Chapter Thirty-Four - Shelter

Monday 4th December

'Hilary!  Hilary!'

Someone was shaking her gently by the shoulder.  Hilary Carrington opened her eyes.  Despite the hardness of the camp bed's thin mattress and the snoring of some of her companions, she had fallen asleep; she sensed, from the darkness, that she had slept only briefly and there was a crisis of some sort which needed her attention.

'What's the matter?' she asked anxiously.

'It's eight o'clock,' said Paula.  'Tom asked me to give you a nudge in case you wanted a cooked breakfast or porridge and toast, as the hot food is going fast.'

'Eight o'clock!  It can't be!' 

Hilary sat up and focused on her odd surroundings.  A night-light glowed on a shelf beside Terry's well-ordered ranks of tinned stuff.  Her bed was in the foodbank storeroom, closest to the door, one of five.  The one immediately beside her was undisturbed, its pillow undented and its blankets neatly folded.  The other three were empty now but had been slept in, their covers disarranged when their occupants got up for their morning meal.

'I guess you had a quiet night,' said Paula.

'Reasonably so,' Hilary replied.  She was concerned that she had slept so deeply she hadn't heard the other women get up.  It had been her responsibility to make sure they had a safe night's sleep.

Hilary would have preferred to have settled down to sleep at Tom's side that night, in their new bedroom, in their new house.  They had finally moved on Saturday, aided by the Construction Co-op's cheerful team and their small fleet of bio-diesel vans.  Sally refused to take payment for the job, despite seeing that her workers did, insisting it was a thank you present to Tom, who had announced he was finally laying down his paint brushes at Christmas.  All the furniture was where it needed to be; the essentials were unpacked.  There remained a myriad of sorting and tidying tasks, although Hilary almost looked forward to these.  She had grown fond of her former home, falling back in love with it after years of tragedy and resentment, as she and Tom had built their married life together there.  She had indulged herself, designing the guest rooms and dressing the communal areas when they launched their Bed and Breakfast enterprise.  She and Tom had made a miniature country estate of the walled rear garden, planting and pruning and lazing and, sometimes, frolicking naughtily through the warm days of shared summers.  When it was finally time to leave for the last time she had wept, hiding her tears against Tom’s shoulder.  Despite this, she had no doubt they had made the right decision to move on before Andromeda House became too much of a burden.  Her 'little cottage' came with the promise of quieter, slower days; of independence into their older age, of easy access to all the facilities - bookshops, theatres, restaurants, health centres, hospitals - they might need for a contented retirement.  

It also came with finite space and an imperative to declutter still further.  Having entrusted some of her furniture to her niece, Hilary was left agonising about which of her prints and pictures they should keep and which should be hawked around the well-stocked charity shops of Winchester.  She pondered this on their way down to their shift at the Community Café’s night shelter, sharing her thoughts with Tom and trying to coax some preferences from her husband.  Of course, she would be the first to concede that it was ridiculous to make a fuss about such trivial matters, especially when she would be spending the next twelve or more hours in the company of men and women with neither pictures nor walls on which to hang them, but in such a small space a bad selection would jar terribly.

‘Why don’t we store all of those we can’t find room for in our rooms at the back of the wardrobe for now, my love, and have a fresh look at them in the spring,’ Tom suggested, with eminent good sense.  ‘We don’t have to throw everything out all at once, you know.’

Hilary had continued mentally positioning her prints and paintings in her new home, using the exercise to help her find sleep, once she was sure the women she was keeping company were themselves settled.  It helped to stop her dwelling on their troubles.  She had listened to them all, and to some of the men who had been bedded down in the main café area, offering advice where she had the skills to do so.  Many of their troubles spilled well beyond problematic benefit claims and flawed decisions, although almost all could fairly identify that as a factor.  Vandeny, the Lithuanian meat-packer whose zero-hours contract gave him too low a wage for his work to count as genuine and effective, had lost his housing benefit, and then his roof, and finally his job, as a result.  Hilary offered him an emergency appointment at the Solent Welfare Right's Project, but he was afraid to appeal the decision, convinced he would be deported if he made trouble.  Hilary, who knew nothing of the Home Office's workings, was in no position to reassure him otherwise. 

Denis had been found fit for work, when he was evidently in no such state.  He had tried to make a new claim for Universal Credit but failed, despite help to get online, having no acceptable proof of his identity to show at the Jobcentre and no patience for what seemed unduly personal questions asked to try to establish it.  He agreed to wait around after breakfast for the IT clinic team to see if they could set him up a fresh claim and negotiate a meeting to break the deadlock. 

