Departures (16 page)

“Two pickled onion, a pint of milk and a quarter of cheese, twenty John Players, and a packet of Homewheat, please.”

“We don't do biscuits now, luv,” the woman said irritably. “Just the singles: Penguins, Clubs, Breakaways. . . .”

“Give us two Fruit Club, well,” Maureen said quickly.

The woman's glance was sour. “No Fruit, just Milk or Plain.”

“Whatever then, it doesn't matter, either one.”

“Plain?” the woman demanded, reaching up among the boxes and bottles of sweets arranged in dusty rows above her. Maureen nodded.

“That's okay. Whatever.”

The woman let her arm fall heavily to her side and turned around.

“Which do you want, luv? Milk or Plain? C'mon now, there's other people wantin served.”

“Plain,” Maureen said. “Two Plain'll do nicely.”

She paid for the items and left the shop. The weather was fine for the time of year, and the Road was crowded with children, pensioners, and women with prams conversing on street corners and outside of shops, all obliviously
obstructing the uneven flow of pedestrian traffic. Maureen stood for a moment blinking in the sun, checking the mathematics of her purchase in her head.

“Mrs Reid? It is Mrs Reid, isn't it?”

Maureen turned swiftly at the close sound of the voice and her purchases fell to the ground along with her change. A young man in a clean white shirt and a girl in a pink suit stood before her. The girl was holding a diet cola, a scone, a small tub of yoghurt, and a green apple, all neatly but unstably stacked against her blouse; the man held a sandwich in a cellophane box. Both were smiling.

“Mrs Reid,” the young man said. “I'm so glad I caught up with you. We've been trying to get hold of you for weeks.”

Maureen stared at him blankly. His face and voice were vaguely familiar—and she thought of the envelope that had arrived that morning, the latest of a number addressed to Albert, who'd opened it without interest and waved her away. She bent quickly to retrieve her belongings, conscious of their eyes on her as she knelt. From where she crouched she could see that the girl's stockings were sheer and fashionable; a delicate line of small flowers climbed up from each ankle and disappeared beneath her skirt, and for a moment Maureen imagined her as she might have been when she bought them, consulting with a girlfriend about the colour, the new suit with which to match it off-the-rack fresh and heavy on her arm. Then she caught sight of the young man's shoes, so brightly polished she could see the hazy outline of her own reflection.

“Here, let me help you with that,” he said as she stood up. He tucked the sandwich under his arm and held out his hands expectantly, but there was really nothing for him to take or do.

“It's alright,” Maureen said, holding her purchases closer. “I've got them, thanks.”

“Look, it's nearly two—your appointment's for quarter past, isn't it? If you're free we could go over to the office now, have you out for two-thirty, what do you say?”

The girl beside him opened her mouth then shut it again, her lips thin.

“I've got your file, the new forms, all the stuff since last year,” he continued. “Haven't you been getting our letters? Everything's just been waiting for you.”

Maureen shook her head dumbly, casting about for any excuse, conscious that he was waiting for an answer.

“I couldn't possibly,” she said, “not right now—”

“It'll only take a moment, Mrs Reid. It's best to get these things out of the way. If you take care of it now you'll have less trouble later.” He turned to the girl and flashed her a grin. “We'll have lunch tomorrow,” he told her, “I promise—my treat.”

The girl's shoulders fell back into place; her lips relaxed their pout. She gave Maureen an expressionless smile then turned and headed back up the Road.

“But my husband,” Maureen protested. They were standing on the kerb just inches from the traffic, the young man gazing easily in both directions with her elbow in his grasp. Maureen looked up into his smooth, unblemished face. “My husband,” she said again, raising her voice as he hurried her across, “he's waitin on me.”

He guided her past the small streets and entries which branched off from the Road, chatting on about unemployment and entitlement, her outdated claim for Housing Benefit and how this had been altered by Income Support. Just outside the Social Services building he let go of her arm and shooed her in front of him, followed her onto
the lift that stood waiting and tapped the button for the second floor. Maureen felt her stomach fall away as they rose.

