Acts & Monuments Read online

  Three

  Despite Barry’s best intentions, he eventually arrived back at home much later than usual. The Todds’ home was a modest affair on a 1980s estate of houses that had been designed with more thought for the developer’s financial return than for visual appeal. Row upon row of red-brick houses sat neatly, like well-behaved schoolchildren; each primped and primed by successive owners to try to give them that most elusive of architectural properties: character. And so leaded, wood-effect, uPVC windows sat rather awkwardly with the occasional mock-Tudor beam to try to suggest historicity. Yet the day that they’d bought their home had been the proudest day of Barry’s life. Moving from Dudley to a resolutely middle-class suburb like Walmley had felt to him like joining a club that he’d often read about, but never dared dream of joining. Of course, his dad didn’t see it like that. He thought it was Barry leaving his roots behind; getting ideas above his station. But Barry had wanted to believe that Walmley was his station. And as he looked at the house from the drive, with its ‘Hansel and Gretel’ window shutters, he realised with a certain despondency that, twenty-one years on, he still wanted to.

  “You’re late,” his wife pointed out from the lounge sofa, as he entered the hallway.

  “Yeah, sorry, but I’m here now,” he said, poking his head around the lounge door. As it had done every day for the last three years, a large, decorative candle burnt mutely on the hearth next to a photo of Christopher. It was meant to be a memorial, but it felt like an indictment.

  “I’ve done you some tea. It’s in the oven. I’ve used the last of that mince up.”

  “Great. Thanks,” Barry replied, making his way through to the kitchen. He retrieved his meal from the oven and grabbed a beer from the fridge, with which to nurse the day’s wounds. He then sat down with a heavy thud at the dining-room table. The high-backed leather chair let out a sigh and slowly relented under the force of Barry’s buttocks.

  “We’ve had a letter from the bank,” his wife called through.

  “What does it say?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve not read it.”

  “I’ll read it after I’ve had my tea.”

  She waited a beat before saying, “It looks important.”

  “OK. I’ll have a look after I’ve had my tea,” Barry repeated.

  “It’s got ‘Important Information Enclosed’ on the envelope.” There was a pause. “It’s from the mortgage people, I think,” she said. “It says ‘Mortgage Department’ on the back anyway.”

  “I’ll come and have a look when I’ve eaten this.”

  “We’re not in arrears, are we?”

  Barry sighed. “No, but you can open it yourself if you don’t believe me. It’ll be addressed to both of us.”

  “I don’t like to. You deal with all that stuff.”

  “OK. Just give me five minutes.”

  There was a further pause, during which Barry heard his wife rise from the sofa. A few seconds later she was next to him, holding the envelope. “I’m worried, Barry. What if they’ve found out about my redundancy?”

  “We don’t have to tell them every time we’ve had a change in circumstances. We only have to tell them if it’s something that means we can’t make the payments. And we can make the payments. We are making the payments.”

  Barry tried to concentrate on eating his tea, but the room was held in a silence that was straining to be broken. He could tell from the way she stood motionless at his shoulder, holding the letter, that she wanted to spray him with anxious words, but was fighting to hold them back, like they were a dog on a leash.

  “I’d hate to think we were in arrears,” she said eventually. Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring stared down at him from the dining-room wall. It had been one of Barry’s favourite paintings, but now even her gentle gaze felt as though it was accusing him.

  Barry put his knife and fork down. “Give it here.”

  He took the letter from her and opened it roughly. As predicted, the letter was not to advise them that they were in arrears. But if this news was welcome, the letter’s actual contents were less so. It was advising the Todds that the special, discounted, fixed-rate period of their mortgage had now come to an end, so, from the following month, their mortgage payments would be increasing.

  “You see, we’re not in arrears,” he said, offering her the letter to read. “They’re just telling us the discount’s come to an end.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s OK,” she said, wandering back to the lounge, leaving the letter in Barry’s outstretched hand.

  “Have you heard about that job yet?” she called through. “The extra money would be useful if they’re putting the payments up.”

  Barry paused. “No, we’ve not been told anything,” he called through, before feeling the need to add, “Not officially.”

  “And there’s Lauren’s maintenance to pay for too. That’s starting this month. You’ve not forgotten have you?”

  The pause that Barry left was just fractionally too long for his subsequent denial to be convincing. His wife returned from the lounge considerably more quickly than she had departed toward it.

  “It’s so she can eat while she’s at university, Barry!” she said in response to his blank look. “We discussed it. Over the summer. Remember?”

  Barry did have a faint recollection of Lauren and her mum spending a lot of time online doing various calculations after her A-level results came through. He was also vaguely aware that he had been presented with the results of their research, but he hadn’t really been paying attention because he had assumed that it wouldn’t be a problem. Unfortunately, he had assumed it wouldn’t be a problem because he had also assumed he would get the housing director job – and with it a hefty salary increase.

  “Oh yeah, of course… How much was it again?”

  “Now that I’m not working it’s only two hundred a month.”

  Barry started. “How much?”

  “Two hundred a month.”

  “What, every month? For three years?”

