by Terry Tyler
We all laugh about that and, encouraged, she moves on to how it wasn't so bad after Brexit when the 'other lot' got in for a while and everyone thought things might be okay, but then 'this lot' got in again, and that Morrissey fella is the worst of them all, him and that wife of his.
"They're all show, those two. Too much pizazz. I reckon they think they're in bloody Hollywood."
Of course I agree, but I suddenly feel tired, and don't want to discuss it. This is my special day, away from the reality of GuyMo's Britain; I encourage Nick to finish browsing the packed shelves so we can leave. As we're saying our goodbyes, though, she says, "Don't forget we're a post office, too."
I turn back. "I know―thanks."
She gives me a knowing smile. "I mean I can keep and send letters for you. That couple I mentioned―they told me how everything you send or receive gets read. I think that's terrible. Privacy should be a basic human right, doesn't matter how reliant you are on the state for a roof over your head. So if you want to send and receive any post, you bring it here." She hands me a card. "You can have your replies sent here, too. Happy to do that for you. Just don't mention it to anyone. I don't want any trouble."
I look at the card. Her name is June.
"Thank you, June. Thank you so much. This is so kind of you." We have a new friend. "I'm Lita and this is Nick."
The only person I have to write to is Esme, and I don't want to tell her anything bad about Hope because she'll worry about me, but knowing we have this outlet is wonderful.
"We have a link to the outside world," I say, as we walk away.
"We do indeed. Should we need one." Nick frowns. "What about the search and scan, though?"
It's thorough. They go through every single item.
"If we want to write to anyone, we can buy a notepad and envelopes at June's. Maybe she would keep them for us. I think she would. Any mail, we read and destroy before we get back. We're sorted."
It's the first step back to normality. The walk back is a joy, but all too soon the grey roofs of Hope appear in the distance, spoiling my illusion of freedom, and before we know it we're standing with our arms outstretched and having our bags searched. I hate it; I feel as though they can see me naked. Wouldn't be so bad if they didn't make funny-ha-ha comments about whatever I've got in my bag: Nice lipstick. Been out on a date, have you, pet?
Back across the tarmac we walk, heading for the community lounge; my spirits plummet as I open the door, my ears assaulted by the laughter and shouting around the pool table. I scour the room for Kendall; she'll have finished her shift, and I've bought her some sweets.
Alas, when I find her she is too distraught to be cheered by kiwi and mango fizz bombs, and that's saying something for Kendall.
Numbskull features has dumped her.
She is being consoled by Melanie, who is shoving chocolate at her, but she doesn't even want that.
I sit down and put my arm around her, while Nick hovers nearby. I know how badly he wants to escape this women's stuff, so I gesture that it's okay; he scoots off so quickly that sparks fly up from his heels.
"I thought he loved me," Kendall whimpers. "I thought we were going to have a baby, and be a family."
It transpires that her charms hold no further allure, accompanied as they are by a non-gestating womb. I feel greatly relieved by this development, but of course I must not convey this. Instead, I make noises about it being better to find out sooner than later.
"I'm so bloody fed up with believing in people and getting let down," she wails. "I thought I'd found someone who really cared for me, and I told him everything, all about how I lost my job at Zest, and I thought he understood. I thought he cared about how I felt. But d'you know what he said?"
"What?" I brace myself for Dwork's pearls of wisdom.
She sniffs, and gulps. "He said, 'it's that fit for life stuff, innit'."
"What?"
Her face puckers up. "He said that maybe I can't conceive 'cause I'm fat. 'Cause I'm not 'fit for life'. And his mates have been taking the piss 'cause he's got a fat girlfriend. That Robbie, he said I might be pregnant already but you wouldn't be able to tell." She crumples into a mass of tears. "He said I wasn't fat, I was gorgeous, but all the time he must've thought different."
God, I'm angry. I see her beautiful eyes spewing out tears like a leaky tap, and I want to go find Dwork and punch his stupid face.
