‘Oh, the system.’ Dawn make a pfft noise and bats her hand away towards the floor. ‘The system never shows anything; happens all the time. Just tell them Dawn Elisabeth Brightside is here, I’m sure that will be fine. That’s Brightside all one word.’
‘For homeless applications, we do need to set up a proper appointment, Miss Brightside, so you can speak to the right person in a private room.’
‘It’s Mrs.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s Mrs Brightside. My husband’s no longer with us.’ Dawn lowers her voice.
‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’ Her head is cocked to the left at a thirty-degree angle, the universal gradient of sympathy. It makes Dawn feel warmer for a moment. Nice lady, that Tracey.
‘We could actually squeeze you in now, Room 2 appears to be free.’
Dawn should ask her why she didn’t just say that in the first place and no wonder it always takes so long to get through to the council if they’re always dilly-dallying about like this, but there’s no time to fit the words in before she’s ushered into a small pine-coloured room with purple-cushioned chairs.
‘There’s several factors we need to consider whilst we assess your application. First we need to assess whether or not you’ve made yourself intentionally homeless.’
This Tracey has an odd sense of humour. It’s a good job it’s just Dawn she’s asking; she can always see the funny side of most things. But if she was to say this kind of stuff to the wrong person, well, perhaps that’s what that security button on the desk is for.
‘Maybe this will explain things. It’s from my last landlord.’ Dawn gives Tracey the crumpled letter that’s been lurking in her bag for the last few months. She looks at the posters on the wall whilst Tracey reads it. They’re mostly about support groups and food banks.
‘This letter suggests you were given notice to leave over six months ago. Were you in arrears with your rent?’
‘Oh no, she just wants the house back. Something to do with her daughter, she…’
‘Could you not have arranged further private rented accommodation for yourself during this notice period?’
Perhaps Tracey doesn’t know how much landlords want paying upfront nowadays. All those deposits, a few hundred quid to fill out a form and a few more for the credit check people to tell her she can’t ‘pass go’, can’t collect two hundred pounds, and it’s straight to the council for Dawn. She’s always sucked at Monopoly.
‘I was a bit short of cash. Lost my job at Reg’s Reptiles – couldn’t afford me any longer, they said.’
‘Where have you been sleeping?’
‘Here and there. Dover really is a beautiful town. I’ve got to know it really well.’
‘Do you have family who could help?’ Tracey has stopped banging on her keyboard, her voice softer now.
Dawn wonders how many people must come in here who have no family at all, alone in the world with no one to turn to. It must really suck, knowing if anything happened to you, no one would actually notice.
‘There’s Rosie, my daughter. She’s abroad at the moment, Spain. She’s project-managing a… project. A very important one, I wouldn’t want to worry her. They’re trying for a baby, her and Mike. Imagine it, me a grandmother at forty, wouldn’t that be something?’
Tracey still doesn’t say anything. Maybe it’s company policy not to make remarks about how young people look. Dawn wishes she would say something though, anything, just to distract her. She’s still thinking about all those poor, lonely people with no one, and how if they died, people would only realise once their bodies started to decompose. That’s if they had a home of course. At least they’d be found quicker if it happened in a shop doorway or in the park. It’s a good thing she has her Rosie to speak to every day. If the worst happened to Dawn, Rosie would wonder why she hadn’t answered her calls and she’d alert someone. Yes, of course that’s what she’d do.
‘Are you suffering from any of the following: physical health problems, domestic abuse, disabilities of any kind and do you take any medication?’
The window on the left is open, leaving a path of warm and heavy air between the room and the arse-end of the park where all the ramps are kept. Children are performing tricks of impressive complexity on their boards, especially taking into account what it smells like they’re smoking. Dawn fights to remember the list Tracey’s just sprinted through.
‘No,’ she says after a moment.
‘Any mental health issues that may class you as being vulnerable?’
Is she more vulnerable than anybody else? She looks out again at the kids. One of them has just cracked open a can of Strongbow.
‘Nope. I mean, I’ve always been a bit up and down, but no. I’m fine.’ She remembers being asked a minute ago about medication but can’t think what it is she’s supposed to be taking.
‘I can place you on the list for social housing, but as it stands, you don’t qualify for emergency housing. You’re not classed as a priority.’
Ouch. Dawn glances up at Tracey’s ‘Investors in People’ award that’s fixed to the wall behind her. She tries her best, she supposes. It must be hard having to spend the day telling people they aren’t her priority. I mean, it’s fine for Dawn, she’s used to it, she hasn’t been at the top of anyone’s list for a long time, but for some people, well, that sort of thing could be hurtful.
‘There’s a list of phone numbers in this booklet for hostels who can sometimes take in people who we’re not obligated to house. It may be worth giving them a call, but they often have waiting lists. St Jude’s is the nearest, on Dover cliffs. I can give you some vouchers to take along to the food bank until your benefits are instated. Any questions?’
She has plenty.
Dawn forces the booklet and the vouchers inside her over-flowing holdall, £12.99 from Primark. ‘Thank you for your help. I’ll give that St Jude’s place a try.’
Tracey holds an arm out towards Dawn when she gets up to leave. Dawn is already hugging her when she realises she’d probably just been going in for a handshake.
Chapter 2
Grace
‘I AM STRONG, I am confident and I am brave,’ Grace Jennings mutters to the blank computer screen in front of her. ‘I do not fear Mondays…’ Grace’s phone bleeps its eight-forty reminder to make her green tea (with ylang-ylang) and to complete today’s meditation in her Six-Minute Meditation app.
Mondays are especially busy at St Jude’s homeless hostel and Grace is in its cramped, cluttered office exactly twenty-two minutes before her shift starts. As her Work–Life Balance book says, it’s important to start the week as she means to go on and every minute spent wisely before nine o’clock is an investment in the rest of the day.
She flicks on the kettle and presses the lotus icon on her phone screen. Nothing happens, and the display freezes as she taps it several times in quick succession before it flashes back at her, Application is not responding. Would you like to close Six-Minute Meditation?
Stupid, cheap, crappy phone. It’s eight forty-three now and that’s not enough time to do her sun salutations before Peter gets in at eight fifty. Eight fifty is the time for checking emails and the day’s to-do list.