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‘OK,’ Lois said, glancing up from her phone as Grace worked on her laptop, ‘before we get on to jobs for you, here’s an app I found that you can download for your mum. It checks what she’s spending in the supermarket as she shops. Very useful, I’d say, stroke of genius on my part in finding it.’
Grace glanced at it, not sure how much use it was going to be, but maybe she could suggest it.
Lois continued, ‘Have you worked out yet what you’re going to do about your phone? I mean, you can’t not have a phone.’
Grace looked crestfallen. The contract was due to end in just over a month and Lois was right, she couldn’t not have a phone. ‘Mum’s getting me a sim so I’ll still be able to make calls and send texts,’ she said dolefully.
Lois regarded her with heartfelt sympathy. ‘Well, we’re almost always together,’ she said brightly, ‘so you can use my phone if you need to for Instagram and stuff.’
With a small but grateful smile, Grace pressed send on the latest homework assignment she’d carried out for a boy in her environmental studies class – an essay on the purpose of zoos in the twenty-first century – for which she’d already been paid two pounds, with two more to come after it had been read and approved by him.
‘You need to charge more,’ Lois told her sagely.
‘No one our age can afford it. So, tell me what you found out about me being able to get a job.’
Clicking through to the results of a Google search, Lois read from her phone. ‘OK, by law you can’t work during school hours, obvs, or before 7 a.m. or after 7 p.m., or for more than four hours without taking a break.’
‘Which leaves like no time at all. Does it say what kind of jobs I can do?’
Lois pulled a face as she scrolled on down. ‘You could clear tables at a café or restaurant after school, provided you can fit it in around all the other stuff we’ve got going on. Or you could wash up in the same sort of places, same hours, or you could help out with old people – actually that might be voluntary. Yes, it is.’ She looked defeated, but only for a moment. ‘I nearly forgot,’ she cried excitedly, ‘you could design websites. There’s no age restriction on that.’
‘Yeah, if I knew how.’
‘All right. So invent a video game …’
‘Lois!’
‘OK, OK! Let’s check to see how many views you’ve had for the video we posted on YouTube last night.’
‘I did, just now, and it’s still only twelve – I told you, not everyone gets Shakespeare – and I don’t see how it’s going to make us any money even if we got a thousand views.’ Grace sighed and picked up the ‘Glass is Greener’ water bottle Lois had given her for Christmas along with the dance classes. She drank, put the bottle down and watched Lois changing the screen on her phone. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘It’s time,’ Lois replied confidently, ‘to ask our Instagram and Facebook followers for any bright ideas on how to earn decent money at our age.’
Grace looked worried. This was something she knew neither of her parents would approve of, for it was too random, too likely to attract the wrong sort of suggestions. However, her dad was never going to know and nor would her mum, provided no one told her and it all worked out. So maybe Lois was right, they should cast the net wider, see if someone out there could come up with something brilliant that they hadn’t thought of. And if any creepy or gross responses came back, all they had to do was delete them.
Angie was in the office alone when she received an unexpected email from Martin Stone.
Hope Cliff was able to help this morning. Let me know if any problems, or anything more we can do. Martin.
In spite of being touched by the kindness Angie almost laughed to think of all the help she needed, and of how shocked he’d be if she sent him a list. Of course she never would, not only because she still had some pride in spite of not being able to afford it, but because he wasn’t actually offering to help her.
She messaged back: That’s really kind of you. A couple of residents have been in touch with Cliff, and were told he’ll get back to them in a couple of days. Angie. PS: I’ll let you know how it goes.
Wondering if her subconscious had added the last words in order to keep the door open for her to contact him again, she didn’t bother to try and analyse it further. She simply put it, and the pleasing lift his message had brought, out of her mind. She had far more serious and pressing issues to deal with right now than being in touch with a man who’d be even more embarrassed than she was if he thought she was in any way interested in him.