Andy wasn’t fit for work.  The DWP agreed.  His benefits were in payment, as far as he knew, but into a mate’s account.  He wasn’t mates with that mate anymore but he didn’t know how to contact the Social or change the arrangements for his payments.  Hilary said she’d see him first thing, before they formally opened to the public.  A little unworthily, she rather hoped he might use the cafe's facilities to take a shower and get some clean clothes before they were closeted together.

Two of the women were also without funds.  Monika from Hungary had been begging since her time-limited JSA had run out; she confided to Hilary that she had done street sex work as a last resort the previous week, before learning about the café.  She could get no help from the state without a job first; she understood this.  Paula promised to see if anyone connected with the café or Father Cornelius's church needed a cleaner.  It had worked as a way in to the system for vulnerable migrant women before but Hilary couldn’t help thinking that was a shocking waste of Monika’s talents as a chemistry graduate.

Nicole Hamilton had only recently become homeless after being evicted from a rented house in the south of the borough.  Her ex-husband had taken in their three sons but couldn’t house Nicole and, without her dependent children, the Council decided it had no duty to her.  The root of her crisis lay in the Benefit Cap.  Although of ‘limited capability for work’ due to her mental health, Nicole hadn’t made the grade for the Support Group and her boys were all in robust good health too, growing fast, physically active, eating incessantly, fighting like rats in a sack. 

‘Their dad’s going to get the shock of his life!’ she laughed.

Their dad, settled with a new partner and a new baby, wasn’t all that well-paid himself, according to Nicole, and had been in no position to rescue them when the bailiff arrived. Hilary wondered how secure the boys’ new home would prove to be.  Certainly their step-mother’s charity might run low when she found they could claim Tax Credits for the boys but, with more than two children now in their care, would lose it for her own child.

Nicole joked bitterly that she would have found it easier to budget if they had been more like the couch potato kids who populated so-called documentaries on benefit claimants.  Her boys wore out their cheap supermarket clothes and shoes long before they could be passed down to the next brother.  Nicole got about fifty pounds a week in Housing Benefit.  Her rent had been more than three times that, leaving her with the almost hopeless task of making up the difference from her Tax Credits.  She had managed to do that for a surprisingly long time and might have carried on, had she not made the mistake of borrowing from a local loan shark to pay off the debts from the previous Christmas.  She wouldn’t name names; she still owed him and she would still have to pay him, when she was back on her feet, or there would be trouble for her and for the boys.  

‘What if you could move a long way from here?’ Hilary asked.  

'I would, but the boys need their dad.  He and I fell out but they think the world of him.  He's not a bad man.'

'Could he approach the police about this money lender?'

'I wouldn't want him to.  Not with the baby.'

Hilary couldn't believe that gangster tactics would really be used in such a salubrious suburb but she could say nothing to prompt Nicole to face her fears and report the loan shark. 

Nicole had never meant to be in the house right up to the day the bailiffs came, but there had been nowhere else for her to go.  Her ex-husband had finally agreed to take the boys the night before, if it turned out that her landlord was serious.  He had been certain it wouldn’t happen, that the landlord couldn’t chuck kids out or that, if he could, the Council would have to rescue them and stick them in a decent house at the taxpayer’s expense.  When it looked like they were all heading for a cheap B&B in a dodgy neighbourhood, he agreed to take in his boys.  Nicole was on her own.  She stayed with a friend for a few nights but that ‘didn’t work out.’  She didn’t know who to ask for help finding a hostel place, although she didn’t think she wanted one, from what she’d heard the other rough sleepers saying about some of them, and there was no way she could raise a deposit for anywhere in the private sector.

‘The team here can talk to you about the different hostels,’ Hilary assured her, kindly.  ‘They aren’t all dens of iniquity!’

‘Have you stayed in one?’

Hilary had to admit that she had not.

The last of the women seeking a bed for the night was Lydia, fleeing an abusive relationship without children and unable to get a space in a refuge because they were full of families waiting to be rehoused.  After spending the previous night on the city streets, she had almost been desperate enough to go back and take whatever her partner – quite literally – threw at her, until a fellow rough-sleeper put her wise to the café.  They had walked there together; her companion had picked up a nasty cut on the face from a plastic bottle hurled at them from a passing car, which Hilary had cleaned and dressed using the Project’s first aid kit.  Lydia too was wary of going into a general hostel.  Hilary could offer her no solutions.

