by Jessica Ryn
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ she mumbles. She wants to tell him how worried she is about the inspection, but she knows she can’t. She’s supposed to be there to support him. It’s important to be strong, and if the news gets out, everyone living there will start to panic. That won’t help anyone. She needs to be the change she wants to see in the world. As her Women in Leadership mag says; you can’t light a fire with a wet match.
‘Back in a minute,’ Jack says. His room is on the basement floor, right next to the lounge and he appears a few minutes later with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate. He finds some space between the battered board games on the coffee table and places them down before disappearing again. When he returns, he has a duvet wrapped around his shoulder that he shakes off and places over Grace before handing her a warm drink.
Swallowing the lump in her throat caused by the deliciousness of someone looking after her for a change, she raises an eyebrow and looks straight at Jack. ‘Spiderman, really? Don’t think I’ve ever seen a twenty-seven-year-old man with one of those. We do have brand new ones in the linen cupboard, you know.’
‘Hey. It’s my favourite duvet cover. It’s pretty old but it was on my bed in my last foster home before I went away for the first time. It’s been washed plenty since then, obviously. Just sleep better with this one, I suppose,’ he shrugs before plopping down next to Grace. He pulls the duvet over both of them, swinging his legs underneath him and briefly poking her calf with his toe.
‘Peter seemed even more pissed off than usual tonight at cooking club. Didn’t even have a cake,’ he says. ‘Do you think he’s okay?’
Grace hesitates before replying. It’s unprofessional to speak about other staff members with residents. ‘Did you tell him about the other day?’ she asks in the end.
‘What about the other day?’ he pretends not to know what she’s talking about, but she sees a flash of dimple by his mouth. Some of the tension melts from her shoulders. She’s relieved Jack hasn’t told him about their impromptu drinks in The Stag. Especially as they’d extended into three pints and several more games of pool.
She sips her hot chocolate, trying to ignore the implied intimacy of huddling together like that on the sofa. She glances sideways at Jack. If he feels awkward, he’s certainly not showing it as he scrolls through the channels looking for a film to watch.
‘Ha. Sharknado’s on if you fancy a good laugh.’
They spend the next hour laughing at the ridiculous film and critiquing the skills of the scriptwriters. Grace begins to feel her muscles unclench, one by one.
‘It makes a change watching a film with someone else,’ he says. ‘Teardrop comes in at night sometimes, but he’ll only watch The Godfather, Scarface or X Factor re-runs.’
Grace nods. After a lifetime of watching TV with Gran, she still turns around as if to catch her eye when something funny happens on Coronation Street. Laughing alone is never the same.
‘What did you used to like watching before, when you were a kid?’ Grace asks. Hearing about Jack’s Spiderman duvet reminds her that he’d had a life before prison and Young Offender’s Institutions; one that he probably has no one to talk about or reminisce with.
He doesn’t answer as he runs his fingers over the letters on the empty mug he’s still cradling. The letters spell out ‘Best Dad Ever’.
‘It was my dad’s,’ he says when he catches Grace looking. ‘I gave it to him for Father’s Day. Kept it all this time. Stupid really. This is the first time I’ve drunk from it. I don’t usually need to make more than one drink but I only own two mugs.’
‘I’m sure he’d be glad you kept it,’ she says, imagining a six-year-old boy snuggling up and drinking hot chocolate on a sofa with his dad; blissfully unaware that he was about to lose him to cancer three months later, despite the fact that he was the only family he had.
According to Jack’s file, his mum had died from a post-natal infection only hours after Jack was born, and his grandparents had never been in the picture. According to Jack, his parents had met each other as teenagers in a children’s home. Perhaps they’d dreamed of becoming the family they’d never had.
Grace shakes her head and bangs her cup down on the table, harder than she’d meant to. Life is a right bastard sometimes.
‘You okay, Miss?’
‘Stop calling me Miss. How many times do I have to say it?’ Grace forces out a grin as she flicks his elbow. ‘I’m twenty-five, not ninety and it’s the twenty-first century.’
