Just My Luck(43)

Inside the office is not much calmer. Every one of my colleagues has a drop-in client. There are other people filling the chairs in the waiting area and many more are stood about. As I step inside, everyone seems to pause and turn to me. I don’t know what to say.

One woman breaks the silence. She is sat at Judy’s desk but quickly and dismissively turns away from Judy. ‘Thanks for your help, love, but it’s her I want to see.’ In an instant, the woman is up on her feet and pushing through the tightly packed desks towards me. Her initiative seems to give everyone else permission to move, suddenly six or seven people surge towards me. I recognise a couple of the faces: Laura Atkins, who has a brutal partner that she is too scared to leave; and Vicky Lavin, who has fallen foul of an exploitative payday lender who regularly threatens to break her arms. I see hope in their eyes as they clamour towards me. Someone knocks over a chair in their haste. It clatters to the floor, but no one bends to pick it up. The air feels volatile. It’s chaos. I instinctually back away from them and then feel trapped when the back of my thighs hit my desk. I’m so grateful when Ellie’s strong, calm voice cuts through the demands and disorder.

‘If everyone can just take a seat, please. We’re going to form an orderly queue. Rob, if you can give everyone a number. You know, like at the supermarket meat counter. Lexi, can we have a minute in my office, please?’

I hurriedly and gratefully follow her into the office, embarrassed that I didn’t handle that well. I’ve never backed away from someone in need in my life before, I normally run towards them. I close the door behind me, but the pleas of the crowd can still be heard, although muffled. They pull at my conscience.

‘Well, this is unprecedented,’ says Ellie. I think we both wish we were in some sort of Nineties cop show where she could open the drawer of her desk and pull out a bottle of whisky and a couple of glasses. She sits down but doesn’t offer me a seat. I hesitate, unsure why there is suddenly a formality between us that there never has been in the past. I continue to hover.

‘The people at the lottery company said there would be petitions for charity,’ I point out.

‘Did they tell you how to handle it?’

‘Well, usually the winners hire an assistant to open the post, answer emails etc. Then the winners can buy some time before they make considered choices about who they want to donate to.’ I shrug, apologetically. ‘But I guess I’m much more accessible.’

‘Yes, you are. Almost everyone you see and work with on a daily basis is in some sort of position of vulnerability.’

‘We are going to donate to charities,’ I rush to reassure my boss.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Ellie smiles, but it doesn’t seem entirely natural or relaxed; it seems to require more effort to muster than usual. ‘Sit down, Lexi.’ She suddenly seems impatient with me. I hastily pull out a chair, it scrapes along the floor, lets out a howl. We both wince. ‘So, what are we going to do? You know you can’t give any of these people money, right? I mean that’s not our job. Doing so would be short-termist. It would cause a lot of trouble for the bureau.’

‘Of course,’ I sigh. It’s impossible not to think how easy it would be to go back out there and start to dish out cash. It would ease countless concerns.

‘Because you know once you started doing that, it would be impossible to know where to draw the line. Our job is to give advice, guidance, not cash.’

‘Yes,’ I nod. Ellie studies me to see if I’m really listening, then shakes her head.

‘I’m not sure you’ll be able to refuse them, though. It’s not in your nature. You always struggle to draw a line.’ I glance at her, guilty. I don’t think she is aware of the out-of-office help I’ve given Toma, how involved I have become, but I suppose she might be. He’s not the first client I’ve bent rules for. I have delivered clothes which my kids have grown out of directly to families I know are in need, when strictly speaking I shouldn’t visit clients in their homes. On one occasion I paid for a client’s supermarket shop because I knew she was too proud to go to a food bank and her kids wouldn’t eat that week if I didn’t. I’m not a natural insurgent, Jake is the maverick in our family, but nor will I adhere to red tape for the sake of it if I think it’s standing in the way of the right thing being done.

I sigh; Ellie is right. I will struggle not to dish out cash willy-nilly, even though logically I understand it’s not the proper way to go about things. Or even, I admit, the most effective.

I look around the office. I am reminded, not for the first time, how insistently Ellie is resisting the digital age. Her shelves heave with Lever Arch files that are overflowing. Many of the cases date back ten or even twelve years. She is always promising herself that she’ll catalogue them digitally one day. They could probably be binned but Ellie won’t do that because she’s too conscientious and also somehow respectful; the troubles those people had shouldn’t be entirely forgotten. Until she can preserve them digitally, the heaving files will remain. I read the posters that advertise the signs to look out for in a loved one if they have depression, others that advertise websites and phone numbers that people can call if they need help with certain legal or health matters. I don’t want to meet Ellie’s gaze. I think I know what she’s going to say, and consequently tears of frustration have welled up in my eyes. I don’t want them to spill. I have never cried at work. I’ve heard and seen many difficult things here, but it doesn’t help anyone if I cry. People come here looking for clear and confident guidance, not emotions. I can’t let the first tears be ones of self-pity.