‘Are you alright, my love?’ Tom asked, when they had sat together for a supper soup before helping to set the beds up.

‘I feel terrible,’ she replied.  ‘Here we are, moving into our lovely little house, when these people have nothing, literally nothing!  There’s so little I can do.  It’s a vicious circle; they can’t get the help they need with their rent unless they can work but they’re unemployable without a home.  They can’t get subsistence benefits unless they have valid identification documents, but some had to abandon those when they lost or fled their previous home.  With no income at all, they can’t even get rooms in cheap rented houses and even some of the charities turn them away.  I've never seen so much utter misery, Tom, not in all the years I've done this type of work.’  She lowered her voice.  ‘I’m tempted to put up the deposit money for all three of the women here tonight, you know.  We’ve got it, now the old house has been sold.’

Tom had said that was for her to decide, supportively as ever, but without real enthusiasm.  Hilary thought through the practicalities.  She was sure she could make her gifts anonymously, perhaps with the aid of Father Cornelius.  Her worry was where it might end.  She and Tom had promised regular weekend shifts in the run-up to Christmas and into the New Year, for as long as the café could open.  She might set aside the money to get tonight’s homeless women into rooms, only to meet even more needy cases next week, and the week after.  Might it not be better, fairer, to make a generous donation to one of the refuges or housing charities?  Yet that wouldn’t move any one of her companions that night closer to a safe bed for the future.  The urge to do something practical for the people right in front of her, rather than anonymous strangers, had been almost overwhelming.  

The light of morning made matters no simpler.  When she got up and dressed, not having slept fully-clothed as her companions in the makeshift dormitory had done, she found the café clientele already changing, as the night’s guests finished their breakfasts and ambled away, some to secure the best of the daytime pitches, others to appointments with housing professionals and agencies, and paying guests for breakfast coming in.  Tom, looking typically dishevelled and rather haggard, was dishing up scrambled eggs and sausages.

‘Just a little egg and toast for me, Tom darling,’ said Hilary.  I must have a wash and brush up before we start work – I promised someone an early appointment.’

She couldn’t recall which of the whiskery faces she had made that pledge to.

‘Have you had any more thoughts about…?’

‘I’m not sure.  I really must do something, but I have to be realistic too.’

‘That’s true, my love.  We can’t rescue everyone.’  He put two slices of buttered toast and a generous scoop of scrambled egg onto a plate for her.

‘That doesn’t mean we can’t rescue someone,’ she answered.  ‘The awful thing is deciding who.'

Which almost made it easier to do nothing.  Doing nothing, however, was not Hilary’s way.  She looked to see if Father Cornelius was still breakfasting but there was no sign of him.  She resolved to catch him for a quiet word later in the day.  She took a seat at a quiet corner table to think on her own.

'Wotcha Hils!'  Sally Archer crashed into the seat opposite her, clutching a fry-up in one hand and a huge mug of tea in the other.  'Rough night?'

'Frustrating, Sally,' Hilary replied, trying not to wonder what the question said about her appearance.  'I feel quite helpless in the face of all this.'

'Austerity sucks,' said Sally, shovelling a forkful of baked beans into her mouth.

Hilary agreed.

'Can I ask you something, strictly in confidence?' she asked Sally.

Sally nodded.

'Is there a loan shark in your village?'  Hilary half expected Sally to laugh at the very idea. 

'At least one, yeah,' she said.  'Though I hope he'll see the error of his ways, shortly.'

'Sorry?'  Hilary was taken aback.

'Wayne Reynolds owes me a favour after messing up Dan's chances on Amazing Designs, so I've asked him to pay it forwards.'

'Sally...!'

'No-one's going to get hurt.  He's promised me that.  Wayne's hard but he's a man of his word and anyway, if he got into trouble with the law, Marie would murder him!'

'Does he still let property?' asked Hilary, not entirely reassured.

'Is Father Cornelius Catholic?' laughed Sally.  'He's got as much as ever, though Marie's nudged him up-market from his old student squats and HMOs, into the executive dwellings sector.'

That was a pity.  Hilary had hoped he might have some low-budget empty homes she could ask him to rent to her homeless women.

Sally ploughed relentlessly through her meal, wiped her mouth, slung her hard hat back on her head and wished Hilary a good day.