She wasn’t. All that mattered to her was how she was going to protect herself and her children from what was coming their way.
She’d opened the court letters now, having popped home an hour ago, so she knew that Roland Shalik hadn’t been making an idle threat. Notice had been served for her to be out of the house in less than four weeks. It wouldn’t even matter if she could pay the arrears, he wanted the house back and he wasn’t prepared to waste any more time in getting it.
Somewhere deep in her gut she felt nauseous, twisted up with anxiety, burning with a need to scream, but above it all, in a weirdly subdued sort of state, she was stunned and ashamed and so lost for answers that she wasn’t even capable of feeling a need to act. How could she, when she had no idea at this moment what to do?
She jumped at the sound of a thud in the next door storeroom, and relaxed again when she remembered Emma was in there sorting through a recent delivery of second-hand clothes to see if there was anything suitable for their residents. It was surplus from one of the charity shops on the seafront, brought here before the refugee crisis team came to scoop it up in the morning.
Angie dropped her head into her hands. She’d been worse than a fool – completely insane would be putting it mildly – to ignore the official-looking mail when it had come, but for the last few weeks she simply hadn’t been able to face any more bad news. There was no escaping it now, and as she pictured the children’s bedrooms, Liam’s zoo with all sorts of wild animals on the walls, Grace’s artiste’s dressing room, Zac’s soccer changing room, and all the treasured possessions they hadn’t yet sold, she had to fight back a bitter onslaught of tears. There was so much packing to be done, all kinds of painful decisions to make …
Taking a quick breath she forced herself back into the moment, and focused on what they were going to eat this evening. Thanks to the booty of freshly baked loaves from one of the resident’s overnight shift at the bakery they weren’t short of bread, and she was sure there were three cans of beans in the cupboard and two eggs in the fridge. There was more than that, such as a bottle of sunflower oil, a bag of flour, a jar of tomato purée, all kinds of things she couldn’t do much with unless she was able to combine them with ingredients they didn’t have.
A quick check at the ATM had told her that she still had six pounds in her account, so if she gave the children egg on toast tonight, they could have jacket potatoes and beans tomorrow. She’d have just toast. However, she might get the cash from the cleaning shift she’d covered at the restaurant this morning. They could have something far more wholesome then, maybe a big leafy salad with avocado dressing, one of Grace’s favourites, or chicken burgers and sweet potato mash, always a hit with Zac.
Her mouth watered almost painfully as she sent another text to her neighbour reminding her that she needed to be paid. The trouble was, Kirsty probably wouldn’t be able to manage it until she’d been paid herself.
Sending a silent message of thanks for the bread, she set about updating her files following the day’s meetings. The irony of having spent time trying to sort out long-term accommodation for her residents when she was about to lose her own home wasn’t lost on her, but what else could she do? Just because she was in trouble didn’t make their needs any the less, and she’d be certifiably crazy if she didn’t focus on her job. Without it she’d never exist on her reduced benefits, unless some miracle position with double the salary and the same semi-flexible hours cropped up, and she wasn’t holding her breath for that. Maybe she could talk to Ivan, see if he could arrange a loan from the church funds, but no sooner had the thought entered her head than she dismissed it. The amount she needed was too large, and anyway he’d just channel the vicar and start spouting passages from the Bible, as if holy words were some sort of universal panacea that held the answer to everything. In her experience they had the answer to just about nothing, but maybe she simply wasn’t clever enough to understand the clues.
‘Are you OK?’ Emma asked as she came into the office with a coat and two pairs of boots.
Angie sighed and would have said no, of course not, but that wasn’t going to help either of them, so she simply shrugged and tried for a smile.
‘I thought this might fit Douglas,’ Emma said, holding up the coat. ‘If it’s too big he can always use his belt to keep it together. It’ll make him look a bit of a dick, of course, but as I don’t think he ever looks in the mirror that shouldn’t be too much of a problem.’
Angie had to laugh.