  “Yes! Assuming you don’t want her to starve.”

  “Of course I don’t. But two hundred a month… on top of the mortgage going up.”

  “It’s so she can eat, Barry!”

  Barry sighed in acknowledgement of the superior force of her argument. “Look, I’ll sort her money out when I’ve heard about the job. Officially.”

  “But you’re still confident?”

  “I’m absolutely confident I’m the best candidate for the job,” was as much as he felt comfortable saying. And, with that, Barry went back to eating his meal alone.

  He didn’t like lying to her, but sometimes he felt the need to protect her from the truth. He meant it as a kindness. Like her smartphone, she carried her worries around with her all the time and constantly checked to make sure they were still there. Which is why, when she did eventually think to ask him how his day had gone, Barry decided that the most loving thing to say was simply, “Fine.”

  *

  Barry got into work early the next day. He knew that at some point he would probably get called into a meeting with Langley, so he decided to grasp the nettle and pop up to see his new boss himself. He thought Langley was likely to appreciate his proactivity.

  “Enter!” came a sonorous voice from within, in response to Barry’s knock on the door. Barry took his cue and walked in, carefully fixing a smile of vinegary goodwill onto his face before doing so.

  “Barry! To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  The pot plant had gone, Barry noticed, along with the framed photo of Karen, Langley’s predecessor, surrounded by the whole housing team at the previous year’s Housing Heroes awards. In their place was a selection of management handbooks and a photo of Langley receiving his MBA certificate. But the biggest change was Langley himself. There was a different air about him. He sat on his sea
t, straight-backed and carefully poised, like it was a throne.

  “Just wanted to congratulate you on the new job, Langley, and wish you all the best.”

  “Thank you, Barry. Umm… do you have an appointment? I didn’t see one in my diary…” Langley quickly checked the online diary on his PC.

  “Err… no. No, I don’t. I just thought I’d swing by. ‘My door is always open’; that’s what Karen used to say.”

  Langley’s face didn’t flicker. “Did she really? Well, I am not Karen. I shall be establishing new disciplines for my team. Perhaps you could make an appointment with Diana on your way out?”

  “Oh, right. OK. I’ll just go then, shall I?”

  “If you don’t mind. I was hoping to catch the finance team first thing this morning. Which reminds me, is there a reason why you and Maxine get company cars, but none of the other area managers do?” Langley leant forward on his desk and steepled his fingers, a look of wry amusement carved into his face. “It’s just that I’ve been asked to try to find some savings and I’m sure I’ll get asked about it.”

  There was a reason, of course, which Langley knew perfectly well. When Barry had first been appointed as area housing manager, they’d all been given cars on the not-unreasonable grounds that the job required a lot of travel. Of course, it had been one of the first things that Andrew had targeted when he’d become chief executive, and so as old managers had gone, the car had been removed as part of the remuneration package for the new managers, until only Barry and Maxine still had one.

  When Langley had been an area housing manager, he’d argued that if one manager got a car, they all should. Now that he had been elevated to the exec team, however (and therefore got a shiny new car anyway), he seemed to be arguing exactly the opposite.

  Barry wanted to explain, but he couldn’t. He knew from the look Langley gave him that there was nothing he could say. He might as well have been standing behind a huge glass wall because, no matter what he said or how loudly he shouted, Langley would never hear him. Part of him had dared to believe that the Langley of reality could not possibly be as fearsome as the Langley of his imaginings. But there he sat, his slim waist and skinny-fit shirt seemingly taunting Barry like a schoolchild, whilst his small black eyes fixed him in an emotionless stare, apparently impervious to reason or emotion.

  It felt ridiculous to be intimidated. After all, Langley was practically young enough to be his son. God, his son.

  “Words cannot express…” that’s what people used to say. And they were right, they couldn’t. Words were leaky enough vessels at the best of times without having to bear the weight of such emotion. All you could do was feel it, like a branding iron being held permanently to your heart. There was no explaining. There was just a howl of pain that went on for so long even Barry grew tired of it.

  But what does Langley know of these things? Barry thought. What does he know of pain and regret? What could he possibly know about the feeling of failure – that special feeling of failure that you get when you fail to meet the needs of your family? But Barry had no desire to antagonise his boss, so he just muttered something about the car always having been part of his package and shuffled out, apologetically, back to his desk.

  It still seemed inconceivable, though, that he would ever betray Langley. Barry would certainly have been happy to see Langley face the sack, but not for something he hadn’t done, and certainly not for something Barry himself had done.

  But, of course, things change. And people change too.

  Four

  “Barry! Sorry to bother you, but Iulia Nicolescu’s here. Would you mind…?”

  Barry had barely had time to sit back down at his desk when Lucy called over to him. Given that they were going to be discussing Iulia’s imminent eviction and the situation could therefore best be described as ‘potentially volatile’, Barry could understand why Lucy was keen to have her manager in the interview room with her.

  “OK, Luce,” Barry said. “Let’s see what she’s got to say for herself. I know we got a possession order five weeks ago – is there anything else I need to know?”