'We're almost finished over the road,' she said.  'Or we hope we are, anyway.  The trouble is, Wave keep changing their minds about what they want to do with it.  First it was shops at the bottom and flats for vulnerable young people above, but they got objections to that.  Then it was going to be student accommodation, but that's been voted out too.'  She looked around the café.  'It'll be a shame if it's empty over Christmas.'

'It would be, wouldn't it?'

Hilary could definitely feel a plan coming together.  However, she needed to talk to Paula rather than the priest about it.

Chapter Thirty-Three - Site Meeting

Sunday 3rd December

The kettle on the site hut's camping stove started to whistle, swiftly rising from an uncertain warble to a shriek before Lionel Blampied could extinguish the flame and pour its contents into a random collection of chipped, quirky and not entirely hygienic mugs.

'Two sugars was it, Sue?'

The Police Community Support Officer nodded.  'I shouldn't really, but...'

Lionel passed round the rest of the drinks.  That old rogue Bernard accepted his with unusual civility, probably because the presence of a carton of fresh milk had prevented the customary bickering over who was to blame for letting the powdered stuff get damp.

'So you have our felons?' Lionel confirmed.

'We think so,' PCSO Sue Lanham replied.  'If it's the same bunch of lads who were caught on CCTV raiding the Netley site the following night.  We've identified one of them and brought him in for a chat and he'll probably lead us to his mates without even realising what he's said.'

'Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, then?' asked Ralph.

'You could say that.'

'Are we likely to get our tools back?' Bernie queried.

'It's too soon to say but, unless they've simply passed them on as scrap metal, I would be surprised if they had disposed of them all yet.  That's why I've popped in to check we have the full inventory.'

Lionel and Ralph had, between them, managed to speak to everyone on the site since the break-in and almost all had found time to check their sheds and report any absences.  Lionel was reasonably confident that the thieves had not been targeting scrap metal.  His odd collection of rusty-looking improvised tools would have met that specification with no difficulty and his shed was unguarded, yet it had been untouched.  His neighbour's shed however, which boasted a hefty padlock and sturdy construction, had been forced open and the pick of the shiny Spear and Jackson contents spirited away.  Everyone, except Lionel, had assumed Catherine would be devastated at the loss of her late husband's treasured tools.

'We ought to set up a Just Giving page for her,' Sally had suggested earlier that morning, when the assumption was that their tools were gone for good. 

'That's a nice idea,' said Steve, another of the gardeners.  'Will's things were nice but too big for her, really.  She could get herself a more suitable load of kit.'

'That's true, but Will's tools probably had sentimental value,' said Ralph.  'There's nothing we can do to soften that blow.'

'I'm not so sure,' Lionel had said.

'Something to show we all care would help, wouldn't it?' asked Sally.

'Then why not do an old-fashioned whip-round?' Bernie argued.  'I'll start the kitty off with a tenner...'

'She won't accept it,' insisted Ralph.

'Why not?' asked Bernie.  'She's not well-off.'

'That's why she won't,' Ralph replied.

'How's that?'

'She's a very proud and independent lady.  She won't accept charity - or anything that looks like charity to her.  You certainly won't get her to accept money.  It'll simply end up in the tea fund.'

'How can you be so sure?' Bernie persisted.  'It'll cost a fair bit to buy everything she needs.  If she's hard up, surely she'll be glad of a helping hand.' 

'I think Ralph's right,' Sally said.  'She won't take our money.  What she might accept would be the loan of some spare tools.'

'That seems a bit tight-fisted to me,' said Bernie.

'We don't have to loan her our worst tools and we don't have to ask for them back,' Sally replied.  'We could all find a couple of things, I'm sure.'

'Yours are even bigger and heavier than poor old Will's!' Bernie teased.

'I've got some hand tools Dan's step-mum gave me.  They're really pretty too, but I'd probably just snap them if I tried to use them.  I'll see if she'd like them.'

'Don't all ask at once,' Ralph warned.  'She'll know we're up to something.'

In the event, it seemed their carefully worked plan might not be necessary after all, if PCSO Sue was right about the stolen goods. 

Sally was still inclined to offer her flowery trowel as a present, since it would otherwise continue to gather dust at the back of the greenhouse or risk being used to stir the bio-diesel brew.  When Bernie and Steve had gone back to their plots and Sue had left too, Sally shared this idea with Lionel and Ralph.

