me before you, 01.2

‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘I got fed up at home. I thought maybe we could do something.’
He looked sideways at me. There was a fine film of sweat on his face. ‘The
sooner you get another job, babe, the better.’
‘It’s all of twenty-four hours since I lost the last one. Am I allowed to just be
bit miserable and floppy? You know, just for today?’
‘But you’ve got to look at the positive side. You knew you couldn’t stay at
that place forever. You want to move upwards, onwards.’ Patrick had been
named Stortfold Young Entrepreneur of the Year two years previously, and had
not yet quite recovered from the honour. He had since acquired a business
partner, Ginger Pete, offering personal training to clients over a 40-mile area,
and two liveried vans on the HP. He also had a whiteboard in his office, on
which he liked to scrawl his projected turnover with thick black markers,
working and reworking the figures until they met with his satisfaction. I was
never entirely sure that they bore any resemblance to real life.
‘Being made redundant can change people’s lives, Lou.’ He glanced at his
watch, checking his lap time. ‘What do you want to do? You could retrain. I’m

sure they do a grant for people like you.’
‘People like me?’
‘People looking for a new opportunity. What do you want to be? You could be
a beautician. You’re pretty enough.’ He nudged me as we ran, as if I should be
grateful for the compliment.
‘You know my beauty routine. Soap, water, the odd paper bag.’
Patrick was beginning to look exasperated.
I was starting to lag behind. I hate running. I hated him for not slowing down.
‘Look ... shop assistant. Secretary. Estate agent. I don’t know ... there must
be something you want to do.’
But there wasn’t. I had liked it in the cafe. I liked knowing everything there
was to know about The Buttered Bun, and hearing about the lives of the people
who came through it. I had felt comfortable there.
‘You can’t mope around, babe. Got to get over it. All the best entrepreneurs
fight their way back from rock bottom. Jeffrey Archer did it. So did Richard
Branson.’ He tapped my arm, trying to get me to keep up.
‘I doubt if Jeffrey Archer ever got made redundant from toasting teacakes.’ I
was out of breath. And I was wearing the wrong bra. I slowed, dropped my
hands down on to my knees.
He turned, running backwards, his voice carrying on the still, cold air. ‘But if
he had ... I’m just saying. Sleep on it, put on a smart suit and head down to the
Job Centre. Or I’ll train you up to work with me, if you like. You know there’s
money in it. And don’t worry about the holiday. I’ll pay.’
I smiled at him.
He blew a kiss and his voice echoed across the empty stadium. ‘You can pay
me back when you’re back on your feet.’
I made my first claim for Jobseeker’s Allowance. I attended a 45-minute
interview, and a group interview, where I sat with a group of twenty or so
mismatched men and women, half of whom wore the same slightly stunned
expression I suspected I did, and the other half the blank, uninterested faces of
people who had been here too many times before. I wore what my Dad deemed
my ‘civilian’ clothes.

As a result of these efforts, I had endured a brief stint filling in on a night shift
at a chicken processing factory (it had given me nightmares for weeks), and two
days at a training session as a Home Energy Adviser. I had realized pretty
quickly that I was essentially being instructed to befuddle old people into
switching energy suppliers, and told Syed, my personal ‘adviser’ that I couldn’t
do it. He had been insistent that I continue, so I had listed some of the practices
that they had asked me to employ, at which point he had gone a bit quiet and
suggested we (it was always ‘we’ even though it was pretty obvious that one of
us had a job) try something else.
I did two weeks at a fast food chain. The hours were okay, I could cope with
the fact that the uniform made my hair static, but I found it impossible to stick to
the ‘appropriate responses’ script, with its ‘How can I help you today?’ and its
‘Would you like large fries with that?’ I had been let go after one of the doughnut
girls caught me debating the varying merits of the free toys with a four-year-old.
What can I say? She was a smart four-year-old. I also thought the Sleeping
Beauties were sappy.
Now I sat at my fourth interview as Syed scanned through the touch screen for
further employment ‘opportunities’. Even Syed, who wore the grimly cheerful
demeanour of someone who had shoehorned the most unlikely candidates into a
job, was starting to sound a little weary.
‘Um ... Have you ever considered joining the entertainment industry?’
‘What, as in pantomime dame?’
‘Actually, no. But there is an opening for a pole dancer. Several, in fact.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Please tell me you are kidding.’
‘It’s thirty hours a week on a self-employed basis. I believe the tips are good.’
‘Please, please tell me you have not just advised me to get a job that involves
parading around in front of strangers in my underwear.’
‘You said you were good with people. And you seem to
like ... theatrical... clothing.’ He glanced at my tights, which were green and
glittery. I had thought they would cheer me up. Thomas had hummed the theme
tune from The Little Mermaid at me for almost the whole of breakfast.
Syed tapped something into his keyboard. ‘How about “adult chat line
supervisor”?’
I stared at him.

