it’s alright with you.’

‘It’s not.’

Shane watched anxiously as Pike offered Terry his right hand.

‘Don’t shake it too hard,’ Sally told him.

The men shook hands.

‘I’m sorry, mate,’ Gary Pike said again.  ‘Pass on my apologies to your wife, too.’

‘I’ll do that.’

Sally smiled at Shane.  ‘I wish I’d remembered you were in a band – we could have had some music.’

‘If you call what his band churns out music, love…’

Sally scowled at Terry.  ‘They were ace.  Dan and I loved them.  Next time we’ve got something to celebrate, maybe?’

‘Yeah,’ said Shane.  ‘That would be good.  We’re doing another benefit for the Project next weekend, down in Hamble, if you want to come along.  We’ll have some new material.’

‘Cool!  That’s well close to where we live.  See you there!’  She counted her party again.  ‘Okay, guys, all aboard!’

They piled into the van.

‘He said sorry.’ Terry still sounded surprised.

‘I know Dad.  I think I’d say sorry, if that big bird told me to!  I pity any kids she’s got.  They won’t get away with a damn thing.’

‘He said sorry to Lyn too.’  Terry looked at his hand.  ‘He meant it.’

Shane sat in the back behind his grandfather as they crawled out of the car park and followed their usual route trying to dodge the traffic.  His dad had a lot to say about the match, how he knew right from the start that it was going to be the Saints’ day and that they were obviously on a winning streak again now, but granddad was unusually quiet and thoughtful.

‘Your mum isn’t going to believe what happened today,’ Terry said when Darren dropped him off.

‘She’ll have seen it on the news by now, Dad.’

Terry smiled. 

Shane knew he wasn’t thinking about the football match at all.

Chapter Twenty-Five - Confidence

Saturday 25th November

Catherine woke feeling properly rested, relaxed and happy for the first time since - actually, she wasn't sure when.  Maybe it helped that the house was warmer than usual, despite the morning being one of crisp, cold sunlight, as she had set the heating to come on a fraction earlier and left it on later the evening before.  She could hear music from one of the girls' rooms and cheeping sparrows on the tree outside her window.  She decided to make herself a cup of tea and come back to bed for another half hour.

Everyone, it seemed, was delighted that Catherine had a job, even it was part-time and might only last a month or so.  She had told Aunty Ruby on the way home, when she got on the bus at Tesco.  She bought a caramel cake in the Co-op, sharing the good news with Gwen on the till, and had a small celebration with the girls when they arrived home from school.  She sent a text to Colin at the Jobcentre.  It would have been nice to call a friend for a long chat in the evening but instead she put her feet up, poured herself a small glass of the usual weak wine and put on a movie.  

Alex had watched with her for a while, until she decided it was pants and went to her room.  There was still no sign of the tablet.  According to Alex, Leo had already sold it but had promised to get her a better one to replace it, for no extra money.  Catherine wondered whether the boy was saying this to avoid his own family finding out about his antics.  Whatever the reason, Alex seemed happy to leave it at that, continuing to borrow her sister's in exchange for nail varnish.

The morning passed in leisurely chaos, Catherine working through her chores while the girls drifted about in pyjamas and dressing gowns, fetching cereal and milk to take back to their rooms, reappearing downstairs a little before midday, apparently because they needed a larger space in which to argue.  Catherine left them in the living room, squabbling over the remote control.  She wanted a couple of fresh items from the allotment and a walk outdoors while it was still bright.  She also fancied sharing her good news with her friends.  She felt sure that Ralph would be pleased for her, if he was there.

She was slightly disappointed not to see him when she arrived and there was no sign of Bernie either, although there were ten bags of well-rotted horse manure stacked neatly beside her shed.  Lionel, however, was busy lining one of his scratch-built greenhouses with bubble-wrap.

'Hello Cathy!  Long time, no see!'  Lionel always called her Cathy, presumably because Will had done.  She had never had the heart to ask him to use her full name, as she preferred.  'How are you?'

'I'm well,' she assured him.  'How have you been keeping?'

'I'm soldiering on, my dear,' he chuckled.  'Got a splendid crop of sweet potatoes out of here this year, you know, despite old Doom 'n' Gloom over there swearing I wouldn't get anything worth eating.'  He jerked his thump derisorily at Bernie's plot.  'Did I give you some okra?'

'You did, Lionel.  Thank you.'

'How about some Jerusalem artichokes?  They're just coming into season.'  He pottered out of the greenhouse and armed himself with a fork.

'Isn't that were your sunflowers were growing?'

'They weren't sunflowers.  Well, technically they were, I suppose...'

Lionel insisted on excavating some of his crop for her.  She offered some curly kale in exchange, but he wouldn't hear of it.

'You'll need that to feed your young ladies through the winter,' he insisted.

'If only!  They won't touch it,  Unfortunately, I seem to have the only teenage girls in the country who aren't flirting with going vegetarian.'