"Whatever he thinks―none of it matters―"
She's not listening. "I hate him! You and Nick, you're the only people I've ever met who've stuck with me and treated me like I'm good enough. Everyone else, they're all the same!"
"We love ya too, Kendall," says Melanie. "You got plenty of mates here, don't you worry 'bout that."
"Fuck him, Kendall," I say. "Fuck him, and all his wanky friends. I know it feels awful now, but you'll be okay. You will. Really."
I don't know if she hears us; she's still in that initial shock stage.
Oh, and by the way―about that girl who we were told was pregnant, when she came in. Melanie told me that she miscarried after which, Melanie learned via the Hope 37 grapevine, she was said to have suffered a mental breakdown. She is now in Fenton Hall, a psychiatric hospital about ten miles away.
I leave Kendall with Melanie, who is better at this stuff than me ('They're all bastards' and 'He's not worth it', which seems to be what Kendall needs right now). I go outside, eager for some air in my lungs, away from the all-enveloping gloom.
I can't just sit here, waiting for something to happen. Another week, another month―no. I've got to take action. This is no way to live. I've got to get out, get us all out. Somehow.
I go into the dorm, but I can't stand to be in there, either, so I pick up my tablet and go back out, where I find an empty smoking shelter to park myself in. The smokers are sitting against the wall of the bathroom block, catching the late afternoon rays.
Right. Job sites. I'm going to find a job, any job.
I look at my CV. It's rubbish, because when I wrote it I was too depressed to make myself sound interesting. I'm just amending it when I hear footsteps; I look up. It's a smiling, yellow polo-shirted Becky.
"Hey," she says. "Mind if I join?"
Yes, I do, but it's best to stay on the friendly side of the Beckys and Duncans.
"So what you up to?" She's perky and friendly, but I know it's only a front. I know how they see us. We're the saddos. Not like them, with their Hope Village/Nutricorp logos emblazoned across their chests. Her lanyard tells me her name is 'Raychell'.
"Just amending my CV."
"Great―that's what we like to see, a bit of pro-activity! It's like MoMo says, if you help yourself, the world becomes your very own oyster!"
For Christ's sake. I ignore her.
"Do you want to run any of it past me? I could give you some pointers on how to really sell yourself."
"No thanks." I almost tell her that I don't intend to fill my CV with her stupid stock phrases, and that thousands used to read the words I wrote, every week, but even as I open my mouth to do so, my mind skips forward. They don't any more, though, do they?
"Are you sure?" She twiddles with her lanyard. "When I was interviewed for this job, I was told that my CV really stood out. I actually got a 2:1 in Content Writing from Northampton Uni."
"Yeah, well, you can get a degree in anything these days."
"I know, isn't it great? I just love writing." She leans in. "I'm a self-confessed grammar Nazi, if the truth be told! Can't abide a wrongly-placed apostrophe!"
Give me strength. "Good for you."
"I was thinking of starting a lifestyle blog; my friends say I've got a real gift. I can help you turn those little nuggets of info into attention-grabbing headlines, if you want me to take a look." She gives me a conspiratorial wink. "And I can sort out those pesky little grammar missteps, too!"
"I'm good, thanks."
"So what sort of job are you looking for?" she asks.
I look at her pl
astic smile and caring expression, and something snaps inside me. "Anything that will get me out of this shit-hole and away from patronising idiots who can't even spell their own names properly."
I get up and walk off. I'm guessing she's open-mouthed in shock. I don't look back to see.
Next morning I rush through my work in Wardrobe; I have ten bags of donated clothes to sort through. Usually I take my time, examining every piece in case I find a hidden gem, but today I just shove the lot into the laundry, then hurl the clean stuff onto hangers without worrying too much if a garment says it's size sixteen but looks more like a twelve. I'm on a mission. It's not my afternoon for classes, so I take a cheese sandwich and go back to my bunk to study the job sites.
