Devils, for a change Read online

  ‘Help them, Lord,’ she whispered, ashamed that she had sat so long without a word of prayer. Had she ever prayed with any real discernment, ever grasped what ‘poor’ meant, when she’d used the word so easily at Brignor? She would say the rosary – all fifteen Mysteries – which would take her a good hour or so; offer up its hundred and fifty ‘Hail Marys’ for all the hopeless people in this room. And she would start with the Joyful Mysteries, to remind herself there was still joy – and hope.

  She said the first ‘Our Father’, then began on the ‘Hail Marys’, eyes half-closed, fingers fumbling for her non-existent beads. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the …’

  She broke off in the middle of her ninety-eighth ‘Hail Mary’, as her own number clicked up on the panel; weaved her way past children, bodies, pushchairs, to the now empty middle cubicle. The clerk was male – and smoking – sounded hoarse and croaky, as if he were suffering from a cold. She had hoped to see a woman, would have felt less shy and stupid as she stammered out that she’d never made a claim before, didn’t know the system, wasn’t sure if …

  ‘Well, you’re in the wrong department, then, for starters.’

  She stared in disbelief. ‘But …’

  ‘You need the Unemployment Benefit Office. First floor, door E.’

  She tried to calm her voice, remember what the priest had said. ‘But I haven’t paid my stamps.’

  He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. Even if you don’t qualify for unemployment benefit, you still have to register, make yourself available for work, sign on as unemployed.’

  ‘Can’t I do that here, though?’

  ‘No way. We’re two completely different sections. You need a B1 form, which they can only give you there. When you’ve filled, it in, you send it back, and the DHSS decide what you’re entitled to. Just one flight down. Door E.’

  He gestured with his cigarette, dismissed her with another casual shrug. She still hovered, fighting panic. How could she wait a second time, in a second dreary room, wait all those hours and hours? Miss Baines was kindly sitting with Miss Pullen, but had offered only grudgingly, couldn’t stay all day.

  ‘You stupid bloody cunt! Don’t think you’ll …’

  Hilary swung round. The huge long-haired youth was back, striding from the door towards her cubicle. He elbowed her aside, swept into the booth, clenched fists raised, tears streaming down his dirty stubbled face. ‘You’ll pay for this, you see. I‘ll smash your fucking face in!’

  The second clerk was also male, though he was wearing a gold chain above his scruffy V-neck sweater, a matching bracelet engraved with ‘Mike’. He shook his head impatiently as he peered down at her form, still left mostly blank.

  ‘I need your National Insurance number. You should have put it on here.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know it. I don’t think I’ve even got one.’

  ‘Haven’t you ever worked before?’

  ‘Er … no.’

  ‘You’re living with someone, are you, who supports you?’

  Another mumbled no. The questions hammered on; all answered in the negative, or with awkward gaping silences. How could she explain those blanks, unless she told the truth? She glanced around her nervously. Could that other woman hear her – the one in the next booth? She lowered her voice to an embarrassed halting whisper, stared down at the desk. ‘I … I’ve been a nun, you see.’

  Silence. She couldn’t see his face. Had he even heard her, or was he trying not to laugh, or jeer; or about to repeat Luke’s question – ask her what a nun was? She added quickly, ‘You know – in a convent. For the last twenty years or so. That’s why I haven’t worked.’

  ‘You’ve been a nun?’ His own voice rose in sheer surprise. He made it sound extraordinary, like being in a circus or a zoo.

  She nodded, face now crimson. Both the clerk and claimant next to her had heard; four more eyes swivelling round to stare, their own consultation halted, so they could listen in on hers.

  ‘For twenty years?’

  ‘Twenty-one.’

  Her own clerk seemed incredulous, his sharp eyes tracking up and down her body, as if to check she was quite human, had all the normal parts. He wrote ‘WAS NUN’, in capitals, right across her form. She felt nervous of that ‘was’. She was still a nun, bound by vows of steel. And if her whole role and life and calling were cancelled by one word, then what was left of her? He handed her another form, a much larger and more daunting-looking one, with a vivid purple border round each page – purple for penitence, for mourning. ‘This is your B1.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I thought I’d filled that in.’

