‘Thanks for coming,’ she says to Shaun as she shows him out, hoping she’ll be able to call his pay-as-you-go with good news at the end of the afternoon. ‘Keep your phone charged – the library can help with that – and don’t lose those food bank vouchers.’
As she walks back through the foyer, Grace starts thinking again about that email. Where would people like Shaun go for help if St Jude’s wasn’t there anymore?
She joins Peter back in the office to find the poor relief worker still dusting the spotless desk as if she doesn’t know what else to do with herself.
‘Thank you for holding the fort for us today. It’s a massive help that you could cover at such short notice. Don’t worry about doing that, I’m sure you’ve had enough to do dealing with this rowdy lot.’ Grace grins at Teardrop Terry, still at the hatch with the office phone against his ear, and she prises the cloth from the woman’s chipped nails.
‘I’ve met a few of your residents,’ Mrs Brightside says. ‘I helped one of them fill out a form to register at a doctor’s surgery. I hope I did it right, I’m not too good with things like that.’
Grace and Peter share a quick look at each other before she carries on.
‘I hope all this won’t go against me getting a room. They didn’t tell me I’d have to do any role play.’
Grace’s mind starts to wobble, and the question falls slowly out of her mouth. ‘What did you say your name was again?’
‘Mrs Dawn Elisabeth Brightside. Brightside, one word.’
The office hatch is now closed, and head office have been notified about the absent relief worker. Grace and Peter have ten minutes to squeeze in Dawn’s interview before the next one arrives.
‘You got family?’ Peter asks that one this time.
‘I’m a widow,’ she tells them and stares out of the window. ‘I have a daughter but she’s living in Saudi Arabia at the moment. She works in finance. She’ll work herself into an early grave, I always tell her.’ One of Dawn’s clasped hands has gone white in the areas pressed tight against her fingernails.
‘How old?’ asks Peter.
‘Twenty-two and two months,’ she answers without missing a beat.
Grace tells her she looks too young to have a daughter that age and Dawn reaches across and squeezes her wrist.
‘Thank you,’ she beams.
Grace had mostly just been being polite, but when Dawn smiles like that the years do fall away from her face. The date of birth on her referral form places her at forty-two. She’s dressed like someone younger; her clothes too big for her angular frame. Her dark brown eyes are overpowered by the thick smudges of eyeliner beneath them which draws attention to the sharp hollows of her cheeks.
‘I’m sorry about your husband,’ Grace says. ‘How long ago did he pass?’
Dawn gets up out of her seat and walks towards the glass, staring down the driveway as if she’s expecting someone to arrive.
‘He was murdered,’ she announces. ‘And the police have no suspects.’
Grace can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t sound wildly inadequate and Peter is busy cleaning his scratched-to-bits glasses. They’ve been like that for months but he won’t go to the opticians. Peter doesn’t ‘do’ appointments as they tend to include two of his pet hates: small talk and waiting.
Grace leaves a respectful gap of silence, looking at Peter every now and again for clues about when it’s the right time to go back to the questions.
Dawn tells them she’s slept in the park, the seafront and a few bus shelters since her landlord chucked her out. Apparently, he’d been dealing drugs from the address and wanted rid of Dawn because she knew too much. She’d lived in Dover for almost a year, and lots of different towns before that. ‘I like to travel,’ she says. ‘Travel is good for the soul. Staying in one place can be… dangerous.’ Dawn shudders. ‘So, I’ve slept in lots of places of varying qualities. Quite a few shop doorways too, but we can’t have everything.’
Dawn’s score creeps up as she lets them know what medication she’s prescribed and that it’s been a while since she’s seen the nice people from the mental health team; she expects they’ve been very busy.
Dawn gives them both unexpected hugs before she leaves, and Grace suppresses a smile at Peter’s pale face. Peter’s not fond of physical contact, too many germs. She often wonders how he’d coped when he’d been a surgical doctor, working in humanitarian aid mission fields in less-than-sanitary environments.
The afternoon of interviews passes by, churning with stories and answers to questions they hadn’t asked. There’s half an hour to go until they hand the shift over to the evening staff. Thirty minutes to decide whose life they can pluck from the streets and patch up with paperwork, a tiny room and an Argos duvet cover.
They add up the scores from a pile of papers. Grace had already worked out the answer.
Chapter 4
Dawn
THE EVENING IS BEGINNING to cool even though it’s July and only one minute to five. The park is holding all the evening sunshine in its top corner where the swings are, leaving none for its other inhabitants. People enter through one end and leave through the other, scurrying home from work to watch Neighbours and order a Domino’s.
Dawn slips her phone out of her jeans pocket (Topshop, £25.99, and getting a bit baggy). She makes sure she has signal and that it’s not on silent. Not that she’s expecting St Jude’s to call; there’s plenty of people needing that room, probably more than she does, which is why she hadn’t contacted them before now. It’s just if they don’t call, she’ll need to pick a corner of the park to set up home in for the night. Which is fine; she has her sleeping bag and she’s managed perfectly for the past month. She’s tried lots of different parts of the park and it’s tricky to decide which is best, under the trees where the bins are or behind the toilet block.
She leans back on the park bench, pushing her aching back muscles into the cool slats, and glances towards the skate ramp. Shaun’s still there, fiddling with the wheels on his board, no dinner to get home for. Perhaps there will be two beds available at St Jude’s soon.
‘All right?’ she asks him, realising she’s got back up, crossed the large stretch of browned lawn between them and now he’s right in front of her.
‘How did your interview go at St Jude’s?’ she asks him.
‘Not sure. The woman said she’d let me know this evening.’
Dawn nods and notices the large sports bag bulging at his feet. ‘You not staying at your mate’s again tonight?’
‘Nah, he’s got people coming over.’
She watches him as he meticulously constructs his roll up, only for it to leap out of his hands when the phone rings. Neither of them moves, they just look at each other’s frozen faces. It’s Dawn’s; she can feel the vibration against the top of her thigh.
She whirls around and walks along the path a bit further. It takes her a while to turn back again once she’s put her phone away, and he’s not on the ramp anymore. She can just make out the back of his head, disappearing into the lane that leads out of the park.