The Street and other stories Read Free Page A

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    “Payment has been discontinued, Mr McCaughley,” she said. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to take a seat for a few minutes. Mr Bryson will see you.”
    Richard nodded blankly. As he went to one of the plastic seats his mind raced ahead, panicking as the news sank in. “Your payment has been discontinued, Mr McCaughley. Your payment has been discontinued.”
    He slouched into his seat. “What will I tell Jean?” he asked himself. He glanced anxiously up at the box. The clerk wasn’t there. When she returned she smiled brightly over at him. Reassured, his panic abated. “It’s just a mistake, some balls-up.” They couldn’t discontinue his payment. He had to live. He had a wife and two children to keep; they couldn’t be left to starve. Indignation replaced despondency. “Who do they think they are? Treating people like dirt.”
    “Mr McCaughley.” A tall middle-aged man with glasses summoned him to the counter. He held a handful of forms as he leaned over towards Richard and spoke to him in a low, confidential tone which struggled to be heard above the babble of noise around them.
    “Mr McCaughley, my name is Bryson. Your payment has been discontinued: your oldest child has passed the school attendance age. If he is going to stay at school you will have to make a fresh claim. In the meantime I have arranged for you to get a special benefit. You will have to take this form to the lady up at special benefits.
    “I can help you to fill in a new claim for your income support, or if you wish you can fill it in yourself and leave it back here for me.” He looked quizzically over his glasses at Richard.
    “What do you mean my son’s left school?” Richard asked.
    “According to our forms he is school-leaving age. If he wishes to stay at school,”Mr Bryson spoke more slowly and deliberatelythis time, “if he wishes to stay at school you will have to make a fresh claim. The claim for your wife and youngest child is being processed at present, so I have arranged a special benefit for…”
    “My son is only a child,” Richard interrupted him.
    Mr Bryson’s face wore the resigned look of a worn-out schoolteacher.
    “That may be so, but at sixteen he is at school-leaving age.”
    “Our Danny is sixteen months old, not sixteen years,” Richard said tersely.
    “Are you sure?” Mr Bryson peered at him.
    “Am I sure? Am I fucking sure? Of course, I’m sure. I’m his fucking da, amn’t I?”
    “Well according to this form he is sixteen years of age and…”
    “He’s sixteen months. He hasn’t even started school yet, never mind leaving it!”
    “Well, obviously there has been some mistake. Can you give me the child’s full names and date of birth please, Mr McCaughley?”
    Mr Bryson noted down Richard’s replies and went off with his handful of forms. He returned a few minutes later.
    “Look, this is where the mistake is, Mr McCaughley; I’m very sorry. It’s the computer printout.”
    He showed Richard the sheet of paper.
    “I’ll get this sorted out for your next signing-on day. It has to go back to central office, you see,” he continued apologetically, “but you’ll get the payment as normal for yourself and the wife and one child, and if you go up to special benefits with this form you’ll get payment for the other child. I’m sorry,” he concluded sheepishly, “it’s the bloody computer.” He slipped the form through to Richard.
    “It’s okay,” Richard said quietly. Suddenly he felt sorry for Mr Bryson. He picked up the form. “I’m sorry for cursing at you,” he said.
    He turned and walked slowly out of the signing-on room towards the special benefits room. Mr Bryson stood immobilebehind his counter, blushing a little. Then he shuffled his handful of forms. He looked over to the middle-aged woman sitting opposite him.
    “Spot check, please! Mrs Flannery?” he called brusquely.
    The man sitting on the plastic chair beside Richard gurgled; that is, his stomach