  ‘No, that was your UB461. The B1’s much longer – about a hundred and forty questions, as far as I remember. It’s best to take your time and fill it in at home.’

  Home. She hadn’t got one. She was here to try to find one, ask about employment. ‘I really came to get a job, was told you could advise me.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not here. Your best plan is to go down to the Job Centre. They’ll be able to help. The only problem is it’s quite a hike. Hold on, I’ll get a map.’

  He was trying to be kind now, returned with piles of leaflets, as well as just the map. She thanked him, backed away, saw him whisper to two fellow clerks behind him, caught their stare of fascinated prurience – the nun, the curiosity, the one you gawped and sniggered at. She rushed out of the room, escaped to the toilet, which was mercifully empty, spread out the B1. There were eight large pages in a dozen separate sections – endless detailed questions about her husband, children, property and savings, employer, landlord, home and job. Those clerks were right. She was a curiosity – some creature from another age, who had no job, no partner, no dependants; who paid no rent nor rates nor mortgage, no heating costs, insurance; who’d never saved or borrowed money in her life; who fitted nowhere, had no real past at all. And how could she take money from the State, when so many people were in more desperate need than she was – people not just unemployed or homeless, but also fighting disease and disability, all the chronic illnesses spelled out on this form, all the different handicaps she hardly knew existed?

  She tore her form up, dropped it in the bin. She’d had nearly forty years of security and shelter, two good meals a day, a safe and solid roof above her head. She had to find some work, not take funds from people who were truly poor – poor in health and prospects, poor in hope, poor even in their pasts. She threw out all the leaflets on rent rebates and housing, kept only those on jobs, put them in her pocket with the map which showed the Job Centre, then walked swiftly out to find it.

  ‘Can I help at all?’

  A friendly grey-haired woman was smiling from her desk, gesturing to the empty chair in front of it. Hilary sat down. The chair was sunny orange, with a comfy cushioned seat, the whole place bright and cheerful – plants in the window, carpet on the floor – yet her spirits didn’t match. She had already read the job-cards plastered round the walls, realised all the skills she didn’t have. There was not one slot she fitted – not Building, Engineering, Catering or Chefs, Secretarial, Motor Trade, Young People. Prayer was her profession. One priest had called contemplatives the Brigade of Guards of Prayer, God’s crack troops. There were jobs in hundreds, rows and rows and rows of them, but no vacancies for pray-ers. Pastrycooks were wanted, bricklayers, cost accountants, plumbers; things she’d never heard of like VDU ops or software engineers. Even the humblest sorts of jobs demanded people with experience, and she’d had none at all, except as sacristan and vestment-maker. What use were hand-embroidered chasubles or highly-polished chalices to a ‘busy friendly office’ or ‘expanding modern company’? Even her personality was wrong. ‘Must be ambitious and self-motivated.’ ‘Bright bubbly extrovert required.’

  She forced her mouth to smile, tried to sound extrovert, ambitious, despite her string of ‘noes’.

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Have you trai
ned for anything?’

  ‘Ever worked abroad?’

  ‘Do you type?’

  ‘Or drive?’

  ‘Any special skills at all?’

  ‘Er … dressmaking,’ she mumbled. Six ‘noes’ were enough – though talent with a needle would hardly land her a residential job. Those seemed non-existent, except for nurses, nannies, or other fully trained professionals who could also drive and cook. She tried to fight the slow despair seeping through her body, made herself sit straighter. ‘How about a job in a hotel? A receptionist, or …’

  The interviewer shook her head, still searching through her job-sheets. ‘Receptionists have to work a switchboard and they usually do all the accounts as well, so if you’ve no experience with either, there’s no chance, I’m afraid. You might get a bar job, but most hotels prefer a married couple.’

  She shuddered. An ex-nun pouring drinks, having to ward off the advances of raucous tipsy men. She should be searching for a useful job, some service to the poor or sick. ‘I could look after invalids, or work in an old people’s home.’