“This'll only take a moment, Mrs Reid,” the young man repeated, examining the contents of his sandwich with a critical eye. When the doors parted, he propelled her lightly towards a small man with thick glasses, engrossed in a battered tabloid from the previous day. The air above him was blue with cigarette smoke, the window at his side discoloured with its stain, and Maureen wondered where his gaze would wander when he'd finished with the paper and had nothing left to read. He noted the time from a thick, strapless watch which lay faceup on his desk, scribbled briefly, and handed Maureen a small numbered form. Then she and the young man passed on behind him, through a set of swinging doors.

On the far side of the large airless room that they'd entered, where men and women waited in rows to be seen and heard, were three private interview cubicles. Now he directed her towards one of these.

“If you'll just go in, Mrs Reid,” he said, holding the door open, “I'll get your file and be with you straight away.”

He left her alone in a room with no windows and two plastic chairs on opposite sides of a heavy wooden desk. On the far wall, across from the door through which she had entered, was a second door, on which hung a sign prohibiting smoking and a notice advising visitors to obtain a receipt for all cash payments. Maureen sat down slowly. She remembered this room from a previous visit—the red stains on the carpet that she'd imagined were wine from tumblers knocked over during some office party with crepe paper streamers and red serviettes, continuing on long after hours until only a few resolute couples
remained behind to sway to the music and gather the trash. Again a thick wave of panic rocked her—by now a full hour must surely have passed since Albert had sent her for cigarettes. She was out of her seat and turning to leave when the far door opened and the young man came in.

“Sorry for the delay; we're all set now. As you can see from these sheets”—he sat down on the edge of the desk, opening a file and swinging it round so that neither one of them could see it clearly without craning—” our records show that you were in receipt of full Housing Benefit less one fifth of rates or sixty-nine pence per week paid up until the second of the eighth ninety-two. However, our office notified the Housing Executive that you were no longer eligible for Income Support as of the twenty-first of the fifth ninety-two, though this information was not received by the NIHE for a further six weeks—”

He had stopped, it seemed, in mid-sentence, and now was gazing at Maureen with a curious intensity, as if she might have been able to contribute something vital to his own deliberations if only he could be sure they were thinking the same thing. With a decisive nod he stood up, leaving her file on the desk.

“Let me get Miss Burns in here with you. She was handling your case until they gave it to me. Just wait here a minute, I'll fetch her, okay?”

He was gone before she could protest. She sat stiffly on the edge of the chair, her belongings clustered uncomfortably on her lap. Nerves made her unwrap the cigarettes and put the cellophane in her pocket before she remembered the No Smoking sign and the fact that Albert would notice when she gave him the box. Once again she rose to leave. A woman's voice, high-pitched and cheery, called her back.

“Hullo, Mrs Reid—Julie Burns. Please, have a seat. This shouldn't take long.”

Her voice was too strong for the confines of the room, but she had a pleasant appearance, her large, thick glasses and plump face creating an impression of good-natured efficiency. After a moment's shifting of hips and thighs she settled herself down in her seat and rested her elbows on the table's edge, her hands clasped beside a ball-point pen.

“Strictly speaking, Mrs Reid, this is a Housing Executive matter, but Miss Clarendon informed us that you had some question about why your husband's Income Support had been stopped as of the sixteenth of April, and since that termination resulted in a reduction in the total amount of Housing Benefit to which your husband is entitled, it seemed to them it might be best all around if you came and reviewed your case with us here.” The girl smiled brightly. “Now. I think it'd be helpful if we go through these figures from the start of the year; that way I think you'll find that all our calculations are correct. You know, of course, that you and your husband are now considerably in arrears. Perhaps you could remind him that your failure to pay will jeopardise your eligibility for any future benefit from any governmental office, and that any further refusal to reimburse the appropriate departments could put you both potentially at risk.”