He shrugged. 'You said you liked talking to people.’
‘No. And no to semi-nude bar staff. Or masseuse. Or webcam operator. Come
on, Syed. There must be something I can do that wouldn’t actually give my dad a
heart attack.’
This appeared to stump him. ‘There’s not much left outside flexi-hour retail
opportunities.’
‘Night-time shelf stacking?’ I had been here enough times now to speak their
language.
‘There’s a waiting list. Parents tend to go for it, because it suits the school
hours,’ he said apologetically. He studied the screen again. ‘So we’re really left
with care assistant.’
‘Wiping old people’s bottoms.’
‘I’m afraid, Louisa, you’re not qualified for much else. If you wanted to
retrain, I’d be happy to point you in the right direction. There are plenty of
courses at the adult education centre.’
‘But we’ve been through this, Syed. If I do that, I lose my Jobseeker money,
right?’
‘If you’re not available for work, yes.’
We sat there in silence for a moment. I gazed at the doors, where two burly
security men stood. I wondered if they had got the job through the Job Centre.
‘I’m not good with old people, Syed. My granddad lives at home since he had
his strokes, and I can’t cope with him.’
‘Ah. So you have some experience of caring.’
‘Not really. My mum does everything for him.’
‘Would your mum like a job?’
‘Funny.’
‘I’m not being funny.’
‘And leave me looking after my granddad? No thanks. That’s from him, as
well as me, by the way. Haven’t you got anything in any cafes?’
‘I don’t think there are enough cafes left to guarantee you employment,
Louisa. We could try Kentucky Fried Chicken. You might get on better there.’
‘Because I’d get so much more out of offering a Bargain Bucket than a
Chicken McNugget? I don’t think so.’
‘Well, then perhaps we’ll have to look further afield.’

There are only four buses to and from our town. You know that. And I know
you said I should look into the tourist bus, but I rang the station and it stops at
5pm. Plus it’s twice as expensive as the normal bus.’
Syed sat back in his seat. ‘At this point in proceedings, Louisa, I really need to
make the point that as a fit and able person, in order to continue qualifying for
your allowance, you need
to show that I’m trying to get a job. I know.’
How could I explain to this man how much I wanted to work? Did he have the
slightest idea how much I missed my old job? Unemployment had been a
concept, something droningly referred to on the news in relation to shipyards or
car factories. I had never considered that you might miss a job like you missed a
limb - a constant, reflexive thing. I hadn’t thought that as well as the obvious
fears about money, and your future, losing your job would make you feel
inadequate, and a bit useless. That it would be harder to get up in the morning
than when you were rudely shocked into consciousness by the alarm. That you
might miss the people you worked with, no matter how little you had in common
with them. Or even that you might find yourself searching for familiar faces as
you walked the high street. The first time I had seen the Dandelion Lady
wandering past the shops, looking as aimless as I felt, I had fought the urge to go
and give her a hug.
Syed’s voice broke into my reverie. ‘Aha. Now this might work.’
I tried to peer round at the screen.
‘Just come in. This very minute. Care assistant position.’
‘I told you I was no good with -’
‘It’s not old people. It’s a ... a private position. To help in someone’s house,
and the address is less than two miles from your home. “Care and
companionship for a disabled man.” Can you drive?’
‘Yes. But would I have to wipe his -’
‘No bottom wiping required, as far as I can tell.’ He scanned the screen. ‘He’s
a ... a quadriplegic. He needs someone in the daylight hours to help feed and
assist. Often in these jobs it’s a case of being there when they want to go out
somewhere, helping with basic stuff that they can’t do themselves. Oh. It’s good
money. Quite a lot more than the minimum wage.’
‘That’s probably because it involves bottom wiping.’

‘I’ll ring them to confirm the absence of bottom wiping. But if that’s the case,
you’ll go along for the interview?’
He said it like it was a question.
But we both knew the answer.
I sighed, and gathered up my bag ready for the trip home.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said my father. ‘Can you imagine? If it wasn’t punishment enough
ending up in a ruddy wheelchair, then you get our Lou turning up to keep you
company.’
‘Bernard!’ my mother scolded.
Behind me, Granddad was laughing into his mug of tea.