‘Oh, wow,’ Emma murmured, glancing at her computer screen. ‘I’ve got a wave,’ and dropping the coat and boots on the floor she sat down, reaching for her mouse.
‘A what?’ Angie asked, frowning.
Emma’s eyes remained fixed on the screen. ‘A wave, from an admirer,’ she explained. A moment later she let go of the mouse and turned guilty eyes to Angie. ‘Sorry, bad timing, I …’
Angie shook her head. ‘Don’t be sorry. There’s no reason for your life to go on hold just because mine is falling apart.’
Emma flushed unhappily.
‘That came out badly,’ Angie sighed. ‘Why don’t you go ahead and check him out?’
Emma watched her sister as Angie made a pretence of carrying on with some work.
Though Angie could feel the scrutiny she didn’t acknowledge it, for she wasn’t yet ready to admit that she’d opened the court letters. She realized this meant she was in some form of denial, but better there for the moment than in the clutch of terrifying reality.
They couldn’t leave Willow Close, they just couldn’t. It was their home where Grace and Zac had always lived, where all their memories had been made, where Steve’s spirit still kept them going.
‘Angie,’ Emma probed gently.
Angie bit her lip and tried to smile. ‘So tell me about this dating site,’ she encouraged. ‘What’s he like, the guy who gave you a wave?’
Emma pulled a face. ‘A bit of a jerk,’ she admitted. She let a few moments pass and said chattily, ‘What if there’s someone out there who’s right for you, but he doesn’t know any other way to meet you?’
Angie’s eyes widened with as much surprise as annoyance as she said, ‘I’m hardly what you’d call a good catch right now, and anyway, don’t you find it a bit galling, or maybe demeaning, to think that a man has to be the answer to everything?’
Emma bristled. ‘That’s not what I think. Not even close, but what’s wrong with someone who makes you laugh, who thinks about you and how to make you happy?’
‘You’ve been watching too many rom-coms.’
Ignoring the put-down, Emma said, ‘Do you really think Steve would want you to carry on like this?’
Wishing with all her heart that Emma hadn’t mentioned Steve, Angie forced herself to remain silent as a ravaging, desperate grief rose up to swamp her.
‘What if,’ Emma persisted, ‘the answer to all your …’
‘Em, stop,’ Angie broke in raggedly. ‘Even if I wanted to meet someone, which I don’t, and even if he happens to be on that website, which I doubt, you have to admit that now really isn’t the time. So you go ahead and wave, use your bloody knickers if you want to, just please get off my case.’
Emma fell silent, so did Angie, but as the minutes ticked by Angie’s struggle to hold back her emotions started to fail. She was afraid to take a breath in case it turned into a sob, could barely move, aching with dread, guilt, grief, and despair.
Emma got up from her desk, but realizing her sister was about to hug her, Angie put up a hand to stop her. She couldn’t handle sympathy or tenderness right now; it would be the end of her. ‘I’m fine,’ she managed to say, and to try and prove it she quickly typed a search into Google. When the results came up she clicked a profile on the home page and turned the screen so Emma could see it. ‘How about him?’ she said recklessly.
Emma blinked first in surprise, then in confusion.
‘It’s Martin Stone,’ Angie told her. ‘I ran into him this morning at the retirement village building site. He knew Steve.’
‘Well he would, being who he is,’ Emma said carefully. ‘So why are you …? What are you saying?’
‘Nothing.’ Angie shrugged, feeling stupid now. ‘It’s possible we can get Dougie and Mark Fields a job on the site,’ she explained. ‘We’re waiting to hear.’
‘That’s good.’ Emma still seemed puzzled. ‘His dad’s name was Dougie,’ she stated, making an absurd connection. ‘Remember he was the mayor who did so much for this town like revamping the old cinema, and bringing in one-pound bus fares for every journey. He got the planning department to …’
Angie closed the screen down.
Emma frowned. ‘Why did you do that?’