  ‘Well, again you’d need some training, and we don’t get many jobs like that, not here. You could try the social services, but I doubt if it would lead to much, and they’ll be shutting now, in any case.’ The interviewer checked her watch, gave a final clinching smile. ‘So are we, in fact.’

  Hilary got up, walked slowly to the door, the lush green plants and cheerful orange décor seeming now to mock her. She was ashamed of her despair. It was an insult to God to worry about the future, since everything was in His careful hands. Sister Clare had said once that even if she landed in a concentration camp, she would accept it as God’s will. Auschwitz in Norfolk was, to say the least, unlikely, but all the same, she could do with Sister Clare’s strong faith, her fighting spirit.

  She stopped to check the Temporary Jobs, the only board she hadn’t scanned. Her whole life was so temporary, maybe better to accept that, try to find some stopgap job, just to tide her over. If live-in posts were difficult, took time and effort to arrange, perhaps she’d be allowed to stay at Rosemont Road for just another month or two, while she sorted something out; tried the social services, tried anywhere and everywhere. She read the cards as quickly as she could, since it was three minutes to closing time, staff locking drawers and files now, collecting up their bags. She mustn’t be too fussy, be willing to take anything, however hard or humble. ‘Kitchen porter urgently required. Large hotel needs strong and willing man or woman, for cleaning, washing up, and heavy physical work. Hours: 6 a. m. to 3 p.m.’ She copied out the details. She was very willing, fairly strong, not scared of heavy work, and used to clocking on at six a. m. She jotted down the phone number, heart sinking as she read the bottom line. ‘Two references essential.’

  References for kitchen porter work? It seemed absurd – though perhaps they’d be working with valuable equipment, must be trusted not to steal or spoil it. Who ever could she ask for references? Miss Baines? Father Anstey? Both disapproved of her, and there was no one else she knew in all of London. Except Aunt Eva. She could see her aunt, suddenly, dressed in a plaid skirt, exotic red-tipped fingers passing her the cake plate when she was only nine or ten – not her mother’s heavy rock cakes with burnt currants, uncooked middles, but ethereal creations from a local French, pâtisserie. ‘Go on, love, take two.’

  She hardly knew how she got down to the tube – or even found a tube – let alone the confidence to make the trip to Eva’s London home, especially in the rush hour. She had planned the journey several times, even bought an A-Z, marked Hurst Road in biro, but had never plucked up courage yet for feet to follow fingers. It was crazy to go now, with Miss Baines already angry that she’d spent so much time away, but she’d phoned Miss Pullen’s, nonetheless, begged another hour or two, said there was one last possibility she just had to follow up.

  ‘It may have slipped your mind, dear, that you’ve rung three times already, and asked me the same thing. I’ve been sitting here since nine o’ clock this morning, and now you’re demanding the evening off, as well. I have a job to do myself, you know, and Father wants his dinner.’

  Wretched, she’d apologised, said she’d catch a bus immediately, be back in fifteen minutes.

  ‘No – don’t do that – not if you’re just on to something. I’d rather stay here half the night again, than have you trail back in with no money and no job. But this is your last chance, d’ you hear? It’s no good crawling to me tomorrow and expecting …’

  The sarcastic tone hadn’t hurt as much as usual. She’d felt a sudden burst of hope that she was going to see her aunt, at last. She could hardly understand it, but it was as if God Himself were telling her to trust in Him; that an unanswered phone needn’t mean disaster, as she’d feared so often previously. Eva might have changed her number, or the phone be out of order, or she herself copied down a digit incorrectly.

  ‘Lord,’ she prayed, as she squeezed into the crowded train. ‘I trust in Your great mercy.’ There were no free seats, so she clung on to the rail, stood studying the tube map – Eva’s station smiling like a beacon at the far end of the line. In just an hour or less, she could be standing face to face with her astonished radiant aunt.