'I bet she wouldn't let you buy her dinner last night either,' Sally said to Ralph.  She caught Lionel's eye as she asked and winked.

'Actually no, she wouldn't,' Ralph replied.  'I felt dreadful about it.  I wouldn't have asked her if I'd known she would insist on paying her half.  It's awfully nice food at the old Temeraire but it's quite pricy.'

'You had a nice date, though?' asked Sally.

'It wasn't a date, as such...'

'Bollocks!' said Sally.  'It was totally a date!'

'Honestly not,' Ralph insisted.  'Not that I'm not awfully fond of her, but I have the feeling it's still all rather too soon.  It's not a year yet, you know.'

'Did she talk about Will?' Lionel asked.  He supposed not.  Ralph still seemed to have the late Mr Collier ensconced in his saint's niche.

'We talked about gardening more than anything else,' Ralph replied.  'I was telling her about my blasted leaky pond in the back garden and she was complaining that he landlord won't even let her put out a bird bath!  She chatted about the girls as well, of course.  She thinks the world of them but I rather think they lead her a merry dance at times.'

'You're not wrong,' Sally said.  'The older one threw a proper strop when Shane was cheering for the Solent Welfare Rights Project's workers, and named Catherine as one of them.  I didn't hear the whole thing, but it sounded like she'd told her mates her mum worked somewhere else.'

'Why ever would she do that?' asked Ralph.  'Catherine speaks very well of her colleagues and, from what I saw of them, they seemed very decent sorts, if a trifle alternative.'

'Not unlike myself, in fact!'  Lionel laughed. 

'They are the best colleagues,' Sally agreed.  'Apart from my current gang.'

'From what I recall of being fifteen, alternative wasn't a quality much admired in parents or family friends,' Ralph conceded.  'Dull and safe, with grey suits and well-polished shoes, thus suitable for rebellion against was the ideal.  Parents with cooler friends than ones own were quite a challenge.'

'I remember your mother,' Lionel said gently.

'Everybody does,' Ralph answered.  'She's still going strong, you know.'

'How old is she?'

'Eighty-five,' said Ralph.  He turned to Sally.  'She lives on the Algave, in an artists' colony.'

'Is she the naturist?' Sally asked.

'Er, yes.'  Ralph looked at the floor.  'Actually, she is.'

'No wonder she lives somewhere warmer!'  Sally laughed.  'Do you ever go to visit her?'

'I do.  Not actually at home, however.  I'm not quite brave enough!'

'It'll make introducing her to Catherine tricky,' Sally continued.  'I bet she would like a holiday, though.  Her daughter's looking forward to hers.'

'Really?'  Lionel was surprised.  'Catherine told me a little while ago that she couldn't afford to let her go - strictly in confidence, that is...'

'She was bragging about it to her friends last night,' Sally said.  'Before the strop.'

'Perhaps there's been a change of plan, now she has a job,' Lionel said.

'I don't think so,' said Ralph.  'She confided in me yesterday evening that she felt terrible, because she'd had to step in to make Alexandra cancel her school trip.  The silly girl had been selling things to try and raise the money for it.'

'What sort of things?' asked Sally.  Lionel thought she suddenly looked anxious.

'Electronics, I seem to recall.'

'A computer?'

'I think so.  A tablet, I think she said.'  He too seemed to notice Sally's expression had changed.  'Are you sure she was talking about still going?'

'Definitely.  It may be nothing, she might just be keeping up the pretence until she can come up with a sympathetic reason to drop out, but there was a boy hassling Alexandra at the gig.  I didn't catch exactly what he was saying to her.  It sounded like she owed him something but it didn't look healthy, so I told him to behave.'

'What happened?' asked Ralph.

'He behaved.'

'Who was he?' asked Lionel.

'She called him Leo.'

'Leo Finn?' asked Ralph.  'I think that was who Catherine said had bought the tablet.'

'It's not that common a first name, so I guess so.'  Sally wrinkled her nose, as if detecting a bad smell.  'I didn't like his attitude.'

'I do hope Catherine's daughter isn't still trying to find the money for this school trip,' Ralph said.

'I bet you a jar of Lionel's brightest Borlotti beans she is!'

'Oh bugger!' said Ralph.

'Ralph!  I don't believe I've ever heard you swear before.  Whatever is the matter?'

Catherine stepped into the hut,  Ralph looked abashed.

'He's just disappointed that the police haven't found our tools yet,' Sally explained hastily.