  “Have you seen the file?” Lucy lifted up a huge doorstop of a file – at least seven inches thick.

  “Is there a short version?”

  “Basically, she’s Romanian, but she’s not got proof of six months’ paid work, so, since the rules for EU nationals changed in April, she’s not been entitled to benefits,” Lucy explained as they walked toward the interview room. “I’m sympathetic, obviously, but the fact is housing benefit are adamant she’s not entitled and hasn’t been for the past six months. They stopped her claim four months ago and they’ve claimed back the previous two months as an overpayment.”

  “Which they’re perfectly entitled to do.”

  “She’s made a few odd payments since then – presumably she’s had bits and bobs of casual work – but she’s still nearly two and half grand in debt, with no realistic chance of paying it off. I know it’s a horrible thing to say, but she’s got to go.”

  Barry knew that Lucy was right. A tenant with huge debts and no means to clear them, let alone pay the rent going forward, was not a viable tenant. But whilst, according to Monument’s current policies, Lucy was absolutely correct in her rather blunt assessment of the situation, Barry couldn’t help thinking that this wasn’t what Neville and the local churches that had founded Monument all those years ago had set it up to do.

  The interview room was a small, joyless space with no natural light. Whilst it made a few concessions to the concept of hospitality – padding on the seats, a small crate of half-broken toys in the corner for children to play with – its main talent lay in emphasising to tenants, through posters, notices and CCTV cameras, the consequences of any misbehaviour on their part.

  “Good morning, Miss Nicolescu. I’m Mr Todd, the area housing manager, and you know Miss Hampton, of course. I understand you’re here about your eviction notice.”

  The first thing that struck him was not how pretty she was but how her deep, brown eyes seemed to contain a certain Slavic sorrowfulness that undercut that prettiness. Despite her youthful years, Iulia’s face spoke of a premature disappointment with the petty cruelties and compromises that life had visited upon her.

  “Yes,” she replied in heavily accented English, “but you have to understand – you cannot evict me. I have nowhere to go. Please, please – you must help me.”

  Oh dear, thought Barry. She hasn’t realised. He hated it when people didn’t realise. He had hoped that her sorrowfulness was because she was bowing to the inevitable, but she still seemed to be labouring under the delusion that Monument’s charitable status might somehow provide her with some protection from the basic economic realities of the situation. In such circumstances, Barry had learnt that the best tactic was simply to let people talk through their situation for as long as they wanted until they eventually realised themselves just how hopeless it was.

  “Why don’t you tell us how we’ve got to this situation?” Barry suggested. “And, at the end, we’ll see where we think that leaves us.”

  Iulia Nicolescu was, it transpired, a young woman from rural Romania with big dreams, who had one day been approached by a man who offered to take her to England. There would be no charge for her transport, and board and lodging would be provided, at his expense, whilst she found work. There was, he assured her, plenty of work in England – far more than in Romania – and it was far better paid too. She could pay him for her board and lodging out of her salary (along with a small contribution to help clear her original travel and accommodation costs) and the rest of the money would be hers to do with as she pleased. It all sounded almost too good to be true. Which indeed it was, as Iulia had discovered upon her arrival in Birmingham, where she had had her mobile phone and passport taken off her, and was locked up in a house and forced to have sex with as many men as she could (as wer
e several other women who had been duped along similar lines).

  Eventually, she had managed to escape and had told the police of her plight. The house had been raided; the men were arrested and ultimately sent to prison – thanks, in large part, to Iulia’s testimony. In return for her bravery, Iulia was allowed to stay in England and was even provided with a flat by Monument in the comparative backwater of Coleshill.

  Sadly, however, in the previous budget statement, the government had announced that they would be removing EU nationals’ entitlement to housing benefit unless they were able to demonstrate that they had been working legitimately in the country for at least six months previously. Unfortunately for Iulia, her previous position had not been subject to tax and National Insurance deductions, so it counted for nought when it came to calculating her housing benefit entitlement. Consequently, Iulia was now two and a half thousand pounds in debt and that amount was going up each week as her rent continued to be charged.

  “But I cannot go back to Romania,” she said, almost in tears. “The men… the men who brought me here… they are there. I sent them to prison. They are looking for me already. I cannot go back, I cannot.”

  Barry saw in her face the haunted look of someone who knew the pain of living and knew it from the inside. It made him want to reach across the table that lay between them and hold her in a silent, tender embrace, just so she knew that he understood that pain too. Sadly, Monument’s professional boundaries policy did not allow for such moments of grace, but he knew that things were not going to be as simple as he’d hoped.

  “In housing for good.” Monument’s strapline stared down accusingly at him from a poster on the wall.

  “I can see the difficulty of your situation, Miss Nicolescu. But you need to understand that we can’t just let your debt carry on going up. That’s not helping anyone,” Barry said. “Have you got any support? Is there anyone – or perhaps a group – that can offer you advice?”

  “I took a phone call the other day asking us if we had any Romanian nationals who needed help because of the benefit changes,” Lucy said. “The Romanian Migrants Welfare Association, I think they were called. They might be able to help.”