'Ralph says they're a credit to you.'

'He did?'

Catherine was surprised.  She thought both had behaved rather badly during his visit, giggling their way through the meal and being both shy and cheeky when he spoke to them.

'He's a nice chap, is Ralph.'

'Yes, I suppose he is.'  Catherine picked up her bag of produce. 

'I hope I'm not speaking out of turn, but I do believe he's carrying a torch for you.'

'I don't think so!'  

On the contrary, it was something she had suspected, indeed feared, from his first offer of help with her potato crop to that clumsy attempt to help her financially with the ‘lost’ twenty-pound note.  She had tried to keep him at a distance and then, since that didn’t seem to be dissuading him, had invited him to dinner so that he could see she was managing perfectly well as a lone parent, that her daughters were well cared-for, her house clean and tidy, her life in order.  She was in no need of rescue.

'He's far too much of a gentleman to say anything,' Lionel continued cheerfully.  'He would never do anything to upset you.'

There was just a hint in his tone that Ralph was being contrasted to a previous man in her life.

'I have to go,' Catherine said.  ‘It’s nice to see you again, Lionel.  If you see Ralph, let him know that I have a job now.’

‘I think I might let you give him the good news yourself.’  Lionel leaned on his fork and studied her shrewdly.  'He thinks you're still mourning Will, you know.'

'I know he does.'

'William was a charming fellow, of course,' Lionel said quietly.  'Or so he appeared, to most people.'

Catherine remembered what Ralph had told her about her late husband's disagreement with his neighbour.  She wondered if her elderly neighbour shared the commonly-held image of her as the grieving widow of a devoted spouse.  She stood her bag down.

'Ralph said you had a disagreement with him, once.'

'You could say that.'  Lionel replied.  'He had quite a temper on him, didn't he?'

'Yes.'  Catherine decided there was no point in lying.  'Yes, he did, although he hid it well, most of the time.  He never lost his temper with the girls.'

‘What about you?'

Catherine was strongly inclined to tell the old man it was none of his business.  'I'm not sure I want to discuss that now,' she said firmly.

Lionel didn’t appear offended.  'If you ever do, I am more than willing to be a listening ear.'

‘Thanks, Lionel, but…’

Catherine had always imagined that conversation, when it came, would be with a trusted female friend, someone she had known for years and shared confidences with from childhood.  The problem with that idealised picture was that she had no close female friends.  There had never been many; she had been a shy and insecure child and awkward teen.  Then, over twenty years of marriage, Will had slowly eased those few out of her life.  He had never expressly forbidden her from contacting them nor destroyed cards or letters.  He was much clever than that.  He played a long game, persuading her that she didn't need those on the edge of her circle, that they were a nuisance, calling at inconvenient times, demanding her attention when he wanted to do something special, using her but not giving back.  After that, he started, gently, undermining the others, reluctantly confiding cruel words one friend spoke against another, sowing seeds of suspicion that one had tried to seduce him, or that another alleged Catherine herself was too close to her husband.  Catherine let them go, either through neglect or, more painfully, through disagreement, Will was always there to comfort her after the rows, to smile and to tell her how it didn’t matter because she had him, she had her daughters, she had a lovely home.  She had everything a woman could want, really.  It was all just as it should be, as it used to be in the old days.  She didn't need to worry, she didn't need to work.

‘Did he say anything to you, to make you suspicious?’ she asked.

‘Goodness, no.  He was always saying how lucky he was, how good you were.  He never had a bad word for you.’

‘So what makes you think we weren’t happy.’

Lionel looked at his boots.

‘My father used to talk about my mother like that.  As if she were an angel.  Everybody though he adored her.  He thought he adored her.’  He looked over at Catherine.  ‘You might not be ready to talk about your troubles yet but, if that old fool Bernie hasn’t left the lid loose on the jar and let the milk powder get damp again, I think I could do with a nice cup of tea.’

Catherine walked over to the hut with him.  There were a few familiar figures hard at work.  Big Sally and her bashful young husband were laughing about something.  The shy old couple on the corner plot were hard at work.  Fortunately, the hut was quiet.  She lit the little stove and filled the kettle.

‘Sometimes, it’s things seeming too perfect that gives the game away,’ Lionel continued.  ‘The neatness, the tradition, the politeness.  It’s too clean and too cold.’

Catherine wasn’t sure whether he was talking about his own father or about Will.

‘It’s all about control, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Control.  That’s certainly part of it.  It’s also about weakness; finding someone else who is even weaker than you and using their helplessness to make you feel strong.’

Catherine didn’t tell Lionel anything about her life with Will.  She listened to him talking about his bullying, perfectionist father and fearful, subservient mother, she kept him company while he drank his tea and she walked back to his plot with him afterwards.

'Don't say anything to the others. will you?' she said, as she turned for the gate.  ‘Especially not to Ralph.’

‘I promise,’ he said.