'Have I missed the meeting?  I hoped they might still be here.'

'PCSO Sue dropped in,' Lionel explained.  She thinks they might have our bandits, if they're the same band they caught raiding another site.'

'In the meanwhile, wait there!'  Sally strode off towards her plot.

'She has some spare tools she thinks might do for you,' Ralph explained.

'Won't they be taller than me?' laughed Catherine.

Sally returned with the pretty tools, still in their gift box.

'I'm scared of bending them,' she said, handing them to Catherine.

'Are you sure?  Can I give you anything...?'

'That's cool, but no.  They'll only go rusty where they are.  You use them as long as you need - or until there's a little Sally who needs them, eh?'  She laughed.  'Must go - I've decided to take Dan for a pub lunch.'

'From that remark, I wonder if she needs to sit him down with a stiff drink,' said Ralph.

'Can you imagine the havoc a little Sally could cause?' Lionel sighed.

'Easily,' Catherine replied.  'Still, if I've missed the meeting, I had better get home before my own daughters cause any more.'

'Is everything alright?' asked Ralph.

'No worse than usual, I suspect.  No doubt I'll find out over Sunday lunch.  I came up to get some greens.  I'm glad you're here, though.  I didn't really get chance to thank you properly for yesterday evening.'

'It was my pleasure, Catherine...'

Lionel moved towards the door, lest he spoil the moment.  He almost walked into Bernie, coming in.

'Ralph and Catherine,' he tried to explain.  'They're talking...'

'Good.  I thought I saw her come in here.  I've got a spare fork for her.'

'Can't it wait?'

'I want a brew too.'

Lionel sighed.  Short of battering the old fool round the head with a large bunch of mistletoe, there seemed no way to stop him blundering in and interrupting.  Poor Ralph.  Poor Catherine.  Their lives darkened by the shadow of a man who neither could admit was a monster and beset by troubles and idiots.  There had to be something he could do to clear the path of cupid’s arrow.

‘Bernie,’ he said, catching his rival’s arm.  ‘I hate to admit it, old chap, but you may have a point about the importance of winter digging.  I couldn’t prevail upon you to take a look at a spot of troublesome weed growth around my cardoons, could I?’

‘Nothing a blast of Roundup won’t sort, I reckon…’

That would be the end of the cardoons too, of course, and of thirty years of organic cultivation.  However, it might allow a little love to flourish, which would be no bad thing.

Chapter Thirty-Two - The Chancellor's Men

Saturday 2nd December

Shane, Josh and Archie, aka The Chancellor's Men, had an ultimatum from Rob, the landlord of The Fighting Temeraire.  They must complete their sound checking before restaurant service started at six-thirty, start their gig promptly at eight, play for no less than three-quarters of an hour before taking a break, resume at nine and finish any encores by ten. 

'You're not my customers' usual line in musical entertainment,' he told the boys, as they hauled their gear in from Archie's van.  'If anyone other than Sally had asked, I would have said no.  No swearing, don't overdo the Live Aid stuff and keep the politics light - got it?'

They said they had.

'What the fuck are we going to play?' asked Josh.  'All our material's political.' 

'He didn't say no politics, just that we should keep it light,' Shane pointed out.

'What the fuck does that mean?'

'Fuck knows,' said Shane.  'Archie'll have to work that out.'

Archie was looking through their planned running order.

'We can still start with The Austerity Song.  I'll cut the second verse. We can do verse three twice.'

Shane ran through the lyrics in his mind.

'We can't do verse three twice.  We can't even do it once, down here.'

'Why not?'

'It's about what happens when the people take control,' said Shane.  'And Sink the Tax-Exiles' Luxury Yachts.  This audience actually has yachts!'

'I'll think of something else to sing instead.'  He smiled at his band.  'Trust me!'

'We're going to get barred,' said Josh, when Archie went in search of bar snacks and a longer extension lead for his mic.

Shane agreed they were on risky territory.  Belting out rabble-rousing, red-flag lyrics in pubs and clubs in town or at student venues was usually safe enough.  Half of the audience agreed with them.  The other half didn't care about the words as long as they could dance to the beat.  Shane and Josh had that side covered.  

Archie remained confident that they could run through their whole repertoire without coming to blows with the crowd, as long as he either tailored some of the lyrics or mumbled them.

'If we get through the first half and no-one's throwing glasses, we'll kick of after the break with Who Killed Daniel Blake, then I'll give Martin the nod to come up and say a few words about the Solent Welfare Rights Project.'