Angie shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’ She pressed her hands to her face. ‘I’m all over the place at the moment,’ she confessed. ‘I can’t seem to get my head straight.’
Realizing it was time to let the subject of Martin Stone go, Emma returned to her desk and another silence fell as they got on with their work.
Half an hour later, as she and Emma locked up and started through to the car park, Angie noticed the misty rain settling over her sister’s hair turning the stray strands into a sparkling cobwebby net. It reminded her of when they were young, walking to school in winter, or making dens at the end of the garden. She thought of how much they’d meant to their mother, how safe they’d always felt with her, and how she’d done her best to take care of Emma after their mother had gone. She loved Emma so much, and was so glad, relieved to have her it was close to making her cry, for without her she’d be totally alone. She just didn’t want to be a burden on her, making her worry about things she couldn’t change, or feel she had somehow to come up with the answers that were beyond them both.
‘I wonder if he’s married,’ Emma said as she unlocked her car.
Knowing exactly who she was talking about, Angie’s eyes flashed, but she had to laugh. ‘Of course he is,’ she replied, ‘and anyway, the way my luck’s going right now the only match I’m likely to get in the next few days is Liam’s DNA to that murder in Bristol.’ Even as she said it, she felt herself spinning off into a realm of madness. How could she even begin to joke about something like that; how could she even think of it without completely falling apart?
Twenty quid for topless shot. #SAVINGGRACE
Fifty quid to get your kit off. #SAVINGGRACE
You’re mad asking for suggestions. Look what you’re getting. #SAVINGGRACE
Run away and join circus. #SAVINGGRACE
They’re looking for dancers in Vegas. You’d be brilliant. #SAVINGGRACE
How many creeps does it take to change a lightbulb? Let us know when they’ve screwed you. #SAVING GRACE
‘That’s not even a joke,’ Lois muttered angrily.
‘But what we’re doing is,’ Grace responded. ‘We need to take it down.’
Lois nodded glumly, but as Grace started to delete all the nonsense suggestions, she said, ‘Tell you what, once you’ve got rid of all that crap let’s add something to our message like, Idiots and perverts don’t bother wasting our time.’
‘That’ll really put them off,’ Grace said wryly.
Lois laughed. ‘OK, but let’s give it a couple more days. You never know who might get in touch, and we don’t want to miss out if the best opportunity of all hasn’t quite got to us yet, do we?’
CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_c3ba2ee2-3026-5bc3-84f7-42ee721cbc56)
Two days later, having fitted in a lunchtime shift at the Bear Street chippie, Angie was at the food bank on Wesley Street, two roads back from the Promenade, in what used to be a betting shop. Balloons and bunting were pinned around the door to try and make people feel welcome, and tea and biscuits were in plentiful supply for those who’d been referred from doctors, the local authority, and various churches.
At her reception table just inside the entrance, one of eight spread out around the wood-panelled room, Angie had spent the last two hours listening sympathetically, fearfully and even in shared anger to the stories of why today’s hungry and largely blameless were there. In most of their stressed and often embarrassed faces, she kept seeing herself in the near future. She imagined coming here in some ludicrous disguise as some of them did, hoping no one would recognize her. How crazy was that when all the volunteers knew her and she could already see the shock on their faces when they realized her predicament, and feel their eagerness to help her in any way they could.
‘You’re only two pay cheques away from the streets,’ one of them would undoubtedly comment soulfully, using a phrase – a truism – that was often heard in this place. It obviously wasn’t a certainty for all, but it was for those who came here. They weren’t homeless – an address was required for a referral to the food bank – but many were known as the working poor, for they had jobs, in some cases more than one. Their earnings were so low and outgoings so high, however, that they were no longer able to put food on the table. So, as one dear old soul had put it in a husky, tearful voice today, they had to come here and beg.
‘You’re not begging,’ Angie had told him softly. ‘You’re just accepting a little help to get yourself through this difficult time. There’s nothing wrong with that.’