The film comes to end. Grace hasn’t got a single clue what’s been happening for the past ten minutes, but she still wasn’t ready for it to finish.
‘What were they like, at the foster home you brought your duvet from?’
‘Nicer than most of the others,’ he says, his eyes not leaving the screen even though the credits are still rolling. ‘But by then it was too late, I was already a little shit. Too many months in the kids’ home hanging out with wrong-uns who were older than me. No excuse though; by the time I got there I was old enough to know better.’
‘You still in touch with them?’
‘Nah. Too much damage done. Doubt they’d want to hear from me.’ Jack switches off the TV with the remote, shuffles out from the duvet and stands up to collect the cups, making the space feel colder beside Grace.
‘What’s up? You look all stressed out again,’ Jack says, pausing by the coffee table.
Grace doesn’t know if it’s tiredness or the fact that she wants to keep Jack with her for longer, but the words come tumbling from her tongue. ‘We’re having an inspection.’
‘What kind of inspection?’
Jack sounds so calm. She shouldn’t be worrying him with this. It’s unprofessional and he has enough going on. ‘Our funding body is conducting it any time within the next two weeks. They’ve been dropping the funding from several hostels across the country by constantly raising the expected standards of performance, so they can judge them more harshly. There’s just not enough money in the pot to keep all of them open.’
‘Right. But you guys are awesome. You’ve got it under control, I know you have. You’ll ace it.’ Jack slaps her shoulder with a confident grin.
‘Course.’ Grace brightens her face. ‘Course we will. I’m just tired, you’re right.’ She folds up his duvet and carries it behind him towards his room. ‘Oh, and Jack?’
He looks back at her, holding his hand out for the duvet.
‘Could this stay between us? You know – the inspection and… well, everything?’
‘No worries,’ he says from his open door. ‘Ain’t you forgetting something?’
‘Umm,’ Grace falters, suddenly realising that Jack is wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and had been the whole time they’d been in the lounge. That would have raised a few eyebrows if someone had seen them.
‘Your baccy?’ Jack grins as if he can read her mind.
The packet of Golden Virginia is still on the arm of the sofa, along with her untouched roll-up. She picks them up and lobs the whole lot into the bin behind the door.
Jack’s door is shut by the time she’s left the lounge. Her eyes begin to droop; the milky drink warm and settled in her stomach. She only has one thought left in her head as she climbs the steps to the staff flat. She’s got to get St Jude’s into the best possible shape.
And nothing is going to get in her way.
Chapter 11
Dawn
DAWN HAS ARRIVED AT the office clutching her keyworking appointment letter from Grace. She’s been at St Jude’s for one week, and today’s the day to start setting her goals. There’s a small queue at the hatch and Peter is glowering over the top of it, whilst Terry and Cara shout over each other like two pupils in the headmaster’s office after a scuffle in the playground. Dawn takes a seat on the worn leather armchair in the foyer. They look like they’re going to be there for a while, so she may as well enjoy the show.
‘But it’s not your bike, it belongs to the hostel,’ Peter is
saying, his face turning red with a hint of purple, matching Dawn’s outfit for today: a jumpsuit and light cardigan combo, H&M, £24.99.
‘I know that, it’s not like I just let him have it.’ It’s as if Cara’s voice is being pushed through a pencil sharpener, each word becoming more pointed than the last. ‘It wasn’t exactly fun for me either, you know, being mugged in the street.’
‘Pfft,’ Terry snorts. ‘I’ve been here a while now, and if I had a fiver for every time a resident gets “mugged” for the hostel’s bike, I’d have the deposit for my own flat already. Everyone knows that’s what the dealers round here have off you when you can’t pay.’
Cara steps back from him and exhales so hard out of her mouth that Dawn wonders if she’s trying to blow him over.
‘I haven’t touched that shit for two months, and you know that, Terry. How bloody dare you even suggest that when you know how hard I’ve been working,’ she hisses.
