Forget Her Name(2)

I came here initially to help out in a practical way. The constant sight of people sleeping rough on the streets of London finally got to me, and I wanted to be useful. But Sharon’s training sessions were an eye-opener. ‘Always be polite and friendly,’ she told me and the other new volunteers. ‘But if you can’t help them because they don’t have an official referral, don’t give them any reason to get nasty with you. And that includes smiling too much. Got it?’

I got it.

The woman looks away, and I smile at the baby in the pink romper suit instead. She stares back at me with large, solemn blue eyes.

Sharon starts rummaging for an information leaflet for the woman. I put down my pen and examine the parcel, unsure what to make of it. At first glance I assumed it was another donation to the food bank. They come in quite frequently from anonymous donors. It’s not particularly heavy though. And it’s addressed to me personally, not the food bank, which is unusual in itself.

An early wedding present, perhaps?

I tear off the brown-paper wrapping. It’s a plain cardboard box and inside is a snow globe.

I freeze, staring down at it.

I see the face of a familiar, smooth glass sphere, glittering water inside, half buried in a heap of protective white polystyrene chips.

It’s Rachel’s snow globe.

My fingertips touch the glass, hesitant. I could be mistaken. Must be mistaken, in fact. It can’t be her snow globe. How could it be?

But when I brush away a few polystyrene chips, there on the black plastic plinth below the glass is my sister’s name. Printed long ago in block capitals onto a stick-on label that’s now smudged and peeling slightly at one corner.

RACHEL.

My hand starts to tremble.

‘What on earth’s that?’ Sharon asks, peering over my shoulder.

The woman with the baby has gone, I realise.

Hurriedly, I cover the snow globe again and close up the cardboard box. ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I mean, it’s personal. Not for the food bank.’

‘Okay, well, when you’re ready . . . I’ve got a Mrs Fletcher here with a referral note from social services.’ Sharon sounds impatient, as though I’ve been caught slacking. An East End accent that thickens when she’s annoyed. Salt of the earth, as my father might say. Not that Dad is ever likely to come into the food bank and meet my boss. Thankfully. ‘Could you possibly see to her if you’ve got a moment? Family of two adults, three teenagers, wheat allergy.’

‘Of course, sorry.’

I shove the parcel out of sight under the desk, and turn to Mrs Fletcher with a broad smile. Smiles are allowed for people with the proper documentation. ‘Hi, I’m Catherine,’ I tell her cheerily. ‘Have you brought a list of what you can’t eat?’

Mrs Fletcher, a harassed-looking woman in her early forties, gives me a wary smile in return. ‘Here.’ She shoves a scrap of paper into my hand. Her hands are red and swollen, with a gold ring on nearly every finger, almost hidden by flesh. ‘We’ve only the one kid with an allergy though. The rest of us need bread and pasta.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll get you sorted out.’ I glance over the handwritten list, and then lead the way across to the food storage area. ‘If you could just follow me, Mrs Fletcher?’

My heart is thumping and I feel a little light-headed. Who on earth would send me Rachel’s old snow globe?

And why?

‘This is the first time I’ve ever used a food bank,’ Mrs Fletcher is telling me. ‘I’m not out of work.’

‘There’s no need to explain, Mrs Fletcher.’

‘We’re not poor. Not homeless or anything. Been in the same flat three years now, never caused nobody any trouble. It’s only because I’m on one of those zero-hour contracts. Only they’ve not called me in for two weeks, have they?’ she adds bitterly. ‘Like they think we can survive on thin bloody air.’

‘Well, you’ve come to the right place. Let’s cover the basics first.’ I take a plastic bag and shake it out, then start filling it with standard items from the list on the wall above me. ‘Sugar? Tea? Coffee?’

‘Thanks,’ she says to all of them, nodding.

Some of those who come here look embarrassed or start to excuse themselves, as if they’ve done something wrong by not being able to afford basic food for their families. They haven’t, of course. Far from it. But a few still feel the need to explain.

I’ve noticed most are less defensive with Sharon and Petra though. My accent, probably. I don’t sound like I fit in, my voice too cultured, even though I try to disguise it. ‘Too posh’, as Sharon often says. They instinctively see me as an enemy. Even aggressive. Someone who’s had it easier than them. Someone who hasn’t had to struggle for everyday needs. All true, of course. I can’t deny my posh accent or my privileged background. But there are things they don’t know about me, too. Things long-buried and forgotten about.

I say nothing though. What would be the point?

‘Thanks, love,’ Mrs Fletcher repeats, watching me select a family-sized packet of dried pasta. ‘And some rice, maybe? That goes a long way, doesn’t it?’

When the shopping part of the process is finished, I find a cup of tea for Mrs Fletcher so she can wait to speak to someone about additional help. Then I pop my head round the office door to ask Sharon if I can go for my lunch early.