Just My Luck(42)

21


Lexi


Thursday, 2nd May

Neither of the kids are going in to school today. I can’t risk a repeat of yesterday.

‘But I don’t need to stay off, do I?’ asks Logan. ‘Ridley and Megan are hardly likely to try to beat me up.’

‘We don’t know what they’ll try,’ I mutter ominously.

‘I’m not scared.’ He looks frustrated. He thinks he’s being treated like a baby and he hates it.

‘No, I know you are not.’

‘I think we are giving Megan and Ridley and their apes the wrong message. You should stand up to bullies, Mum. That’s what you’ve always said. What’s going to happen every time someone crosses Megan? She’s going to think it’s OK to kick the hell out of them. Fail.’

My heart swells with pride. I try to hug him, but he dodges it as he’s annoyed with me. He stares at me with that particular brand of accusation that only children can muster when they quote back to their parents their own words.

‘I’m surprised to hear you arguing for going to school.’

‘I’m bored of shopping and that’s what Dad and Emily are going to do today, most likely.’

‘Actually, I think they are looking at new schools.’

He sighs. ‘My friends are not arseholes. I shouldn’t have to change school.’

‘Don’t say arseholes, Logan.’

‘Why not? Dad does.’

He walks out of the kitchen. I feel for him. I understand from Emily that Logan’s friends were apparently thrilled for him. He is in a gang of five boys; I use the term ‘gang’ as loosely and innocently as possible. They are still at the stage where the most rebellious thing they do is fart loudly in maths classes and then deny it. I bet they forgot all about the lottery win by lunchtime. When Emily was being beaten in the loos, Logan was waiting at the bus stop, exchanging Fortnite strategies with his mates as usual.

I also understand why Logan might crave normality; I certainly do. I leave Jake in charge of the kids and catch the bus to work. It’s a bright spring day, birds are chirping, some spindly branches of trees, defiant and lush, reach, bend and bang against the side of the bus as it trundles along the narrowest part of the country roads. I enjoy the relentlessness of nature that somehow seems eternally hopeful and exuberant. Although, of course, soon the council will be out to chop back the branches before it becomes dangerous for vehicles taking a bend. I’m running a little late but I’m sure Ellie will understand. I told her about the win after the press conference. I also told her about the Heathcotes’ and Pearsons’ hijack, so she understands how emotionally complex everything is. The CAB team were excited for me. Judy kept exclaiming, ‘You dark horse! You dark horse!’ To celebrate, they bought me a Victoria sponge from M&S and we shared a bottle of Cava. We ate and drank at our desks, chuckling and chatting much as we do when one of the team has a birthday. They asked me how I was planning on spending the money. ‘Jake seems to be handling that,’ I replied wryly, which got a laugh. Then, after about ten minutes or so, it seemed we’d said all that we could say about the lottery and soon we were asking one another about the status of various clients. ‘Did Aliya Habeb have any luck with child support?’

‘Has anyone circulated the details of the firefighters’ education programme to the schools?’

By the time I was washing up the plates in the tiny sink in the staff room, I’d almost forgotten why we were eating cake to celebrate.

It’s a five-minute walk from the bus stop to my office. I can do it in three if I try. I walk at the sort of pace that makes me feel waxy on my lower back. As I turn the corner, I instantly know something is up. Usually this is a fairly quiet part of the high street. The neighbouring retailers include two vaping shops, a betting shop, a tattoo parlour, a curry house, a kebab shop and a fish and chip shop (it’s the place to come if you’re hungry). Some other retailers are boarded up, there’s a lot of graffiti. Not the cool sort, just people’s names and expletives. I don’t judge, people have a primitive need to be noticed. At this time of day, only the CAB is open and so it’s never a busy street, but today there is a queue of people outside the office. As I approach, I hear people murmur, ‘There she is.’

‘That’s her.’

And then, with more insistence, ‘Mrs Greenwood, can I have a word?’

There are too many of them to be the usual clients looking for a drop-in appointment; initially I fear they are journalists but I quickly understand that they are people petitioning: not for advice, or a story, but for money.

‘He said he’ll change the locks if I can’t get the money to him today.’

‘My son needs a new electric wheelchair, we’re fundraising.’

‘Excuse me, can I talk to you about the Byson Centre for MS?’

I realise instantly that I can’t, and shouldn’t, try to manage any of these people; client interaction outside the office is frowned upon. Although I’ve broken the rules on that before, I feel this queue and the number of requests might overwhelm me and decide I had better stick to protocol. I smile briskly and stride towards the office, nodding at everyone who pulls at my arm or tries to talk to me but effectively brushing them off. ‘Do make an appointment. Can you just bear with me? I just need to get inside. I have meetings.’