'What if they are throwing glasses?' asked Josh.

'We'll send Martin out first.'

The boys had their stage set up, sound-checked and ready to go in good time.  Rob was impressed.  They bought chips and soft drinks and found a quiet corner from which to watch the audience arrive.  Shane was surprised how young most of them seemed to be.

‘I’ve seen an older crowd for a primary school assembly!’ he complained to his mates.  ‘What the fuck sort of marketing did you do?’

‘I thought you were doing the marketing,’ said Archie.  ‘It was your idea to come down here.’

‘Only because they do a Friday morning foodbank down here.  Not here, exactly – up on the estate.  I couldn’t see any point in doing a fund-raiser there, if it’s full of poor people, and there wasn’t a venue anyway, so Sally asked here.’

‘Uprising Sally?’

Sally Archer had earned her nickname by regularly requesting the band’s cover version of the Muse track of that name.

‘Yeah.  She lives down this way.’

‘If she comes, she’ll be the oldest person in the room at this rate.’

Shane looked at the audience again.  So far, there were a cluster of about fifteen girls, mostly about his sister’s age but trying to look older, a couple of even younger girls trying even harder to look grown up and a few spotty youths.  Most had their phones out but two of the girls seemed to have noticed the band and were looking at them, as if they recognised them.

‘That’s my cousin Erin,’ said Josh.

‘Maybe we should make her our marketing manager,’ Archie replied.  ‘Our whole audience are her friends, from the look of it.’

‘This is going to be a disaster,’ Josh sighed.

Ten minutes later, at seven forty-five, the room was packed and at least three-quarters of the crowd were adults.  There were some familiar faces; Sally and Dan, Martin, Toby and Jan.  Most of them, however, were strangers; well-dressed, well-spoken strangers.  Shane had a moment of doubt.  They didn’t seem the sort to fight poverty or feed the homeless, still less sink tax-evaders’ yachts. 

Archie made his way to the bar to buy another round of soft drinks for his younger band-mates.

‘We’re dead,’ said Josh.

‘I’m going to suggest we stick to covers,’ Shane replied.

‘We could do your new one.’

‘Goth Girl?’  Shane wasn’t happy that they’d got the mood of the song right yet.  ‘We can’t start with it.  It’s too down-beat.’

‘It’s not political.’

‘It is.  It’s feminist.’

Josh suggested the change of plan to Archie.

‘Fuck it,’ he said.  ‘We’re starting with The Austerity Song and we’re singing all three verses, in full.’

‘Whatever you say,’ Josh answered.  ‘I’m safely at the back.’

‘Let’s do this!’ said Shane.

Forty-five minutes later, they stepped away from their instruments, lively applause still ringing in their ears.

‘Epic!’ said Shane, catching Archie’s eye.

‘Yeah,’ the vocalist replied.  ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’

‘Me neither.’

Josh had made a bolt for the bar, where he was being plied with offers of alcohol, which he reluctantly declined.

Shane took a seat and waited for Josh to bring over their drinks.

‘You were brilliant.’

It was the girl who had been sitting with the kid Josh had pointed out as his cousin Erin.  She was pretty.  She was also very young, barely a teenager.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked him.

‘I’m Shane.’

‘I’m Kirsty.’

‘Hello Kirsty.’

‘Don’t bother the band!’  An older, taller, brown-haired girl, with a round face and rounder figure, came across to draw the younger one away.  Shane guessed they might be sisters.

‘I’m not bothering him.  I was just saying they were good.’

‘She’s only thirteen,’ said the brown-haired girl.

‘And she’s only fifteen,’ said Kirsty.

‘You’re sisters?’ asked Shane.

‘How did you know?’

He was tempted to say he could tell from the way they fought each other.

‘You look similar.’

Kirsty looked mortified.  She went back to her friend.

‘I hope you enjoy the rest of the show,’ Shane said to the other girl.

‘Thanks.’

She went and sat with another group.  One of the youths started talking to her.  Shane couldn’t hear what they were saying but something struck him as unpleasant about his attitude towards the girl.  Sally Archer turned towards them and said something.  The youth loped away.

Shane missed whatever happened next, as Josh came back with two cokes and Archie sat down with a pint of beer.

‘Bastard!’ said Josh.

‘I’m allowed.  You guys aren’t.  End of.’

‘I can’t believe they like us,’ said Josh.