I apply for twelve, all in the Northumberland/Tyne and Wear/Cumbria areas. I don't want to go back down south. Too many memories, and I've heard it's much, much cheaper to live up here. All I need is one job so I can save up the deposit for a bedsit, and the three of us can leave here, forever.
The jobs I can do are mostly minimum wage, and I remember what Nick said about my name being blacklisted by Nutricorp. So I apply for four 'hygiene operative' posts, three shop, three data analyst and two waitress.
I'm pleased with myself until I lie back and think about it.
If I got a job, how would I get to it? The nearest bus stop is two miles away. If I was offered a position in, say, Newcastle, I'd have to get up around five in order to walk to the bus and get into the city in time to start. That's if I can even get a bus from here to there. What the hell. Even if I have to walk four miles a day and not get back here until nine at night, I'll do it, if it means getting out of here.
Because the only alternative is to stay here, forever and ever and ever.
25
No Way Out
Over the past eight weeks I have applied for fifty-three jobs. I've heard back from precisely twelve; eight of these thanked me for my interest but said the position had been filled. The other four congratulated me on being selected for an initial Face2Face interview, and came laced with the phrase, 'response has been overwhelming'. In other words, don't hold your breath.
I sat the interviews in the loo, because it was the only place where I could be assured of privacy. I'm sure my location was all too clear. Something about the white tiles and the sound of flushing in the background.
People tell me it's harder in the summer, because students are looking for holiday work, and they'll do anything rather than add to their student loans. I guess any employer would rather employ an impressionable mind with a decent address than a thirty-three-year-old, failed blogger living in a Hope Village.
So my job search came to nothing, but I'm not giving up. If I keep looking, keep applying, I'll hit lucky eventually. I'm sure of this, because each morning, lately, I've been getting this odd feeling.
I get up to the sound of my alarm, ease myself off my bunk and give Kendall a nudge, but she'd rather have the extra half hour and queue for the loo. I throw a sweatshirt on over the shorts and t-shirt I wear for sleep now that the weather is warmer, shove on trainers and make my way out to the bathroom block, toiletries bag in hand.
When I walk out, into the silence of the morning, the odd feeling hits me every time. Whether it's raining, sunny or overcast, it's always the same.
A sensation that something is going to happen.
Is it just wishful thinking?
Could be my subconscious giving me a push. Trying to make me climb out of this foggy haze of acceptance.
Today, I make faces at myself in the bathroom mirror. My hair has grown from just touching my shoulders in carefully tatty layers, to long and floppy. I only wear make-up on Sundays now; I've got used to my naked eyes. I used to love putting my face on. I don't look in the mirror much at all. My eyebrows are a right state. Probably why I failed the Face2Face interviews.
I quite liked Lita Stone; shall we give her a trial?
Hell, no! Did you see her eyebrows?
I wonder what Brody would think if he could see me now.
Mustn't think about Brody.
I'm hurt, though, that he didn't try a bit harder to make me change my mind. He did ring me a couple of times, and sent a couple of one-line texts asking me to please take his calls, but I ignored them, and that was that. He's moved on. To Jaffa. Except that he'd already moved on, even before I called a day on whatever our relationship was supposed to be.
Mustn't think about Brody.
No point.
I get out my nail scissors and tweezers, cut my fringe and shape my eyebrows. I look better already.
At breakfast, Nick tells me that Mona Morrissey is now the MP for Woodbury North, which is some rich constituency down in Surrey. Good old MoMo.
A girl comes in with her boyfriend; they're very young, only about seventeen, and have been existing in and out of shelters for six months. Her mum chucked her out, and he went with her. She's three months pregnant. They're undernourished and miserable, but are at least given a couples unit.
She miscarries.
"Another one," says Melanie. "That's the fifth since I've been here. Life on the streets and in the shelters, your body can't take it when it's trying to nourish a young 'un, as well."
Dwork and his new bird, Trinity, are telling everyone about their plans, which are exactly the same as those he made with Kendall. A baby, a bit of a fuss in the media, a council flat near his mum.
