Bad Blood. Julie Shaw

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      The same could not be said of the housing officer who was sitting on the same couch at Josie’s house a scant six days later. It wasn’t half an hour after Sister Davies had vacated it after her daily visit, and Christine wished she’d found some way to keep her there, to help her fight her corner.

      The housing officer was a gaunt woman with a stern, unfriendly air, and a mouth that drooped down at the corners. The result, no doubt, of being employed in a job where you spent most of your life telling people ‘no’. She was currently writing something in her folder with a Biro, having dispensed her latest nugget of unwelcome news: that because Christine and Joey did in fact have somewhere to go – i.e. her grandparents’ – she couldn’t possibly expect to be a priority.

      Christine noticed that Josie’s mouth was downcast as well. And once again, she felt stupid and guilty. She should have kept her trap shut about her grandparents when she’d made her application to be housed, just as Josie had warned her. Which she’d managed with Sister Davies, but had failed to once they were down at the scary housing office; out it had all come, before she’d been able to stop herself, and now she was paying the price.

      Up till then, Christine had begun to feel the first stirrings of positivity, not least because the trip down there three days back – Christine’s first proper outing anywhere with Joey – had turned out not to be the logistical nightmare she’d feared, but a welcome return to some kind of normality. Yes, she was shattered, and still sore, but she’d finally begun to gain in confidence; she’d managed to feed him and change him and dress him all by herself, and with hands that, increasingly, seemed to know what they were about.

      And on the walk down there, pushing him in Paula’s old pram, which Josie had lent her, she’d felt something new and strange – something she realised was not unlike pride. Though it didn’t take long for it to vanish. She’d only been in the housing office once before in her life, when her mother had dragged her in there to complain about getting the garden fence fixed, and it was exactly as she remembered it. At the bottom of Leeds Road, near the dole office, it was a grim grey-brick building, set among others that looked every bit as dingy and depressing, because the sun never shined in this corner of town. It was as if it had been chosen specially to discourage people to go there.

      Happily, however, Josie knew the drill. They’d taken a ticket and waited to be called when their number came up, sitting down at the end of one of the long wooden benches, filled with other single mums, unsmiling families and the odd elderly drunk, coughing and spluttering all over everyone. Fearing the germs, Christine tried to squeeze herself up as small as she could so she didn’t touch the dirty-looking old man at the side of her, who stank of beer and BO.

      Thankfully, however, the wait wasn’t too long. Within half an hour they were called by a kindly-looking girl, who smiled warmly as she showed them to her booth. And she was kind, unthreatening, listening to Christine’s case without judgement, writing everything down on the lined pad in front of her, but all the while stealing glances across to where Joey was gazing wide-eyed at the strip light above their heads. ‘Aww, love him,’ she said. ‘He’s an angel, isn’t he?’

      Perhaps that was it – that she was altogether too friendly. That she looked like she understood. And that she cared. That, like Sister Davies, she didn’t seem to hold it against Christine that she’d got herself in such a mess in the first place. In any event, when she asked Christine if she had any other relatives in the area, Christine just couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t tell a lie.

      So Christine had told the truth. She was also fearful that they’d find out somehow anyway. And it was now going to cost her dearly. Just as Josie had predicted as they’d left the housing office and trudged home, now they knew Christine had family who could provide her and Joey with shelter, her need would be deemed not that urgent at all. Not compared with those who had no one.

      And Josie had been right. Christine had known the minute she answered the door this morning. Miss whatever-her-name-was (she’d said it too fast for Christine to catch it) didn’t look at Joey at all, let alone smile or call him an angel.

      ‘She can’t go there!’ Josie said now, as the nameless housing officer continued writing. ‘No offence, and that,’ she said, glancing at Christine before continuing, ‘but her grandparents are a pair of filthy drunks. It’s no place for a baby, any more than her brother’s flat is.’

      ‘I appreciate your concern,’ the lady answered. ‘And I take on board your comments. And I’m not saying they won’t get a place in due course. But there are certain protocols and I’m afraid Christine doesn’t quite meet them. Not at present.’ She put the cap on her pen. ‘Not as things stand, at any rate.’

      The way things stood, Christine thought miserably, as the damning notes were slid back into the woman’s expanding briefcase, were that she was standing between a rock and a hard place. She could well imagine that social services thought she had somewhere to go because her nan and granddad lived in a big house on Canterbury front, and had a whole empty bedroom she could have. And wouldn’t care if she did have it because most of the time they were off their heads on cider, or too busy arguing – usually both. They’d barely even register that she was there. Well, except when they were sober enough to have her running around after them as well and pinching her family allowance out of her purse.

      And Josie was right. It was no place to be with a baby. It was way beyond unhygienic. It was a shithole of the first order – as her mum was fond of saying, ‘so dirty that you’ve to wipe your feet on the mat on the way out!’

      And her preferred option – to go to Nicky’s – wasn’t a lot better. Not least because, actually, it wasn’t even Nicky’s flat. It belonged to his druggy mate, Brian, as Josie kept reminding her. But in this – which, ironically, would probably help her case a little – she knew she really did have to keep her mouth shut, because Nicky, in reality, shouldn’t even be there. Brian had only inherited the flat because his mam had had the foresight to add his name to the tenancy before taking the heroin overdose that had ended her life.

      And how long before Brian went the same way? At just twenty-two he was already a well-known junkie – one who’d started off on weed when he was only seven or eight, and soon progressed onto the hard stuff like his mother. Christine wasn’t stupid. She knew he was little more now than a needle-jabbing mess; already on the same ride his mother never got off.

      But, for all that, he was a gentle soul – there was nothing difficult about him. And, crucially, at least Nicky was not on the hard stuff. All kinds of other things, yes, but not that. He’d never waivered on that point. And he was her brother. Her kin. Whatever else was true, she still knew in her heart that he’d take care of her.

      And perhaps she didn’t actually deserve any better, truth be known.

      ‘So, how long d’you think, then?’ Christine asked the housing officer politely. ‘You know, just so I have some idea.’

      In truth she was hoping that a miracle might still happen. That she’d say it would only be a couple more weeks and then Josie would decide that, since it wasn’t going to be for long, that she might as well stay put with them. But it was a vain hope. ‘Could be a month, could be six,’ the woman told her flatly. ‘Regrettably, I don’t have a crystal ball.’

      Christine caught Josie’s disgusted expression out of the corner of her eye, but luckily she kept her thoughts – and expletives – to herself. One thing was clear – you didn’t antagonise the people who held the power. And the keys.

      The housing officer left soon after, walking with a brisk, stiff-necked gait, СКАЧАТЬ