  Two hours later, she was travelling back again. At least she had a seat this time, and could read her A-Z. The two long journeys had given her the chance to learn her way around, work out all the postal districts, the railways and the tubes. If she got out at Vauxhall, she could change on to the mainline and take a train to Earlsfield – though she dreaded going back, facing Miss Baines’s fury, felt almost desperate as she ran through her long day. Was there nothing she could salvage from it? What about that kitchen porter’s job? Should she rush there now, apply without the references, explain she’d been a nun? She could almost hear the titters, or the scoffing disbelief. No. Why add one more failure to her list? It had been bad enough last night, when she’d returned from Liz’s, crept in late and guilty like a …

  Liz! Liz Kingsley! She’d quite forgotten Liz. Liz would write a reference. Liz was kind and generous, had called her ‘love’, as Eva used to do. Did she dare to go there, seek her out again? She might even get both references, if Di wrote one, or Ivan – and perhaps some other work as well, babysitting, ironing. Liz was part of a whole circle, with endless friends and contacts. Some of them might need her, if only for an hour or so. They’d know by now she hadn’t been in prison. Luke would have told them she’d been a nun and not a convict, and at least most nuns could be trusted not to steal from hotel kitchens.

  She went racing through her A-Z, found two Wandsworth stations –Wandsworth Town and Wandsworth Common. Which was nearest Liz, and would she find the street at all, remember which the house was? A small stern voice was whispering that the idea was quite impractical. She’d simply waste another hour, keep Miss Baines still later. And supposing they were out? She closed her eyes a moment, saw Eva’s house again – that cramped and dingy terraced house with neither tree nor garden, which seemed so wrong for Eva, who loved nature, colour, space. She had stood shivering on the step, listening to the doorbell pealing through the hall – pealing twice, three times. The house stayed deaf and dark, the heavy curtains all drawn close, as if to shut her out. She’d walked slowly down the street again, sleet stinging in her eyes, then turned round, indecisive. She couldn’t simply leave, trail back to the station without making some enquiries. Her aunt might be a wall away, sitting with a neighbour. She braved five different neighbours – a suspicious dusky woman who spoke no word of English, an angry man who shouted, a child in its pyjamas who said its mother wasn’t back yet, and one good-natured couple who said they‘d like to help, but had only just moved in themselves and didn’t know a soul yet.

  She closed her A-Z. The tube was slowing as it drew into a station, shuddered to a stop. Vauxhall. She must go straight back to Miss Pullen’s, not risk a second empty house, a second disappointment. She crossed from tube to mainline, found the t
icket office. ‘A single, please, to Earlsfield.’

  ‘Hey! Don’t forget your change, Mrs.’

  She turned back to the counter. The man was grinning, friendly, asking if she’d meant to leave a tip, or was she just a millionairess who couldn’t be bothered with loose coins. She felt a sudden desperate longing to stay there the whole night, clinging to that counter because there was a kindly voice behind it. Liz’s house was like that – full of jokes and banter, human noise and contact, which had frightened her before, but now seemed infinitely preferable to Miss Baines’s cold contempt. She was cold enough already – her feet and fingers numb, her mind frozen in despair. She could almost feel the warmth of Liz’s kitchen, thawing her, reviving. She’d hardly realised till this moment how utterly alone she was. The man had called her ‘Mrs’, must have seen her ring, but her husband-God had left her, and there was no one else at all. She could hear Miss Baines’s cutting voice deploring her ineptitude. (‘So you’ve spent thirteen hours of your time – not to mention mine – getting absolutely nowhere’); see her fawn and frowning face as she stepped into the hall.

  She left her tenpence pieces where they were, cleared her throat, to get the ticket man’s attention. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve just changed my mind. Does it cost any more to Wandsworth?’

  Ivan let her in. She stood nervous in the hall; could hear not friendly voices, but angry bitter ranting ones, booming from upstairs. The woman’s voice was Liz’s, but not a Liz she knew – a Liz close to tears and shouting. The man’s voice she didn’t recognise, but his rage was unmistakable.

  She edged towards the door again. ‘Look, I’d better go, really. It’s obviously not convenient.’

  Ivan shrugged. ‘Take no notice. Whenever Ken turns up, they have a row.’

  ‘Ken?’

  ‘Liz’s first ex-husband. They fought when they were married and they still fight, cat and dog. Don’t worry. He’ll slam out in a moment and I’ll let Liz know you’re here. You look frozen stiff. Like a cup of tea?’