Forget Her Name(38)

I pause, barely able to hear myself through the thunder of blood. Yet the final word forces itself out anyway.

‘Mad?’





Chapter Twenty-Two

Back at work, I try not to catch Sharon’s eye. Lunch with Louise has not helped me work through my confusion about the signatures on the paperwork. In fact, I feel worse, and keep checking over my shoulder, as though afraid my colleagues are looking at me sideways. Though I’m sure Sharon won’t have told anyone else about the forms. After all, she could get into trouble for having handed over that paperwork to a subordinate instead of doing it herself.

People who’ve survived a traumatic event where others died, even when they don’t remember it properly, can experience an overwhelming sense of guilt.

Is Louise right? Am I simply going through some kind of post-traumatic experience, triggered by the stress of getting married?

Thankfully the rest of the afternoon goes quickly. Sharon does not speak to me again, working in her office most of the time, head bent over her desk.

I wonder what she thinks about me.

That I’m crazy, perhaps.

I cringe at that possibility, and feel inexplicably cold, too. The tips of my fingers tingle as though I’ve been touching glass. I’m not crazy, I tell myself. But it’s getting harder to believe that, despite Louise’s insistence that I am not mad.

Merely stressed.

I’m not alone in feeling stressed, of course. As I have daily proof of in this job. The world is getting darker and colder for everyone, not just me. I’m getting ready to leave for the day when a young woman barges in through the entrance doors, pushing a buggy and looking flustered. She stares around the place, then fixes on me. Her eyes widen, and she heads in my direction, biting down hard on her lip as though repressing the urge to scream.

I know that expression. It’s very common in the food bank. It’s the look of a woman at the far edge of what she can deal with, in need of only one push before total collapse.

‘Hello?’ She stops walking. ‘I need food. My kid’s starving.’

‘Of course.’

She’s surprised by that response. I see it in her face. She expected a struggle. To be knocked back by the system.

The woman parks the buggy in front of me. Her child is about two years old, a sallow-faced girl with huge eyes. She’s clutching a fluffy soft toy to her chest. Some kind of cat, perhaps?

‘Do you have a referral?’ I ask, smiling down at the child.

‘A what?’

‘You need a referral to use the food bank. It’s usually a letter from social services, or a reference from a GP.’ She just looks mystified. ‘I’m afraid we can’t help you without one,’ I add.

‘Are you kidding me?’

Sharon comes out of her office and stands listening.

‘I’m really sorry,’ I tell the woman awkwardly. ‘But I could make a phone call.’

‘Catherine?’

I ignore Sharon, not even looking in her direction. ‘It might be possible to arrange some emergency cover,’ I say to the woman, ‘if you’re really desperate. I’d just need some details from you.’

‘What kind of details?’ the woman asks in a suspicious tone, though I can see she’s thawing.

‘Your name and address, for starters.’ I get out a notebook and pen. ‘Don’t worry, it’s all confidential.’

‘Thanks, Catherine, I’ll deal with this,’ Sharon tells me, and there’s a warning note in her voice. She turns to the woman, her manner brisk and unemotional. ‘We only deal with direct referrals.’

‘But I’ve come a long way,’ the woman says. ‘I had no money to top up my Oyster card. I had to walk.’

‘And I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted trip.’ Sharon’s smile is utterly fake. I can tell she has decided this woman is going to make trouble. ‘Let me fetch you an info sheet on how to go about getting a referral.’

‘I don’t want one of them.’

‘It’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.’

‘Says you.’ The woman looks Sharon up and down. Her finger stabs towards me. ‘I want her. Not you. Got it?’

‘I’m in charge here.’

The woman starts to say something, but Sharon interrupts. ‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice has risen slightly, but she’s still in control. ‘If you don’t want the information I’ve offered, then I think you’d better leave.’

Heads have turned towards us. Petra comes out of Sharon’s office too, a clipboard under her arm stump. She looks across at me and raises her eyebrows. I shake my head.

‘What if I don’t want to leave?’ the woman asks, her voice also rising.

Nobody says anything.

‘I need help.’ The woman jiggles the buggy from side to side and the child cries out in fear. ‘She needs food. Are you going to stand there and say no?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sharon says again.

‘You’re not fucking sorry. You’ve got everything. What have we got, eh? Nothing.’ Abruptly, the woman wheels the buggy about and strides furiously towards the exit. ‘And none of you give a fuck.’

She bangs through the double doors, and I listen to the unhappy wail of her child with a sinking heart. This isn’t why I came to help out here – to turn people away who are in absolute need.