The old man was in his eighties, well dressed, hair neatly combed, he even smelled of aftershave. He’d clearly gone to some effort to make himself presentable today, probably hoping no one would think the worst of him. He was even wearing his service medals; a reminder to others that he’d mattered once. Those medals had made Angie’s heart ache. Apparently his wife had died a few months ago. She’d always been in charge of the money; she sorted their pensions, did the shopping, paid all the bills and since her passing he’d fallen into a depression. They had no family, just each other and a kind neighbour who popped in now and again to check up on him. He might be lonely and crushed by sadness, but at least he had money, it just needed to be sorted out so he could access it. (Why did banks make these things so difficult?) In the meantime his doctor had referred him here to make sure he had enough food in his cupboard to see him through the coming week.
There were so many stories, tragedies, involving people of all ages and backgrounds, some with mental health issues, and those who were so riddled with shame to be in this position that they couldn’t look anyone in the eye. Then there were the druggies and alcoholics who’d all but stopped caring about themselves so they were missing teeth, had sores on their faces and piercings that were going septic. Each time she came in for a shift Angie could feel the web of hardship tightening around them all. Their needs, their sadness, anger and bewilderment, combined with the unfairness, even hostility of a system that relied on food banks and charities to provide for vulnerable citizens were becoming increasingly hard to take. She wanted to help them, she really did, and she would, it was why she was here, but today she couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit sorrier for herself than she did for them.
After making sure that a middle-aged, disabled woman with speech difficulties and a sad, sallow face was being taken care of by one of the helpers who filled the grocery bags in the back room, Angie quickly checked her phone.
No messages.
Her heart contracted with a painful stab of panic. She was waiting for so many callbacks, mostly from job agencies for some night shifts or anything else she could add to her hours at BtG, but apparently nothing had come up yet for which she was suitable.
‘Angie? Hello? Are you with us?’
Angie looked up into the kindly grey eyes of Brenda Crompton, a fellow volunteer. The ex-Salvation Army major was regarding her curiously, seeming to sense something was amiss and trying to decide whether or not to ask. Apparently concluding she should, she settled herself into the chair that the disabled woman had just vacated.
Angie smiled at her. She saw that there were only a couple of clients left at the other tables, and noticing the time she realized no more were likely to come now.
Brenda signalled to someone in the kitchenette and a moment later Bill, an elderly man with a cheery demeanour, put a fresh cup of tea in front of Angie. At the same time Brenda pushed a half-empty plate of biscuits towards her.
Angie’s mouth watered almost as stingingly as it had earlier in the afternoon when the snacks had first come out. But the jammy dodgers and Hobnobs, donated by Brenda and her husband, were for the clients, not those who were supposed to be helping them.
Brenda winked and taking a biscuit herself she bit into it, cupping a hand beneath her chin to catch the crumbs.
Though Angie understood this was Brenda’s way of telling her it was all right to have a little treat, she still couldn’t allow herself to take one. If she did she might never be able to stop and she couldn’t bear anyone to know just how hungry she was. ‘Watching my waistline,’ she joked, and suddenly, out of nowhere, she felt her spirits lift a little, for she’d been paid cash in hand at the chippie. This meant she should be able to dish up a decent meal tonight.
Brenda watched fondly as Angie’s conscience allowed her to crunch into a Hobnob. It appeared she was about to say something, but there was a sudden crash in the back room so she got up to go and investigate. ‘I’ll be back,’ she promised Angie, and added with a nod at the plate, ‘why not finish them off before they go stale?’
Wondering how Brenda had realized she was so hungry, Angie watched the older woman go, hips swaying like a saucy tambourine, and felt grateful and embarrassed and so ready for another biscuit that she crammed a whole one in her mouth at once just as her mobile started to vibrate.
She should have let the call go to messages instead of blowing crumbs on to the table and down her front as she tried to say hello, but she didn’t.