‘They love us,’ said Archie.

‘Who are they?’

‘Ask Sally.  She’s coming over.’

The construction manager took a seat with the band.

‘Great gig,’ she said.

‘Great audience,’ answered Archie.  ‘Who are they?’

‘Friends of ours, friends of theirs, regulars, and loads of people we don’t know.’  She looked around the room.  ‘Lionel’s already got a collection going for the Project and the foodbank.’

‘Which one’s Lionel?’ asked Josh.

‘The old man in the beret.’

Shane expected to see an ex-serviceman, but the beret was more artist than paratrooper.

‘What’s up after the break?’

‘We’re doing Who Killed Daniel Blake, then Martin’s saying a few words, then Hard Times, Hate the Mail and Goth Girl,’ said Archie.  ‘And Uprising for you, of course.’

‘Excellent!’  She stood up.  ‘It’s nearly time, too.’

The boys drank up and returned to their instruments.  The buzz of conversation died away.  Archie picked out Spring from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons on his guitar.  That drew a whoop from Martin, who knew well what was coming next.  The band delivered their song with confidence and compassion, then invited the adviser up to say his piece.

‘Keep the swearing under control, mate,’ Archie asked him.

By some miracle, Martin managed to say all that was needed without a single expletive.  As he was finishing, Shane saw another of the Welfare Rights Project’s team towards the back of the room, in the company of a tallish man with glasses.  Shane borrowed the mic to thank Martin and encourage the audience to get their wallets out to support the night-shelter and foodbank.

‘And let’s hear it for Martin Connolly, Toby Novak, Catherine Collier and…’  He stopped, as another familiar face appeared.  ‘And Ashley Richardson, all members of our amazing advice team.’

The crowd applauded, except for the brown-haired girl, who looked furious, two of the girls sitting with her, and Kirsty.

‘We can’t do Goth Girl,’ Shane whispered to Archie as they wrapped up the next song.

‘Why not?’

‘She’s here.  I’ll die of embarrassment.’

‘For fuck’s sake!’

‘I mean it.  Anyway, it’s not right yet.’

‘Okay.’  Archie thought for a moment.  ‘What about Top Trumps?’

It was funny.  It was political.  It was utterly profane.

‘Get Josh to put a cymbal in where the fucks usually go.’

‘Cool.’

If anything, it was funnier like that.

They finished a minute before ten with Sally’s song.  Josh came forward with the box of CDs.  Archie started signing the covers for the young females and some of their mothers.  Shane had to dash to the toilet.  On his way back, he found a couple of the teens snogging in the corridor.

‘You’re a bit young for that, Kirsty,’ he said.

She glowered at him, but ran back into the bar, leaving the boy looking very pissed off.

‘Find someone your own age,’ Shane advised him.  ‘She’s a little kid.’

He almost collided with the brown-haired girl as he came back in.

‘Did you enjoy the second half?’ he asked.

‘Don’t talk to me.’

‘Why?  What was wrong?’

‘You told them what my mum does.’

‘Your mum?’

‘Catherine Collier.’

‘I know.  She’s been working with us.  She’s nice.’

‘I told my friends she worked somewhere else.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s not a good job, is it?’

Shane was gobsmacked.  ‘Not a good job?  Didn’t you get anything we were singing about tonight?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Almost all our songs are about injustice and poverty.  People like your mum save people from this shit.  They’re brilliant.  You should be proud of her.’

‘They thought she worked in a bank.  Now they know it’s a foodbank.’

‘That would make a good lyric.’

The brown-haired girl laughed.  ‘I suppose it would.’

She followed Shane back into the bar.  He fetched her a CD.

‘That’s for you and Kirsty,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’

Shane and the band started to pack up.

‘Good set,’ said Ashley, helping to reel up the electric cabling.

‘Thanks for coming.’

‘Gavin brought me; my flatmate.’

Shane noticed a similarly pale-faced young man lurking at the back of the room.

‘Martin says it’s been a great night for the Project,’ she said.  ‘You’ve raised over three hundred quid for the night shelter.’

‘Really?’  That was far more than he had expected.

Archie was talking to Rob.

‘We might be back in the New Year,’ he told the band.  ‘But he wants less politics and a bit more romance.’

‘Don’t we all?’ said Shane, glancing at Ashley.

‘No,’ she said.

Shane watched her walk back to her male friend.

‘We’ll do Goth Girl next time,’ he said.