‘Okay, okay. Let’s all calm down and talk about this downstairs where it’s quiet.’ Peter opens the office door, beckoning the two of them to follow him downstairs, his face now returned to its normal shade.
Dawn pokes her head through the gap to look for Grace. She’s sitting at her desk, staring out of the glass and holding a biro between her fingers like a cigarette. Her face looks pinched together and someone’s stolen the smile from it.
‘Everything all right in there?’ Dawn asks her, when it’s clear her eyes might stay stuck to the window if no one says anything to unglue them.
‘Sorry. What?’ she jumps, dropping her pen on the desk in front of her. She turns towards Dawn and screws up her forehead as if trying to remember something important. Dawn’s sure it’s not their meeting that she’s forgotten; she’s probably been looking forward to that, excited to hear all Dawn’s stories.
‘Of course.’ Grace slaps her forehead. ‘We have a keyworking arranged, don’t we?’ She gets a file and a pile of papers from the filing cabinet and wheels a stool around for Dawn to sit on across the other side of her desk.
‘Usually we use the first meeting to get to know each other a little better and to put a support plan in place for you. Identifying your goals and what-not,’ she says, writing Dawn’s name across the top of the page. ‘At St Jude’s we like to encourage smart goals – do you know what I mean by that?’
‘Umm, something to do with office wear?’ Dawn throws out a guess. She hopes she’s right; she can smash that goal. Debenhams have a sale on for their office clothing line at the moment and she’s never been banned from Debenhams.
‘It’s an acronym,’ Grace explains, pointing her biro at large, capital letters on the page between them that spell out the word S.M.A.R.T. ‘It stands for specific, measurable, achievable, realistic and timely.’
‘Oh.’ That doesn’t sound as fun as she’d thought it would be.
‘So, what sort of goals do you think you may like to make that fit into these brackets?’ Grace is watching Dawn’s face, waiting for answers, but Dawn’s not sure if she’s ready for them. Her goals are pretty epic, even if they do tend to change from day to day.
‘I’ve always fancied being a TV presenter. Probably a morning one as I’m up early most days. I don’t need much sleep, not lately anyway.’
Grace chews hard on her biro, leaving little tooth marks on the end of it. ‘I suppose we could say that definitely ticks the “specific” box,’ she says, slowly. ‘How about we think about the smaller steps first? The more immediate issues, such as finding permanent housing, sorting your benefits, getting some training in to help you get back to work. That sort of thing?’ she says. ‘What jobs have you done in the past?’
‘I was a midwife,’ Dawn says, but it comes out as a croak.
‘Wow, that must have been exciting,’ Grace says brightly.
Dawn wonders if she believes her. She probably wouldn’t if she was Grace.
Grace explains that the only people who will see her file are auditing inspectors or staff members, so it’s fine to be honest throughout their keyworking meetings.
‘How well do you know all the residents?’ Dawn asks.
Grace gives her a reassuring smile. ‘I interviewed every one of them personally. But if you have any problems with anyone, just let me know.’
‘Are they all, um, safe?’ Dawn wants to ask her about the bars on her window but doesn’t know where to start without sounding paranoid. She’d been tempted to sleep with her door open for the last three nights, just so she knew she could get out quickly if she needed to. There had been too many times in the past when she couldn’t and when there’s somebody after you, it’s important to always have a clear exit.
‘They are one hundred per cent safe. All been police-checked,’ Grace promises. ‘Shall we get back to your goals? Are there any family members you feel like you may want to begin building bridges with?’
Building bridges. It’s a section on the support plan; Dawn can read the words from where she is. Lego bridges, from house to house, built across the top of a Formica coffee table. Her dad’s eyes smiling behind horn-rimmed lenses, proud of her architectural prowess. Her mum coming in, complaining about the mess and knocking them down with clenched fists. The memory feels fresher than it should; a cup of tea that’s still warm.
‘Not applicable,’ Dawn says. ‘Just write N/A, those inspectors will know what you mean.’ She wants to carry on speaking, so she can soundproof the memories by wrapping them in sentences, but Grace’s whole face twitches when Dawn mentions inspectors and her mask slips off. She’s paler than usual under that layer of foundation and worry is written between her rows of neat eyelashes.