Gotta reach for the stars, right?
Dwork says he knows Trinity will get pregnant soon, 'cause she's already had a kid, but it was taken off of her 'cause she was off her head with her bipolar, like, and couldn't look after it. But she'll be okay this time round 'cause she's got Dwork by her side, and he's going to be a proper good father and partner, he is, 'cause he loves her out of this world.
These declarations take place behind me in the dinner queue, and I notice that Kendall's hands shake as she shovels chips onto plates. Her lip quivers, and a big tear rolls down her cheek.
"Oy, quit that bawling," says one of Dwork's Neanderthal mates. "I don't want your body fluids in me grub!" He looks round, grinning in an ape-like fashion. "I might catch obese-itis!"
This provokes much laughter. Kendall looks stricken; she drops the chip shovel, and runs out. I leap out of the queue and dash behind the counter, ignoring shouts that I can't, because it's for kitchen staff only.
I find her crouched down in the store cupboard that she and Dwork used to fuck in.
"It's not that I want him back―I don't, he's an arsehole," she sobs. "I'm just so bloody miserable, Lita." I put my arms around her and stroke her hair. She's the little sister I never had. And you have to look after your little sister, don't you?
"Things will change," I tell her. "I haven't got a fucking clue how, but they're going to."
She's not listening, not really. "Everything would have been okay if I could have got pregnant," she says, sniffing and wiping her eyes. "Just to have something to love, all of my own. It'd make everything okay."
I don't want to go down that road, so I don't reply; I just make soothing noises.
Then her colleagues start yelling at her to stop skiving off and get back out there to help them. I watch her go, but my appetite has disappeared.
I wander out of the back door and gaze at the tree tops, outside the fence. I imagine a beach, somewhere far away. There's a whole world out there; there has to be a better life, somewhere. In this big wide world, this can't be only place there is for us.
Caleb Bettencourt clicks off the screen showing Nu-Pharm's monthly sales report, and turns back to Jensen. "What's the status of our happy Hope families?"
Jensen smirks. "Surpassing all expectations, especially Joley, Brandon and baby George. We have an eighty-nine per cent approval rating in the first day, even better than C34."
"Good work. Keep it up."
"Naming the kids after the princes has been a real winner. Joley and Brandon are making a big deal of being 'Royalaholics'�
�and hashtag Royalaholic is now riding high on the trending leagues."
Caleb nods, with satisfaction. "Whose idea was that?"
"Katie Barrett in Soc Med 4. She's the best hashtagger I've got; she's the one that started #ButterballNation and #FatNotCurvy, remember?"
Caleb Bettencourt makes a note. "Tell her to come see me. She cute?"
Jensen laughs. "Oh yes."
"Even better. So how are Joley and Brandon being developed?"
"Greg's people are working on a new idea. He's thinking a flat, furnished courtesy of Nutricorp." Jensen edges forward with his tablet. "This is the nursery―Greg thought a little promo film of Mum and Dad opening the front door into their new home. You like?"
Caleb scrolls through the images, his eyes widening. "Have you lot totally lost it?"
Jensen frowns. "What's the problem?"
"Think about it. We're already dealing with girls trying to get tubbed up so they can be the next Mandy and Soraya; next thing you know, we'll have a thousand Hope couples expecting their own fucking Nutricorp flat―it's a disaster waiting to happen." He hands the tablets back. "Scrap it."
Jensen shuts his eyes for a moment; all that work. "Fair enough; I'll shut it down." He takes a deep breath, fixes his smile back in place, and swipes through various images. "This one you will like, though. Mona gave Alex the go-ahead to use whichever photos he needed, based on your final approval."
On the screen is an image of Mona Morrissey and her two children, Aubrey and Hunter, standing by the hospital bed in which 'Joley' cradles baby 'George'. Standing on the other side is Charagen image 36-14: 'Brandon'.