Again the girl smiled pleasantly. Maureen nodded, but there was nothing she could think to say.

“Shall we make a start, then?” the girl asked briskly. “I've summarised the most recent developments in your case and itemised with the corresponding dates all the changes in your husband's income over the past six months, so if you'll just bear with me and save any questions you might have for the moment, I'll take you through the figures and ask you a few questions, and that should be us finished, okay?”

She asked her questions and Maureen responded, watching the girl's plump fingers travel over the coloured sheets in front of her. Her nails were clean and sculptured, her wrists surprisingly delicate for someone a little overweight. From the pocket of her skirt she produced a calculator and a small slip of paper, and Maureen followed the curves and lines of the figures as the girl added and subtracted them for her benefit. Her pen was an elegant instrument, thin and stylish like the ones that came boxed, together with a mechanical pencil and a fountain pen. Maureen imagined her receiving the set, a birthday or a Christmas gift from her boyfriend, imagined her smiling and her strong voice laughing with appreciation and delight.

“Well, that's it, Mrs Reid,” the girl said, replacing her pen. “I hope that's answered any questions you might have had regarding your account. Please urge your husband to repay the advance; if you're unable to pay the full cash amount we can alway arrange to have a small percentage deducted each week from any benefit he's still entitled to receive. I'll make a note of your visit today in your file, but you should plan to come in to see us again soon.”

They rose together. As she left the building, Maureen glanced at the wall clock in the security hut, but the hands had stopped at twenty past twelve, over an hour before she'd left the house. The men in the hut were crowded around a small black-and-white monitor, and Maureen heard the mild voices of the sports commentator expressing his excitement in the aftermath of a goal. She hurried on.

The Road was still crowded, though the sky was threatening rain. She hurried past the shops and manoeuvred the traffic, growing anxious each time the lights were
against her. When she turned the corner into her own street she found it roped off, the yellow strips of plastic ribbon taut against the wind. There were land rovers and army vehicles at both ends of the street, and she could see soldiers, their weapons raised, crouching in the gardens behind the low, red-bricked walls. Bewildered, she followed a group of children down to the barriers where a policeman stood, legs apart, facing away from the street. Three of the boys ran up to him, their faces eager, jostling for space and speaking all at once.

“Here, mister, what's goin on?”

“What is it, mister? Is it a bomb?”

“Have they called in Felix, mister? Have they, mister, aye?”

The policeman ignored them. They continued to demand attention, reaching out, even, to tug at his sleeve, until a young UDR officer shouted to them to clear off.

Maureen stood awkwardly, uncertain how to proceed. At a shout from the direction of the rover, the officer by the barrier moved away, and Maureen watched him lean against the vehicle as someone inside handed him a flask. She glanced about her furtively, hardly daring to turn her head, then lifted the ribbon with two fingers and ducked underneath. A tall boy in khaki was standing in front of her when she straightened up.

“You can't go in there, miss,” the soldier said. A trio of constables standing by the rover with their hands inside their vests turned towards them, their visors so low over their eyes that they had to tilt their heads back in order to see.

“But that's my house there,” Maureen said, indicating the one with the front door missing. From the corner of her vision she saw the first constable returning. “I've just been to the shop.”

The soldier shrugged. “Sorry.”

Maureen stared back at him helplessly. He was very young, no more than sixteen, his face so soft and smooth she was certain he'd not yet started to shave. A plain, very slightly heavy boy, only his eyes were remarkable, cornflower blue and ever-steady, an infant's eyes before they begin to turn.

“Please,” she said, “I have to get home.”

A second constable had joined the first and the two arrived together. They nodded curtly to the soldier who stepped aside to let them through.

“Problem?” the first one asked. His eyes were on Maureen but he had not directed his question to her. The soldier shook his head.

“Nah, I don't think so. This one says she lives here.”

“I do,” Maureen told them. “I've only just come from the shop.”

The second constable nodded again, his eyes on the road behind her. “Sorry, luv. No one's allowed in till the squad says it's safe.”