‘What are your goals? Do you have smart ones?’ Dawn asks her.
Grace puts down her pen and closes the file. ‘I want to help people get their lives back and keep this place going strong for as long as I can,’ she says, her voice wooden enough to get splinters from.
‘And what else?’ Dawn asks. There’s always more, the first wishes people come out with are almost never their real ones. Grace might as well have just asked for world peace.
‘Perhaps I should fill out one of these for myself.’
‘Perhaps you should.’ Dawn pats her hand before getting up from the stool. Maybe then she’ll see how tricky it is to plot all your dreams and regrets on a matrix that won’t spit out the answers. ‘You can make anything happen if you hope hard enough.’
Dawn is walking back downstairs after her meeting when Cara runs past her, water running down her cheeks. Cara’s door bangs shut, and a loud thump tells Dawn that Cara has kicked it from the inside.
Terry is alone in the resident’s lounge, cursing under his breath about, ‘that bloody woman’.
‘Anything I can do to help?’ Dawn asks. If the staff are busy, perhaps someone else needs to put out the fires in the other corners.
‘Not unless you have a plan to steal back a bike from Dover’s finest pharmaceutical reps,’ he mutters. ‘Stupid, stupid woman.’
‘Did you use the bike a lot then?’
‘It’s not about that,’ he says, his voice rising to greater heights before he stops to take a deliberate breath. ‘It’s about her kids.’
‘Aren’t they a bit small to ride a bike?’
‘Urgh, no, it’s not about the bike. Cara’s trying to sort herself out, so she can have her kids back with her when she gets her own place. Staff from here go to meetings with people to speak about how she’s been and if she’s stayed off the gear.’
‘Right,’ Dawn says, beginning to understand.
‘If she doesn’t get that bike back, the staff will think she’s used it to pay her debts to the local, erm… businessmen. Then what are they supposed to tell the social worker?’
‘How much does she owe?’
‘Depends how much she’s slipped off the wagon. She’s not telling me shit right now, and you can bet your arse they’ll be adding on interest.’
‘We’d better leave now then,’ Dawn
says. ‘Wait out the front for me and I’ll go and get my raincoat.’
‘What the hell do you think you’ll be able to do, lady?’ he calls up behind Dawn.
It’s spotting with fine raindrops as they wander down the hill; the type that feels like tiny electrical tingles on your skin and don’t show that you’re getting wet until you’re drenched and need wringing out like a sponge. Steam rises from the ground as the warm path is dampened, making the air smell like fresh earth.
‘These aren’t the type to negotiate with,’ Terry says, watching his boots making steps as he walks, ‘and it’s not like I’m scared of them, cos I’m not.’
Dawn looks at his enormous shoulders, his inked teardrop and his curtain rails of rings running up the length of his ears. ‘No, I don’t suppose you are.’
‘It’s just I’m on probation still. Can’t afford to be getting in trouble.’
‘That’s what I’m here for,’ Dawn grins. ‘Watch and learn.’
Terry shakes his head the rest of the way into town until they reach the park.
‘Whereabouts did you say they’d be?’
‘They usually hang about around there,’ he nods towards the hut by the skate ramps.
‘Stay here for now,’ Dawn says.
‘No way,’ he hisses and grabs her arm. ‘You can’t go in there on your own.’
She looks around the park at the parents walking about with pushchairs, older teens playing football and a couple sitting on the bench holding hands.
‘I’m just going to walk past and see how many there are,’ she says, shrugging out of his grip.
There are just two of them; lanky and sunken-faced. They may have chunky chains hanging from their jeans and enormous baseball caps balanced on the very tips of their heads, but they don’t fool Dawn. They’re talking fast at each other and looking over their shoulders several times a minute. There’s a bike lying on the ground by their Reebok-clad feet. Dawn sinks to the ground, pretending to tie her shoelaces whilst she has another scan around, checking there’s no one else on their way to the hut.
